#and it's only one of them not a whole civilisation

[soubidou]

Finally started listening to ep24 (arc III here we go).

40mins in.

I failed my wisdom saving throw I am on my knees.

[divinekangaroo]

was also spending long shower moments contemplating just how *good* final fantasy x was, as well. Not that I have a ficcing urge for it, but mannnnnnnn, it was just so perfectly put together for its time.

[amourane]

hate the way you smile

pairing: theodore nott x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, comedy, e2l + childhood enemies??

w/c: 4.7k

summary: from the second you met theodore nott you knew that your life would be torturous and that the boy would never leave you alone but maybe forever isn't so bad with theodore nott.

warnings: none just a lot of bickering

a/n: omg this one is a bit long but i finished it!

From the moment that you met Theodore Nott at the bright age of five you knew you would hate him forever. Maybe it was the way he would sneer at you with distaste or the way he would mock you for being a big crybaby whenever he took your toys. All you knew was that you simply loathed his presence.

Your families had been friends and they had initially thought that you and Theo would get along since you were both the same age. What they didn’t expect was the young boy to rip the heads of your dolls and proceed to mock you for crying your heart out. Yet even with all of your constant bickering your families still met up every holiday, bringing the demon child with them to torment your life.

Since that day your childhood was filled with cruel laughter and the mischievous eyes that would watch wherever you went.  At age seven, Theodore Nott found it appropriate to fill your bathtub with toads causing you to shriek out in terror when you opened the bathroom door, and him, to run away with glee at your horrified face. At age nine, he thought it would’ve been funny to surprise you by dumping a bucket load of pumpkin juice all over you and he cackled at your expected screams of anger. What he didn’t expect was for you to retaliate by smashing a tray of cauldron cakes into his face. 

Needless to say the war between you two started way back then and it had continued, the only difference being that now you both were more mature and civilised and there was no room for childish pranks.

“Suck my cock you mangled prat, I hope you trip and fall to your death you insignificant shit goblin!” 

At least so you thought.

You made a move and lunged for Theodore Nott’s throat as anger flared in your eyes. No one paid mind to the scene that was unfolding before them afterall it was a common occurrence for the last six years. 

“You enchanted my hair green!” You shrieked as you shook the brunette violently. “Are you out of your mind Nott? I thought we agreed we wouldn’t mess with each other’s appearances, what happened to that?” 

Theodore simply smirked and you felt your fury bubble inside you. He tilted his head to the right and acted as if he was actually pondering your question. If you could you would have been breathing flames as you felt yourself grow more livid as every second went by. 

“Hmm…I like your hair L/n, really suits the whole vibe you’re going for, don't you think bella?” Theo flashed you a wicked grin as he reached out to twirl a lock of your hair between his fingers. You slapped his hand away.

“And what vibe am I going for Nott? Please enlighten me since you apparently are the one making decisions for me.”

You should’ve just walked away. You really should’ve just cursed him out and gone to Madam Pomfrey for some sort of remedy instead of staying and entertaining whatever shit-faced idea he had come up with. The moment you saw the smug smirk that spread across his face and the dangerous twinkle in his eyes you knew he was going to spew some absolute bullshit. And you were right.

“Well obviously it’s a statement declaring that you’re mine, why else would you dye your hair to match my house?” The Slythering feigned disbelief, clutching his hands to his chest innocently. “But Salazar, I didn’t know you would be so bold about your feelings towards me bella.”

You felt heat rise and settle on your cheeks as you tried to come up with a colourful comeback to wipe the stupid smirk off his face but the words die in your throat. It was against your will but you could feel your face growing hotter as he continued to stare at you with that flirty glint in his eyes. Your brain spluttered to a stop and you scrambled desperately for something to say.

“Fuck you Nott.” You seethed before storming away with your hands balled into fists. You could hear the whispers of students and you could feel their stares as you stomped to the infirmary, determined to find some way to get your hair back to normal. 

Theodore Nott was the biggest pain in the arse you knew and he had never stopped being one. You still remembered when you had received your letter to Hogwarts and he had scoffed at the sight asking why Hogwarts would want a half-wit like you. Needless to say your parents weren’t surprised at the cries that erupted a second later from both you and him.

Throughout your years the two of you had become known for the obvious tension and pure hatred you harboured for each other though it did seem to lean on your side a bit more than it did to his. It had been the same for the first three years, bickering, pranks and whatnot. Then fourth year came and the scrawny boy you once knew had magically grown much taller and his face had lost a lot of the baby fat it once had. All at once Theodore Nott became one of the most sought after boys in Hogwarts and it only made you loathe him more. It made his ego triple in size and it made him much more flirty towards everyone but you seemed to be his number one target. All you wanted to do was to take your wand and puncture that bloated head of his.

Though his appearance changed he still was the boy you knew since you were a child and whenever he smiled you could see the same boyish grin he had way back when he was five. He had always been the same but now he just had a much more pretty face to disguise the fact he was a blithering idiot.

Theo watched as you stormed off, his smile never once leaving his face. He loved to mess with you purely to see the visceral anger that radiated off you every single time. The way you would try to stare him down but the action proved useless as he was much taller allowing him to simply look down smugly. It amused him to see how your reactions never changed. 

Ever since you were five you held the same expressions: whenever you were mildly irritated by him you would chew on your bottom lip, whenever you were pissed your eyes would double in size and you’d look like a fire-breathing dragon, and whenever he made you upset you would stare blankly without a word. He’d only ever made you truly upset once and when seeing your face he knew he would never do it again because even if the two of you bickered and fought he would never hurt you.

“Sometimes I think you’re secretly dating because you should see the way you’re daydreaming hopelessly while staring at L/n’s retreating figure Nott, you look like a bloody imbecile.” Draco slapped Theo’s back startling him out of his own thoughts. He scoffed after realising what his friend was implying.

“Oh Salazar’s balls I think I’m going to regurgitate my breakfast. You’ve gone insane if you even think for a second there’s a chance I fancy that creature.”

Laughter erupted from his friends and they continued to mock and tease him obviously not being mature enough to handle the situation with grace.

“I would rather shag the giant squid than date L/n and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

Mattheo hummed to himself and smirked. He placed his arm on Theo’s shoulder. “Well then can I ask her out? She’s real hot and I think she’d be interested.”

“L/n might be stupid Riddle but she wouldn’t ever go out with you or even give you the time of day. So don’t even think about doing it.” And with that he left and his friends exchanged knowing glances before bursting into another fit of laughter at their friend’s own obliviousness.

//

This was so not your day. 

Never in your life had you forgotten to hand in homework yet one silly slip up had cost you to spend your free afternoon in detention. It wasn’t your fault you had mixed up the dates on when the transfiguration homework was due. 

You begrudgingly opened the classroom doors, finding a seat to sit down for the next hour. At least you were able to catch up on some other classes while you were in detention otherwise you thought you would’ve gone mad. You looked around the classroom save for Professor McGonagall who had already greeted you when you walked in there was no one else there. 

It hadn’t even been a minute when the doors burst open to reveal a very tall and very smug Slytherin.

“Mr Nott, glad for you to join us, find a seat please.”

Theo's grin faltered as his eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of confusion dancing across his features before it was swiftly replaced by his trademark smirk. He made his way toward you, closing the distance until there were mere centimetres separating you from him.

“Now L/n, Nott, I have important business to tend to so I assume the both of you are mature enough to sit through this detention. I hope that I don’t hear about any incidents when I am gone.”

It was as if your nightmare had all of a sudden come to life as you watched McGonagall leave the classroom. You tried to protest but it fell upon deaf ears as the professor had already left the room, leaving you stuck with your nemesis.

You whipped your head to face the brunette, irritation flashing in your eyes. Why had he chosen to sit next to you when there were plenty of other seats available? The classroom was far from crowded, yet here he was, invading your personal space with his mere presence

“Why are you sitting next to me Nott?”

“Why can’t I? Do you happen to own every seat in this classroom?” He teased. “I didn’t think you did, so I’m going to sit where I want.”

You grumbled under your breath at his stubbornness, getting up to pack your things. “Fine, but then I’m moving.”

Before you could make your move, Theo reached out and grabbed your arm. “Hey slow down, I have a perfect seat right here.” Your irritation flared at his audacity, and you shot him a scathing glare as he gestured to his lap with a smug smirk. “Why don’t you-”

“Nott, if you seriously propose that I sit in your lap I will hex you to oblivion.”

“Okay!” Theo held his hands up in mock surrender, his expression feigning innocence as he cocked his head to the side, the smirk never once leaving his face. “Stay here, I won’t bother you, I swear.”

You eyed him cautiously, your scepticism evident. You weighed the options before you reluctantly sat back down. “Fine.”

A quiet hush befell the classroom and all that could be heard was the scratching of quills on parchment. That is until you were interrupted by a persistent poking sensation that disrupted your concentration, each jab of the quill more annoying than the last. You clenched your jaw as you tried to ignore Theo but you knew he wouldn’t stop until you gave him attention and there was no way you were giving him the satisfaction of reacting. So he continued to poke and poke and poke. 

His incessant poking finally pushed you over the edge, prompting a sharp hiss of irritation from your lips. "What?" You snapped, unable to contain your frustration any longer.

“What are you doing here?” 

If there was a competition for incompetence Theodore Nott would sure have won first place.

“Detention obviously.”

“Oh you know what I meant, why are you in detention? Did you do something stupid? Wait, you do that all the time I forgot.” You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to roll them right out of your skull. "Tell me, bella," He continued, his voice laced with faux innocence. "I don't bite."

“Forgot my homework.” You reluctantly mumbled under your breath, feeling all too claustrophobic at how close he was to you. “Not that big of a deal.”

“Oh but it is.”

“What does that even mean, Nott?” Your eyes narrowed. Theo’s face twisted into a playful smirk and he was so close that you could practically hear his heart beating.

He chuckled, undeterred by your hostility. "But it's not like you to forget your homework," He teased, leaning in closer. "There must be something distracting you. Perhaps... thoughts of me?"

As if on instinct your hands reached out to push the unbearable boy away from you and you immediately got up at his incredulous words. You saw the way laughter bubbled and slipped from his lips, mocking you which only added more fuel to the evergrowing fire.

"In your dreams, Nott," You retorted, your voice laced with venom as you rose from your seat, your movements quick and determined. "I would sooner volunteer for a Dementor's kiss than waste a single thought on you."

Theo’s smirk only widened and his eyes gleamed with mischief. "Oh, believe me, the feeling is mutual," He quipped, his voice dripping with amusement as he rested his chin on his palms, his gaze never wavering from yours.

You huffed out an angry breath before picking your stuff up and stalking to the opposite end of the classroom. Luckily, he didn’t follow and you were left in peace for the rest of the detention.

//

It had been a week and a half since your detention yet Theodore Nott hadn’t approached you once since. In fact, you hadn’t seen him around school a lot, not that you were paying attention of course. It was just weird. Usually his face would pop up in front of you multiple times a day yet he was nowhere to be found. You had even lingered around the Slytherin table at lunch to see if he would show up but he never did. 

There was this sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. Even though you did despise Theo you had known him since he was a kid and he never was one to skip lessons much less disappear for over a week. Even his Slytherin friends didn’t know where he went.

That is until today. The moment you had walked into the dungeons ready for your Potions lesson you spotted him. There was a part of you that hoped you would see him today, after all he was your Potions partner. But there was something wrong. His face looked gaunt, pale, sapped of life and his eyes were merely blank as he sat unmoving. His usual demeanour was replaced with one of hollow emptiness.

“Where have you been Nott?” No response. You frowned as you looked at him, he seemed to not even hear you. “Nott? Have you suddenly become deaf?”

“It’s none of your business.” He snapped voice obviously laced with malice as the words cut through the air. The sharpness of his tone caught you off guard, a twinge of hurt gnawing at the edges of your consciousness despite the fact you both had said worse to each other.

You chose to ignore the fact that Theo was obviously in a sour mood and sat down beside him, unpacking your things. There was nothing special about the lesson, nothing that you needed to particularly pay attention to. Not that you did since you were too focused on trying to figure out what was wrong with your partner. Theo didn’t look okay, not in the slightest. He seemed exhausted and his sluggish movements proved you correct as he diced the various ingredients. 

You were in the middle of stirring the cauldron when Theo dropped a dandelion root in the mixture causing it to bubble and spit. The concoction spilled onto your hand and you shrieked at the sudden burning sensation that seemed to consume your hand in flames. The sensation is unbearable, a sharp, burning agony that seems to penetrate deep into your very bones. By now the whole class had stopped to look at you not fully registering what had happened. You turned to Theo, tears threatening to fall from your eyes at the pain but he stood there frozen, an expression you couldn’t decipher on his face.

