#that and the tent divination scene too

[please-let-this-work-oh-my-god]

2.0 spoilers under the cut

Oh...

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 3/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 Part 2 Word count: 9.4 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: König takes liberties with his mouth. Dubcon is at its most dubcon in this chapter so please tread carefully <3 The actual smut happens in the next (and last) part. Long chapter because these two just can't behave!!

The days are getting warmer now. 

The sun warms the tent during the day, and the sound of birds searching for a mate threatens to drive you to madness. They sing during nighttime, too, and you miss the sturdy clay walls of your hut that blocked at least some of the sounds from outside. Now you are barely sheltered from wind and rain that beat the tent every now and then and can escape the swelling song of spring and lovesick birds to nowhere. König only snores with steady content as you mull over your strange fate there in his cozy bed, wondering how crazy it is that he never lets you go when he sleeps.

If König has an early council, you spend the morning eating breakfast in bed while studying odd parchments the translator gave you. The old man was quite insulted, not because you asked, but because you showed interest in the documents that, apparently, were of least importance to him. 

You don’t care that they’re “only” travel guides because they’re filled with Roman letters and numbers and usually illustrated with pictures of columns. You don’t understand a word they say and how those strange papers could ever be a travel guide to anyone, but you like to trace the letters and pictures with your finger. König clearly understood your fascination with them: he left you this morning with another smile, which told you he only thought you were simply adorable this way. He tried to tell you that the letters represent towns and the numbers tell the distances between those towns, but they still remain bizarre pieces of paper to you.

Men pass by occasionally; you can hear it from how their gears clonk and clatter and swish. You can hear the soft thump of sandals on the dirt, but you pay it no attention because you’ve always trusted that you are safe here. As long as you stay inside the tent, no one will touch you, even if they can currently see you because the flap is left open a wink. 

The only times his men witness you are when König takes you out for a walk in the woods so that you can take care of your bodily needs. Everyone can see that your hands are never tied, your face is never bruised, and your posture is still that of a proud, unbroken woman. And everyone looks at you with both hunger and wonder. Apparently, you are an even tempting spoil because you are not yet spoiled. 

The special treatment was rubbed in your face one time when you passed by a Roman soldier disciplining his slave, a woman who had shared your fate and clearly was having the worst of it. The other half of her face was unrecognizable, but the man kept beating her, and you stared in horror as whatever deed she had done to anger the man was now being punished far too cruelly. 

“Romans very dumb,” König said from next to you without even shedding a glance at the morbid scene. No one seemed to give a shit about what was happening to that poor woman, but you would never have expected such a comment to come from König’s mouth. When you asked him what he meant by that, he only shrugged and said: “That man piss on his luck.”

You wonder if the only reason why you haven’t been raped yet is because you are some sort of a lucky charm to him. The mere thought has the effect of making your blood boil, but some distant, tender voice inside you reminds you that König is not Roman. He does not share Roman customs, even if he fights with and for them. Perhaps slaves are treated differently in his land. Perhaps in there, it is considered an outrage and an insult to the gods to beat a woman, free or not.

Whatever his reasons are for not beating and raping you to death, it was a tremendous stroke of luck that König found you first. You dropped right there on his feet when he was victorious, so of course his men allowed him to take you as his: you were clearly a gift from the gods. But now that time has passed, you understand you are by no means safe if you wander outside this tent. König can protect you only when he is present or when you are safely tucked away in his own personal space. 

It’s a false feeling of safety, however, because you soon learn that out of sight is out of mind for these soldiers. Now that you are on display, sweetly and neatly on the bed, a tiny little wrinkle forming between your brows from studying the peculiar parchment, you are like fresh livestock on the marketplace, even inside the tent. You notice that someone else is in here with you only when you hear the sound of munching and turn. 

A relatively big soldier is standing in the doorway, eating an apple, watching you like he would rather have a bite out of you.

And you thank all the gods and stars above you, all the spirits and the Mother below you, that he doesn’t even get to take a step before a sword impales his chest.

König kills his own man so casually that all the thoughts of him falling to the gentle side of giants disappear instantly. He even twists the sword inside the broad man from daring to cast eyes on you. And you probably should feel bad for him… But you don’t. Not at all. The apple falls into the dirt and rolls away, but the man slumps into the threshold of the outside world and the safe womb of the tent, like an offering to guardian spirits - or to you.

You look up at König, eyes wide only because you are yet again speechless, but this time because of odd, bashful gratitude. 

“No touching,” he says without even blinking – it sounds like a stern explanation.

“No touching,” you agree with a whisper. König only nods, wipes his gladius clean on the dead soldier’s cloak, and carries the body into the woods.

…

You don’t know if he has lost some of the favour he enjoys among the Romans after killing one of their soldiers. You suspect he has not. Actually, you are sure his reputation only soared for it. He just showed everyone that his prize is not to be touched: you are not to be even looked upon. Romans probably respect such a thing.

A few wagons arrive one morning, carrying various supplies for the soldiers. There are many other items too, completely unrelated to warfare but all to do with pleasure and gambling and trade. You assume König gets to pick his favourites among the first soldiers, if not the first soldier, from the abundant cargo that arrived, because he brings his spoils to you with boyish excitement. There is close to nothing there for himself: only a thick, heavy cloak, made of dark wool with lush fur on the shoulders. It looks like something a northern king would wear, and you find yourself quite happy for him, but the other items he’s carrying are clearly all hand-picked just for you. 

There is a dress, a pair of sandals, a bone comb, some fruit and a large, round copper dish. It serves as a mirror as you change into the dress – a Roman one, dyed ocean blue – just to appease König and get him off your back. It hurts your heart to see how happy it makes him to see you accept his gifts. He holds the dim, uneven mirror in front of you when you get the dress on, and you’re feeling strangely meek: you’re not even sure if you have put it on properly. The bone comb is milk white and has two horses carved on it – it reminds you of the offering that was never made to appease the Great Mother because it couldn’t have prevented the Titan from coming to your lands. It’s another odd omen: black horses now turned to white, but an omen for what, you can’t say. 

And then… he kneels. 

König falls at your feet and starts putting the Roman sandals on, tying the strings around your calves so gently that it makes you feel like you’re made of clay. The sandals are not the kind he wears: they’re made for women, apparently, because they’re so skimpy and delicate. The strings reach the upper part of your calf, and when he’s done with you, happy to have now clothed you in Roman garb, he caresses your thigh and presses a kiss above your knee. 

And he looks up at you like you’re everything but his captive. He looks at you like you’re a queen. He stares at you like he’s the slave here.

“You like?”

The soft rumble catches you off guard, as does the fond caress he gives your leg. He doesn’t even try to move his hand upwards and under the dress; he just admires you from the ground, looking a bit foolish while crouched there at your feet. You swallow arduously and nod. What else are you supposed to do? 

He smiles with his eyes and gives you another kiss. He presses it on the sensitive part where your calf meets the inside of your knee. He even raises his hood to do it, and you finally feel his breath as his lips meet your skin, hot but tender. You fight the urge to shrink from him, and despite it only being a soft peck, a lover’s touch, the kiss leaves a burning sensation on your skin.

Then he tucks your dress down, like a slave who simply stole a little kiss from his mistress. You’re rendered weak and silent before such reverence, but then the playfulness returns as he raises one finger, as if telling you not to say a word because he just had an idea. You look at him with odd curiosity as he crawls on all fours and reaches for something underneath the bed. You panic a little, fearing he might notice that you’ve been there, too: rummaging through his things and throwing the pieces of jewellery back there without caring to ensure that they are placed back in the same position you found them in. But he doesn’t seem to care or notice.

He tries to offer you the golden pendant first, the one that has three discs on it. It’s a little too much, and you shake your head, fearing you will upset him by declining his gift. He tries to offer you a more delicate necklace next: full of cute, filigreed beads, but you shake your head again. He wishes to give you a trinket so badly that you finally raise your hand and graze your fingertips over a leather string holding a few chunks of amber. It also bears the claws of some animal: fox, perhaps. He looks very pleased with your choice and puts your new possession around your neck. You reach for the copper plate yourself this time and hold it up to see how you look in your odd Roman dress and your humble but powerful new necklace.

“Sehr schön,” König says behind you as you take in the wobbly image. He is so, so happy - you have never seen him quite so happy. It looks like he thought this to be the prettiest, most compelling piece of jewellery too; as if the gold and beads were simply currency for him, too. As if it was obvious that you would be interested in bones and sea gold instead of the gold of men. Then he pulls out something from under his tunic: another leather string that has a large hunk of bone hanging from it. He’s presenting it to you like he wants to show how you two are now very much alike.

“What is it…?” You ask, trying to determine whether the bone came from an elk or a deer.

“Bear cock,” he says proudly while dangling it in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a man to carry the penis bone of a bear around his neck. “Makes man strong in battle and bed.”

“I don’t think you need that,” you whisper while looking up at him. It’s your first joke to him, and he laughs. Heartily.

“Kleine Fee. You have only seen me fight.”

He puts it back under his tunic as if it’s his secret amulet now. You really don’t think he needs any more luck in war, or in any other… field. He seems like the kind of man who can pleasure women all day. It’s a bitter thought, somehow, and makes your heart feel heavy. You wonder how many women he has had already when you have refused to open your legs for him.

“We can try how good it works in bed,” he offers, as cheerfully as ever.

Oh. 

Oh… 

“I’m—I’m hungry. I think I need to eat something,” you summon an excuse out of thin air while raising your hands against his chest to keep him away. As if you could get your breakfast down after him saying things like that…

“Hungrig? I can feed you,” he suggests, still in the happiest of moods. Then he sweeps you off your feet and carries you to the table. He’s ever generous today: you get to sit on his lap as he starts to feed you grapes.

And you didn’t think he’d actually, veritably feed you. But that’s exactly what he does. You get an entire meal: ripe fruits, a thick handful of bread, a fine slice of fat, delicious cheese. Wine to wash it down, and then some more grapes. He holds them gently on your lips until you open your mouth a little so that he can push them onto your tongue. He watches with utter content how you eat everything he offers you. He even gives you a few bounces with his knee, and every now and then, he gropes your tits: just squeezes them and plays around with them while you eat.

It is quite evident that this man really, really likes your boobs. Perhaps that is why he carries the statue of Great Mother around… To your horror, you realize the piece of carved wood is not an idol of worship for this man, just a lewd image he probably digs up and looks at when he wants to stroke his cock.

Gods... This man is even worse than you thought.

You begin to pout again, and he draws you flush against him, seeing that he somehow managed to make you displeased. Unaware as to what could have caused this, he gives you another bounce and tries to find the reason for your sudden change of mood.

“Are you fed now?”

“Yes,” you mope even more as you realize you would very much like him to continue feeding you even if you’re full. To just… do that thing with the grapes again. Just a few more.

“Gut. We have to leave soon.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “To fight.”

The camp is packed up in such haste that you find yourself under the sun in practically no time. You stay as close to König as possible without being glued to him, seeing that the new dress and hairstyle you made with the comb is high currency among the war-torn, lust-filled soldiers. Someone gives you a long whistle, which is followed by a few harsh comments you luckily don’t understand, but all the stares are cut off when König stops preparing his horse, rises to his full height, and wraps his fingers around the handle of his gladius.

