#The Crypt Seed

[heart-songs]

The Crypt Seed

by Jackie Wang

The seed is a wound in the form of a little girl buried alive. Buried inside me the sol de la terre. What do I remember of last night’s dream, that the children were painting a mural that spread beyond the surface of the wall. There was a blue spirit a benevolent ghost with no eyes that hung over the children like a cloud reaching out its arms. Did the image fatigue me? I was fatigued by everything. There were space chairs facing the walls and I kept falling asleep. 

Cry at my library carrel. Cry when I step off the bus. A crystal-clear sky over midtown and I no longer have the energy (will?) to masticate subjective experience. Wrote nothing about the breakup. It’s as though nothing actually happens to me. 

I wanted a quiet life—to keep the casket. They don’t even notice I’m half-here, while the other half lives in the crypt. Go down to the grotto with your headlamp and crowbar. Release the girl lost and afraid. I’m not here. No one touches her. Reserve a little for myself. To self-witness. But what’s become of my mind there is no world. What did I want to say to him—that there’s a crypt-shaped seed I show to no one: it is my fate. The impossibility of making a day, leaking one’s soul for want of an angel. The night was forever. And pearls of light rained down on me I lost myself in the lonely expedition toward the center of everything I would become: nothing there’s no time but love was a thing hanging in the air at night when I’d stalk the streets with my heart in my mouth. 

Bury my heart in the haute mer. Find me not I’ve flushed it to spare myself the humiliation of being seen. She’s nowhere to be found or maybe there’s a casket bobbing on the ocean with a note inside that says, “The secret to survival is to disappear.”

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

There’s something weird I never noticed before. So in ASOS, Stannis tells Davos that he saw the upcoming battle against the Others in one of Melisandre’s fires.

The ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered, and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again. But what I saw was real, I’d stake my kingdom on it.

- Davos IV, ASOS

The “men in black behind torches” seems to suggest Night’s Watchment who are in the process of confronting the Others (“shapes moving through the snow”). I think it’s quite interesting that there is a sort of Azor Ahai imagery with these men, as they hold burning torches.

But then as I was reading this passage, I was suddenly reminded of one of Patchface’s jingles.

“Under the sea, it snows up,” said the fool, “and the rain is dry as bone. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

- Prologue, ACOK

And I got to thinking, it seems that Patchface and Stannis are seeing the same thing (snow “falling” upward). Stannis also sees snow falling downwards, which kind of evokes a cycle. We don’t really know exactly what Patchface saw since the entire section contains several broken up and vague “prophecies”.

But regarding what we do know, my initial assumption was that Patchface’s jingle was essentially about death and the rising of wights. But then I also considered that he could also be referring to Jon Snow who seemingly dies at the end of ADWD and might be resurrected in TWOW.

They found Her Grace sewing by the fire, whilst her fool danced about to music only he could hear, the cowbells on his antlers clanging. “The crow, the crow,” Patchface cried when he saw Jon. “Under the sea the crows are white as snow, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Princess Shireen was curled up in a window seat, her hood drawn up to hide the worst of the greyscale that had disfigured her face.

- Jon XI, ADWD

P.S: Coincidentally, Jon would (more generally) be among the men in black presented in Stannis’ vision since he is a member of the Night’s Watch; these men are also referred to as crows.

And speaking of Jon, we know that Melisandre has received visions of Jon’s death and possible rebirth.

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again. But the skulls were here as well, the skulls were all around him. Melisandre had seen his danger before, had tried to warn the boy of it. Enemies all around him, daggers in the dark. He would not listen.

[…]

“What do you see, my lady?” the boy asked, softly. Skulls. A thousand skulls, and the bastard boy again. Jon Snow.

[…]

Yet now she could not even seem to find her king. I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R’hllor shows me only Snow.

- Melisandre I, ADWD

So Mel is seeing Jon in danger, but the “now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again” seems to suggest that he will return. She has tried to rely this information to Jon and we get a rather funny exchange, where Jon assumes that the “snow” Mel is talking about is frozen rain.

“And what of Mance? Is he lost as well? What do your fires show?”

“The same, I fear. Only snow.”

Snow. It was snowing heavily to the south, Jon knew. Only two days’ ride from here, the kingsroad was said to be impassable. Melisandre knows that too. And to the east, a savage storm was raging on the Bay of Seals. At last report, the ragtag fleet they had assembled to rescue the free folk from Hardhome still huddled at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, confined to port by the rough seas. “You are seeing cinders dancing in the updraft.”

- Jon X, ADWD

Note: I searched “updraft” and got this definition: “an upward current of air.”

Jon thinks Mel is talking about the very literal snow moving upward(?) in the air, but she says,

“I am seeing skulls. And you. I see your face every time I look into the flames. The danger that I warned you of grows very close now.”