“Theo-”

"Fucking hell, L/n." He spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Would it kill you to not be such a clumsy moron? You could've hurt me as well. How can you even call yourself a witch?"

His words were sharp and spiteful. Through the many years of knowing Theodore Nott he had never blamed you for something he did. He might have been an incorrigible prick but he would still apologise if he had ever hurt you genuinely. But as you looked at him you couldn’t recognise the cold harsh look he gave you and you bit back your tears. You wouldn’t cry in front of him. 

Despite the fact your hand was in pain you felt something tighten around your chest and it made the air around you feel thick as if you couldn’t breathe. You stood up angrily, opening your mouth to snap back but your vision starts to fade, black spots invade your senses and that was the last thing you remember before you tumbled to the floor.

You woke up a few hours later as you felt the sun shine on your face. You blinked, disorientated, as you tried to get used to your surroundings. The familiar walls of the infirmary materialised and you felt some ease at knowing where you were. Confusion still gnawed at your mind as you struggled to piece together what had happened. How had you ended up in the infirmary? And why did everything feel so hazy, as if viewed through a foggy lens? 

Your gaze drifted to your hand, the source of the searing pain. And there, wrapped in a pristine white bandage, lay the answer to at least one of your questions. The memory flooded back in fragments, disjointed and incomplete.

Theo's careless mistake, the scalding mixture splattering across your skin, the sharp cry of pain that had torn through the air, all of it came rushing back with startling clarity.

“Miss L/n you’re awake!” Madam Pomfrey’s voice cut through your thoughts and you saw the woman make her way towards you hurriedly. “That was a terrible burn you had, lucky I had some burn-healing paste on me otherwise you would have had an ugly scar.”

You were still a bit dazed, trying to piece together how you even managed to make your way here. You distinctively remembered collapsing to the floor but that was where your memory stopped and it refused to give you any more.

“Sorry Madam Pomfrey but do you know how I got here? I really can’t seem to remember.”

“Oh dear.” The nurse frowned at your condition. “Mr Nott brought you here. He’s been here the whole afternoon. He's only just popped to dinner. I'm sure he’ll be back. Merlin, the boy did look worried.”

You resisted the urge to scoff at her words. Theodore Nott, worried. Not a chance. He probably only brought you here because Slughorn insisted, and he couldn't risk getting on the professor's bad side. No, you highly doubted he cared about what had happened to you.

The memory of his harsh words repeated in your head like an echo that refused to go away, a reminder of his indifference to your situation. And yet, despite your efforts to brush it off, a bitter laugh escaped your lips. Why were you even upset? After all, the two of you were experts at hurling mean insults at each other. It was practically a pastime. 

Rather you should have been mad at the fact he was the one who caused you to get this injury anyway. If it wasn’t for his stupid mistake you wouldn’t be in this predicament. Then again, you remembered his movements, how his usual nimble fingers were fumbling the ingredients, how he stared at the pages of his book as though they were in a foreign language. Something wasn’t right.

“You’re awake.”

The words startled you and you spotted the Slytherin boy approaching your bed as his face held the same blank expression as before. He sat down beside you and your eyes narrowed. You shuffled away, not wanting to be near him.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured quietly and the words caught you off guard. “These past few days just haven’t been the best and-”

“That’s your excuse?” You bristled at his pathetic apology, hoping that you had misheard what he had said. “You mess up our potion resulting in me getting hurt and then hurl insults my way trying to blame me for what happened. And you think simply saying ‘I’m sorry’ is enough? Using the excuse of having a few bad days as your way out?”

He stayed silent allowing you to continue.

“Theodore Nott, you always were an idiot.” You spat, the words tinged with disappointment. “But I never expected you to be such a heartless prick.”

As the final syllable fell from your lips, a heavy silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the shallow rise and fall of your breath. You held Theo’s gaze and as you studied him you noticed something you had failed to notice before. The dark circles that marred the skin beneath his eyes, the redness that rimmed their edges. The weariness that had been etched into his features. 

“I went home.” He finally said, breaking the silence with his words. “Father sent a letter saying it was urgent, that I needed to return home at once.”

You felt yourself deflate and your gaze softened. Theo and his father had never been on the best terms and ever since his mother died they drifted apart even more. Suddenly his attitude made sense and you felt the guilt seep into your senses.

“Turns out his urgent matter was that he found himself another potential wife. Some poor woman to endure his torture and he wanted to happily announce it to his son. He burnt all of my mother’s belongings and if I hadn’t stopped him he would’ve gotten rid of her grave as well.” Theo scoffed bitterly and you saw the way he was trying to stop the tears from falling. “That bastard calls himself my father but not once in his life has he ever cared about me.”

A heavy silence enveloped the both of you as you sat not uttering a word. You knew that he had always struggled with the strained relationship with his family. The death of his mother had resulted in Theo being distraught for weeks as he relived the nightmare whenever he closed his eyes. 

“I’m not going back there. I’m never setting foot in that house ever again.”

You placed your hand on his shoulder as you tried to offer some sort of comfort. His eyes locked with yours and you saw how his tears glistened as they fell silently. You felt ropes tighten around your heart and you squeezed his shoulder gently. It had been a long time since you saw Theodore Nott cry. It was a rare sight but that was what made it that much more painful.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” You whispered. “I honestly…I’m so sorry Theo. He really doesn’t deserve a son like you. You’re incredible, you know that? You might be irritating and loud and downright infuriating at times but he doesn’t deserve you because you’re amazing Theodore Nott. And, Merlin, if I’m saying that then it must mean a lot because we both know my word is golden.”

You offered him a small smile and your heart warms when you see one tug at his lips too. He looked away for a second and you saw his eyes land on your bandaged hand and he winced.

“I really am sorry for messing up our potion. I didn’t mean what I said, you’re a brilliant witch Y/n, you always have been. I was just being a prat, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s honestly nothing bad. My hand will probably already be back to normal, I heal quickly you know.” You paused as your smile faltered and you chose your next words carefully. “If…if you don’t want to return to your house, you can always go to someone else's.”

Theo chuckled as he shook his head. “No one is going to accept me into their house without turning me into my father.”

“I will.” 

Silence. Theo looked at you, confusion clear on his face but your gaze was strong and he could tell you had meant what you had said. You felt yourself flush at his stare and you realised your hand was still on his shoulder and you quickly removed it.

“Accept you into my house I mean. My parents love you and you know they haven’t been on good terms with your father ever since what happened. We would be more than willing to take you in.” You watched as his face contorted into expressions that you couldn’t formulate. “That is if you promise not to fill my bathtub with toads again.”

Laughter fell from his lips, cascading like a melody. He lifted his hands to wipe away his tears that had been streaking down his face. His eyes no longer held the blank emotionless look but rather a certain warmth that you had missed seeing. Your grin widened upon hearing the sound and you found yourself joining in.

“At least you look pretty-”

Your words were cut off abruptly as Theo leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a sudden and unexpected kiss. You froze, unable to comprehend what exactly was happening as disbelief rippled through your body. His hands found their way at the back of your neck and you feel his thumb caress your cheek tenderly. You were still in shock when he pulled away and the last few words of the sentence you were about to say tumbled out of your mouth.

“-when you cry…”

You blinked as your mind tried to grapple at what had just happened. Theodore Nott had just kissed you. Theodore Nott, the boy you had despised since you were five, had just kissed you. He kissed you. Kissed…you. Immediately, your body erupted into flames and you felt your face flush hot at how close the both of you were.

“Your body temperature has risen extremely quickly.” Theo teased and you felt yourself grow even hotter.

“Shut it.”

“Like you’re actually a human radiator.” He continued undeterred by your glare.

“Nott if you don’t want to lose your head I would advise you to shut up.”

Theo grinned and you felt your heart stutter at the sight. “Oh so now I’m back to being Nott? What happened to Theo?” He said his name in a high pitched croon in an attempt to mock your voice and you smacked the backside of his head which only encouraged his laughter.

“You’re actually going to be the death of me.” You groaned as you slumped back down the bed, pulling the covers over your face as a feeble attempt to hide yourself from the pretty Slytherin.

Theo poked your arm and you peeked out to find him staring at you with a bright grin on his face. 

"Don't worry." He reassured you, his voice light and teasing. "I'll make sure to stay by your side forever and ever, like a blood-sucking parasite."

“How romantic.” You drawled as you rolled your eyes, trying to maintain a facade of annoyance as you retreated under the covers once more.

“Aren’t I just?” 

You ignored Theo’s playful whines for you to let him see your face. Your heart threatened to break out of your chest as you tried to calm yourself down. But even so, you were unable to stop the grin that spread across your face. Maybe, just maybe, forever wouldn't be so bad with Theodore Nott by your side.

[hedgehog-moss]

Forgive me for making yet another post about the French Revolution but one small detail that makes me laugh is when, as things started to go seriously wrong, one of Louis XVI's advisers tried to persuade him & Marie-Antoinette to get away from Paris and wait for things to calm down (the idea was "if you lay low and wait, the newly-created National Assembly will vote something stupid and lose popular support" which was a solid plan honestly.) But he was also like "whatever you do, DO NOT go East or South or people will think you'll get help from other monarchies to restore your power and that won't calm things down"

So the King was advised to flee to Normandy, which... is just a short ferry ride away from another monarchy. But that's completely different since it's England. To be fair to the English, the French monarchy had basically bankrupted itself a few years back to send millions in support of the American revolutionaries because it would be a shame not to take advantage of "perhaps the best opportunity for centuries to come to put England in its place" (actual quote by France's minister of Foreign Affairs in 1777)

—still I love the realistic approach of the King's adviser telling him, Sire you can't go near any of our borders rn, it'll escalate the situation, Parisians will know you're trying to get another country to help. Obviously you can go set up camp right across the sea from England though, that's fine since everyone knows the English wouldn't piss on us if we were on fire¹

¹ Perfidious Albion was like "aw no France is in turmoil and possibly weakened :) a shame :)" exactly like France re: them at the start of the US independence war ² they also thought well these backward french are finally following our glorious example and entering civilisation (parliamentary monarchy) ³ and only when the Girondins started being like "let's spread the French Revolution to the whole universe!!! or at least Belgium" did England finally decide "it's been a while since we last declared war on France actually" (but it was too late for Louis XVI) ⁴ That's not how footnotes work sorry. Trying to make my post look fancier

[katakaluptastrophy]

The ships … the ships were still full of people. I reached our hand out into space. I extended. I struggled. He said, I bit through the sun first. It’s human nature. That started things going.

Imagine being on those ships (and remember, not everyone in those ships was a nefarious trillionaire) zooming away from earth.

Maybe you've watched mushroom clouds blossoming across the face of the earth as you pulled away, the lines of communication fizzing out and going dead.

Watched...something...happen to the earth. Watched the sun flare and then flicker out.

I sliced through Venus, Mercury, Mars … by that point a couple of the tugs had already launched through the Kuiper. I had to kill Jupiter and Saturn in a fucking hurry. I reached … they blinked away from me … all I could do was hope that they’d watched what I was doing and all died from fucking terror. You and I went full fucking Hungry Caterpillar. We took Uranus … Neptune … crunched down Pluto … found every satellite and craft, reached in, crunched up all the humans, moved on.

You try to make contact with the installations as you pass - the small city on Mars, the helium-3 capture facility at Jupiter, the mines on Saturn's moons, the skeleton crew constructing the shell on Uranus, the Kuiper platform. Maybe the comms are eerily quiet. Or perhaps, you make contact for just a moment, enough time to witness what happens when god doesn't kill people "clean".

As you speed away, the rings of the gas giants burst asunder and the planets seem to desaturate, the readings go haywire as their magnetic fields suddenly destabilise. And something, oh god, something seems to slip away from each one, some absolute acid trip of horror, like some kind of writhing, fleeing ghost.

The moment I found the fleet spinning up to enter FTL, it was too late … I could only grab one of them … and you and I held it in the palm of our hand. I was in there with them. All those frightened people. All those runaway rats.

And then something physically stops one of the ships. Alarms are going off, sparks are flying, lights are flickering, and there's a horrifying sense of presence (if John feeling Alecto's presence was unremitting screaming inside his head, what does the presence of the newly combined John and Alecto feel like? Because I don't think that invovles less eldritch psychic screaming, somehow).

And then you break free, and spin off into some kind of warp of time and space, with the knowledge that you are the last humans left alive in the universe and that something truly terrible lurks on the husk of the earth.

Imagine 5000 years of that tale being passed down through humanity (that's equivalent to the time that passed between the stone age and the present day), as civilisations rose and fell across planets and systems.