You don’t get a single look after that, not even a sideways glance. Everyone acts like you don’t even exist.

The army moves at a slow pace at first, leaving a heavy dust cloud behind. It’s a fine day for travelling because there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. Everyone seems to be having a good time except for the slaves, and König is the only one who is vigilant, watching his surroundings at all times, head turning from side to side, hand never leaving his sword. 

You get a horse – his horse – and a lot of hateful stares from the other women, none of whom you have ever seen before. Captive girls from other villages, you presume, and they all hate you now because you get to ride a strong black stallion while they have to march in a dust cloud with their hands bound and their feet full of blisters. Their captors don’t give much thought to feeding or giving water to these poor women, mainly because they’re too busy laughing with each other and having hearty gulps from their wine sacks. You wonder if these men have ever fed these women a single grape during their campaign.

König, on the other hand, marches next to you like he’s your servant. He offers you his waterskin, his wineskin, too, and as the march goes on, an awkward knot starts to form inside your belly.

He’s behaving so oddly. You can’t find any other reason for his behaviour than that he simply has no full understanding of Roman customs because he comes from somewhere else. (Mountains, he said, when you asked him.)

You only now notice that he has servants but only uses them to pack or set up the tent. Other high-ranking officers and commanders have their servants with them at all times, tending to their every need. König is the only one who behaves like a foot soldier: he pours his own wine, gets his rations and supplies himself, lights his oil lamps without help and never lets anyone else touch his armour or swords. 

The servant he uses the most is the translator, a slave who’s clearly responsible for teaching König more and more of your words. He also serves as a mediator when König gets ready for another battle. You have naively wanted to forget the reason why these men are here in the first place, and as you see König putting on his full armour the next day, tying the swords on his waist and leaving to search for his shield, you feel like bursting into tears or a scream. You look away as he gets dressed, and refuse to give him a single kind look that morning. You stand with your hands crossed over your chest as he’s finally ready and fetches the old man to the tent again.

The Roman soon stands next to him as König takes a step and falls on one knee before you.

“He asks you to bless him,” the old translator says – weary and bored.

You stop breathing for a second and look at König, there at your feet again, head bowed, leaning on one elbow placed on a strong knee.

Bless him… For going to slaughter another clan? Give your blessing to him leaving people fatherless, childless and homeless? 

Is this some sort of a joke?

“Are my words… correct? Master asks that you give him your blessing for the upcoming battle.”

You bite your lip in frustration. You want to put your hand over this proud warrior’s head and send him away with words of might and fortune, but even the thought of wanting to do that is about to make you sick.

“I will do no such thing,” you say coldly and earn a sad, confused stare from König, who raises his head to look at you with a horrifying, pleading gaze. This man doesn’t beg for anything from anyone, and yet here he is, in his full armour, armed to the teeth and looking like the God of War again, asking for a kind word or two. You turn away, not because you deny him, but because you can’t stand to be under that defenceless gaze. The Roman sighs behind you, and from the clatter of König’s gear, you can hear that he has gotten up and is about to leave. 

You turn again, only to face his withdrawing back. Tense, and already beaten.

He grabs the satchel, the one that holds his Mother, but stops to look at it like it’s simply an ordinary object instead of a powerful entity. Then he places it back down on the table with a sigh. You look with horror as he leaves for war without taking his amulet, idol, fate, source of luck and joy – whatever the statue represents to this man – with him.

It doesn’t take long before you regret you didn’t give him your “blessing”. 

It somehow feels wrong that he left without it. You’re his captive, but he has fed you, clothed you, kept you warm. He has practically done no harm to you except hold you through the night and have a few gropes at your tits, which you haven’t found harmful at all… The least you could do to thank him is to lay a hand upon his head or sword before he left. Just a simple little gesture, not even a true blessing… Just a little something would have sufficed, to help him go into battle with a slightly lighter heart. 

Because as much as you loathe this man, you don’t actually want him dead. You don’t want him to march into battle and think you wish him ill. You don’t want König to get careless just for the sake of feeling miserable about the thought that his little slave girl despises him.

Because you don’t despise him.

You just don’t… like him. 

And he’s your captor still. Why should he deserve your blessing?

But the image of him cutting through his enemies with sorrow and bleakness in his stare, walking into a spear just because he’s had enough of life and more than enough of difficult, uncaring, ungrateful women, makes your heart bleed. He could’ve taken Mother with him since he didn’t get a good luck’s wish from you, but he chose to leave even Her behind. As if his faith had failed him, as if the few things and people he has ever placed his trust in have now abandoned him. 

The night rolls in, and the moon crosses the sky slowly, so slowly, as you wait for his return. The old Roman looks at you sideways every time you peek outside the flap and sigh. Your guard is a weak, old man, but you reckon that if you were to escape, the tired slave would simply follow you out of the camp and tell König which direction you have gone so that he can hunt you down when he returns. The few Romans left to guard the portable garrison would probably seize you and take you as their plaything before you managed to set a foot outside the vallus, and even if König came back to claim you, you could be a bloody heap by the time he returned.

And it’s not even caution keeping you inside the tent. You don’t actually think about fleeing at all. 

In the dead of night, you go to his satchel and pull out the statue of the Great Mother.

“Dear Mother... Great Mother. Please let him have his victory. Please let him come home unhurt. Even if he fails, please let there not be a scratch on him as he falls. Please, please, please…”

You improvise your prayer as you go, thinking about something to offer Her while being captive and not having access to most of the resources you would normally go to.

“I’ll give you my next moonblood. I will give you amber and fox claws…”

Your heart hurts, knowing you just promised the necklace König gave you as your sacrifice. But it’s a small gift for his safe return, and you renew your prayer, over and over again, while squeezing the Mother between your hands and pressing Her against your forehead.

You’re not sure if She can even hear you, because haven’t you wished this man dead not too long ago? You return the Mother to her satchel and pace around the tent, about to go mad. When the first horses arrive, you almost run outside to see if you can see or hear him coming. Soldiers march into the camp: there is so much din and racket outside that you know this is the least opportune moment to go outside and show yourself to the survivors who clearly have their morale and cocks up high from the recent battle. You wait and wait and wait, thinking about whether your god is among the wounded, being carried to some other tent where they treat injuries. You go and sit on the bed; you rise up and sit on the table. Then you go and press your ear to the fabric of the tent and try to listen like a fox. 

The flap is, blessedly, finally drawn aside, and you hurry to meet whoever has arrived. It’s König – of course – breathing heavy, looking slightly high-strung but primarily unscathed, and you forget yourself completely when running to him.

“Are you hurt!?”

He takes off his helmet and takes in a good breath of air, eyes melting into pure love when he sees you.

“Nein. Not a scratch.”

You swallow your relief – of course no one can get to this man. Your fears have been stupid and ridiculous. But in the deepest chasm of your heart, you thank the Mother three times. You promise to deliver her your sacrifice as soon as possible.

“You fear for me?” He asks, so excited again that you have to dig your nails into your palm so that you won’t go and clutch him and cry from joy. You don’t nod or shake your head; you only stare at him with what must look like a frightened deer stare.

Your giant comes to hug you so tight you can’t even breathe. Then he lifts you into the air, and there is nothing you can do - there is nothing you even want to do but to be there in his stout embrace. You’re so relieved that he is alive and unhurt that there are tears in your eyes, and he sees them, and smiles.

“Don’t worry, little Fee. Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen.” His voice is throaty and parched; apparently, he has shouted his throat raw on the field. 

You almost say you’re sorry that you didn’t give him your blessing, but seeing how pleased, triumphant, and gleeful he is causes you to shut your mouth and shut it tight. It’s enough that you have babbled prayers for him all night, praying your knees and tongue sore.

König returns you to the ground and leaves, only to return with ample loot. Two slaves carry in a small but heavy jute sack of coin, a tiny chest filled with honey, two bottles of scented oils, three gorgeous jugs of milk, a beautiful bronze sword, all laid there at your feet.

“Für dich,” he says, throwing a wide arc with his hand to gesture that all this is now yours. You watch all the stunning, lavish, extraordinary gifts, again picked with care just for you. You remember how there was not a single coin in this tent before you were dragged in, no bronze, no gold, no milk nor honey. No fine dresses, no stolen, scented oils. How many families did he have to kill to bring all these fine goods for you?

“I don’t want your loot,” you whisper on the brink of tears.

“What…do you want?” The smile in his eyes fades, and it stabs your heart full of pain. “More sea honey?”

“No, I–”

“Slaves?”

“No,” you step forward. If only you two could have met some other time, in some other place… “I just…I want my freedom.”

“What will you do with freedom…?” 

You finally get to see what König is like when he argues. He cannot understand your logic; he can’t understand what more he must do to satisfy you and make you happy. 

“Your chief is dead,” he says bluntly, causing your head to feel two times too small for your anger and pain. 

“You don’t have to remind me,” you blurt, equally bluntly. Because whose fault is that? This man is a thick-skulled, thick-cocked idiot.

“You have no husband. No village.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why angry?”

“Because you are infuriating,” you almost shriek.

He looks at you, lost and confused, not knowing how to calm you down or make you pleased again. And it must be confusing: some gifts work, some don’t. Other times, you look at him lovely and sweet; other times you sulk and pout. You have luckily stopped your crying, but now you have suddenly decided to yell at him?

He approaches you after seemingly coming to the conclusion that you must want him to either pet or fuck you. He tries to raise his hands to touch you, but you push him away.

“Don’t you fucking dare grope me again!”

He withdraws quickly, now utterly nonplussed. If you don’t even want to be held, then what is he to do? This goes against all the laws of this world: he has arrived, triumphant and joyous from the battle, clearly favoured by all the gods, above and below, and favoured in full. The only one who doesn’t grant him a boon is you. His head tips to the side - it always does that when he’s curious or thinking hard. Then his eyes light up with understanding, and you know you’re about to hear more nonsense coming out of that oafish mouth.

“You don’t want me to fight?”

“I don’t…care what you do,” you scoff.

“Ah. You hate Romans?”

“Yes, I hate Romans. I wish they would all die. I hate their stupid battles and their stupid campaigns. And I hate you too,” your spirit rises with your words, your voice gaining volume and strength as you hurl all your frustration at him. 

And he’s shocked. Not at your first declaration, nor the second, not even the third. It’s the last sentence that clearly drives a dagger straight into his heart. 

He steps back, nearly toppling a milk jug as he pulls away from you. Then he mumbles something under his breath, something in his own crude language. The words are muffled by the mask as he scratches the back of his neck and leaves the tent without even taking his blood-stained armour off.

His name, the name that sounds so foreign to you, never leaves your mouth. But the following words do.

“Wait, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

Not all of it.

He’s out of the tent by then, and you’re left with your beautiful gifts, your bitter sorrow and regret. You sigh and look up, hoping you could see the sky and whisper your inquiry into the night air. 