Not snow, but Snow.

And just a final (random) thought to wrap this all up,

“One bird croaking my name was bad enough,” said Jon, “and snow’s nothing a black brother wants to hear about.” Snow often meant death in the north.

- Jon II, ACOK

Hmmm 🤔



[martyrbat]

one last halloween — dcu halloween special (2008)

(ID in alt!)

[kingabezka]

2 gun start seed for Necrodancer

430010600

Check it out

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

Having a cute little fairy bf you can keep in your pocket is a lot of fun!!

He’s always so happy when you pull him out, and he’s ready to please you!

When you’re feeling horny, all you have to do it place him on your cunt and he goes to work, rubbing his little cock against your clit or suckling on it! He’ll try so hard to fuck you, but he’s just too little…

Getting to watch his little pointed ears and wings twitch as he cums tiny droplets into your cunt is just the cutest thing ever…

Just wait until he does a growth spell, then you’ll be stretched out and creampied as much as you want!

He’s desperate to breed your fat cunt and rebuild his species, so let him fill your belly with his seed and he’ll be a happy little fairy!

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads

[comfortless]

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.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

What song did you personally like the best out of this round? Did a song make an impact right away or did it require the full version? Did the artist reveal change your opinion for better or for worse? Tell me in a reblog! :D

(note: this is not a popularity contest or to vote for a favourite artist out of loyalty 💖 it's still about the song.)

👻 401 here 402 here 403 here 404 here 405 here 👻 406 here 407 here 408 here 409 here 410 here

[eiluned]

Fic: Dangerous [BG3; Astarion/Tav, Explicit]

by eiluned

Read on AO3

Summary: It grows in his mind, the thought of coming inside her. What would it feel like to let go, to lose control in the sweet heat of her body?

Tags: Astarion/Tav, porn with feelings, mild CW for Astarion briefly thinking about his sexual trauma.

Notes: The continuing smutty adventures of Tavriel and Astarion. This one's set in act 1. Thanks to Amanda for the beta read!

If you're new to my stuff, Tavriel is my high elf bard, and I'm slowly writing up her romance with Astarion (and later, their romance with Halsin).

Comments encourage me to write faster. I'd love to hear what you think!

~

The first time he fucks Tavriel, he's shocked to find himself enjoying it.

He's fucked or been fucked by hundreds. Sex is rote, repetitive, something to tolerate, something he has to do so he won't have to be whipped or locked in a crypt or otherwise tortured. The physical pleasure is there sometimes, but it's usually not enough to overcome the distaste or revulsion or sheer boringness of it all.

But Tav is playful, teasing, seductive in a way he's not used to being on the receiving end of. And she's objectively attractive, with her beautiful face and striking green eyes and the soft curls of black hair streaked through with wine-purple, the surprising curves of her petite body and the fullness of her breasts. It's no real chore to sleep with her, to use sex to ingratiate himself with her, but he wasn't expecting to get swept up in the pleasure of it.

She rolls them over, spreading her legs so he can settle between them, and her moan as he drives his cock back into her makes pleasure twist up at the base of his spine. Her hips lift to meet his thrusts, and her hands slide up his chest, fingertips teasing his nipples. Her body is hot, and his own soaks up that warmth so that it feels a bit like standing in the sun when he presses himself against her fully.

With a smile that curls one side of her lush mouth, she lifts her chin, baring her neck in a blatant invitation. And how can he say no? She offers herself so sweetly, so fully, and he can't resist.

Her breath hitches in her throat when his fangs pierce her skin, and her cunt tightens around him as he draws blood from the little wounds into his mouth. Heat floods his body with the first taste of her, and oh, but she tastes different than the last time he drank from her, richer, more luscious. He knows she gets aroused when he bites her; he can hear her heartbeat change, smell it on the air, but he hadn't realized that he could taste it in her blood. It was sweet, the flavor of her desire, a smaller component of her taste before but now it overwhelms him, bursting on his tongue like honeyed wine.

She shudders, grinding against him with a cry as she suddenly comes, and just as suddenly, all the pleasure that had been coiling up inside him unwinds.

Gasping, he rises onto his knees, pulling out of her a split second before an orgasm rips through him. It's shocking how good it feels, especially when her warm hand wraps around his cock, stroking him as he spurts seed onto her belly and breasts.

He can't remember the last time he came so hard, the last time he let himself be overwhelmed like this. It feels dangerous, but it's too good for him to care in that moment.

--

"Couldn't get enough?"

Her voice is a purr, her clever hands unlacing his trousers, and she smirks at him when he arches into her touch.

He's supposed to be in control here, but his body responds to her without his brain's input. And that's dangerous, so he catches her wrists and puts them behind her back before kissing her hard.

He can't lose control again, not if he wants to keep the scales balanced in his favor.