And then imagine, one day, being the ship that encountered something they'd never seen before. A ship, of an entirely unfamiliar design, bearing an unfamiliar symbol: a skull. The whole ship is covered in bones. Sleek, designed, inlaid bones. Human bones.

When they hail you, you see humans, but not like you've seen before. They're dressed in strange outfits: military uniforms and robes that look like something from a textbook of the most ancient history. They're carrying swords. Swords! Many of them seem starved and sickly, as if their bodies are consuming themselves. They speak of their empire and their god in strange, archaic words - an impossibly ancient language from the earth that was - of the resurrection of the dead, of the Lord over the River, of necromancy.

And you realise that however horrifying the tales of the earth's death in fire, there are things worse than death.

[wintersera]

beneath the facade || g!p giselle x f!reader

notes: WE ARE SO BACK !! aeri is just kinda obsessed with reader- she just doesn’t know how to process her emotions like that okay, be patient with her. based off this little drabble i did a while back

cw: possessive aeri, g!p aeri, crazy ass bullying, a lot of physical violence and threatening, blackmail, dubcon? humiliation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, a lil choking, degradation, words like “mutt/pup”, perv!aespa at the end

wc: 4k

giselle

academically gifted, rich as fuck, athletically talented- hell, even scarily strong and not to mention she was gorgeous. people wished to be with her or to be her. though, she has some setbacks. or well, quite a lot of them.

the bully, the devil in disguise, that bitch in class 301. all describing a certain specific woman, uchinaga aeri.

you, y/n l/n, were her primary target. not the opposite of her in every thing she excels at, but definitely on the opposite of the school's fear and popularity spectrum. she was on one end, you were on the other.

first year in and you ended up being the victim of bullying, executed by the one and only. you were just a mere transfer student, lucky enough to be accepted into a prestigious school because of a scholarship you worked your ass off for, but people didn’t appreciate the hard work of a civilised citizen, they only focused on how much your income was and if your parents owned multiple businesses and all that shitty snobby stuff rich people tend to flaunt around.

most students around found the presence of an unsightly commoner grotesque. hell, you looked the part, your shoes apparently weren’t high quality enough for their liking, and let’s not talk about the worn out backpack you wore to school 24/7…

to aeri, it was like comedy gold. you stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of the wealthy. she had never seen someone look so out of place and it brought her to tears, and not because she felt pity, but she thought it was too entertaining to watch your ass haul your way through the corridors.

it started at lunchtime on the first day you transferred. everyone had their own friend group, big or small, they at least had some friends to occupy them. you on the other hand had no one. not a friendly eye in sight. this in fact was a huge gamble, but it couldn’t hurt to make some acquaintances, so you spun your chair around to meet eye to eye with… her.

“hi, you’re uchinaga aeri right? i’m y/n do you-“

she scoffed, abruptly cutting you off, laughed at your expression as it contorted in confusion, grabbed her flask filled to the brim with water and poured all of the content onto your head. the ice cold water soaked your clothing, sort of exposed your bra a little.

“you’re funny. do you know who i am?” the corners of her mouth tugging up as she watches you shake due to the fact you were literally soaked with ice cold water, and because of the fear “watch who you talk to, mutt” abruptly rising from her seat to kick your chair causing you to slam hard into the cold floor. and now everyone's eyes were on you, murmuring amongst themselves, snickering, some even commenting about how pathetic you looked quivering on the floor. until aeri gave a glare that paralysed you and the others, a little reminder to everyone that this could happen to them.

oh, the teachers? helpless. with the amount of money she had she could bribe her way out of any situation, pull herself out of suspension, honestly she could buy whole school and it wouldn’t make a dent in her bank.

you went home that day feeling… strange. a large bruise on your arm hurt a lot obviously, yet you were reminiscing about what had happened a few hours ago, a shiver ran up your spine. not for the sane reasons though.

from then on, the scale got worse and worse, from making you her personal lackey, to threatening to blackmail you, physically assaulting you the next week and on the occasion dragging you somewhere to suck her off.

years of being tormented by mainly her and her clique, coined as ‘aespa’ — you thought it was rather funny how they named themselves rather than being named by students — eventually numbed the physical pain she’d inflicted. mentally and emotionally on the other hand it still sort of stung. she practically owned you whether or not you liked it and to make matters worse everyone knew you as, not your name, but as aeri’s servant, bitch, slave, pet, other derogatory names that come to mind, but she mostly called you mutt.

fast forward to now. you were currently in the last year of school. the typical school day for you consisted of class, aeri forcefully gripping your shoulder which usually meant that she wanted you to buy something for her, break, aeri and her clique finding a variety of ways to humiliate you- todays was quite mundane, a few clothes of yours missing after PE class… wonder who took them. the rest of the days were then filled with more classes and some peaceful studying in the library until aeri had showed up.

“y/n…” as soft as her voice was, her tone was terrifying.

“i’m talking to you, look at me.” this was the damn library, she couldn’t take YOUR safe space away from you “oh so now you’re being difficult” you chose to ignore her, per usual. you continued to jot down notes from the book you were studying, staring at it while she carried on talking.

in an instant her hand clasped your jaw, jerking your head to the side.

“ow- ow… okay what, what is it?” hissing at the pain.

“look at this” her phone screen shoved, almost, into your face, the bright screen showing a random ass screenshot from one student to another. the conversation from this random guy in class and this girl in the library who occasionally helped you. “who in this school would want to be with you?” ouch, that stung a little. she’s said some worse things, but that definitely hit close to home “i thought people would have some standards” she chuckled “that girl is ugly as fuck too. actually now that i think about it, you two suit each other perfectly.. oh and that perm, jesus christ, i might go and shave it off for her, what do you think mutt?” truth be told, you didn’t know her well enough for those screenshots to go around. who would make a stupid edit for the least popular person in school and the girl who’s constantly in the library.

yes, she was pretty. yes, she was smart. no you weren’t close. was aeri jealous? perhaps.

anyways, aeri’s mind wouldn’t be swayed so easily right? i mean, clearly it was a fake image— you could tell by the fuckass editing.

“her? i like her… she’s been nice to me” although it was a library, the following silence was eerily strange coming from her loud ass. aeri’s the fussy type, she’d usually make a big commotion about anything really, especially if it was something to do with you and being a normal functioning person.

“…..” um? what’s with this deafening silence.

“come with me” her unnaturally unphased expression paired with the grip she had on your wrist made your stomach twist in anticipation. luckily it was after school hours. almost all of the students were gone around this time, some staying to catch up with homework, or doing club activities.

—

today the basketball members weren’t in, perfect for aeri… and her little clique. the three of them were already waiting diligently in the basketball teams’ changing room. ‘oh, its the usual’ you thought. one of them would push you over, kick you until you were bruised up and down and then snap, a pic of you would be taken. the pain was always unbearable but you always sucked it up, holding in your screams just so that they would end it quicker since you weren’t squealing and crying, which they loved to hear you do.

you guess today’s different. they were all sitting down on the bench, tapping away at their phones without realising that you were in the room. until aeri coughed, bringing their eyes towards her and not you. “you know what to do” her voice commanded you maliciously.

“alright…” who were you to deny her anyway, it was either that or a foot to the head. then your mother would get worried again, call the school and get humiliated by them once more, which you hated.

a deep breath, you tugged at your oversized sweater, looked at aeri- smiling and nodding. “fuck…”, you took it off swiftly, unbuttoning your top while you heard multiple camera shutters go off. the skirt was next to go; the sounds carried on.

there you stood, shamefully in the middle of the changing room “you know what would be funny y/n, sending these scandalous pics to that girl you like. she would love that… what do you girls think? do you think she would find our little mutt attractive?”

minjeong looked up from her camera, sucking a strawberry flavoured lollipop “can we do something else aeri? this is getting boring… tell me why we’re still keeping her around”

“shut the fuck up minjeong”

“jesus christ, alright…”

“yizhuo? jimin? your thoughts?”

yizhuo just nodded, a quick sadistic smile indicating that she thought the same way as aeri, even giggling at the thought. jimin couldn't care less, you guess it was from the lack of violence and the fact that your face was devoid of emotion, but she thought it would be best to keep aeri entertained..

“do whatever you want aeri. like minjeong said though, our toy is nothing but boring. can we do something exciting, something like… i don’t know, making her react in some sort of way? *any way??*”

“okay wait, that gave me an idea…”

nothing could’ve prepared you for what was going to happen next. aeri grabbed a handful of your hair, tugged you towards her, scalp burning from the pain.

“start recording. now” both of her hands now gripping your shoulder on each side, pushing you down to your knees. you winced at the pain shooting from your lower body and upwards. knees scrapping the hard floor as she manoeuvred you to her liking. legs buckling and trembling as you struggle to keep balance.

this caught the attention of the three girls, all eyes were on you. frightening, they had never been so disgustingly invested in you before. you found yourself in a situation that was way more nerve wracking than being seen naked by only aeri. you were vulnerable in front of her close friends, the very friends that haven’t seen you butt ass naked before. trapped in your own little mind, you didn’t render that her thick cock was pressed against your cheek. throbbing.

“suck it”

your eyes shot up to her, pleading with your eyes.

in front THEM? what the fuck.

“suck it whore” it’s important to note that aeri has severe anger issues, and clearly she can’t wait either. a spoilt rich kid like her always got her way as fast as it was humanly possible. quick to anger, she waisted no time in pleasuring herself. taking her hand to lower your jaw, forcing her length all the way down “mhm… use your tongue like you always do” her hands pushing your head closer to her, slowly making sure you feel every inch of her cock slide into your mouth until it hit the back of your throat “yeah… fuck- you’re so good when you’re not looking at me like you despise me” your eyes welled up and you couldn’t breathe, it didn’t help that her you were choking around her dick “c’mon… use your mouth, mutt” her patience running low, clicking her fingers at you to start moving, but you simply don’t “you- don’t start acting like you’re some innocent girl now, i know what you are. fucking disgusting pervert, i know you like being used like this, i know you’re soaked from the fact that you got yourself into this predicament” slapping your face with the palm of her hand “you keep acting like a bitch and i’ll—“

sparing yourself from a lengthy rant about how you’re a bitch and she could definitely find someone better, you start sucking on her cock obediently, your ‘innocent’ eyes looking up at her while you bob your head, exaggerating the sucking noise just to make her head spin. she hissed.

on the other hand, the girls watched in awe. all of them turned on by watching you take aeri. your face grew hot, but them watching didn’t distract you much. actually it encouraged you to go faster on her, quickening your pace as you let her grab a handful of your hair, urging you to take her even deeper than before. her head lolled back, eyes squeezing shut as she focuses on your tongue swirling around her length.

“my god… you’re so good pup, but let me… let me use you” again, she forces her cock in with a quick thrust ,which made you gag in return. she hummed, relentlessly using your mouth as if it was her own fuck toy.

you couldn’t even lie to yourself, you loved the way aeri treated you when she behaved all cocky and spoiled. as degrading as it was, the way she always manhandled you in the most disrespectful ways made you unbelievably horny, and this was just taking it to another level.

the other girls’ eyes kept on you and not their leader, watching how you took aeri’s huge cock down your throat, the way your bra strap was falling, the way your hair was all messed up and the way tears rolled down your cheeks making your face glisten with both tears and sweat. they kept recording, violating your privacy as their cameras zoomed in on your mouth being fucked mercilessly.

yizhuo couldn’t take it anymore, she wanted to join in on the fun. snaking a hand around your shoulder, feeling the heat radiating off your bare skin on the palm of her hand only to receive a painful slap that stung seconds after “what the fuck, am i not allowed to?” it was clear that aeri didn’t want to share you. she sucked air through her teeth, rubbing her hand while giving a dirty look at aeri.

“don’t touch what’s mine” you felt pride swell up, your plan sort of worked. getting her jealous was one of the best ideas you came up with… maybe you could test that out a little more.

aeri kept on going, speeding up thrusts as her high came closer “gonna- gonna cum…” her moans becoming higher, breath quickening, the grip on your head becoming painfully pleasurable, you could tell she was close by the way her eyes rolled to the back of her head “so good- you’re so fucking good puppy…” a few seconds pass and she lets out a long and satisfying groan followed by her taking her cock out of your mouth, spilling her cum all over your face. it took a few seconds of pure silence before her cock sprang up, harder than ever.