Why on earth did you two have to meet like this? Why does he have to be so thick-skulled and so… So him?

You calm your racing heart and start to organize the loot he brought you. You have never liked messy places and have done your best to keep this tent from getting cluttered. You taste some of the milk he brought you and inhale the sweet scent of those oils; you dip your little finger inside the honey jar and have a taste. The golden liquid tastes like the food of the gods when paired with milk. You put the blade on the table where König usually keeps his swords and settle to wait for him. 

And you have to wait for a long time, so long that you eventually withdraw to the bed, alone and with a heavy heart. When König finally returns, you can hear he has had a drink. More than one, too: he has probably drunk an entire jug of wine alone. He doffs his armour with curses and sighs, and lets it drop on the ground with a sloppy clang that makes you jolt under the furs. He eats something very noisily while throwing his helmet somewhere to the ground too, burps loudly, and sighs again: so deeply that it makes your heart burn. After getting rid of the tunic and his sandals – an operation that takes him more than a while – he crawls on the bed with a heavy breath. Your heart is at your throat as the stench of wine hits you, and his hands are clumsy and stern when he comes under the same fur and reaches for you.

“König—”

Your whisper ends abruptly as you are pulled against a familiar, broad chest. He growls at you for being awake – or at himself for waking you up with a drunken racket.

“I don’t… I didn’t…” you start weakly and have to clear your throat as he huffs against your neck, listening to what you are trying to say. 

“I don’t hate you,” you finally whisper.

He grumbles against your back and buries his masked face in your neck. The arm around your middle tightens and tightens, and you hurry to praise his gifts.

“The honey is delicious. And the oils are–”

"Fee… Du machst mich verrückt."

He speaks through gritted teeth while panting laboriously in your hair. You're relieved to hear sorrow instead of anger in his voice, but it’s his body that makes you arch your back and guide your bottom to meet his crotch.

The biggest mistake you’ve ever done, surely, because the whole body behind you grows taut. He gives you a tight roll of his hips, pushing his cock against you with immediate fervour. His balls meet your bottom, tight and heavy: you have gone to bed in your ridiculous Roman dress because you were feeling cold, but you can still feel them. You can feel all of him.

“König… We–We need to sleep…”

You sound like a bitch in heat, not at all like a woman who wants to stop wherever this heated cuddle is spiralling into. König is letting out noises you didn’t even know a man could make, and it makes your cunt wetter than ever before: tight and throbbing and embarrassingly needy. You try to remind yourself that this is not the proper time or way, that you don’t want it to happen like this: with the smell of wine and blood and dirt and sweat surrounding you, with him soon thrusting that cock between your thighs and shooting his seed on the bed before he can even get it in. You don’t want him when he’s drunk, and you don’t want him when he’s clearly a bit angry with you still. You place a weak hand over his, the one currently wrapped around your middle like a bond. 

“Please, I mean it…” 

“Not the time for sleep, little one,” he rasps on your shoulder, mask dragged aside and mouth breathing hot against your skin. His voice is gentle but his body is not: it turns out he has only been waiting for the slightest little cue to have the permission to take you. Unfortunately for you, moaning and grinding your hips against him is more than just a cue.

“Göttin der Erde... Gib dich mir.” 

He grunts odd, boorish words on your shoulder, leaving you breathless with another tight roll of his hips. It feels like a spell or a chant, the way he speaks. You want nothing more than to give yourself to him, and fear that whatever tie has been knotted between you two, whatever shackle has bound your souls together, has also granted him the ability to hear your thoughts. He must’ve heard them, or then he must smell the change in the air, because he rolls you on your back and pushes a knee between your legs.

“Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen,” he mutters more incantations in your neck, broad thigh forcing your legs further apart. He doesn’t even need strength to coax them open: they drag up and aside by themselves. 

“Ah–Why can’t you talk like normal people…” 

You sigh your silly thoughts out into the night air, and your fierce giant turns his head a little, now right there next to your cheek.

"Normal? Was ist das…?"

Your lips draw into a quivering little smile – you just can’t help it. Him lying half on top of you, asking what the word ‘normal’ means while smelling like an entire wine house just burned down makes your lips and heart flutter. Your soft laugh makes him raise his head a little, drunken, half-lidded eyes now fixed on you.

“The opposite of you?” You offer innocently and try not to laugh, but it’s no use. You start to snicker, then giggle, and the way he growls only makes things worse. 

“You little–I will go crazy because of you,” he whispers, drunk as a heartbroken man can be. Your own heart seems to open with a flood.

“Then go crazy,” you whisper back. 

And gods… He takes your sigh as a permit to go absolutely berserk. He crawls on top of you and rips your dress apart from the middle with both hands, exposing your breasts to him and the cold night air. There's a weight in his gaze that turns your nipples hard; a gaze of promise, just before he descends.

He attacks you like a starving man, devours and licks and sucks your breasts until you shake and moan on the bed, until your hands come to cradle his head with greed.

“I will make you scream tonight,” he pants roughly on your tits – you can feel the words on your skin. You’re veritably afraid that this man will swallow you before he even gets to the main event, which is no doubt to satiate the need to fill you with potent seed. He doesn’t exactly caress you, no: he gobbles you like your body is an entire feast, the generous kisses almost turning into bites when he reaches your hips.

“No–no teeth, König,” you try to whimper, somewhere on the borderline of tension and lust.

"Fee... I promise I'll fuck you like king. I'll fuck you until you cry.”

Your head goes blank from his words; from terror and love and lust. There's no time to decipher whether you should be afraid, because he scoops up your thighs, grabs you like a wrestling partner, and draws you against his face.

“Wait—What are you–”

Your words are cut off as he drives his nose up your cunt and breathes in your musk like it's divine incense. It doesn’t matter that you’re still covered by the skimpy dress he just ripped to shreds: the fabric is so thin that he could be virtually sniffing you through sheer gossamer. 

There’s no escape now; he can feel how wet you are. He can practically taste it.

“König—”

You can't understand why he would want to push his face there, so you mewl and try to push him away – very weakly – but he’s immovable, glued to your scent down there, panting into your warm, wet cunt with harsh breaths and starved groans. You're lying there at his mercy, dress torn to pieces and breasts heaving, thighs spread as far as they can go.

It's futile to even try reason with a starved giant between your legs, a cunt-deprived warrior about to finally take what's his. You should've known better than to joke around and play with a man who could snap you in half – either with his hands or with his cock – and Mother was wrong: you're not smart at all, teasing a beast like this. A beast whose teeth are currently bared over your most vulnerable place protected only by a thin veil soaked with your wet. 

König lashes his tongue out and presses it flat against your dress, on your throbbing womanhood, and your words turn into an ample, lewd moan.

“A–ah…”

You fall weakly back on the bed, head spinning although you haven’t drunk a drop of wine. The broad body almost trembles there between your legs. 

“Ah… You want cock, ja? I can taste it,” he grunts, blunt as ever. The thought of that thing being bullied into you inch by thick inch makes your cunt clench tight. Gods, you want it, but it will never fit, never…

Unless he… Unless that's why he's down there, panting hot inside you, trying to coax you open with his mouth. Perhaps he's not that dumb after all...

“Please,” you beg for him to love you, taste you, take you, your pride melting into copper and gold, pooling somewhere down, down, down… 

“Don't worry,” he speaks straight to your cunt like a man intoxicated with something far better than wine. “I will give you cock. All night.”

He lifts the dress with his nose like a dog, nuzzles under your ruined attire like it's his shelter for the night, headed back towards his plump prize. There will soon be nothing between his mouth and your poor, throbbing cunt, aching to be licked and loved by a cruel giant. A giant who brings you milk and honey and grapes and gold in all its forms… 

But just when you have finally forgotten that beasts possess teeth, he sinks them into you. He sinks them into your inner thigh, waking you up from the dream with sharp, harrowing pain.

The fucking idiot actually bites you, hard.

“You fucking—Go to hell!”

You push him away in earnest now, using his shoulders to propel yourself away from him. His teeth threaten to pierce and tear skin because he's so reluctant to let go, and the horrors of the battlefield seep into your skin; the safe warmth of the womb turns into a suffocating darkness. 

Your kicks have enough power to make him rise from between your legs, and the clear-cut pain in his eyes makes you want to both hug and hit him. You do the latter and hurl your fists at him, not bothering to even try to hit a target or cause pain; you just want him to stop making you afraid. 

Of course, he takes your breathless state and lust-filled rage as a cue to leave – and he does precisely that, but not before he has struggled away from you and your fists in an overly dramatic manner. It would look funny in another situation, especially when he's as hard as ever, cock jutting high towards the sky just from having a little taste of your love. Drunken and slightly wobbly, he almost falls when he grabs the tunic from the earthen floor as if his tent is a site of execution where he will soon be stoned. 

At the mouth of the tent, he stops, throws his head back, and roars. The guttural, booming rage echoes towards the gods like a furious curse, and you’re quite sure that the entire camp is awake by now. Every soldier nearby must be dying of a scared heart, thinking that there are either bears or Gauls upon them.

You hold your arms against your chest and safeguard your soft belly as you take in all his fury and frustration, then watch him stagger into the night, head hanging heavy between slumped shoulders. You’re left breathing, afraid and alone in the darkness, thinking about what the hell just happened… And spend the next moments in shock. Soon enough, the cold and terror fades, melting into something more palatable. You're shivering and wet, but intact, at least on the outside.

And the oddest thing is that you find yourself missing him. You miss his presence, his body, you miss his dumbness and his jokes. You fucking miss him.

The man who almost raped you.

With his… mouth.

You curl inside the furs and try to get some sleep with a hammering heart, ending up thinking about him all night. You thought he was going to pound you with that ridiculously long cock all night – and wasn't that his threat, too? – but what you didn't expect was that the giant barbarian who rips people's throats open with his teeth would want to lick and lap you into submission. You never would have thought that König wanted to bury his face between your legs, and eagerly at that.

Perhaps you understood his silly words wrong in your half aroused, half scared state. What if he meant to make you scream and cry from pleasure, not pain?

The burning bruise on your thigh reminds you that you are probably wrong, but you still wake every now and then from a thin sleep, glancing around you in despair, only to see that he’s not there. You feel so hollow that you think for a moment whether König has left the camp entirely, whether he is wandering away, towards some other adventure, exhausted with you and the war and the Romans.

The most unbearable thought in your head is not that he has left you for his dogs, however. It’s the thought that has abandoned you. That he has finally had enough. Because you realize… König hasn’t gone anywhere. He simply left to have his fun with some other woman. Perhaps he’ll be back in the morning, but his patience is gone; it has finally ended, your silly little game. A difficult slave girl who won’t even let him lick her cunt is simply no amusement to him anymore. 

Just before dawn, your will breaks; it splits in half. You can almost hear it. The sound of cries is muffled in the bed that nowadays has both his scent and yours: both of your scents combined, mixing together into a wonderful haze of love and despair.

…

König comes back when the dawn is already turning into a full day.