But her body is warm and pliant, breasts molding to the shape of his hands, her cunt wet and hot. He fucks her on her hands and knees, working her clit with his fingers until she comes with a hoarse moan.

And he's there just as suddenly as the last time, pulling out and coming on her back.

It's dangerous, but it's so good that he doesn't want to stop. He wants more.

--

It grows in his mind, the thought of coming inside her. What would it feel like to let go, to lose control in the sweet heat of her body? To watch her walk back to camp and know his cum is soaking her underclothes? 

He's never come inside anyone, not that he can remember. He never wanted to; it would have felt like he was giving too much of himself. It was his one way of maintaining his sense of self while out doing Cazador's bidding.

But he isn't doing that bastard's bidding now. He is fucking Tavriel because he wants to. Because it will ensure that she will have his back when the time comes. Because it feels good, even muddled up with all the pain and guilt that he can't seem to escape. Because he wants her.

And he wants to know how it feels to come inside of her.

The thought becomes an obsession, one that he only entertains in the privacy of his tent, his cock in his hand and his eyes clenched shut, thinking of nothing but her: the heat of her body, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair. Her throaty gasps, the way she moans his name when she comes…

He remembers how it feels to sink into her cunt, how wet with desire she is, how wet she gets for him. The clenching, rippling feel of her climax, the way she clutches at his back or his arms or his ass as she writhes against him. He imagines how it would feel to drive his cock deep and let go, to spill inside the grasping, delicious heat of her body. 

He bites back a gasp and comes, hips bucking, heels digging into his bedroll, his seed splattering in ropes onto his chest. 

Emotions roil in his head, but he doesn't want to deal with them. He has a plan; he'll stick to it.

He wipes himself clean and stares at the ceiling of his tent.

—

She’s bent forward, hands gripping the cave wall, as he fucks her from behind. Her skin glows with a sheen of sweat in the lantern light, warm like sunlight in the depths of the Underdark, and he feels desire winding up tight in his body.

“Gods, yes,” she breathes, arching her back and thrusting against him. “Astarion…”

Her hand is working between her legs, and he can feel the tension building again in her body. He’s already made her come on his tongue–he tries to not think about how delicious she tastes when she loses control against his mouth–and it’s clear she wants to come on his cock, too. 

And gods, but he wants to come with her, to come inside her, to fill her up while she shudders around him. This isn’t part of his plan, but to the hells with the plan. He’s so wrapped up in her body, in her, in her pleasure and his own, that he forgets himself. 

Brushing her hand aside, he strokes her clit firmly, driving into her sweet cunt. “Fuck,” she gasps, pressing her back against his chest. “Yes…”

“I want to come inside you,” he groans against her ear, his hips snapping against her ass, one hand working her closer to her peak while his other arm snakes around her torso, grasping her breast. 

She makes a soft sound, a little “oh” of surprise. Her cunt starts to flutter around him, and gods, he’s so close, too. “Please, Tav,” he moans, grinding her body between his cock and his fingertips. “Please let me come inside you, please, please–“

“Yes,” she gasps, her hands clutching at his forearms.

She cries out as pleasure overwhelms her, shuddering in his arms, and he follows her into oblivion, his own body wracked with ecstasy the likes of which he hasn’t felt in centuries. His cock jerks, spilling his seed as deep inside of her as he can possibly go. Her cunt squeezes him, milking him, their bodies spasming together until every last drop of pleasure is wrung from them. 

They stay like that for a long moment, clutching and grasping at each other, until her legs start to shake with strain. She lets out a throaty little laugh as he pulls out, bracing herself against the rock as she catches her breath. “Fuck, Astarion,” she says breathlessly, giving him a sly grin over her shoulder. “That was incredible.”

He can see his cum starting to slide down the inside of her thighs, and it sends a jolt of desire through his already-sated body. And a strange feeling, too, one that’s unfamiliar but nearly overwhelming. Possessiveness?

He’s startled by the intensity of it, the way seeing his seed between her legs makes him want to yank her into his arms and never let her go, to take her over and over and listen to her cry out his name.

"You know," she says, turning to him, sweat gleaming on her naked body, "I like it when you say please."

"Oh gods," he groans with a roll of his eyes, embarrassed, but he can't turn away because she's sliding her hands up his chest, pressing her lips to his.

He sighs into her kiss, soaking in the warmth of her body as she insinuates herself into his arms. "You beg very nicely," she murmurs, a smirk curling her lips.

"If you ever tell anyone about that, I will knife you in your sleep," he murmurs back, taking two handfuls of her ass and pulling her against his swiftly reawakening erection, drowning in her kiss and her body and her teasing affection.

This is dangerous; he knows it, but somehow the sound of her laughter and the feel of her body are so good that he just doesn't care.