“fuck….” you turned to your side, wiping your cum soaked face to see all of the girls staring at you attentively, especially ning. her eyes were locked on your body, scanning your every curve, blushing ever so gently. you took this as an opportunity to test aeri’s jealousy. obviously it was a bad idea. if it worked then your little silly plan to test if she would act possessive, or not, would work. after all you knew that aeri had taken a liking to you back then. did it justify all the bullying? no, not in particular, but you could say you were a tad bit perverse for enjoying every single moment of it. though, you wouldn’t say that out loud. but if she wasn’t a possessive freak, then well ning could join in… and you didn’t mind that, you found her rather cute as well.

“ning~” you beckoned her with a sultry voice, half lidded eyes staring right back at her bringing her forward.

“m..me?” pointing at herself in disbelief “uh… i don’t think i should-“ through the corner of her eye she could see aeri’s gaze, watching her carefully to see if she would make any advances. you stared ning down, purposefully letting your bra strap slip from your shoulders.

this time aeri’s gaze fell on you. she stayed uncharacteristically silent, the sound of laboured breathing told you that your plan came to fruition. calming herself down she balled up her fists, gritting her teeth all while watching you seduce one of her close friends.

face hot with anger, aeri once again grabbed your wrists, only this time was her grip tighter than before “you’d slut yourself out to anyone wouldn’t you?” her voice low and still, whispering in your ear. seconds later you find yourself being pulled up from the ground, and then a few more seconds go by again and you were stripped from all your clothes, leaving you bare. as she stepped back to admire your body “show them how much of a nasty slut you are for me” she sat down and pulled you into her lap, spreading your legs wide enough for the three girls to see how wet you were for her. you whined at the feeling of her slim fingers playing around your clit. her ever so light touch drove you insane, so different from the times she would rub your clit fast and rough.

“wait.. wait… too slow” much to your shock, she was also thrown off guard. that cute and whiny begging made her want to… take care of you? kind of? she was conflicted all the while horny as hell.

rough or slow? rough... or slow... slow….

slow it was.

her fingers reached your mouth. knowing what she was like, you opened your mouth, wetting her fingers so that she could toy with your sensitive clit. god, she knew your body so well. how easy it was to make you crumble in her hands, how simple it was to make you obey her words whether or not it was a simple task or threat, how sensitive you could be when she did this one thing or another thing “this wet for me already puppy? i guess i don’t need to prep you or anything, huh? so wet and i only touched you lightly” you felt that all the way down to your core, the butterflies you felt in your stomach made you needier.

“please…” you could only muster up so much strength to plead.

“please what puppy? i won’t know until you tell me”

the drastic change between calling you a mutt to calling you a puppy caught the attention to the girls, they thought it was kind of cute, seeing a different kind of aeri was rare. they’d bring it up later to tease her relentlessly in the future, but for now it’s best to leave it alone since they didn’t want to get berated after.

“too weak to say it aren’t you… fine, i know what you want anyways” since you were already sitting on her lap, aeri had no difficulty adjusting herself.

her cock stretched you out and the position made it so that the very tip reached into places you would've never imagined. she was so hard, thick as hell and god was she big. christ, your past self never would have imagined how that could’ve gone inside “oh.. my god- you’re tighter than usual. does being fucked in front of people turn you on this much y/n? you’re making it so easy for me to.. mmhf- slide in and out” her arms were wrapped around your waist pulling you up and down instead of the usual “move yourself” or “beg for it”

in a way the change of how she used you was quite endearing, which was surprising although she was still technically using you as her toy, but less… cold heartedly? you guess. she’d never be the type to kiss your neck as she was balls deep into your pussy, but here she was doing the exact same thing. nuzzling into the crook of your neck giving the occasion bite or suck, tickling your brain and making your thighs shut.

both of you kind of forgot that there were three other girls in the room. too focused on each other to realise that they were still gawking… and they were also quiet as hell, they didn’t want to ‘disturb the peace’ so they opted into hearing the vulgar wet squelches as they tried so hard not to unzip their pants and join in on the fun.

“how… a-are you… still so tight? fuucck- your pussy feels amazing puppy” her thrusts deepen more than you thought it would, hitting spots you’d never knew felt this damn good. you couldn’t help but let out a shameless moan as she kept on fucking you rougher, but uncharacteristically slow.

“mm.. ngh- aeriii” you called out to her as you steadied yourself with your hand gripping her thigh. going slow wasn’t aeri’s forté. she usually was the type to go in fast and keep going faster until it would make you shout streams of curses and broken up versions of her name. you urged her to go quicker, moving your hips to get her attention but it seems like she was stuck in her own little world of pleasure “a-ah.. faster pleaseee-”

“pathetic and whiny.. lemme do what i want to do” under that dom girl facade, you knew all she wanted to do was cum inside, murmuring your name under her breath — which she was never aware of — but she held out.

what made her change her ways of dealing with you today was something you wouldn’t understand anyways.

“never mind, i’ll make sure not to break you this time” she bit down on your shoulder, close enough to draw out blood and rammed cock so hard and sudden that it squeezed out a yelp out of your lungs. you cried, begged her to slow the fuck down, but she wanted nothing more than to treat you like she had before, being a softie wasn’t her.

she was going too rough, too fast, but it felt too good not to tell her to stop. her breath quickening, her arms hugging your waist tightening, the frantic kissing along your neck covering it almost entirely with hickeys “fuckfuckfuck… i’m gonna cum so much- inside you.. mmhhm” with the last thrust she came, cum leaking down to the bench and a little getting on the floor. she knew you hadn’t cum yet. as much of an asshole she can be, she usually would make you cum if you didn’t before. her tired fingers reaching down to your clit, rubbing it in circles while she still rocks her hips — overstimulating herself while helping you reach your climax.

your eyes began to roll as she rubs faster, back arching as you feel the knot in your stomach form “aeri- oh god, aeri— feels too good” with her cock still inside of you, she felt your cunt squeeze down. still sensitive she jolts up, tip hitting the right spot as she does so. the pleasure from that and the pleasure felt from your clit drove you to your orgasm. a high pitched moan could be heard, although muffled, through the empty halls.

baffled, the three girls awkwardly stared at your limp body on top of aeri’s. it seems like you both had passed out after you’d both came.

“…jimin what do we do?” minjeong said as the panic set in “what if a teacher is coming to check up on us”

“i’ll wake aeri up-“

yizhuo interjects “no, bitch that’s a horrible idea. she’s gonna wake up grumpy as hell and them she’d start being all yap yap yap, you know”

“so you’d leave her to be found by either a teacher or the janitor? either way she’d get mad”

“well i’m sure as hell not waking her up, bye guys” minjeong leaving with a cheeky grin “ah plus-“ re-opening the door “i’ve got great pics of y/n, i’m gonna go home and beat it to her”

“can you send them?”

“jimin what the hell… send some to me as well minjeong”

a/n: FUCK i feel like i’ve lost the ability to write smut ya’ll 🙂 this is the best i could do in a long time

[styllwaters]

Hailing from the harsh planet of Ettera, Knights are the only sophont in the Zhagaviit system made of two consciousnesses. ---

At last, here they are! Nearly finished with redesigning every Vivere 44 species. These guys are retconned werewolves which I posted about some time ago. You might have noticed I brought back some space unicorn aspects as well! They've been through so many design changes but I've finally settled on something solid.

More information below!

I'll try to keep this concise. Most of this info is introductory biology.

Knights are the only sophonts living on Ettera, a mostly barren planet where survival is tough. Their civilisation is the least advanced compared to others in Zhagaviit, such as Arrows and Sea Crawlers. They were the third species to be contacted by the ZGC (Zhagaviit Galactic Community) followed by Post Humanity. Knights are known for being hardy, efficient, and motivated.

If it isn't already clear enough, Knights are two species in a symbiotic relationship acting as one individual. Helmets and Hosts have an evolutionary history so intertwined that one cannot survive without the other.

The Helmet is attached to the head of the Host, and will remain there for the rest of their life (unless separation happens - but we'll get into that later). In the relationship, their role is vision and dexterity. Since the Host is effectively blind, it is the Helmet's job to guide them. Their hands are also important, being the Knight's primary manipulators. They played a large part in early tool use. The Helmet lacks a mouth, and receives all its nutrients from the Host through a specialised organ not unlike an umbilical cord.

The Host is essentially the main body of the Knight. Wolflike and mammalian in nature, the Host is the Helmet's mode of transportation. Because they need to eat for two, Hosts are omnivorous and will eat just about anything. Although majority of their diet is comprised of meat, they are capable of digesting plant matter and bones. They are highly skilled and effective hunters.

It is in both party's best interests to assimilate as soon as possible. The Host cannot see without a Helmet, and within a few weeks bonding will become impossible. The stakes are higher for a newborn Helmet, because they cannot feed by themselves and will starve in under a week without a Host or an artificial feeder tube. Prior to first contact with the ZGC, Knights did not have the technology for artificial feeders, and infant death rates were high.

So how do two beings coordinate one body? The fact is that once assimilation occurs, they become one being. The Helmet's brain and the Host's brain are connected by millions of nerves exchanging signals. It's complicated, but the best way to describe the experience would be a 'mutual trance' in which full body coordination is achieved. They have shared interests and intentions. However, a Knight can mentally separate the Helmet and the Host, gaining back individuality; they do this for many reasons, perhaps to discuss something among themselves or simply for company. Yet on the whole, a Knight will spend 80% of their life in this 'trance'.

Both Helmets and Hosts have noticeable sexual dimorphism. Male Helmets are called Pikes, and females are called Guards. Pikes are distinguished by their horn, bold stripes, and more prominent crest spines. Guards lack a horn and have less contrast in their thinner markings.

Female Hosts are called Forts. They are larger than males and have a mane of fur on the back of their necks. Male Hosts, Spires, lack this mane.

In Knight society, individuals are usually referred to based on their combination of Host and Helmet. Since there are four sexes involved, there are four possible combinations.

Guard-spire [female Helmet, male Host]

Pike-fort [male Helmet, female Host]

Guard-fort [female Helmet, female Host]

Pike-spire [male Helmet, male Host]

(Knight languages have their own version of pronouns for each, but in English all are referred to as they/them by default. Of course, each individual has their own preferences. Usually a Knight will refer to themselves as we/us).

____

I'll get into Knight social structure, cultures and more in another post! For now, if you have any questions, feel free to send an ask. Always happy to answer!

[vivwritesfics]

A Swing and a Miss

Crazy golf with the boys

Landoscar x reader

I'm in such a landoscar//poly-fic mood rn (pls send me thoughts/requests/recs)

"I'm gonna kick your asses," Lando said to Y/N and Oscar as they approached the first hole.

F1 drivers were insanely competitive, both on and off the track. Y/N should have realised they were going to all be in competition together when she suggested crazy golf to blow off some steam.

It was a sunny day, a seaside town. The crazy golf place had way too many different themes, from animal safari to pirates cove and the Jurassic age. There were at least twenty five holes, all of them spiralling out away from a bar that sat in the middle. This was shaping up to be a fun day.

Oscar went first, since it was his rookie season. It had taken Y/N a hot minute to convince Lando to let him go first. The golfer was buzzing - Y/N had to wrap her arm around his waist to keep him there.

The first hole was in the animal safari part of the course. It was incredibly simple, with it being the first hole and all. There were no obstacles, just a couple of plastic lions to the side.

Oscar was no golfer. Lando watched in pain as he missed the hole again, and again, and again. It should have been an easy whole in one (at least for Lando).

"Oh, Osc," Y/N laughed at she wrote a five on the score card. "Baby, that was..."

"Shut up," he groaned as he strode back over, letting an impatient Lando began his turn. "I don't spend my my spare time golfing, like you nerds."

Y/N snorted as she wrote down Lando's very low score. "We're not nerds, Oscar. We're civilised."

It was Landos turn to snort. "Sure we are, cupcake." He smacked her ass as she walked up to the hole, taking the score card from her hands.

Y/N did it in two easy shots and the three moved onto the next hole. For this one, you had to hit it through a snakes mouth for it to come out in the ideal place.

Again, Oscar went first. Again, Oscar did terribly. The Aussie was was visibly tense as he walked back over to his partners.

As Lando took his go, Y/N pit her things down and placed her hands on Oscars broad shoulders. "Baby, relax," she said as she rubbed. "You're all stiff and locked up. You need to be loosey goosey, baby. Loosey goosey."

Loosey goosey. Oscar could do loosey goosey. He watched Y/N (there was no point watching Lando, who took golf way too seriously. He played much more than Y/N and, when they played together, they didn't get much golf done). He watched as she played down her pink golf ball and swung.

Her ball went straight through the snake and out the other side, appearing just beside the hole. When Oscar had tried he'd hit the side of the opening several times before giving up and hitting around it.

For the next few holes, Oscar was still trying to get into the swing of things. He was doing better, definitely, but he was still oh so many points behind Y/N and Lando.