He strolls into the tent the same way he left: with a hunched posture and unsteady feet, but the fervent vigour from last night is gone. Actually, you have never seen him so weak. The dramatic sighs, the groping and the bullying have turned into a piercing silence. His muscles have lost their strength, his head is hanging heavy between those once proud shoulders, and his eyes are cast down as if he’s hoping there wouldn’t be such a bright orb in the sky. He drags his feet as he enters the tent; he doesn’t even look your way when he goes and slumps in his chair.

You are so glad to see him that you nearly jump from the bed and fall right there at his feet. You want to kiss his thighs and grab his hands and look up at him, doting and adoring like a good little slave. You want to whimper and beg that he can give you love bites everywhere he wants.

Instead, you snap at him, voice filled with poison.

“Did you have fun raping women last night?”

There are leaves on his mask and dirt on his shins and knees. Even his hands are a little grungy, and the proud red Roman tunic could also use a wash. He sheds you a tired side stare, then sighs.

“Was?”

“Were you with women,” you spell out every word slowly like you’re talking to a child. The venom on your tongue threatens to spill out as froth. And you almost say, 'other women'. Almost.

König raises his head and looks at you with a slight tilt in his head. He’s curious again, so, so very curious. He has clearly fleed the sun into his tent rather than seek your gracious presence, which shouldn’t make you this glum... But what you just said has managed to brighten up his entire day.

“Meine Fee… She’s jealous,” he points out in a far more jovial tone.

“No. Not at all,” you hurry to say, chin drawing back from his stupid accusations. 

“You are,” he says with unbridled fascination. 

“I assure you I’m not.”

Your cheeks are heating up, and the nervousness inside your belly roils like a snake. How does he always manage to get you into a trap? 

König leans back in his chair, now with his usual dignity on those shoulders. He even crosses his fingers loosely in his lap, looking like the conversation he’s about to have with you will, yet again, become another favourite of his. You’re not sure why you always feel like you’re being interrogated on the sly with him because König is the most simple, straightforward, blunt object of a man you have ever met. And still…

“Fucking other women is bad?” He asks innocently from that chair.

“Bad?” You huff. “Yes, if you have to force women under you, you are a brute.”

“And… ugly?”

“Very ugly. The ugliest man in the world.”

"Hm. But who say anything about forcing?"

König looks at you, calmly, as your stomach sinks from his words.

You can only stare at him as the world seems to fall apart around you, crumble into nothingness when there's sun shining and birds singing outside. Kicking him out of the tent – and almost kicking him in the face in the process – because you got afraid when he gave you a fervent little nib seems like the stupidest idea right now. If you were so willing to part your legs for him and moan under his tongue, surely some other insane woman would want to do that as well? Surely there is at least one woman in this camp who would gladly be pleased by this giant who doesn't hit or force women. Who only likes to… bite and squeeze and lick them.

You pout at him, lip almost trembling now, and he’s smiling, so, so very wide behind that mask. Gods damn him. 

Then he rises and walks to you, suddenly looking like he isn’t suffering from a hangover after all. He strolls towards you with slow purpose, and you swallow the tears down, trying not to show him how they turn into ice inside your stomach. 

“I have not touched women. Only you.”

He towers above you, looking down at you like you are indeed the most adorable thing in the entire world. You are not sure whether his words are to be believed, but something inside you says that this man never lies. As dense and dumb as he is, he is the most trustworthy human being you will ever meet.

“Only sleep with earth last night,” he says and starts to caress your hair. He even weighs some of it in his hand before sweeping it over your shoulder. Like you are simply his precious, silly little wife who has been spoiled too much.

“It was a cold mistress,” he laments, overly dramatic again, like a poor actor in a tragic play. Your heart aches, badly – you swear König is the most annoying man you have ever met, the most insufferable and lovable. You wonder if he has spent his seed on the cold, hard ground too. Given it to the Great Mother, who is a cold lover sometimes indeed… But not as cold as you.

You wonder how crazy it is that you have the power to drive this giant into the cold night from his own tent. König has had to face his hangover by waking up to a chilly dawn. His hand is not as warm as usual, and you start to worry that he has caught the wrath of wind spirits outside, soon rendering him weak and feverish. His skin is not supposed to feel this cold, not when he’s almost always blazing.

“I know a plant that might help,” you say diplomatically. “With your… Head.”

He looks at you, more and more curious by every passing moment. You hope he doesn’t weigh in his mind whether you are trying to poison him when he is weak. But he’s not that clever, perhaps, because he only looks at you like you’re an entire sun now, and very unlike the one that is giving him a headache today. You turn away from his hand – but not too quickly. You’re only feeling shy. And a bit uncomfortable.

“You should eat something. And drink water, not wine.”

“You care about my head?”

Gods… His voice is so, so soft. He’s seeing past all your defences again, and there is nothing you can do about it. You want to curse him but can’t. You simply can’t. 

“Just… Eat some fruit, alright? And I need a kettle so that I can boil some water for the herbs.”

You rise from the bed and try to ignore his adoring stare. He doesn’t attempt to touch you again; he merely watches as you go about and eat a little something as if to show that when it is morning, people should have breakfast. Like you’re a mother trying to lead by example or a fussing young wife who is trying to help his husband. Your lips are a thin line as you search for grapes that aren’t too soft and a piece of bread that doesn’t yet have mould in it. You grab some figs: you know they are his favorite, and bring them to him to tell him you’re serious about him needing to eat.

And you feel silly. 

You can’t even look at him. You’re feeling so odd, so weak, so warm inside, and it’s not because you’re disgusted; hell, it’s the opposite of being disgusted….

“I have fallen in love with you,” König says as he accepts your humble offering of food. You freeze in the middle of setting them on his palms, held upwards as if content with whatever you give him, even if it’s only a piece of bread and a few figs. 

Gods. Mother… Don’t do this to me–

“That how you say it?”

You breathe in and out, calm, collected – you're not going to faint because some crazy giant thinks he's in love. Yes, that’s it… Everything’s alright. He’s just being silly again. He’s just playing his own little plays again. 

But when you look at him, there is no actor there, no silly play: he’s just… König. He returns your helpless, cornered stare with warm kindness, reminding you of something, of some Roman or Greek god… Apollo. Yes, that’s it. Laureled sun god Apollo, the one everyone loves so dearly, because he always drives fear and doubt and darkness away. He’s Apollo, even though he doesn’t even prefer a bow. 

And has the translator taught König the correct words? Has he memorized them so that he can say them to you when the time is right? Your lip starts to tremble, and you fight to not shudder a sigh. The old seer was wrong: this man will be your downfall.

“I’ll go get that plant,” you whisper, soft eyes wide and chest curled tight. 

“Nein,” he says cheerfully, full of life and hope again. “Not alone, little one.”

…

A/N: Please don't send me death threats. Remember, big bang bang next chapter! Huge!!

Translations:

Sehr schön - Very beautiful

Kleine Fee - Little fairy

Hungrig? - Hungry?

Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen - I could never leave you

Für dich - For you

Du machst mich verrückt - You drive me crazy

Göttin der Erde… Gib dich mir - Goddess of the Earth… Give yourself to me

Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen - My Queen... I will make you very happy

Was ist das? - What is that?

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

The Copollogism Essays - Part 2: The Assassination Scene

Part 1 (The Tent) ~ Part 2 (The Assassination) ~ Part 3 (Lester's Reaction) ~ Part 4 (Leo's Questions/Seeing Commodus Again) ~ Part 5 (The Arena) ~ Part 6 (The Waystation) ~ Part 7 (The Yacht) ~ Part 8 (The Final Moment)

Analysis: Part 1 (Apollo and Commodus as Individuals) ~ Part 2 (Toxic Relationship?) ~ Part 3 (Codependent - Or Is It?) ~ Part 4 (Other Thoughts)

Oh ho ho ho. Here it is. The One You Have Been Waiting For.

A little personal background–

This was the scene that I remembered that made me pick the Trials of Apollo books back up last year.

It was this scene that brought me back into the fandom.

Everyone say thank you to this scene because it is a masterpiece and I sure damn well hope I do it justice.

Anyway. Let us begin~

I KNOW WHAT YOU are thinking. But, Apollo! You are divine! You cannot commit murder. Any death you cause is the will of the gods and entirely beyond reproach. It would be an honor if you killed me! I like the way you think, good reader. It’s true I had laid waste to whole cities with my fiery arrows. I had inflicted countless plagues upon humanity. Once Artemis and I slew a family of twelve because their mama said something bad about our mama. The nerve!  None of that did I consider murder.

None of that, none of the deaths Apollo has caused, did he consider murder.

But Commodus’s he does.

This has always stuck out to me, even when I first read the books. 

The praetorian prefect Laetus had pulled me aside only an hour ago: We failed at lunch. This is our last chance. We can take him, but only with your help. Marcia, Commodus’s mistress, had wept as she tugged at my arm. He will kill us all. He will destroy Rome. You know what must be done!  They were right. I’d seen the list of names—the enemies real or imagined whom Commodus intended to execute tomorrow. Marcia and Laetus were at the top of the list, followed by senators, noblemen, and several priests in the temple of Apollo Sosianus. 

Something that was pointed out by @amiti-art was how Apollo’s priests were set to be killed. This is baffling for a couple reasons: 1) Apollo is well known to deliver terrible punishments onto those who even treat his priests with disrespect (Agamemnon in The Iliad got a nice plague for his disrespect); and 2) Why would Commodus do this? Why would he specifically kill Apollo’s priests?

I suggested it could be a way to “get his attention” so to speak. Because remember, in Part 1, we know Apollo left after Marcus has died. And now, Commodus is deep into his paranoia and lashing out at everyone and everything he perceives as a threat.

Perhaps something triggered him to think the priests were some sort of threat, or maybe he’s so far in his delusions that he thinks he can have everything be “fixed” if he draws Apollo back to him. As we saw in Part 1, Commodus looked to Apollo first at the news of Marcus’s death— maybe even now, he’s trying to rebuild that bridge because everything’s falling apart.

If so…he did not think it through 😬 I mean… *eyes the plague Agamemnon got; Clytemnestra being killed by her own son for murdering Cassandra* yeah…things don’t end well for those who mess with the people in Apollo’s cult.

I pushed open the bronze doors of the emperor’s chambers. From the shadows, Commodus bellowed, “GO AWAY!”  A bronze pitcher sailed past my head, slamming into the wall with such force it cracked the mosaic tiles. “Hello to you, too,” I said. “I never did like that fresco.”

*wheeze from alder* I get the feeling there was very casual banter in their relationship lol

Commodus knelt on the floor, clinging to the side of a sofa for support. In the opulence of the bedchamber with its silk curtains, gilded furniture, and colorfully frescoed walls, the emperor looked out of place—like a beggar pulled from some Suburra alley. His eyes were wild. His beard glistened with spittle. Vomit and blood spattered his plain white tunic, which wasn’t surprising considering his mistress and prefect had poisoned his wine at lunch.

This whole paragraph really gives you a glimpse into Commodus’s mindset, even if we don’t see his thoughts. He is quite literally at his wit’s end. His mistress and prefect have just tried to assassinate him. Everyone is against him. He is completely alone; no father, no lover.