[poemwav]

– Jacking Wang, The Crypt Seed (2024)

------follow for more daily poems 🌹-----

[bloodydeanwinchester]

question ive been wanting to ask for quite a while, bc of your url: top three bloody dean scenes/episodes?

[also your pfp and header are so pretty]

ohhh first of all THANK YOU second of all this my favorite kind of question<33 my top two are sooooo easy but picking my third favorite was actually really hard so i cheated and picked a tie for third<3

3. 3x16 no rest for the wicked (if i'm picking purely for angst and bloody content this one would probably win) and 11x03 the bad seed (if i'm picking for bloody destiel content then this one would win)

2. 11x04 baby (j-turn scene my beloved. this is absolutely the fucking sexiest bloody dean scene of all time<3)

1. 8x17 goodbye stranger (the crypt scene has EVERYTHING i love...he's soooo fucking bloody and fucked up and on his knees and he's telling cas that he NEEDS him!!!! truly nothing could be better than this)

[heart-songs]

nothing there’s no time but love was a thing hanging in the air at night when I’d stalk the streets with my heart in my mouth. 

Jackie Wang, The Crypt Seed

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Based on my evil playthrough

Rated: Explicit

Warnings: blood lots of blood, vampirism, rituals, evil ancient villian tav uwu

back at it again w a tav that is equally (more so) evil with their bae ascend!astarion

"Go on, speak what you deem is necessary to be heard."

Your hands touch his flesh, fingers stained by the ink of crafting and reciting forbidden magic. They are cold, a comfort he needs as his flesh feels on fire.

"More." His pale skin is decorated with blood from the body before him, his mouth is stained as well. He wants more. There were plenty of sacrifices for him to feast upon, you made sure of that, but your beloved is greedy. He wants more than is required.

"Tsk, tsk, you know Gortash will not be pleased if Baldur’s Gate population suddenly starts to drop." Your hands touch his bare chest, the painted ritual marks upon his chest glow as your power touches him. "Feast upon me. I will give you enough."

Astarion will not kill you like the others, no, he knows how to feed enough to fuel him while giving you the thrill of a glimpse of oblivion.

"You spoil me, little love."

"I do and I shall forever do so gladly."

A replacement for the stone once connected to Bhaal is required and Astarion is to be the bearer of this.

Kanchelsis, the God of the Vampires, Blood, and Debauchery is to taint the stone with his power.

All that is needed is for you to assist Astarion in claiming his right.

The ritual requires an action to please the vampiric God. The blood bath has drawn his gaze, now Astarion will defile your body.

Not like you mind, after all, you are the one who made this happen.

Bane, Nerull, and Kanchelsis, the new Chosen Three shall rule over all of Baldur’s Gate and soon beyond.

You, the oldest of villains, were awoken from your slumber in the Abyss by foolish necromancers who sought to use your power. Though to bind your soul by the flesh of the current body Astarion loses himself to, oh, how you have grown once more to the level of power you once wielded.

Those many eons ago there were three who sought and failed to conquer this realm. Now you are here to finish what your former colleagues started— With those stronger than the ones you once allied with.

Your public marriage to Bane worshiper Gortash is fruitful as is your true marriage to the Vampire Ascendant Astarion is amazing. Love, you feel it for both of them, the power, and goals they share.

Astarion groans as your nails claw into his back, his movement relentless and very skilled.

"Consume me, beloved."

His fangs sink deep into your neck reopening the place he first bit you. Drinking deeply and with a moan as you are always his favorite to taste.

Oh, you are beyond pleased to feel Kanchelsis' presence as this union is soon to be completed.

Netherstone stone dipping into the shadows and blood created in the same style the vampiric cleric of Kanchelsis first had. Removing Bhaal's last gasp of power and purifying it with the unholy power of the real God of blood.

The dizziness kicks in, your vision tunneling, your body relaxing.

"(Name)," The way his voice says your name is like the sweets of poisons, one you drink every day with glee. "It is done."

The bliss is wonderful. The union between you both is always satisfying. You like how his seed leaks out of you, the reminder of who has claimed you once more.

"My Lord," Kissing him with your blood on his lips, "Our time has come!" Gleeful but too weak to get as excited as you want.

"We will celebrate once you have rested." Caring for you as he covers you with a robe he took off before he went on a killing spree. You hum as he carries you out of the temple to the upstairs portion of the former Szarr Palace.

Everything is remade to his and your liking.

Nothing, not even the hidden crypt, is the same.

Much like the world will be soon, with Gortash's input of course.

[martyrbat]

ate a pomegranate for the first time and now i know why all those classical mfers were writing poetry

[bunnis-monsters]

Ovulating girlfriend who is too shy to ask her towering demon boyfriend to breed her. He can smell and see her desperateness, so he teases her to try to coax out the begging but she is just too flustered. The way she smells and her flustered form almost drives him to madness, so he takes matters into his own hands...