"Drinks?" Lando suggested as they finished the safari section of the golf course.

He left Y/N and Oscar as the first of the jurassic holes as he went to get them drinks. Only beer that'll last them most of the course. When he walked back over Y/N had her hands wrapped around Oscar, helping him to putt. It was an adorable site, one Lando couldn't take his eyes off of.

Not only adorable. It was funny, too. Lando was taller and broader than Y/N, who was having a hard time wrapping her arms around him.

"We're not telling Lando about this, right?" He asked as he watched his ball roll into the hole.

"Of course not," Y/N replied and she reached up to kiss him.

Lando stood back for a moment, letting them have their moment. As Oscar pulled away from her he stepped forward, placing the drinks on a barrel beside the hole. "You two having fun?" He asked as he set himself up to take his shot.

"Yep," Y/N answered, her voice a higher pitch than usual. "Yep, did it in three shots as well. All on his own."

Oscars elbow hit Y/Ns arm, giving her a soft jab to tell her to shut up. But, when Lando laughed, he realised he knew. Lando knew what they had done. And he wasn't saying anything.

As Y/N took her go, Lando wrapped his arms around Oscar. Even with their height difference, Lando was always stood behind Oscar, holding him that way. The boys watched as Y/N hit the golf ball towards the hole.

The three of them drank their beers as they moved from hole to hole. When they moved from the jurassic section to the pirate seconds, Y/N let Oscar carry her golf club as she jumped on Landos back. "Thanks, Lan," she said and kissed his cheek as he walked.

When Lando put her down, he demanded a proper one, not just one on the cheek. And then he insisted she give Oscar a kiss for good luck.

Towards the last four holes, the competition got fierce. There was cheating involved, Lando using his foot to block their balls and Y/N hitting their balls into the shallow water that surrounded the holes.

The day was a day full of joy and laughter. There was a point where Oscar wrapped his arms around Y/N and lifted her up just before she took her shot.

"And our loser is," Y/N began as soon as they had finished the last hole and given back their clubs. "Oscar Piastri!" She called and clapped.

"Well done, Osc," said Lando as he kissed the side of his head.

"Yeah, yeah," Oscar muttered as he turned his head to kiss him properly.

Y/N cleared her throat, regaining the boys attention as she read out the next score. "In second place we have me," she said as the strode forward to give her a kiss on each cheek. And then she got a proper kiss from each of them.

"And the winner is Lando! But, seriously, did we expect any difference."

"No," Lando said as he grinned. He two got kissed by his boyfriend and his girlfriend. To celebrate properly, the day was filled with whatever Lando wanted to do. Which meant more golf, a nice dinner and a night in the bedroom, without much sleeping.

[luxe-pauvre]

In that predicament, if I'm lucky, I'll remember the observation, usually attributed to Joan Baez, that "action is the antidote to despair." People tend to quote this in the context of political or environmental activism, but it applies to everything else, too: an overfilled inbox, a cluttered garage, an intimidating creative project or overdue tax return. If you can get yourself over the gap between knowing what you need to do and taking an action, things can only get better from there. Which means that at least the nature of the immediate challenge is clear: not to "become more productive" or "get motivated" or "make a plan for the month" or something like that, but just to do one thing to address whatever situation you're in. […] If you can approach your daily life in this way for a while – as a sequence of momentary, self-contained, eminently doable actions, rather than as an arduous matter of chipping away at enormous challenges – you might notice something profound, which is that, in fact, this is all you ever need to do. You can make your way through life exclusively in this manner. (As E. L. Doctorow said of writing, it's "like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.") And not just that: actually, it's all you ever could do. There is no achievement, in the history of human civilisation, that has ever been accomplished by any means other than as a sequence of doable actions. In the end, it isn't really a question of "breaking big projects down into small chunks." It's more a matter of seeing that "big projects" are nothing but psychological constructs, quasi-illusory entities summoned into existence by taking a particular view of what our lives really consist of – which is moments, and the actions that unfold in them. After all, in any given moment, we're never actually "working on a big project" or "addressing a major challenge" or anything similar. We're always just taking an action. And then another. And another.

Oliver Burkeman, How to get out of a rut

[punk-in-docs]

A song of liars and beggars: part II

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 5.3k words.

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

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

TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --

The cell you are thrown into is poky small.

When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.

Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.

You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.

Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.

Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.

The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.

Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.

The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.

Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.

You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.

You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.

You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.

Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.

Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-

Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.

You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.

Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.

You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.

Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.

A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.

General Acacius.

There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.

You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.

One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.

You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.

War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.

You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.

You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.

He leans close to you when you come to the door

Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.

It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.

You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.

Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.

Why are you unlocking my hands?

He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.

An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.

There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.

Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.

He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.

He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.

His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.

“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.

It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.

When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.

He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.

“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.

He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.

“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.

His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.

You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.

Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.

You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.

Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.

It doesn’t come. None of that comes.

Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.

You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.

One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.

The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.

A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.

“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.

He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” You seek.

His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.

“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”

~

You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.

Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.

You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.

You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.

Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.

The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.

You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.

Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.

As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.

His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.

Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.

A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.

He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.

You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.

Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.

“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.

In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.

He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.

You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.

He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.

“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.

“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.

You flick your eyes across to the General.

“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.

Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.

The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.

You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.

Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.

Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.

Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.

You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.

If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.

He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-

“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.

General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.

Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.

“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.

No answer comes from you still.

“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.

“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.

“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.

“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”

Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.

Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.

He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.

“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”

He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.

You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.

“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.

When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.

They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.

He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.

His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.

Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.

Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.

“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.

Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.

“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.

“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”

He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.

You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.

The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.

You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-

Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.

“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.

In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.

“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.

An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.

His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.

“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.

Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.

Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.

Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.

Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.

“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.

“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”

With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.

Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.

“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.

It pushes you to act.

“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.

“Exile him.” Youoffer.

Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?

“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.

“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.

“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.

“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.

Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.

Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.

“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.

“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.

Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.

Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.

Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.

“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”

His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.

“You will be my Empress.” He decides.

“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”

Those words make you shrivel inside.

What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-

He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.

“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”

You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.

You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.

Bleeding and battered. But safe.

You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.

He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.

You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.

Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.

Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”

The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.

“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.

“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”

He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.

It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.

“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.

“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.

He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.

His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.

A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.

“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”

“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.

He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.

In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.

Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.

You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-

A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.

~

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

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

[leidensygdom]

Okay, I will try to explain this topic as well as I can. I will preface this with the fact this comes from personal experiences, and that they may not apply for everyone who has ties to this culture, but let's get to it:

What's the issue with Fortune tellers / "Exotic" circus performers, sexualized belly dancers and other forms of orientalism/Romani depictions?

So, as someone in the TTRPG world (specifically, the DnD community), this sort of trope is seen quite a lot. From the portrayal of Vistani (which has been tried to be fixed, but not... too well), to player characters in home games, as well as popular canon characters and podcasts, it's got quite normalized. Most of these tropes are based on Romani, which is a widespread ethnicity present all across the globe. Now, it feels almost strange to call it orientalism, given how Romani have been in Europe since the Middle Ages, even though they do have roots outside of Europe.

Romani face one of the biggest diaspora in the world: You will find Roma people under many names in very different countries, with cultures and traditions that can clash heavily. Their numbers can range from few hundred in some countries, to over a million in those they have a biggest presence. My own experience is tied to Spanish Roma, known as Gitanos, which is where my mother's side family comes from.

Gitanos are a widespread group, although they're most numerous in the southern part of Spain, Andalusia, where their presence has shaped the culture. Flamenco is thought to have been born from Gitano culture, and it has been adopted as a staple of the Andalusian identity, and the whole of Spain. Gitanos are hard to understand as their own ethnicity in Spain: There's been centuries of Gitanos and Spanish people mixing, and the average Andalusian is quite tan to start with (given Muslim presence there has also been pretty firm). It means it can be hard to "clock" a Spanish Romani person from a non-Romani one. It means you can find Romani people most would consider white, at least by Spanish standards. Most of the discrimination Gitanos face is cultural (and the whole ordeal can be a bit harder to explain from a more US-centric view).

Now, even when Gitanos have influenced Spanish culture a lot, they still face plenty of discrimination. They are one of the most marginalized groups out there. Laws have discriminated against them for centuries, on and off, which have put them in poverty. And poverty often develops into criminality, which has only seeded the idea that Gitanos are criminals, "lowlies", the bottom of society, "uncivilized", etc. Now, here comes a bit of my own experience with this.

My entire family is Andalusian, but both sides moved from there (the south) to Catalonia (north-east) in order to find a job during the Francoist (fascist) dictatorship. I won't get much into the specifics of the Catalan vs Andalusian beef because that's a bit of a massive topic too, but the important thing here is: My mother's side is Romani. My grandma faced some horrifying forms of discrimination, including the theft of her first child during the fascist dictatorship, which was taken from her by nuns (who ran hospitals at the time) to be placed into a "proper" family. (This is something that happened repeatedly at some hospitals during these times).

Now, she had two other children: My mother and my aunt. My aunt remained closely knit to Romani culture, and took part in it, which included marrying a Romani guy. She always did her best efforts to be part of it. I know she was into some culturally-related dances, which included some forms of bellydancing (which is also partially tied to Roma culture). But my mother decided she'd rather cut ties with her culture and become "civilised", by abandoning said culture.

This isn't too uncommon for Gitanos, to be honest. I've met a few people who come from similar backgrounds through my life. One of them was in university, where a fellow classmate gave an oral exposition about how his family had done a great job at "becoming civilised" by cutting ties with their own Roma roots. My university was a fairly progressive space, but no one batted an eye at that: The sheer hatred of Roma culture runs so deep even people who normally abhor racism and xenophobia consider Gitanos to be worth the hate.

There's a social pressure to do that, too. Everyone "knows" Gitano are criminals. I can't really even begin to explain how deeply does this sort of discrimination run. Roma are amongst the most hated minority groups in all of Europe (as well as most of the world). You will find that even in very leftist circles. People will try to erase the fact Roma have their own culture, and just make the world equal to "criminal", call them gy***** (which is a slur, btw), and detach them from being an actual culturally (and often racially) distinct group.

Now, this is only empowered by how media has taken our culture (it is almost hard for me to call it "our", given how much my mother ensured to take that away) and made it into a bad trope. Growing up, I was told my aunt was a sexual deviant who partook in indecent dances. Bellydancing is often seen as something very sexual (Wasn't, in origin), very unfitting. In media, bellydancers veer on the side of being a f*tish, and the common trope is the "bellydancer who seduces people in power for their own benefit". There's also the whole idea of shady fortune tellers and other magical tropes, that sort of weird mysticism that falls rapidly into orientalism. The idea that Roma will hex you, curse you, place an "Evil Eye" on you. And also the idea of travelling circus, people who perform in them being again full of that alluring exoticism, but beware! For they will enchant you, steal from you and run some massive criminal schemes on the way.

Now, when every tie a culture has on media is portrayed in a negative light, it's much harder for that culture to recover any sort of respect from the general populace. And that includes even people who are part of said culture, or people who have been removed from it. It has taken me so many years to unlearn a lot of these biases and realize where it has come from, and now I'm far too distant and far away from my grandmother to actually ever significantly connect to my heritage.

I've had the opportunity to witness what Romani culture is actually about, as I used to live with my grandmother during summers. A lot of the "mysticism" she took part of was actually about wards and protection. A lot of them were actually medicinal in nature, even if others were more superstitious. Red thread in the forehead for sickness and protection to curses, parfums (which contained alcohol or other antiseptics) on wounds, that stuff. My aunt was never a "sexual" deviant, she was keen on recovering and partaking on traditions from a culture that is slowly disappearing. The entire "promiscuous" idea is bullshit, Gitanos place a massive amount of power to marriage and loyalty. I had the luck to witness my cousin's marriage, which was a festivity like none other I had seen in my life, a colorful spectacle full of the most delightful attires, and my mother was whining the entire time over about how it was all an "uncivilised circus".

Now, this is why representation in media is key. Roma culture is broken into a thousand pieces and lost with every passing day. When someone decides to write an ambulant circus performer/fortune teller clad in exotic clothes full of golden jewellery, writes them as a criminal and makes the entire thing extremely sexual, they are feeding into the negative stereotypes about Roma.

Now, there's a lot of people who aren't even aware what culture does that trope even actually come from. I've seen people draw characters clad in Romani attires (often in, uh, rather pin-up or sexual contexts) and claim they're inspired by "x piece of media", where the trope is portrayed in the first place. I literally saw someone make a drawing in that way and call it "inspired by x (non-Roma) artist" instead of acknowledging where does all that come from.