Except Narcissus.

But if you could look past that, Commodus hadn’t changed much since he was eighteen, lounging in his campaign tent in the Danubian Forest. He was thirty-one now, but the years had barely touched him. To the horror of Rome’s fashionistas, he had grown his hair out long and had a shaggy beard to resemble his idol, Hercules. Otherwise he was the picture of manly Roman perfection. One might almost have thought he was an immortal god, as he so often claimed to be.

Not very important but short-haired teenaged Commodus canon 👍

Sike, this can be important because it is INTERESTING that Commodus deviates from the traditional Roman culture here. He grows his hair out, as well as a beard. Roman men didn’t typically do that.

But you know who does?

Greek men. Such as Heracles (which is why Commodus does so.)

I find this VERRRYYY interesting, especially paired with his relationship with Apollo. Because if you look at Commodus…he’s not very Roman, no? I’d say he’s more Greek-flavored than Roman.

Because here’s the deal: Besides the longer hair, Commodus (historically, at least) also liked to sing and dance. That was 100% accepted for men to do in Greece, but in Rome?

Rome had a very convoluted attitude towards singing and dancing. It was essentially “oh the upper class OBVIOUSLY can get SUPERB teachers for it, but if they're TOO GOOD AT IT they are NO BETTER THAN A WOMAN OR A SLAVE!!!!”

The kicker here is that the Greeks were typically slaves within Rome. They were regularly hired by the Roman elite to perform music and dances.

(Interesting how Apollo is their god, too.)

Out of all the Romans, out of the Roman elite…Apollo falls in love with the most Greek one he can find.

What’s even better is that Commodus continues the trend of ‘Apollo’s lovers are related to his domains’ because of music and dance.

That is what they bonded over. You bet Apollo made Commodus feel better over what he liked doing when the society he lived in looked down on it.

My poor, precious heart 🥲

“They tried to kill me,” he snarled. “I know it was them! I won’t die. I’ll show them all!”  My heart ached to see him this way. Only yesterday, I’d been so hopeful. We’d practiced fighting techniques all afternoon. Strong and confident, he’d wrestled me to the ground and would have broken my neck if I’d been a regular mortal. After he let me up, we’d spent the rest of the day laughing and talking as we used to in the old days. Not that he knew my true identity, but still… disguised as Narcissus, I was sure I could restore the emperor’s good humor, eventually rekindle the embers of the glorious young man I’d once known. And yet this morning, he’d woken up more bloodthirsty and manic than ever.

Ouch. Owie. This hurts.

Time to discuss Apollo’s disguise now.

Narcissus, now, was a real person. But it appears in the RRverse, Narcissus was Apollo the whole time. And Apollo’s goal here was to, and I quote; “restore the emperor’s good humor [and] eventually rekindle the embers of the glorious young man I’d once known.”

Apollo initially disguised himself because he wanted to stop Commodus from going down his bloody, awful path. Apollo had been keeping such a close watch on what was happening that he knew things were getting bad enough to warrant his interference, with the hope of steering his former lover away from a dark fate.

*insert ‘I can fix him!’ meme here* ah, Apollo. If only you could RIP

Also wow, Commous wrestled Apollo— Apollo, who beat Ares in a wrestling match— to the ground? And would have broken his neck if he were mortal?

I’m guessing Apollo was holding back here, considering…well, considering the ending of this scene heh. But I doubt Apollo was a slouch even holding back, so Commodus is probably very good at hand-to-hand combat. Sheer brute force is exactly his style.

I approached cautiously, as if he were a wounded animal. “You won’t die from the poison. You’re much too strong for that.”  “Exactly!” He pulled himself up on the couch, his knuckles white with effort. “I’ll feel better tomorrow, as soon as I behead those traitors!”  “Perhaps it would be better to rest for a few days,” I suggested. “Take some time to recuperate and reflect.”  “REFLECT?” He winced from the pain. “I don’t need to reflect, Narcissus. I will kill them and hire new advisors. You, perhaps? You want the job?”

It’s really telling how much Commodus trusts Apollo— that is to say, Narcissus— here.

It’s also telling how Apollo— his lover— is using his father’s words to get him to stop.

Marcus Aurelius’s advice is coming out of Apollo’s mouth, but Commodus has no idea; he does not know it’s Apollo telling him this.

Not until it’s too late, that is. When it’s revealed once and for all that he has no intention of stopping.

But it does make you wonder what Commodus would have done if he had known it was Apollo. Would the combined might of his father’s advice and his lover be enough to prevent him from killing more innocent people?

Or would it have only made things worse?

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. While Commodus concentrated on his beloved games, he turned the powers of state over to prefects and cronies… all of whom tended to have a very short life expectancy. “I’m just a personal trainer,” I said. “Who cares? I will make you a nobleman! You will rule Commodiana!” I flinched at the name. Outside the palace, no one accepted the emperor’s rechristening of Rome. The citizens refused to call themselves Commodians. The legions were furious that they were now known as Commodianae. Commodus’s crazy proclamations had been the final straw for his long-suffering advisors.  “Please, Caesar,” I implored him. “A rest from the executions and the games. Time to heal. Time to consider the consequences.” He bared his teeth, his lips specked with blood. “Don’t you start too! You sound like my father. I’m done thinking about consequences!”

Apollo is once again putting on his Marcus Aurelius hat.

But once again…Commodus does not listen. He’s done listening to wise counsel. He’s done doing what other people have told him to do.

He’s emperor, after all.

Nobody can stop him. He’s blessed, after all. Who would even try?

My spirits collapsed. I knew what would happen in the coming days. Commodus would survive the poisoning. He would order a ruthless purge of his enemies. The city would be decorated with heads on pikes. Crucifixions would line the Via Appia. My priests would die. Half the senate would perish. Rome itself, the bastion of the Olympian gods, would be shaken to its core. And Commodus would still be assassinated…just a few weeks or months later, in some other fashion. I inclined my head in submission.  “Of course, Caesar. May I draw you a bath?”

Read no further if you wish for a happy ending 😢

Commodus grunted assent. “I should get out of these filthy clothes.”  As I often did for him after our workout sessions, I filled his great marble bath with steaming rose-scented water. I helped him out of his soiled tunic and eased him into the tub. For a moment, he relaxed and closed his eyes. I recalled how he looked sleeping beside me when we were teens. I remembered his easy laugh as we raced through the woods, and the way his face scrunched up adorably when I bounced grapes off his nose.

Their relationship was more carefree in nature. It was more teenager-esque, with Apollo even saying “when we were teens”, despite the fact he is merely a teen in body.

Even so…

I sponged away the spittle and blood from his beard. I gently washed his face. Then I closed my hands around his neck. “I’m sorry.”  I pushed his head underwater and began to squeeze. 

Apollo begins with gentleness. With cleaning him off. He doesn’t immediately kill him— perhaps to give both of them one last moment of peace.

But then that gentleness turns to murder.

Commodus was strong. Even in his weakened state, he thrashed and fought. I had to channel my godly might to keep him submerged, and in doing so, I must have revealed my true nature to him. He went still, his blue eyes wide with surprise and betrayal. He could not speak, but he mouthed the words: You. Blessed. Me.

Apollo is forced to reveal himself in all his glory— and in that moment, they are both aware of his betrayal. Commodus is floored by what he sees— by who he sees.

This isn’t merely his trainer who he has grown to trust.

This is his lover who he has loved for decades.

The lover who blessed and reassured him that everything would be fine.

But it’s not.

Apollo’s the one with the hands around his throat, and all Commodus can do is throw his promise back in his face: You. Blessed. Me.

*and this is the moment everyone knew: they started bawling*

Tissues, anyone?

The accusation forced a sob from my throat. The day his father died, I had promised Commodus: You will always have my blessings. Now I was ending his reign. I was interfering in mortal affairs—not just to save lives, or to save Rome, but because I could not stand to see my beautiful Commodus die by anyone else’s hands.

And even at the end, we can still see the toxicity that permeates their relationship.

Commodus took Apollo’s love and support for granted. He thought he could do anything he wished because he had the love and blessing of a god.

Apollo loved Commodus so much that he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else killing him. He could have kept his own hands clean of the kill, but he did not.

Because he wouldn’t be able to bear it to allow someone else to do the deed.

His last breath bubbled through the whiskers of his beard. I hunched over him, crying, my hands around his throat, until the bathwater cooled.

Even after Commodus is dead and gone, Apollo stays sitting there. Crying. He is utterly distraught by what he has done, and will continue to torment himself over it.

Perhaps even for eternity.

Britomartis was wrong. I didn’t fear water. I simply couldn’t look at the surface of any pool without imagining Commodus’s face, stung with betrayal, staring up at me.

That, my friends, is how you write an ending. That is how you write a tragic, doomed romance.

This is the deepest romance in all of Rick’s books. And we’ve only gotten through the flashback scenes.

We— and Rick— are merely getting warmed up.

[pancakefanfics]

CotL fanfic idea

Based off my spouse getting Narinder in their current game and him being a coward. Long outline.

Fic starts immediately after Narinder is defeated. Maybe in a dream-like space as he thinks about what has transpired, all the things he thought would come of the Prophecy finally being fulfilled, and how everything that was so close to his reach just slipped through his fingers

Thinking about the lamb, and what he knows of their journey. How powerful they’ve gotten. And how effortlessly they seemed to strike down not only him, but Aym and Baal too. Now he’s completely stripped of his powers, and at the mercy of his former disciple. And that thought is…terrifying.

Coward trait gained.

He comes out of this dream-like state being treated for wounds sustained during the fight and absolutely terrified of everything around him. The other followers, the Lamb. He’s weak and powerless now.

He inevitably starts hiding around the grounds. Other followers (especially the jerks and the hot-tempered ones) see him as an easy target, and he’s picked on a lot.

Lamb doesn’t notice at first. They’ve got their own shit to do, between babies being nurtured, quests, and sermons. But maybe a few days in they notice Narinder scurrying off after a sermon and decide to follow him. A little hidey-hole he made for himself in a bush, away from everyone.

And of course Narinder is scared shitless when he realizes the Lamb followed him. Tries to run away, but the Lamb catches him, confused. “I’m sorry please don’t hurt me I wasn’t doing anything in here just sitting please just let me go and I’ll go do something productive-“

And the Lamb is just so confused because Narinder was so strong and ruthless and now he’s practically crying because they found him hiding. “Narinder please calm down I’m not going to hurt you you’re safe here”

Lamb starting to reassure Narinder every day, and does not treat followers that try to abuse him kindly. “You are all my children and you shouldn’t be so mean to one another. I want you to love each other and to make those new to our little community feel at home.” They say as a tentacle wraps tighter around one of the offender’s throats.

Everyone starts acting kinder. Narinder feeling more and more accepted by the community around him. Forming somewhat of a friendship with the Lamb as he regains his old personality.

But also Narinder being confused as fuck about some of the shit in the community. Because I’m definitely just keeping some game mechanics in just because.