NSFW

He knew with just a whiff that you were ovulating and needy, and without much ado he was between your thighs, his thumb pressing against the large wet spot in your panties and rubbing against your clit.

“Mmm, someone’s made a mess. You need me, baby?”

Your face felt hot, and you turned your head away, refusing to look at him. This only excites him more, and he began to circle his thumb around your clit, applying more pressure.

“C’mon, we both know you’re desperate to be bred. Can’t you just say it, sweet thing?”

The scent of your body being so fertile and ready to breed was making him a bit light headed, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to tease you for much longer before he snapped and mounted you himself.

“P-please…”

Your eyes were full of needy tears, your hips bucking lightly as you struggled to keep your movements under control. Your body was screaming at you to let him pump you full of his seed, to give you a baby…

“Please what, darling?”

The desperation in your eyes and the needy tears falling down your cheeks nearly moved him, but he stayed quiet, staring down at you.

“Please… I need you… w-wanna have your baby!”

With that he growled, pinning you roughly as his cock pressed against your tight, soaked cunt.

“Shh, you’ll get your baby. I won’t stop until you’re so full of my cum you can’t even think.”

His cock pushed into you, and he but down on your shoulder as he fucked you like a wild animal.

He couldn’t hold back, not when you smelled like a bitch in heat.

Your pussy clenched deliciously around him, and you were able to cum almost instantly. He had teased and riled you up, edging you, all now you were bursting.

He filled your belly with his cum, only stopping when your fat tummy bulged with his seed.

Tomorrow, he’d breed you again until you were no longer ovulating.

He’d be getting you pregnant, that’s for sure.

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Wildflower pt 5

Pairing: Unrequited!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Fem!Fiance!Reader

Words: 3,389

You spy something in the darkness. 

Tags: Mild age difference, fem!reader, heavy exposition, non-canon politics, original characters

<Previous -

The sound of water meeting water rang hollowly through the wide corridor. It was nearly met in tempo by the sound of your boots scuffing against stone, your way lit by a set of torches thrice as thick as your arm and four times the length of your head. 

You lay deep in the belly of Berk’s mountain at a depth that nearly felt equal to the highest of its peaks, reaching past the clouds with a thin rock finger.

You walked confidently, bolstered by experience and the knowing of a warrior having traveled the same path time and time again and having come out all the better for it. Despite that, the hairs on the back of your neck prickled, your neck feeling icy. 

The cold shivers that had often plagued you as a child threatened to return as you passed a gaping, light-less, uneven archway, natural, rocky spires looking a lot like jagged teeth contrasted against the awning darkness. 

That was the Thorstons’ territory. 

There was some large contention between them and the rest, what with the Thorstons being such an untrustworthy people, all of them responsible for handling all of Berks honored dead.

You couldn’t help but to find them odd.

It was nearly imperceptible at first, moving in time with your own step. Somehow, even after you stilled, the sound of footsteps did not. Sound traveled throughout the caves. It always had. It still did, peeling like the tinny creaking of wood, the deep groaning of a hollow belly. 

There was something small blinking in the darkness, shifting. 

It did not carry the awful sound of claw scraping against stone nor the sound of ever-spinning teeth and rapidly crumbling rock. It could be nothing but a man. And yet, your grip on the handle of your axe tightened.

Was it one of the Thorstons? The bulk of them spent most of their time enacting burials and spent even more time wandering in old crypts and tombs, skulking in all the great tunnels underneath Berk. The outer fringes of them and those too young to lurk so long underground spent their time wreaking havoc along the surface. It was perhaps the still air and the rotting must that must have led to their insanity and all their asinine behavior- at least, that’s what many supposed, mostly in the times they could be the least heard. It could have been merely a rumor. 

You stood stiff and grit your teeth as that small prick of light in the dark grew larger. You’d not let anyone get the jump on you, as the Thorstons tended to do to most unlucky wanderers. Admittedly, the darkness did something to foster uneasiness, to prickly something deep around your bones, where feeling was strongest.

One set of twins from the Thorston house had nearly undergone the same year of dragon-training, their father eager to be rid of them despite the fact that they were much too young for the art of battle. They had been there for a day.

Fortunately, they had been held by the laces of their waist-wraps by their mother, who pleaded to her husband for more time to let them grow and mellow- the arena was no place for baby-sitting. They had only become more reckless, something wild seeded in small hearts during that one terrifying day. They were not the sort to turn your back to- they were the sort to beat on, if you had to.

You waited, watching as soft form emerged from the darkness, a metal lantern handle grasped in one hand. It was dangerous wandering off the path with such a tiny, weak flame- she’d need more fuel soon, a new candle to keep the way lit.