I'm not asking people to not portray Roma people in media. Far from that. I just wish representation was better. Good representation is key towards making a culture seen in a more positive light, and teaching other peoples about it, and making people from said culture resonate with it. The very few times I've seen positive representations of Roma I've felt a bit of that connection with something that was taken from me. I want people to do a bit of research before giving a try to a Roma-coded character. Make an effort to not make Roma always the morally dubious fortune teller, the exotic alluring circus traveller, the bellydancer seductress. It's hard for Romani to produce widespread mainstream media because of how impoverished most communities are (because of the systematic discrimination Roma face all around the world), so the least non-Roma people can do is to be kind when they use their voice to talk or represent us.

I know this is a massive post, and I'm tagging it as "long post" for that reason, but I hope it is helpful for people. Feel free to ask or add your own experience if this is something that resonates with you too. Ask away if you want. I've been wanting to tell a bit my own personal experience, as this has always been a hard spot for me, and even if just a handful of people read this and understand what is this all about, I think it will have been worth it.

[wolven91]

Drought vs Flood

Cat calls.

Being called 'cute' or showered with compliments.

Paul had never really considered these an annoyance before. Hell, if he though back to his time on Earth, he couldn't remember the last time when he'd ever received a compliment from a stranger before.

No, that was a lie he realised.

Many years before, an older lady once stopped him to compliment him on a jovial Christmas jumper he'd worn. She said she liked it and that he was handsome in it too. He vividly remembered having a great day that day, despite having to deal with a queue of irate customers throughout the afternoon.

That compliment had kept the man sated for years!

As a man, Paul had never really understood the frustrations of women when they bemoaned the fact that they received compliments and manners from random strangers every day. The man would always hasten to add that he understood them from a logical point of view, but there was always a part of him that had wanted a taste of that life for a while.

Sure, maybe getting them every day might have gotten old, but after over a decade of surviving off one compliment? The man didn't *understand* the frustration. The isolation had to be worse right?

That was until the Earth was destroyed and Paul ended up like a few of his fellow humans, lost amongst the stars as a human, alone in the void.

At first, Paul thrived. He'd lived alone for seven years and with his friends moving away, getting families, or just losing touch; there had been times in his life where he'd gone whole weeks without saying a single word out loud.

After that initial period of learning the ropes, figuring out where he could get a job, food, even the stuff that wasn't quite 'legal' like a drink, Paul settled into what he expected would be a quiet life.

Only, every time he spent time out in public, like when he went to sit in the tiny bar that would serve him under the counter, it wasn't that quiet.

"I just love your fur; can I touch it?" Asked the bull-like alien as they had already begun reaching out and touching thick leather pads to the crop of hair atop Paul's head. The man shoved the alien's wrist away from him.

"No, thank you." He grunted, still hunched at the bar, uncomfortable about the two aliens that stood either side of him. Both were, alien, they had the heads of bulls but bodies that he would have given his left arm for back home. But regardless of their physical attraction, this was week three of not being able to have a single moment's peace outside of his own quarters.

"Oh come on, I read you love it when someone pets you?" Smarmed the second, quoting some bullshit, pardon the pun, text that Paul himself had read. Apparently, a few of the survivors had let slip that they were touch starved, so now every alien and their mother was quoting this as if gospel.

If Paul ever got his hands on the moron that uttered those...

"Not all humans are the same." He growled back, gripping his drink.

"Well, what if I showed you a gun? You like guns, right?" Offered the first taurian, briefly turning their hip and displaying a holster.

"I repeat, not all humans are the same." Paul was British, he thought guns were a tool and nothing more. No more exciting than a pen or a pair of expensive scissors. More than a handful of Americans made it out and had made a huge scene when they found out guns were illegal to humans. Yet more misinformation chumming the water.

"Aww come on, we're just being friendly. It's okay! I also read that your society said you had to be prudes; it's not true, you can relax." The alien explained as if she wasn't taking a big dump on the entire human civilisation and its history.

Paul sneered at the fact that he mildly agreed. The odd concepts that were considered fact back home were outright frowned on up here. With all the fur and lack of breasts on those without; clothes were almost optional by those not actively working. Granted Paul wasn't a nudist and didn't have the body to want to flaunt it, but it was a breath of fresh air to not be so gummed down with social rules.

"I was relaxed," Paul sniped, but the jab went well over the two female taurian's horns. "I just want a quiet drink." He reiterated, breathing deep and remaining calm. The sluggat barkeep watched him carefully, his eye stalks watching the taurians and the human independently. He was hanging around by the bar's emergency distress button.

"We can drink with you." Offered one of them, Paul didn't even bother looking now, instead attempting to drill a hole in the opposite wall with his eyes.

"I don't want company." He explained clearly.

"Why not?" They prodded.

"Because I said so."

"That ain't a real answer, just let us-"

"Can you actually fuck off?!" Paul snapped, turning his body to the last one to speak. "I don't want company, I don't want a drink from you, I want to be left alone!"

"Alright, fuck us, right? We were being nice and now you're acting like we're attacking you. We're the nice ones, but I guess you'll only learn that when you meet the other kind."

Paul just rolled his eyes as the pair stepped away from the bar and, as one walked past, clipped the leg of the stool Paul was sat on, jangling his already on edge nerves.

They grunted something as they passed that the translators flagged as an insult.

Paul rubbed a hand over his face as he sighed and tried to relax. The sluggat slithered over and asked if he was all right.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine." The man replied absently, using a thumb to wick the moisture off the side of his glass.

A drought, versus a flood.

That was how Paul now considered the perspective from before. How he would explain the difference of perspectives to a younger self.

How could the drowning woman understand the dying man in the desert?

It was great to be the centre of attention for a week or two, but the way they got handsy? If he didn't actively stop them, and make it clear he wasn't 'playing hard to get' that they'd start groping him?  The way they didn't give him space or even listen when he said 'no'?

Even when they were weird... and smelt bad... Not all the creatures up here were attractive.

"Fuck." The man drew the word out with a breath he only realised was shaking as his voice shuddered. With a guilty grimace, the man reached into his pocket and retrieved the data slate. He scrolled through the minimal contacts and selected his guardian.

It rang once before being answered by a near frantic voice that was obviously being kept neutral.

"Paul?"

"Hey Shu'ba. I fucked up... Can you... Can you come get me please?" The man asked humbly.

"Is everything alright?!"

"It's fine, nothing's happened, but I'd feel safer if you were near."

"I got your location, I'm two minutes away."

"Thanks, Shu'ba."

"Don't think anything of it."

"I'm sorry."

The voice of the ssypno sighed through the speaker.

"I get it's hard to have a babysitter, but we're here for a reason. It's okay, I'm almost there."

Paul stayed on the line, even though he and the sluggat were the only patrons of the bar, but when the neon green scales of his guardian slithered into the room, a wave of relief washed over him.

Perhaps it was time to stop giving the serpent the slip?

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[howmanyholesinswisscheese]

More Sherlock & Co Headcanons

Because y'all like the first ones so much.

Mariana is one of those heathens who eats the kernels at the bottom of the popcorn bowl and enjoys it.

John and Sherlock have a rotating cast of answers to the age old client question, "So are you two...?" which only serve to confuse the asker even more. It's an incredibly enjoyable sport. Sherlock often just plays dumb, to John's enormous amusement. It's their favorite inside joke.

When he does actually eat it, Sherlock's go-to breakfast food is a boiled egg and soldiers. Fight me. I will not stand for boiled eggs and soldiers slander they are amazing and Sherlock knows it.

John keeps a collection of bloopers/funny moments he's recorded during cases in a folder on his computer. When he's feeling down, he puts in his earplugs and listens to them. He never fails to get a laugh out of it.

Speaking of language headcanons in the last post, Sherlock speaks fluent Spanish (because of course he does). Sometimes he and Mariana have innocuous conversations in Spanish just to mess with John. He finally gets what it's like to be a stranger watching them all converse in BSL.

Sherlock has a strong appreciation for the musical arts. Once, after a particularly sour case, John took Sherlock to the orchestra to lighten his mood. Sherlock didn't express much outward enjoyment, still drained from the previous week's labor, but the next day the pieces they'd heard rang out through the flat as Sherlock's touch brought them to life from memory on his violin. John found this version infinitely more beautiful than any orchestra. and he even glimpsed the ghost of a smile as Sherlock lost himself in the music.

You know how everyone has a different little doodle they do when they're bored and they've got a pen and a bit of paper around? Well, Sherlock does mandalas and circle scribbles, John does little smiley faces and zig zags, and Mariana writes peoples names in calligraphy.

@obsessed-sketches and I both agree Sherlock wears a really heavy, well-worn coat for the deep-pressure stimulation. And a scarf, because those are absolutely splendid to play/fiddle with and being all wrapped up just adds a whole nother dimension to it all.

John uses Microsoft Edge as his default browser. Mariana's exasperated protests have been completely futile in convincing him to switch and to be honest, who knows if there's any hope left for him anymore.

Speaking of browsers, Sherlock would be such a boss at the 2048 game.

Someday I'm gonna have to write a dance lesson fic, because the idea of Sherlock teaching John to dance for a case lives in my head rent free for literally every SH rendition but these two especially. Sherlock freely infodumping about the history of each song he plays as he shows John how to waltz, John filling the silence with nervous rambling, that rapport setting in and them just falling into step after a few minutes and forgetting time is even passing... I know I mostly HC them as a QPR but dear god the intimacy in that may kill me.

Mariana once introduced Sherlock to the National Day Calendar. National Cellophane Tape Day, National Life Insurance Day, National Raspberry Popover Day, and the likes are now slipped happily into conversations at 221B under Sherlock's firm belief that each one is on par with Christmas in terms of their significance in the public eye. Slay, Sherlock. National Days are awesome.

John makes the cutest sleep noises.

Yk how i said Sherlock likes rainbow sour straps. If you've ever eaten sour straps, you'll know there are two ways to eat them: whole, or by tearing the colours into strips. Clearly, as a civilised human being, Sherlock does the latter.

SHERLOCK WOULD TOTALLY WRITE AWESOME POETRY AND READ IT OUT AND JOHN AND MARIANA WOULD BE STUNNED INTO AWESTRUCK SILENCE

Mariana wears those really big hoop earrings. You know the ones.

AAAAH i should stop before this becomes a mammoth block of text. Maybe I'll make a part three.

Thank you kindly for being unwillingly subjected to my opinions coming to my TED talk.

[nautilusopus]

the other thing i really like about bloodborne is that, despite being imo one of the few examples of a piece of media actually doing cosmic horror correctly and really earning that descriptor, it's very deliberate with how it subverts some of lovecraft's shittier tendencies in his writing. everyone fixates on his racism but you forget that poor people and foreigners can be Other too and man did he not like them either.

in bloodborne, the civilised, regimented university and later the church aren't the lone bastion of reason, them fucking about is what causes nearly every single problem in the game. natives to yharnam, stated to be one of the hearts of civilisation due to the power and wealth blood ministration brought the city, aside from the six year-old girl and a prostitute, are haughty xenophobes and unhinged at best even when sane, often trending towards homicidal. the only two sane people you find there are eileen and gilbert, and their accents compared to native yharnamites clearly place them as foreign.

and like look at this shit

In Yharnam, they produce more blood than alcohol, as the former is the more intoxicating.

The constables became victims of the beast, except for one survivor, who in turn devoured the creature whole, all by himself. The fable is a favorite among Yharnamites, who are partial to any stories of pompous, intolerant foreigners who suffer for their ignorance. It makes the blood taste that much sweeter.

like this is all text, yharnamites are a clear proxy of london at its peak and everything lovecraft spent time drooling over and they're fucking weird assholes

the curse descending upon the city isn't something that crawled out of the surrounding woods, but instead spread to them as the church started offloading refuse created by the outbreak to the surrounding impoverished areas.

even the fishing village, a clear echo of innsmouth, with their worship of kos, the great one that washed up dead on the shore (for what that's worth, because a dead god still dreams), aren't the antagonists here; instead it's byrgenwerth, pillaging the town and maiming and slaughtering the inhabitants en masse in the cold pursuit of academic knowledge

[vixstarria]

Communication

Surprise surprise, they're no good at it.

This is a continuation of my in-game bardlock series, seeing as I left a large gap in it between an intimate and emotional scene and a whole bunch of unhinged fucking. Sorry about that.

Takes place after Intimacy but can be read as a stand-alone!

Read on AO3

Astarion x named f!Tav

Early Act 3. It has been nice, but it's time they actually figured out what it is they're doing and what comes next.

Hurt/comfort, some fluff and a drop of humour (I am me after all) if you squint, love, angst

TW: some very casual violence and murder

Approximately 3.9k words. 