“Lamb why do you have an egg.” “Oh Gerbre and Thorjul just made it!” “…that is a cow and a dog. Neither of those animals lay eggs or should be able to breed with one another.” “Oh really? Huh. Didn’t know that.” “This isn’t how biology works how tf-“ “its because I wanted them to have a baby to make the cult grow! It was my divine grace that blessed their mating to create a beautiful egg.” Narinder stops questioning, just avoids going to the mating tent. Partially because he’s just not interested in anyone there.

Followers proposing to the Lamb and them declining. The more they spend time with Narinder the more they find themselves falling for him, especially as he gets more of his personality back. Is pretty sure they’ll have more luck winning him over if they’re not married to another follower.

So slow burn, enemies to lovers, maybe a little cracky with some OOC things. And of course it’s NariLamb. No thoughts for how they’d get together or anything. Probably be fluffy, no fight scenes really. I just think they’re cute.

[charleneferlay]

Alekos of nowhere, prince of nothing

“How do I look?” Kleitos smiles, teeth white in the midst of his black beard. “Fantastic,” he answers. “And to my brother,” I ask, “how will I look?” “Not fantastic, I guess,” my almost-uncle jokes. “You look like war.”

This short fic was initially posted on AO3! I have a lot of thoughts about the relationship between Arrhidaios and other members of his family, which usually don't fit into my main novel.

Under the cut: Alexandros and Arrhidaios after the battle of the Granicus.

Note: The scene takes place soon after Alexander crossed to Asia, right after the battle of the Granicus. While we don't get to see the battle in this fic, I picture it like Steven Pressfield did in his book The Virtues of War, in which every Persian that matters tried to have a go at killing Alexander.

***

The field parts for my horse. Boukephalas, my black monster, wide chested, covered in blood, sweat and dust.

A field of soldiers. Men packed as close as barley before the reaping. My men, cheering, their hands reaching out to touch my blood-soaked clothes and my armor. One shoulder piece is hanging at an odd angle, half cut from the rest by a sword slash to the chest; the crest, on my helmet, has been shaved by another. Their fingers brush against my thigh, soiled red by my own blood.

Red, red, red everywhere, and their voices deafen me.

I let Boukephalas carry me. He doesn’t prance, my brave companion; he’s too spent for that after the battle we had, and cut from half a dozen light cuts.

Victory.

My first battle against the Persians. Mine, no one will deny it. I listened to my officers and they fought well, but it’s my body throbbing from the hit of a mace, my blood that has dried in dark rivulets along my spear arm. I am the king, I made no secret of it – to me they rode, the magnificent lords of Persia, dozens of them rushing at me. Kill the king and the battle is done. Duel after duel I fought, friends falling all around me, friends saving me at every heartbeat.

Kill the king.

Praise the king.

And I think: father, are you proud? I am one step further to avenge you, one step further toward the throne room, that throne room of the King of kings where one can fit the whole palace of Pella.

Dark clouds above. I raise my eyes to the skies. I dream of rain, to clean the blood sticking to my face. Father, I think again, though this time it is not my mortal father I think of. Are you pleased? Am I worthy at least of the divine blood rushing in my veins?

 I am lightheaded, riding through a sea of hands and faces alight with savage happiness.

***

I reach the center of my camp.

I am a sack, a heavy sack full of blood and bones and flesh. I am so tired it takes Hephaistion and Kleitos both to help me slide down Boukephalas. My legs don’t carry me; what mad energy spurred me forward, forward, forward has deserted me. Have I lost too much blood? Ares clothed me in bloody purple. How much of it is mine?

I walk into my tent, weighting on my most trusted companion and the man I love like an uncle. There I crash in a chair and then fumble with the strap of my helmet. Fingers (not mine) untie all one can untie to get me out of my armor. Servants flock, like gulls on the corpses of dead fishes.

“How do I look?”

Kleitos smiles, teeth white in the midst of his black beard.

“Fantastic,” he answers.

“And to my brother,” I ask, “how will I look?”

“Not fantastic, I guess,” my almost-uncle jokes. “You look like war.”

Yes.

That is because, I am war. I am born for it, am I not, Father Zeus? You could have chosen a philosopher or an artist, but no: you made me as the son of Philippos. Tell me, do you like your new sword, now that you have abandoned your last one, broken and dead and betrayed at the very door of Asia?

I smile, and I feel empty.

I let the servants clean my skin. I am war, but there are places I will not go bearing the face of Ares. It is enough that the cuts remain on my spear arm, on my thighs, enough that my skin is turning into thunderous shades of purple.

“Enough,” I order.

I won’t get more presentable than this. Someone presents me with a cup full of kykeon – thick wine mixed with barley, honey and spices. I swallow the mixture with a grimace. I need the energy; the black juice of the grapes is so strong, despite everything else, that warmth shoots straight to my head.

I push the cup away.

“Tell my brother he may see me now.”

***

I am half naked when Arrhidaios is led into my tent, my physician checking my wounds. I wish I could hide the battlefield of my body from my brother – but that would be denying his bravery, and I will not take it away from him.

Arrhidaios doesn’t hide. He doesn’t know how, and this is why my father protected him with secrecy – why he made me swear, long before his death, that I would always stand between my brother and the world.

Arrhidaios doesn’t hide. Horror and fear and sadness shape his plump face. The face of Philippos of Makedon, rounder because of the layer of fat, and with eyes like windows baring his soul. It is always strange to see my father’s face with such innocence and openness. To see this face shocked by violence, shocked by my wounds.

But then, I remember, a long time ago, Arrhidaios begging our father to stay home. I don’t like it when you go to war, Pappas, please, war is dangerous, why do you keep going to war?

“I am well,” I greet him, to keep the tears out of his eyes. “Arrhi, dear, I am well.”

His huge steps swallow the space between us. Arrhidaios is the biggest man in our family. Tall, wide, he can make me disappear in the circle of his arms. Everything about him is soft. His belly, his chest, his arms. He is no warrior, travelling with my baggage train like a woman; I don’t care. I won’t tell anyone, and I can’t let him hug me like that too often, but I like that feeling of warmth.

In my world, everything is always sharp and tough, even Hephaistion; everything except my half-brother.

“You are bleeding,” he whimpers against my hair, sticky with sweat after hours under the helmet.

I nod and fall back into my chair. “Yes, but the physician says it’s nothing dire. Would you mind…”

“Yes, yes of course, Alekos.”

I smile a tired smile. People say Arrhidaios is dumb. Half-witted fool, they snicker behind my back. They should see him now. My brother is not bright, this is true. His mind is not a burning flame jumping from one thing to the other, like mine was when I was a child. It is more like an ox.

Moving slowly, but moving somewhere.

I wait as Arrhidaios prepares his tools. He absently hums a wordless song, an Illyrian song no one in the family knows the lyrics of. My grandmother sang it, a long time ago, to children who didn’t speak her language.

My brother is a healer. Not a very good one, granted. He has a good memory but slow hands. When he doesn’t hum, he repeats under his breath all the instructions he learnt by heart, from the books I sent him from Mieza, and then from the teachers my father paid for him when Arrhidaios asked for them. Whatever he wanted, my father always paid for – painting and sculpting lessons, toys, singing birds and a loom, music instruments and pet rabbits.

Today, none of my wounds require much competence. I lay back in my chair as Arrhidaios takes his time sewing one cut shut, applies salves and wraps bandages around me. He is slow, yes, but one would be hard pressed to find a kinder hand.

You look like war, Kleitos said.

Yes. I am war, and to most people, that is all I will ever be.

But to Arrhidaios?

“I don’t like when you fight,” he says, quiet and sad, taking my scared hand in his, soft, so soft. “I don’t like it when so many people want to harm you.”

He doesn’t ask me not to go. He asked Philippos so many times, and our father never listened; but then, why should I? The men of our family rarely die on the battlefield. It’s assassination I must fear, not fellow warriors rushing at me with their eyes full of Ares.

“I know. But don’t worry, we have them running. No one is going to try for a while now. We’ll be going down the coast to our fellow Hellenes cities. We’ll go to the theater together, would you like that?”

“Only if it’s a comedy,” Arrhidaios answers. “I don’t like to see you cry.”

I chuckle. “The tears the tragedies get from us are good tears.”

“Still tears,” he mumbles. “I want you to laugh, Alekos.”

“You are kind, but I do laugh, dear.”

“No,” he rebukes me. “Your eyes are always sad. It’s not a real laugh if your eyes remain sad.” He squeezes my hand. “Comedies. I want them funny and I want you to be happy.”

“Fine. Comedies, then. Comedies in every city we’ll visit, just for my dearest brother, and songs and jugglers. Hymns to happiness and spring and love.”

“Thank you,” he says, and then he rewards me with a very inappropriate bear hug. “I love you Alekos.”

And I love you too, dear. Because of all the men that follow me now, he is the only one who wants nothing from me. No glory, no loot, no power, no women, no honors.

Just I, Alekos of nowhere, prince of nothing.

[darkwingphoenix]

@loominggaia Memes! Hot and Fresh!

Amber and Kitsu at the store, buying their female relatives pads:

(Wait, do sirene have periods? I assume gorgons and cecaelia don't, but what about sirene or other species?)

Everyone when me, @loominggaia or @niittinaatti post memes, lore, fanfics, or animations:

Demons when they need money for an apartment and also food

Skylie in a random village in Evangeline

Columbina and Sandrone in a nutshell (Sandrone's a yandere dedicated to Capitano and will harm/kill ladies who try to get with him, Columbina's just fucking insane sometimes)

Skylie to her parents

Me to everyone who passes by my AU:

Skylie and Janella Vokz on Vibing With Vokz, just vibing (Janella is having Skylie do the wrong answers)

Skylie's gnomish spec ops arriving to Marduk Hill, transmuting the Modernist Army into animals before controlling them to just dance, led by Gnome King Mimsical The Whimsical:

Champion to Skylie

Qara to Saraia, then Skylie shutting down and destroying the Zareenite flying fortress

Industrialists Be Like:

Skylie once she gets really good at her complex-as-shit summon-beasties-use-tendrils-swordsmanship martial style

Skylie packing her mega-storage shoulder bag (She puts in her entire cosplay repertoire, with like 30 different basic outfits to embellish for cosplay, like 300 fully functional weapons, including like 69 guns, hundreds of unique swords she commissioned by that dworfen divine of smiths after she proved she'd only use her weapons for cosplay and self-defense, hundreds of hats and shoes, enough food to feed her and Rook for 10 months, her personal copy of her Genshin Impact novel series, like 20 Visions to hand out to unsuspecting fools, 20 crates of condoms big enough to fit a family of dworfs inside, 20 hilichurls, 10 koholasaurs and a vishap, a rig of tepetlisaurs, a gang of yumkasaurs, 5 golden rings, a stable of horses, 20 months of birth control, a tent, and a partridge in a pear tree)

Skylie and Oberon fighting over Skylie's phone (Those things are manufactured to be able to break a concrete floor if they get dropped and survive a nuclear explosion)

Saraia, Skylie and Darshaan making monsters (Darshaan and Mankind's Disgrace are the same dumbass for this evaluation)

Skylie accidentally making a song when a Zareenite venue forced her to go out way too early for her concerts (She was spending too long on her cosplay, which the venue thought was stupid)(She's having a LOT of anxiety the entire time)

Roshava, more often than most

A Zareenite manager's expectations of their employees

Everyone when Sai and Justinia are in the Evangeline Palace:

Skylie, Cyana, Angeline, Amber, Maui, Citrine and Rook at the Evangeline Palace for dinner (Cobalt invited them)(Amber was made to work in the kitchens by accident)(Cyana bluffed)

The Reformists and Knights of Favonius in Evangeline before Cobalt sided with them (Someone asked is Sai had dat ass)

Skylie and Darshaan sharing one brain cell

Amber as an infant eating fudge rounds

Random divines meeting Skylie at the DivineCon Skylie made

Skylie for no reason

Sai seducing Cobalt in their bedroom

Skylie meeting (And adopting) a 2 year old human girl who turns out to be a divine locked at 2 years old (First scene and the food scene are within a few hours of each other, the dancing scene is 30 years later, the fire is a century after, and the last 2 scenes are after 1,000 years, and she's still a toddler)(Her name is Mualani)

Skylie's adopted divine kids, the House of the Hearth, often

[oomfvia]

⛧i'll fight for your life chapter 2: shelter

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral half-elf paladin tav/reader (second person)

spoilers for patch 5 epilogue

sfw, friends to lovers :)

1,823 words (3 chapters, 6,097 total words)

you can also read this work on ao3

likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!