It was Hilde, older sister of Fredis and daughter to Olfson Bonde. Hilde was a shy girl around your age, very clearly Ingerman, though she lacked the sharper drive and ambition for knowledge. 

Her eyes remained trained on the ground just up until the moment she reached the end of the tunnel.

“Ah,” She began timidly. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but the area just under her eyes was slightly extruded, the sides of her face looking wet and sore. She’d been crying; she was also an idiot, walking around without a weapon so deep in the tombs. 

“Off to hit the books, then?” You asked gruffly. You didn’t relax, though some of the tenseness in your arms didn’t feel as strong as it had before. 

“Ah-uhm-” She started, looking downwards.

On we go. You didn’t wait for her to finish before you turned again and started walking. Tension melted its way down your back as you kept going, though the awareness never left. 

The world grew a slight bit lighter.

It was not the natural sort of light- it was just as artificial as most of what had preceded it. Still, it marked an end. Through the darkness and past hazy grays, something else emerged- large and only just lighter than the darkness curling around you, sanded and carved and knotted at the borders in a way that made it seem as if, by some miracle of the Gods, it had merely grown from the dead rock around it.

Setting your shoulders and adjusting your burden, you headed straight ahead, reaching out and pressing a flat palm against a wide wooden door.

You turned and heaved, pushing inwards, feeling just as much give as you felt anything work in protest. You usually wouldn’t open it any more than a crack. It was a waste to press the doors open all the way, knowing that once they hit the inner walls you’d have to go about pressing them back into place.

It wasn’t just you this time, though. There was Hilde here, too.

They were heavy doors. You would have appreciated some help. It was a pity you got none. 

Generally a teary girl, she waited and wrung her hands as you finally felt the door jerk one last time before swinging open wide enough to come to a stop just before the wall.

She’d been the same way all throughout Dragon Training, just sitting around and waiting for help.

You ground your teeth.

Inside, the narrow cave walls opened up wide to reveal a hollow cavern. There was an insurmountable number of old books mounted along wooden shelves embedded into the library’s walls. It had two layers, connected by a thin wooden staircase, shelves and railings made up of a deep, dark colored wood, knobs and thick balustrade carved with a level of craftsmanship you were hard pressed to find even half-matched anywhere else on Berk.

It was much lower than it was wide, walkable enough not to pose an issue and yet with enough space to require nearly an impossible amount of care for each and every tome. Many had fallen into disrepair, not at all because of some lack of love. It was a shame that no one on Berk really read.

The only threat down here besides that of man was the threat of Whispering Deaths. While rare, they were a danger enough to have you with an axe at all times. 

The excitement was enough to nearly have you anticipating it; a risky fight to the death, a book well-read- the first rarely happened, but, well, what was the difference, really?

-

You walked past dusty shelves, not quite touching them but remembering what it felt to graze your fingers against smooth wood. 

Reading was a pastime of yours. Books of fiction were rare and valued; eddas, poems and sometimes the new, odd tale were snuck in onto the shelves by some wily author. Most of the texts here, however, were purely practical; How to fight, what to forage and how to forage it, records, the works.

You wondered if, one day, your small little cookbook might end up on the wall; if someone had picked it up, stolen it away, hoarded it for themselves- very unlikely, as you’d lost it deep in the woods. It had been a rainy, muddy day then.

You heard some shuffling from beyond the shelves, not unlike the twitching and twittering of mice. It was also something like fabric- and most probably none of your business. 

“-Got no fuel.” You caught the end of it, something old and gruff and rasping. 

It was a bastard from Ingerman house whose father was a meathead who managed the old tomes. He couldn’t ever have been accepted anywhere decent, hidden away in the darkness with knobbly fingers and knees, old wrinkling skin and a long mustache. 

He managed all the books sequestered away in the bowels of the Great Hall -who had them and otherwise- past winding passages and other things. 

“Oh, but it’s awfully frightening, isn’t it?” She pleaded. Your eyes threatened to roll at the sound of her voice, “If you’ve got just some to spare-?”

You weren’t sure exactly how long you’d been under the mountain, but it was still well lit. You knew that the Librarian replaced the candles inside the Library once every day in the mornings, which was a very sordid and lengthy affair. 

It took them until half a day to flicker out one-by-one down the library halls, so it couldn’t have been any later than midday- she’d have no need of any fuel unless she wanted to wander off the paths, but that was both her own prerogative; her own sordid responsibility to bear and to prepare for.

“You’ll have to settle like the rest of ‘em. With the…” He grunted, looking quite intensely annoyed, pale eyes flickering, “Torches.” 

It was very likely he had none he was, well, willing to spare. You knew he usually kept some for himself back behind the desk. 

You also knew he’d be able to make his way up from the Library’s belly in the pitch darkness. It was something about his nearly milky white eyes that guranteed it, you were sure. It was for that same reason he kept the passageways dim- the brights were painful to look at and he had all the passageways memorized just fine anyways.