“Well?” A very giddy Astarion had appeared behind Asmodea. “Let’s go!” 

The party had finally reached the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate and were setting up camp near Rivington, after a brief excursion in the area. 

“Go where?” she asked.

“Anywhere! I haven’t seen these streets in sunlight in two centuries.” 

“Now..?”

The city was flooded with refugees. Some child whose mother was definitely not coming for her had seemingly declared herself adopted by the group. There was a towering pile of corpses just outside one of the nearby gates. A circus was in town.

It was nice to finally be back in civilisation.

“Yes, now! Forget the bloody tent, maybe we’ll find an inn to sleep in for a change.”

Nothing had been arranged, set up or planned yet. They had only the vaguest notion of where they were going.

“Sure, a walk sounds lovely right now,” shrugged Asmodea.

It very quickly became obvious that finding an inn would be nigh on impossible. The streets were crowded with refugees, frantic citizens and all those who would either try to keep them in order or prey upon them.

“Are we going anywhere in particular, or are we just... going?” Asmodea asked, trying to make her way through the throng. She had never seen Baldur’s Gate this busy before. 

“There is something I’d like to show you,” answered Astarion. “Some place, to be exact. It’s- hey!”

He realised that he was talking to no one, as they had been separated by a group of dwarves pushing their way through between them. Asmodea smiled at him over their heads, raising her arms in an open-palmed gesture of defeat and resignation.

“Can’t you keep up?” Astarion sighed, rolling his eyes, and reached for her, taking her hand and linking his fingers through hers.

This… This was new, particularly in public, and Asmodea bit her lip, fighting not to smile, as he guided her after him. 

Astarion glanced back over his shoulder at her, to see her grinning. 

“Oh shut up,” he huffed, before spilling into a smile too, despite himself, and drawing her close to kiss her.

“Half-elven whore,” a nearby elven woman muttered to her companion in elvish, tsking in distaste at the sight. Either she did not expect to be heard or understood, or simply did not care.

Astarion turned towards the woman, with a glower, but before he could retaliate with his own snide remark, Asmodea told the elven woman to go fuck herself with a splintered broom, in perfect elvish, and pulled Astarion further down the street before the woman thought of anything else to say.

“Such... delightful use of the True Tongue, dear.” Astarion seemed in equal parts impressed and taken aback. “Don't tell me you’ve been holding out on me this whole time..?”

“Oh, no, I only know a little bit,” laughed Asmodea. 

“Do indulge me.” 

“No, it’s really hardly anything,” she shook her head. “I can count, exchange pleasantries and profanities, know a few songs I can’t translate, and a few odd phrases.” 

“Such as?” 

“I can scream for help in elvish, for one,” she offered. 

“Why would you need to scream for help in elvish..?” 

“Men are more likely to come running if they think it’s a little elven maiden they’re rescuing,” she explained with a sigh. 

Astarion mulled that over with a frown for a bit. 

“I’ll have to take your word for that... What else? And for hells’ sake, just say something, I enjoyed hearing it.” 

She said the first phrase that came to mind.  

Astarion stopped dead in his tracks, with what Asmodea knew to be the expression he held when he was doing his best to keep his face straight.  

“So let’s start with what you think you just said.” 

“...Shit. ...Uhh.” Asmodea gave Astarion a sheepish look. “‘My small children have had nothing to eat for days.’?” 

“Darling,” he said, cupping her cheeks, trying not to laugh. “My love. That’s not quite it... Now, how many people do you think you’ve told you’ve ‘eaten nothing but small children for days’..?” 

“Ah... That explains the reactions,” Asmodea said thoughtfully. 

“Horror?” Astarion finally snickered.

“Usually laughter... I just figured most elves were assholes.” 

Eventually Astarion brought them onto a rooftop that offered an impressive view of the city and surrounding regions.

“It’s so strange to be here in daylight,” he murmured. “This was one of my spots,” he said, turning to Asmodea. “I used to come here at the start of my evenings, alone, and just… enjoy the peace and quiet for a while.” Astarion took a pensive look around. “Admittedly, the tiles weren’t as hot at night, and all the bird shit wasn’t as prominent.” 

They found a place to sit down.

“I thought you would try to get your job done as quickly as possible,” said Asmodea.

“There had to be a certain balance to it.” Astarion shook his head. “Start prowling too early, and the potential targets wouldn’t be ripe for the picking yet. And even if I managed to get someone back to the manor early on in the evening, it would only mean I would have to ‘entertain’ them longer.” He shut his eyes and leaned back against a chimney. “It was better to take some precious solitary repose, when I could.”

“Do you think you might have taken me back to Cazador if you’d met me back then?” Asmodea asked quietly.

Astarion opened his eyes and frowned at the sudden question. 

“Not if I’d ever seen you perform, no,” he deliberated. “I never went for the bards. They were almost my co-conspirators, though they didn’t know it. I couldn’t waste them.” He paused before continuing. “But otherwise, if I’d just bumped into you at a Tavern… Probably, yes. A pretty, reckless stray… You would have been perfect. …Would you have followed?” He asked, glancing at her.

“Probably,” she replied, staring off into the distance.

They sat in silence until Astarion broke it with a question.

“Will you stay with me when all this is over?” 

Just the sheer amount of effort he put into trying to make that question sound casual spoke volumes. 

It caught her off guard. They’d spent many evenings in his tent lazily basking in vague fantasies about an ‘after’, usually concentrating on the idea of being able to stay in bed all day, or the concept of their hair and fingernails being free of dried blood and entrails for a change. They’d never actually discussed any realistic nuance of this ‘after’. Or what it might look like, other than what it wouldn’t look like. 

“Are you certain you want to take Cazador’s place in the ritual..?” she asked, carefully. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Astarion immediately sounded defensive. 

“You don’t even know what it entails or means, not really...” 

“It means having everything I’ve been missing the past two centuries, what else is there to know?” He scoffed. “...You haven’t answered my question,” he said after a pause. 

She said nothing for a while, looking down at her fingernails. 

“Stay and do what..?” 

“Anything!” he exclaimed. “Anything you want. We could do anything. Do you have any idea what I will be capable of? Of the power I will hold. The influence.”

“Yes, yes, legions of wolves, turning into mist,” she recited. “What else… Commanding ghouls, I think?” She threw her head back, looking at the sky. “I’m not sure why you would need to do any of that, though.”

“Unimaginable power, and you mock it…” Astarion said indignantly. “I suppose you would rather go frolic in the woods with Halsin..? …Oh don’t look so shocked, I’ve seen how he looks at you. Sleeping in the dirt, living off the land. Is that what would make you happy?” 

“He looks at you the same way! And must you jump to extremes?” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Even if I were interested in Halsin, there is ample space between sleeping in the dirt and sleeping in that gothic monstrosity, in which I might find myself happy.” 

They sat in silence for a while. 

“I don’t think you should go through with it,” she said, finally. “Something about it just doesn’t sit right.” 

Astarion looked at her with an unreadable expression and didn’t say anything. She continued. 

“I know enough stories - and before you roll your eyes at me, there is usually a grain of truth to them – and I’ve read between the lines of enough history texts, to know there is no such thing as a jolly vampire lord that just has a grand ol’ time carousing in their castle. It’s always centred on cruelty, misery and violence.” 

“I suppose you know plenty of stories of jolly vampire spawn,” he spat. 

“Some, as a matter of fact. They usually revolve around romance and redemption.” She sighed and continued, as he let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve never heard of any demonic deals that ended in anything that wasn’t disastrous, either. The point is, nothing that involves blood or soul sacrifice has ever made anyone happy.” She looked in the direction of Cazador’s palace. “We should kill Cazador, burn it all to the ground and dance on the ashes. I will be by your side. And yes, I want to stay with you. Of course I do.” 

“For how long?” Astarion asked quietly, after a pause. 

“...What?” 

“How long will you stay by my side? You have another... 100 years, 150 at best? I can’t offer any solutions to that as a spawn.” 

She blinked, realisation dawning in her eyes.

“...Astarion Ancunin, did you just say you want to spend the rest of eternity with me?” 

“Oh don’t you bloody dare turn this into a joke,” he bristled. “Just for once.”

“Not a joke, but…” She paused and gave her head a brisk shake, as if to snap herself out of a daze. “Just so we’re absolutely clear, what are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious..?” The grin that had crept habitually onto Astarion’s face felt like a suffocating mask. She only stared back into his eyes, unblinking, waiting for him to continue. “I could turn you. Grant you an eternity.” ‘With me’, he wanted to add, but the look in her eyes made the words die on his tongue.

None of this was going the way Astarion had expected. Not that he had planned any of this… Still, he’d made certain assumptions. He’d anticipated the conversation and day would flow somewhere along the following lines: re-affirm his plans for Cazador. Exchange words of undying love and devotion. Maybe, maybe make love to her again, later, in celebration. Instead everything was slipping like fine sand through his fingers. Words simply wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Everything he thought he might say suddenly felt pathetic.

“Turn me? To become one of your spawn?” Astarion opened his mouth to speak, but she talked over him. “Two centuries as something you say is less than a slave, a puppet, and you would so easily offer the same fate to me..?”

“First of all,” he sputtered, “I don’t know why you immediately assumed there would be others. Secondly,” he continued, slowing down, “there is another way, or so I’ve read. You wouldn’t be a mere spawn, but a-” Astarion winced, cutting himself off. “Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. This was rapidly spinning further and further out of his control. “I thought you trusted me?” he asked instead.

“It’s not about trust,” she said. “If you had the choice between a hundred years of absolute freedom or being enthralled to someone for eternity - doesn’t matter who - me, Gale, your long-lost grandmother, anyone! What would you choose?”

“I would never compel you,” said Astarion, his voice tinged with a hint of pleading.

“That’s not the point,” she said, looking away, running her hand through and tugging at her hair. “Let’s just head back. We still need to set up before it gets dark, and I promised Karlach we would visit that bloody circus…”

Something inside Astarion shattered and spilled, ice-cold, over his heart as she got up and walked away. 

Not even an hour had passed since some of the happiest moments he’s had in centuries.

They walked back in silence. 

Eventually they came upon an outpost of Flaming Fists and steel watchers, who had appeared on the road they had taken into the city. They were apprehending everyone trying to pass through, whether they were leaving or entering. 

“Let’s try a side street,” offered Astarion. 

They found and made their way through a narrow alleyway. It was empty. Suspiciously empty, in fact - no children running through, no one out for a quick smoke, no drunks pissing on the walls.

Sure enough, once they were halfway through, three goons intercepted their way, stepping out of a doorway. Two humans and an enormous half-orc wide enough to block out most of the passage. 

“Alley toll.” One of the thugs flashed a malicious grin, eyeing Asmodea up and down. “Better pay up, doll.” Three more jeering hoodlums appeared behind them as he spoke, armed with crude but lethal weapons. 

“Attempting to detain a Council battlemage on duty? Bold but stupid,” she said gravely. “Hand over your profits and Lord Gortash won’t learn of your little enterprise. This is your only warning.” 

Trying to bluff and deceive her way through, per usual. Was there even a Council anymore? Did it employ mages? No matter. Whether due to the fact that she and Astarion had decided to wander the streets of the city in civilian clothes, without armour, or simply because the lust for money and violence had gotten the better of the would-be muggers, they paid her attempt no heed. 

The leader laughed.

“Or, how about we have some fun with you, and your Lord Gortash can come and collect your body from the river once we’re done with it?”

Astarion’s blood boiled.

He reached for his daggers, thoughts racing. Why in the hells had they come here barely armed..? They were surrounded, but perhaps if she blasted the three in front of them they might run through..? But they were probably too close for that… Could she misty step behind them and get away? His undead body would most likely survive whatever came, even with the tadpole. 

“Take the ones behind,” Asmodea snapped, and Astarion followed her lead, as he had grown used to, silently praying to no particular deity that she knew what she was doing. 

He ducked as one of the goons bellowed and swung a sword at him, dodging the blow to come up next to his attacker, burying a dagger between his ribs and another in his guts, for good measure. At least the alley was too narrow for all of the bandits to come in on them at once. Behind him, Asmodea spat some incantation that he wasn’t familiar with.

The next lout came at him, only to stop short, as Astarion scrounged up his meagre magical abilities to hurl a firebolt at his face, making the man yelp and grind to a halt in shock and pain. Astarion’s dagger followed through his eye socket shortly thereafter. 

The entire altercation with the two thugs took mere seconds. Another controlled shout from Asmodea followed behind him.

The last of the muggers on Astarion’s side backed away, looking at the scene unfolding behind Astarion with a horrified expression, before breaking into a run and disappearing. 