❥ chapter 1 ❥ chapter 3

Being the saviour of Baldur’s Gate felt less like glory, and more like the gruelling work you were used to from before the Absolutist crisis. Unlike your other friends, this city was all you had. Whether it was out of a sense of duty or simply the lack of other options, you took on the responsibility of helping to rebuild the city with a smile.

That morning, you checked the mailbox like any other. Returning to your study, you sighed as you set another hefty stack of letters onto your desk. While there were sometimes a select few mistakenly sent to the address’ late owner, most were for you. Before you knew it, the role of a gallant Baldurian hero was reduced to a glorified worker bee. Between hunting down remnants of the Absolutist cult and cleaning up after Archduke Gortash’s old propaganda launches, it left you with barely any time to search for Astarion.

As you sift through envelopes, the letter from Withers comes to you like a breath of fresh air. It only seems fitting for a paladin to be aided through divine intervention during such trying times. You shove all of the other letters from imperial houses and Flaming Fist leaders into a drawer, and focus on what to wear for the reunion at High Hall.

He would be there, after all.

At the reunion, you’re reminded of how odd it is that people can feel nostalgic over things from recent memory, you included. Your past companions all arrive at the venue one by one, bringing a smile to your face with every addition to the scene. With each new visitor, came new stories to be shared. You much prefer listening to your friends’ anecdotes, compared to how you feel the need to break out into a sheepish smile whenever they ask of your circumstances.

In a deep crevice of your heart, you can’t help but feel jealous, almost. While Lae’zel was forming alliances between races in distant lands, you were being run ragged by the patriars. While Gale was pursuing a new path in education, you were being met with complaints from supporters of the late Archduke Gortash.

“Just…Helping to get the city back to normal, I suppose.”

Their smiles are polite. Approving, even. It’s honest work, if anything. But compared to what they have to show for it, what you’ve done suddenly seems like an awfully dull six months. More importantly, you’re distracted.

Your eyes wander past tables, tents, and barrels. To your dismay, there’s no vampiric elf in sight. For some inexplicable reason, you feel the bitter taste of guilt on your tongue. You’re surrounded by friends you’ve missed dearly, all of whom you’ve endured hardships of gargantuan proportions with. And yet, just from the absence of one, you feel a crushing sense of loneliness.

Your eyes linger towards the table, featuring an appetising spread of dishes laid out lavishly. Then, to the multiple bottles of wine originating from different regions. In all of your days of juggling various tasks, when was the last time you had a drink?

Far too long ago, it seems. In the matter of a few glasses, you were now absolutely sloshed.

Who cares if Astarion doesn’t show up? He doesn’t owe us his presence. I can have plenty of fun without him. Or so you tell yourself. If even Withers couldn’t conjure Astarion up out of thin air, you were starting to lose hope in your search. But you refuse to let it ruin your evening among equally dear friends.

After a few more drinks, you tumble towards the riverside a moderate distance away from the event. It’s so unbearably warm, your whole body feels like it’s just another sip from burning up into flames. As you dip your toes into the waters, you notice how it reflects your face under the pale moonlight. Your eyes are half-lidded, and your hair was somehow tangled into a dishevelled nest. You squat, peering deeper into the water as you comb through strands of hair that refuse to stay in place, muttering under your breath.

“Darling, I haven’t seen your skin this flushed since that time at The Waning Moon.”

You hear a dulcet voice, distinctly louder than the distant sounds from the campsite. Your body stills, your fingers still lodged between your split ends. If you could hear the voice from this near, the owner should be reflected in the water. And yet, you’re only greeted by your own befuddled expression.

You turn your head slowly towards the direction of the voice, your eyes trembling. Then, you are met with the same face you have been instinctively searching for in every crowd for the past six months.

“...Astarion?”

More specifically, Astarion with blood stains all over his blouse. He raises his hands with an added flourish, with the same sense of showmanship unbefitting of his appearance.

“Apologies for the lateness. The life of an adventurer can get rather messy.”

“An…An adventurer?”

The vampire laughs, as if he was already expecting you to react with surprise. Of course you would. You were the one known for being righteous to the point of foolishness, and he was known for practically the opposite.

“It turns out that no one actually cares about murder, as long as you murder the right people. And apparently I’m rather good at it.”

For someone who has left you in such grief for the past six months, Astarion is far too casual about his whereabouts for your liking. You furrow your brows as you frown at Astarion, thoroughly unamused.

“I was looking for you,” you utter quietly. Disproportionately quiet, compared to the rising heat in your chest. You couldn’t quite place a finger on whether it was due to the alcohol settling in your system, or petty annoyance at how nonchalant he was being in contrast to your previous helplessness. Considering how you felt like a fool, you decide that it’s the latter.

“Really?” Astarion asks, his voice softening as well. Instead of with words, you simply respond by scrunching up your nose.

“I…I’m sorry. I felt ashamed.”

Your expression softens slightly at Astarion’s apology. He continues, a wry smile on his face, faint lines emerging against his skin.

“I felt like I’d lost everything, just as you claimed your victory. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

And just like that, your anger extinguishes as easily as it was ignited. During your journey, you were so caught up in your own insecurities. Wallowing in your own self-pity, it had never crossed your mind that Astarion could have had his own. In hindsight, it was such a simple thread of logic to follow, and yet it felt like a grand revelation. All you can do is stare at Astarion blankly, your eyes as wide as an owlbear's.

“...Hold that thought. Would you like a drink?”

Compared to yours, Astarion’s goblet remains practically untouched as you sit by the water. You inhale deeply, your cheeks flushed in a warm pink. As he speaks, you blink rapidly, trying your utmost to absorb every single word he says. You make a valiant effort to maintain your focus, even if it feels as if your head is partly submerged in water.

“Time lent perspective. It wasn’t your victory, it was ours. And for all I’d lost, I had gained so much more.”

Astarion’s words sound strangely muffled, and his mannerisms vague through your hazy eyes. It all melts into a wonderful blur. You give him a lazy nod, along with a hum of acknowledgment.

“Are you alright, my dear? I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink for the night.”

You frown, taking a deep breath before responding. Even if only marginally, you feel your focus readjust for a second. “I’m fine, just…go on.”

Unfortunately, your concentration breaks immediately after, and you return to staring quietly at the indistinct shape of Astarion shrugging.

“I had freedom, strength — a whole new life. And it was time to live it.”

The corners of your lips curl into a smile at Astarion’s last words. You never expected any sort of return for that time in Cazador’s palace when you had dissuaded him from completing the Rite of Profane Ascension. And yet, you can’t help but feel a great satisfaction swelling up in your chest. In that moment, you had made an irreversible change to Astarion’s life. A change for the better.

“From the moment I first threatened you, I knew you were someone special. Someone to take on the world with.”

Astarion smiles in a way that’s unusually sentimental for him. That, along with the alcohol warming your body, makes you feel a strange stir at the pit of your stomach. Silently, you put down your goblet with a soft thud.

“I will miss our time together. But then again, maybe this isn’t goodbye so much as it’s…’See you later, darling’.”

Despite the objective beauty of Astarion’s words, you can’t help but disagree vehemently. If that wasn’t a goodbye, what is? You remember the frustration of the day you had watched Astarion burn, jagged edges along the fragments of his skin. The desperation as you ran after him, sprinting past debris and rubble.

You look into Astarion’s eyes, swallowing thickly as you prepare to make yet another irreversible decision. One that doesn’t seem quite as wise as the one you had made during the Black Mass.

“...That new life you were talking about.”

“Hm?” Astarion hums, his eyebrows raising in curiosity.

“Is there any place in that life for me?”

“I must be so heavy. Please, let me down. I’m fine,” you insist, trying very hard to not sway in Astarion’s hold. Your hands clutch onto his shoulders for dear life, your knees shaking against either side of his waist.

Astarion scoffs at your words, seemingly offended at how you’ve just underestimated his strength. “I’m not being careful because you’re heavy. I’m being careful to make sure you don’t vomit into my hair.”

The vampire’s answer shuts you up, and you simply let your body meld against his back. It feels just a touch broader than you had expected it to be, which does strange things to your pulse. Silently, you pray to every possible deity in the hopes that he won’t notice your disproportionately loud heartbeat.

With a soft groan, Astarion lifts your body up and starts to walk. His footsteps are even and slow, in a painfully tender act of care.

“Hold on tight now, we’re heading home.”

Home.

The word echoes in your head. Clearly, Astarion wasn’t talking about that decrepit house that you had haphazardly moved into after the battle with the Netherbrain. And he was most definitely not talking about Cazador’s palace. So where was "home"?

You don’t know exactly where you're headed, but you know that it is by Astarion’s side. That, in itself, already feels like home.

[wingedblooms]

Herbs she planted

This is a Maasverse post, and as such, there are spoilers for all Maas series. Proceed with caution.

“The point is that this is all gardening. The garden runs through our lives like a river through a field, like air in our lungs. The garden does not end in space any more than it does in time. The flowers grow as much in our minds as in the soil. There are very few nights when I do not lie in the dark, everyone else sleeping inside this dark, creaking, bony house, and go through the garden, seeing it with the clarity of a dreamer, taking it to pieces and putting it together again, mending everything in my head.” (Montagu Don, My Roots: A Decade in the Garden) 

Like the threads of an intricate tapestry, Elain weaves a variety of plants together in her gardens. She creates living art, even at the worst of times:

I dragged a hand over my face before going to Elain and touching her too-bony shoulder. “Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.” (acowar)

Feyre casually mentions that Elain is planting herbs in the town house garden after she drops some unsettling information on Cassian (which, as an aside, is one of my favorite scenes; I love it when Elain, the gentle gardener, unnerves 500-year-old fae). @offtorivendell posted a headcanon that Elain has a garden full of useful plants, which makes sense for a practical forest witch, and this quote suggests she is on the right track. We don’t hear about her herbs specifically again, but we do see glimpses of her work on the town house garden where she started planting them: 

…peering out the kitchen window at the garden beyond…Elain had already readied the garden for winter, veiling the more delicate bushes and beds with burlap. (acofas) 

-

Azriel and Elain remained in the sitting room, my sister showing him the plans she’d sketched to expand the garden in the back of the town house, using the seeds and tools my family had given her tonight. (acofas) 

Herbs are used by witches and healers in the Maasverse for a variety of purposes, such as flavoring cuisine, enhancing divination, and healing the body. All things many of us naturally associate with Elain.