“But-but-”

“Get on!” He said suddenly and quite loudly, seeming as if, in that moment, Hilde had worn out all his goodwill, “Always-Always-Always! Always takin’ my pens, my paper- not my candles! Stay away from my candles!”

”-But I need them.”

“And you’ll need my helmet too, then, won’t you?! Should I jus’ give any ol’ one of yeh's my worldy possessions any time you ask, eh?!”

Hidle yelped in response, sounding quite pitiful, shooting him a glance that was both wounded and offended.

Privately, you would admit that you didn’t think too highly of him either. Of course, it was the folly of anyone who thought themselves better to always fall in last and neither his complaints or musings had ever reached past the surface level.  

As the sole carer of all the books and tomes sitting under Berk, his superiority complex devalued the arts he loved so much in the eyes of all. You didn’t mind all of it most times though, most particularly because his biases made him quite easy to please.

You didn’t mind them much. You had your own set-up to tend to- some kindly pile of books and scrolls settled atop an old brown table. 

You let a thin, wooden container fall from your hands with an easy tap, the sound muffled by the layers of parchment already darning the tabletop. Your fingertips grazed lightly over the frayed, burned edges of a book, giving it one last once-over before you closed it with gentle hands, pulling out a chair with your ankle. It hooked around one leg as you settled back down, tucking yourself in quite nicely. 

In the records, you found nothing besides the usual discrepancies. You had very little to work with, but, well if you’d really cared for the conflict, you would have stayed by the Chief.

The Jorgenson head was a bastard child. A man from the Haddock clan, now long deceased -an uncle of your betrothed’s father- had bedded one of the Jorgenson’s women, their affair just barely hidden under the dark of night and only a thin guise of secrecy. She had been the sister of the head or a cousin or some other such thing. 

If the stories were to be believed, the Jorgensons had already been most prone to things like preening and blustering and roaring. With the birth of Spitelout’s son, who was spoilt and bulky and reckless as the rest of them, their wild behavior had only gotten worse. The reports told you so.

 You had to do some reading between the lines, eyeing records of birth and some council scribblings, which hadn’t at all been particularly well-taken. To your benefit, the families kept their most important records to themselves.

You frowned with some displeasure, holding back a displeased sigh, cloth shuffling over wood by your side.

You hadn’t been snuck up on- it was quite the opposite. You were much too aware of her as she settled beside you, fidgety. 

You didn’t grace her with a glance and yet you could tell she was watching you anyways. It was the force of her eyes that had done it; eyes that felt like the legs of a million pairs, all belonging to one long, buggy body. You felt that it annoyed you perhaps even more so than it had annoyed the librarian. 

You knew she was hoping to come up with you. Unfortunately for her, if there was one thing you loathed even more than petty arguments, it was company... Hers most of all.

She was plushy and gentle in nature as if she’d been born to be a mother, yet at merely enough winters to match Arne, she was surely unready to bear the life, her thoughts still too malleable, mind easily swept away by the currents of strong personality and opinion. 

She knew not so much of diction or lawspeak, having lived a life pressured to show loyalty to a clan she’d probably never once been considered by. She was naught but a small, carved piece, moved by the unfeeling, gargantuan hand of her ancestors’ player in this very large game. 

Some might have considered her a good wife or a kind companion- you thought her a pest.

“Take your hands off the tome.” You snipped roughly at the sound of shifting leather, “You’ll dirty it.”

Truthfully, some parts of the dragon are edible. 

Dragons can be prepared during times when too much food has been stolen and the air is tense. To its detriment, the meat is difficult to harvest, tough and light with little substance- at worst, it can make even the most hardy Viking easily sick, and at best, it makes great efforts to steal space in the stomach preferably used to harbor better things.

While most find it distasteful, for some, it can make quite the decent traditional meal-

You read the same line over and over, furrowing your brows as Hilde’s harassment of the librarian became her harassment of you.

“He likes Bjorner an awful lot,” Hidle said reservedly, displeased. 

You raised a brow, slightly surprised as you flipped pages- the Librarians didn’t seem to be the type to dish out praise to anyone. Bjorner didn’t seem to be the type to enjoy such pastimes, either.

She shifted in her seat again, brushing against the loose ends of scrolls and papers peeking over the side of the desk.

“What is it?” You asked suddenly, irritatedly.

“It’s-“ she started, quite timidly, “it’s a bit about wood. Some land. We lost the deed- a deed. It was- it was damaged in the raid.”

You rolled your eyes. ‘We’ was a strong word- she was barely a member of her house. “And you’re getting married in order to secure the land, because someone else’s put a claim on it. Yes?”

“Yes.” Hilde nodded tersely, muttering, “But I- uh, uhm.”