Astarion turned back to witness Asmodea standing with her arms crossed, looking unaffected, just as the half-orc who had been behind the group’s leader pulled his sword back out from the leader’s stomach, having impaled him from behind.

Asmodea barked another command as the leader collapsed, and the half-orc slammed the head of his other cohort, who hadn’t understood what was happening yet, against a wall, with a resounding crunch. 

A domination spell. 

Astarion felt nauseous. If his body had been capable of producing bile, it would have crept up at the back of his throat. For once, the smell of freshly spilled blood all around them was repulsive to him.

 “Kneel,” Asmodea commanded, calmly. The half-orc’s body immediately dropped to its knees, with a thud that spoke of damaged kneecaps.

“I’m running out of time. Do you need him?” She stepped over the body of the group’s dying ex-leader and walked around the half-orc, to stand behind him. 

Disgust and revulsion continued to claw at Astarion’s insides. 

“…What?”

The half-orc’s eyes were void of any emotion. A small mercy.

“Blood. Do you want his blood, before I spill it?” she said nonchalantly.

“…No,” he swallowed. Not like this…

He watched as she slit his throat, carefully standing behind him to avoid blood spraying over herself. Comprehension returned to the man’s eyes just as he made his last gurgling sounds, before stilling forever. 

“That was despicable,” Astarion hissed, finally breaking his gaze away from the body. “Compulsion? Really?!”

She gave him an incredulous look, momentarily speechless.

“This is what I do!” she exclaimed. “This is how I protect myself. You know this! What the fuck did you expect - that I would set off a fireball in an alley?! Or make one of them have a fit of giggles?!”

“You didn’t need to do anything, I could have handled all of them,” he countered.

“Oh, stand behind you like a meek little lamb?” She scoffed. “While neither of us are even wearing armour, and they’re on both sides? Don’t be ridiculous.” She crouched to wipe her dagger on the dead man’s clothes. “What does it matter, anyway,” she said, offhanded. “Dead is dead - who cares how they got there?” 

“It was just like Cazador all over again,” Astarion said, bitterly. “Watching my siblings torture each other, for his amusement, waiting for it to be my turn to be compelled.”

She stilled as she crouched, not looking up at him. 

“You fucking hypocrite,” she said, finally, rising. 

“What in the hells are you talking about?” he grimaced.

“Comparing me to Cazador, when you’re planning to take his very place.”

“How dare you?” Astarion felt the last of his composure leaving him. “I am nothing like Cazador, and I never will be,” he growled.

“No?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re already thinking of your own spawn. Maybe you would keep your word and not compel me, but you would be curious. All that power that you’ve been wishing was yours for 200 years...” She gesticulated, tilting her head. “First just one teensy little slave - someone who’s wronged you, maybe, someone who deserves to bear your ire. Then, perhaps someone convenient, in a place of power. Someone like what you would have been, had Cazador not botched your death so bad that it became public. Then another. And another. And what will you do with them once you have them? Take them for midnight picnics and host slumber parties?” 

She spat on the ground. 

“I’m going back to camp.”

She stormed off, fuming, exiting the alleyway and mixing into the crowd. Astarion followed at a distance, discreetly wiping the blood that had landed on his hands on the shirt of a random passerby that stumbled out in front of him. He gritted his teeth, watching her.

It had taken every last bit of his self-control to not snap back at her during her little tirade. 

He wanted to stalk off in the opposite direction, but frankly all his things were at the campsite, and he still needed the group’s help, both with Cazador and the tadpole. And he couldn’t discount something else happening to her on the way back. 

No, none of this was what he thought would end up happening today. Was this the end..?

It didn’t matter, he thought. Let her be stubborn. Let her accuse him of gods know what. He would do what he had set out to do. Hells, even if she changed her mind later - it would be too late. Let her live out her “hundred years of freedom” in regret.

And how fucking dare she?! Insinuating that he was or could ever be anything like Cazador. After all he had given her. His trust. His love. He didn’t have anything else. Not as a spawn, anyway.

But perhaps she would change her mind, after she gave his proposal more thought..? He could talk her into it, couldn’t he? He’s talked so many people into doing exactly what he wanted them to do…

There was no point in anything otherwise. It was all for her. All he wanted for himself was revenge. Freedom. Safety. But all the power in the world was meaningless if he couldn’t share it with her.

Astarion winced at the thought, hating that it even crossed his mind. If only he could claw it out of his brain and smash it against the cobbles beneath his feet. How much simpler life would be.

He would not grovel. He would not apologise. He would not change his mind. And he would rather die, again, than be caught running after her like a dog. 

Astarion cursed, slipped into the shadows and turned invisible, breaking into a sprint. He wouldn’t be able to replicate the trick for a while now, if the need arose, but he couldn’t care less. 

He raced up sets of stairs, speeding through a terrace, dodging the patrons of whatever establishment it was he was going through, and leaped, unseen, onto the next building’s, until he was ahead of her, descending back onto the ground and losing his invisibility around the corner from the main street, stepping out just in front of her. 

He caught a glimpse of her scowling and furiously blinking away tears just before she crashed into his chest with a light gasp, as he wrapped his arms around her. She was stiff and rigid, but at least she didn’t try to push him away. Still, a part of him was screaming that it was already too late.

“I don’t want you to have to commit those atrocities when you’re with me,” Astarion murmured into her hair, holding her close.

“You’d rather commit them yourself?” she retorted, her voice weak.

“I don’t want to,” he said quietly, as she seemed to become more malleable, and sank into his embrace, slowly wrapping her own arms around his back. “But I will if I have to. For you.”

“That makes two of us, I guess,” she managed, sounding choked up. 

Astarion took a deep breath, relieved. Mine… Still mine… He thought to himself, touching his forehead against hers and stroking her cheek. Someone in the street heckled them, yelling something about getting a room.

“I already don’t have much to offer, beyond all my burdens,” he whispered. She looked up at him, eyes glistening. She tried to protest, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “I want to do what I can, for you. For us. What good am I if I can’t even keep you safe?”

He pressed his lips against her forehead as she hugged him tighter. He had no idea whether he had convinced her of anything, or if she simply didn’t have the will to argue anymore, but for now it didn’t matter.

“I will love you no matter what,” she breathed.

Another jeer followed from the crowd, and someone cursed at them to get out of the way.

“A legion of wolves sounds tempting right about now,” she added, as he smiled.

“Do you still want to get Karlach and go to that circus?” he asked.

“Fuck the circus,” she mumbled into his shirt. “But I guess we should.”

They made their way back to the camp, fingers interlocked again. The silence that stretched once more almost felt comfortable this time.

~~~~~

Thanks for reading!

This is the last in-game part of the series for now (aside from some smut - see below). If you want to continue reading about my Tav and Astarion, go ahead and check out Bloodbang Chronicles which takes place 5 years after the end of the game.

Series master list

Next in in-game series - A night at the inn (branches off into smut)

AO3

~~~~~

Tag list:

@littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tallymonster @tragedybunny

@spunky-89 @acourtofpenandpaper @yoonshope @lariatbunny @whiskeyskin

@asterordinary @wingsy-keeper-of-songs @spacebarbarianweird @brabblesblog @littlejuicebox

@icybluepenguin @snowfolly @ayselluna @mj-bites @bardic-inspo

[rainbow-scarab]

Hallownest Symbols, the Ancient Civilization, and the Pale King

Sooo. Since I made my post on Hallownest symbols I've had some new insights.

The Hallownest symbol, with its lined oval and three sets of wings, predates the kingdom as it was under the Pale King and White Lady. It can be found on arcane eggs.

Lemm, on arcane eggs: This civilisation may claim itself the first, but something else did exist within this place before Hallownest. Each egg offers a narrow glimpse into that forgotten age.

It's not just the arcane eggs though. The symbol can also be found in the Abyss, on the lighthouse. Sorta.

You see, the lighthouse isn't just one structure--it's two. It's an older, crumbling structure....and then the new shiny construction that the Pale King added on top.

And looking at the older structure, the platforms themselves have the Hallownest symbol on it. Oval with wings.

Another detail I've noticed in the Abyss is that this structure isn't the only one. It can be seen in the background around the void sea:

Just, further cementing the thought that the old crumbling building beneath the shiny new top is not a construction under the Pale King, but instead something quite ancient. Just one of many buildings, a conveniently tall structure for the Pale King to repurpose into a lighthouse.

So what does this mean?

Various sources in the game point to the Pale King having portrayed himself as the creator of Hallownest. Lemm, in his quote above. And some more examples:

Lore tablet in King's Pass: Higher beings, these words are for you alone. Beyond this point you enter the land of King and Creator. Step across this threshold and obey our laws. Bear witness to the last and only civilisation, the eternal Kingdom. Hallownest

Hunter's Journal, on wingmoulds: The bugs of Hallownest believed that their King created this world and everything in it. For what purpose, I wonder? Were his subjects companions, or toys, or children? Such a mind seems unknowable.

The developer notes in the game also indicate that the Pale King wanted to get rid of other gods:

The moth tribe were (perhaps) descended from Radiance. However, the King convinced them somehow to seal Radiance away. I guess so he could rule Hallownest with his singular vision, as a monarch/god with no other gods.

The dev notes are not canon and it's clear that they were never intended to be seen by others. But I think there's something to be said at least for him attempting a "singular vision". Uniting Hallownest under one rule, portraying himself as creator, creating a certain order. Some more quotes:

Bardoon: For quiet retreat did I climb up here, away from spitting creatures. Ormmph... Yes. High up. Away from simple minds, lost to light. Theirs is a different kind of unity. Rejection of the Wyrm's attempt at order.

Mask Maker, reacting to Ghost having King's Brand: No bug has ever laid claim to this whole. Even the beasts knew their limits and bound their realm at Nest's edge. It is the ancient caste that made attempt at such vast rule. Hallownest's ruin reflects well those fared attempts.

I believe Mask Maker is referring to the Ancient Civilization having attempted to rule over all of Hallownest. There's a possibility they're referring to Hallownest under the Pale King, as "ancient" does not necessarily mean what fans call the Ancient Civilization (and indeed most instances of the word "ancient" refer to Hallownest under the Pale King). But "attempts" being in the plural, I think Mask Maker intends to draw a parallel here between the two civilizations.

Speaking of King's Brand...

I believe now this is the best symbol of the Pale King we have. His original symbol.

As I noted in my first post on Hallownest symbols, the Hallownest seal seems the most associated with the Pale King when it has the crown on it. And the few actual depictions of him, in statues, idols, and shrines, all have his crown, but lack wings. Save for the glowing silhouette of him in Ogrim's dream battle, there are no depictions of him with wings. He may lack wings entirely, or have some form of artificial wings.

In fact, I find it quite interesting how you can pick up monarch wings as an item.

They are described by the game as being made of "ethereal matter". The game manual calls them "wings of a monarchfly". It's possible that the Pale King had such wings as seen here, not part of his original body, but made somehow.

And, just to look at the symbols again...

If one were to superimpose the old Hallownest Seal from the time of the Ancient Civilization on top of the King's Brand, you'd get the current Hallownest Seal. Oval Bug body, wings, crown, and tail.

So, what I'm thinking, the impression that I'm getting....

The Pale King came to Hallownest. He saw all the evidence of the Ancient Civilization, which had already fallen. He took on bug form (which may have happened before or after he saw the symbol and other evidence of the ancient civ, but I have to wonder if witnessing Hallownest's history and symbols influenced even this decision to become small). He, for reasons beyond the purpose of this post, decided he wanted to rule Hallownest as king and "creator" (which again may or may not have been part of his decision to be reborn).

He established his kingdom. He took on aspects of preexisting Hallownest, essentially claiming the legacy of the Ancient Civilization as his own. He took on bug form, and gave himself wings, to match this old image, as if it was always about him.

He established his palace in the Ancient Basin. He had access to the Abyss, mostly closed off from the rest of the populace. He studied the void. But the bugs of the Ancient Civilization had a different attitude about void, as indicated by Lemm in the Hunter's Journal entry on the void idol:

Inspired or mad, those ancient bugs. They devoted their worship to no lord, or power, or strength, but to the very darkness itself.

The Pale King instead was worshipped as a god by his people. He instead treated the void as something to control. He studied it. He tested it. He created void constructs to guard his palace. He used it, to stake the future of his entire kingdom on.

I could go on and on about this. And I intend to. But this is as far as I will go in this post, meant to be an update to my last post on symbols. But, I already have a long post I put together months ago, didn't post, and just have to update with new thoughts. So hopefully, I'll be expanding on all the implications here for Hallownest history soon enough.