You grunted, returning your gaze back on to your hands.

Things like this happened all the time. Raids were chaotic. It was very easy to steal and to sabotage and to rob. It was a pastime of some people, which you thought to be a poor substitute for the raids of old.

Individual property was very difficult to maintain what with all the burning; it was a generally accepted rule that you got to keep nothing but the men at your back in battle. Power was in the plain and the easily accessible- whoever hoarded those had the most sway. In that sense, your relationships were your most valued possessions, for who else would have a vested interest in protecting your shared goods besides those with a claim?

“What?” You asked incredulously, “You want me to come to the wedding?”

“Ah! No, no, please- my father’s off at sea, so I can't get married now, really, but you-you’re the Chief's girl. You’ve got to be able to do something.” She pleaded, before adding hesitantly, “To stop it.”

“Chief’s girl?” You raised a brow at her.

“Well- well, you will be.”

You wanted to do something again, but you’d exhausted your list of things to roll, ways to excuse her brashness without excusing yourself.

She was deluded if she thought Hiccup was going to be Chief. She was the only one in the world who did. Not even his father himself had ever considered the thought.

Really, you were as much of a Haddock as she wasn’t a Bonde- of course, she would be losing the name soon. Knowing the Jorgensons -and all the clans, really, but they were surely the worst- if it all came to fruition, it would happen as soon as possible. Of course, once it did, she would be with child sooner than not, which would be quite unfortunate. But that was life

She was a few winters older than you- older by three, if you’d cared enough to count, so her partner could be no less than Jorvik. Older brother of Jorunn, a Jorgenson who was also a male of your year.

“Well, he’s handsome- You like him well enough, don’t you?” You asked, looking back down at your tome.

Jorvik was pleasant enough, if not a bit terse.

He had a flowing, short mop of dark hair and a well-muscled body. He was an honorable, avid warrior, and did very well during the raids though he cared not for the matters of the home, so if Hilde was to manage both the home and her in-laws, she would be very sorely alone- they would surely be the pair to be matched. They were the obvious one. He was dashing enough in personality for a Jorgenson if not a bit ugly in face, and so you were sure she’d have had a preference for him anyways.

“I-I-I- But there has to be something.” Hilde exclaimed, blushing blotchily, as if she really did think you might have known how to get out of things like marriage, and promises, and other such obligations. “I-I- Don’t want- I mean, I’ve tried to ad-dress the council-”

“No.” You said tersely. If this waa the one thing she’d ever decided to have a spine about, you’d rather she never have one at all, ever again.

The privilege of having choices- You looked at her, rather unimpressed. You’d never been offered the same courtesy, after all. Why should she be?

“It’s- I’m sure it has to do something with Grom Halfdan and his will, you see.” Hilde continued hesitantly after another moment of silence. “With the, uhm-”

“He keeps his spare candles under the desk, third drawer. You might be able to use it to find- Well, the Librarians keeps a record of all the wills and things, you see.” You suggested to her tersely. “Go off and find it for me, will you?” 

“Oh!” She said, sounding quite pleased with herself. It didn’t take long- she hurriedly moved to comply, pushing away from the table and whisking herself away.

You waited for a moment, until the sound of her shuffling became faint in the dark of the library then quickly picked up your axe and left.

You had no time for clingy, distraught girls.

[taylortruther]

re: "diesel is desire": since the breakup i have been thinking about this a lot and i think it's possible that joe walked up to a line, whether that was getting close in some way with someone he was attracted to or who was attracted to him, but didn't cross it. i think there we get the conflict between him saying she needs to trust him and her feeling so hurt and the blurriness of the cause of the fight ("maybe it was egos swinging / maybe it was her" / "maybe it's the past that's talking / screaming from the crypt"), but also the clarity that ultimately he didn't betray her ("punish you for things you never did" / "looked up with me with honor and truth"). whatever it was, it sounds like something she felt she should be able to get past and that for some reason initially she couldn't. despite how much blame she puts on herself in the song (fair enough as the person trying to consider their own role in things) this line really makes me feel like joe was in the wrong as well (he was playing with fire)!

yeah this is sort of my line of thinking as well. if each verse tells the same story, the "her" may or may not have been a true betrayal, but it planted a seed. and rather than bring them up or clear the air (spineless in my tomb of silence) she nursed these trust issues (drank my poison all alone)--as a result, each time he got too close to the line, she lashed out. and perhaps "egos swinging" means both of them felt righteous in their part of the conflict (her: he's betraying me, or will in the future, so why should i trust? / him: i didn't do anything wrong, why should i take the blame?) which kept it going for a bit. she refused his treaty, couldn't trust, and it was a repeating cycle until she pushed him too far and almost lost him.

i expect some aspects of tgw may become clearer with ts11