Cuisine

Manon gives us a glimpse of Crochan witches going about their domestic tasks, including cooking with dried herbs at their cauldrons:

At least two dozen other witches tended to the several fire pits scattered amongst the white tents, all of them halting their various work as Manon passed. She’d never seen Crochans going about their domestic tasks, but here they were: some tending to fires, some hauling buckets of water, some monitoring heavy cauldrons of what smelled like mountain-goat stew seasoned with dried herbs. (koa)

This image makes me think of other witches (and suspected witches) who have engaged in similar domestic tasks, such as Hypaxia offering tea to Ruhn in the medwitch clinic, or Elain carrying herbed potatoes that she helped the twins prepare near the winter solstice. In our world, traditional witchcraft is founded on a deep bond with the land; many of the holidays on the Wheel of the Year align with the agricultural year. It is no surprise then that witches in the Maasverse are also deeply connected to the bounty of the land. And even though it does not involve witches exclusively, the Great Rite in Prythian honors this bond and is performed to ensure balance between the the land and those who benefit from it. It’s very witchy.

This also helps put into perspective the gravity of Queen Rhiannon's curse on the land:

But the last Crochan queen had cast a spell to ensure that as long as Ironteeth banners flew, no bit of soil would yield life to them. (com) “Rhiannon swore on her last breath that we would win the war, but not the land. That for what we had done, we would inherit the land only to see it wilt and die in our hands. Our beasts would shrivel and keel over dead; our witchlings would be stillborn, poisoned by the streams and rivers. Fish would rot in lakes before we could catch them. Rabbits and deer would flee across the mountains. And the once-verdant Witch Kingdom would become a wasteland. […] Every few decades, they would send groups to try to work the land, to see if the curse still held. Those groups never returned. We have been wanderers for five hundred years—the wound made worse by the fact that humans eventually took it for themselves. And the land responded to them.” (eos)

Manon’s half-sister, who is named for the last Crochan queen, has earthy eyes that are described exactly like Thesan’s, which are rich and warm like Elain’s (who I have long associated with healing light and Dawn).

The Crochan witch, her eyes the solid color of freshly tilled earth, looked up at Manon. How those eyes were so bright despite the horrors written on her body, how she didn’t collapse right there or start begging, Manon didn’t know. (hof)

Every Crochan witch also has an hearth that travels with them, and they can use it to communicate when they are scattered across the world:

Glennis jerked her chin toward the tent flaps, to the fire pit beyond. “Every Crochan family has a hearth that moves with them to each camp or home we make; the fires never extinguish. The flame in my hearth dates back to the Crochan city itself, when Brannon Galathynius gave Rhiannon a spark of eternally burning fire. My mother carried it with her in a glass globe, hidden in her cloak, when she smuggled out your ancestor, and it has continued to burn at every royal Crochan hearth since then.” 

“What about when magic disappeared for ten years?” 

“Our seers had a vision that it would vanish, and the flame would die. So we ignited several ordinary fires from that magic flame, and kept them burning. When magic disappeared, the flame indeed winked out. And when magic returned this spring, the flame again kindled, right in the hearth where we had last seen it.” Her great-grandmother turned toward her. “When a Crochan Queen summons her people to war, a flame is taken from the royal hearth, and passed to each hearth, one camp and village to the other. The arrival of the flame is a summons that only a true Crochan Queen may make.” (koa)

The Crochans carry hearths—the heart of family and domestic life—with them as they travel, which reminded me of Elain’s rose:

It was a fire. Not her father’s neck. Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d place on the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer. 

Another log cracked, and Nesta flinched. But she remained sitting there. Staring at that carved rose. (acosf)

Nesta found Elain’s dark rose on the mantel in their old cottage, and then felt the need to place it on a mantel in the House of Wind, just above the hearth and next to a figurine of a primal goddess, likely the Mother. It moves from mantel to mantel and hearth to hearth until she places it on her father’s gravestone in the final scene of her book. This rose may be yet another hint of Elain's connection to witches, divinity, and roses, as well as the gift of healing, which I’ll get to later. Roses are associated with love and death (among many other things), and have a rich history in folklore; they are a common ingredient used in herbal magic. I could see Elain possessing her own portable hearth to accompany dried herbs from her town house garden as she sets out on various adventures. That way, no matter how far she travels, she'll always have her home with her like a lovely Crochan witch.

Divination

Some herbs are used to amplify divination or dream magic. As @offtorivendell mentioned in her post on Elain’s Sight, seers in Erilea use bloodbane (which, as a drug, may contain herbs) to see spirits from other realms, and mystics use bloodsalt to focus their search across worlds. In Midgard, the Oracle's Temple is full of incense and the sphinx breathes in the fumes that are smoldering in her chamber.

...the domed onyx building of the Oracle's Temple veiled in the mists that had rolled in over the river.

Even at midday, the Oracle's Park was near-empty, save for the hunched, slumbering forms of the desperate Vanir and humans who wandered the paths and gardens, waiting for their turn to enter the incense-filled hallways. (hoeab)

-

She blinked, wings rustling as if in surprise, but settled herself. Breathed in the fumes rising from the hole. Minutes passed, and Hunt’s head began to throb with the various scents—especially the reeking sulfur. 

Smoke swirled, masking the sphinx from sight even though she sat only ten feet away. [...] A rasping voice slithered out of the smoke. “To open the doorway between worlds.” A chill seized Hunt. (hoeab)

@offtorivendell theorized that, like others gifted with Sight, Elain could use substances to amplify her powers if needed. It's possible she might be able to use herbs from her garden to pierce the veil and see clearly. She even smells like jasmine, a plant that—among many other things—induces prophetic dreams.

Healing

What can cure can also kill. (Rebecca Beyer, Wild Witchcraft)

In Midgard, we're told witches are seers, warriors, potion-makers, and healers. Healers, also known as medwitches, are the most visible and they have their own herb gardens. Their healing magic is even more powerful than the fae.

They were a strange, unique group, the witches. Though they looked like humans, their considerable magic and long lives marked them as Vanir, their power mostly passed through the female line. All of them deemed civitas. The power was inherited, from some ancient source that the witches claimed was a three-faced goddess, but witches did pop up in non-magical families every now and then. Their gifts were varied, from seers to warriors to potion-makers, but healers were the most visible in Crescent City. Their schooling was thorough and long enough that the young witch before him was unusual. She had to be skilled to be already working in a clinic when she couldn’t have been a day over thirty.

[…]

She gestured to the hall behind her, where sunlight leaked in through a glass door at its other end. “We have a courtyard garden. The day is fine enough that you could wait out there.”

[…]

Ruhn followed her down the hall, trying not to breathe in her eucalyptus-and-lavender scent too deeply. 

Don’t be a fucking creep. 

The sunlight tangled in her thick night-dark hair as she reached the courtyard door and shouldered it open, revealing a slate-covered patio surrounded by terraced herb gardens. The day was indeed lovely, the river breeze making the plants rustle and sway, spreading their soothing fragrances. (hoeab)

We now know this graceful healer is the Witch Queen, Hypaxia. Elain seems to share parallels with Hypaxia and her half-sister, the Hind (and her story about the forest witch). Hypaxia smells like plants that are used for healing and shows Ruhn out to their courtyard herb garden. Like the witches, Elain is gifted magic from an ancient source (the Cauldron, which is also part of a magical trio: Mother, Cauldron, Fate) and plants her own herbs in a courtyard garden. She smells of jasmine and honey, which have medicinal properties: one is used to improve sleep and the other is used to treat burns. 

The wise and peaceful medwitches in Midgard remind me of Crochan witches in Erilea, who were scattered to the winds and used healing to hide their heritage:

They were still out there, the self-righteous, insufferable Crochans, hiding as healers and wise-women. (hof)

We also witness extensive healing magic from humans blessed by Silba in Antica, and as I mentioned in forbidden secrets, they seem to share some pointed parallels with Elain as well.

It was broad, more of a keep than anything, but still rounded. Buildings flanked its sides, connected on lower levels. All enclosed by towering white walls, the iron gates—fashioned to look like an owl spreading its wings—thrown wide to reveal lavender bushes and flower beds lining the sand-colored gravel walkways. Not flower beds. Herb beds. (tod)

We learn that Maeve surrounded herself with healers because of the threat they pose to the Valg, and in the scene below, a Valg princess calls the healers Maeve's secret army:

“Why do you think Maeve has hoarded her healers, never allowing them to leave her patrolled borders? She knew we would return. She wanted to be ready—to protect herself. Her prized favorites, those Doranelle healers. Her secret army.” Duva hummed, motioning with the dagger to the necropolis. “How clever those Fae were, who escaped her clutches after the last war. They ran all the way here—the healers who knew their queen would keep them penned up like animals. And then they bred the magic into the land, into its people. Encouraged the right powers to rise up, to ensure this land would always be strong, defended. And then they vanished, taking their treasures and histories beneath the earth. Ensuring they were forgotten below, while their little garden was planted above.” (tod)

The fae healers bred magic into the land, into its people…then they vanished beneath the earth…forgotten…while their little garden was planted above. THEIR LITTLE GARDEN?! I've wondered elsewhere if Elain might heal the land, but what if, like Doranelle healers, Elain is weaving magic into the ground because of something she has Seen? What if she is endlessly toiling in her little gardens not just to restore life, but to cultivate the right magic to rise up and bloom, in defense of her family and the realm?

@offtorivendell has theorized that Elain might weaponize plants, like Ents, which would be so much fun to read. I would love to see her use (or sing to) living things around her, as @silverlinedeyes theorized, to uncover secrets and protect others (like a forest witch would). There are so many possibilities for how gardening will come into play in her story. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see her little gardens become secret weapons that are critical for the future. At the very least, we know that it has a symbolic purpose, as the quote I started this post with suggests: it is the lens through which we see Elain's evolution and role. Feyre starts the series believing this about her sister:

It wasn’t meanness that kept her from offering to help; it simply never occurred to her that she might be capable of getting her hands dirty. (acotar)

Then she sees her sister come alive in her garden, where she is able to exert control and create beautiful art with blooms. Her joy is infectious.

The little garden beneath the window was hers: every bloom and shrub had been picked and planted by her hand; she would allow no one else to care for it. Even the weeding and watering she did on her own. (acotar)

And we also see the moment when Feyre’s perspective shifts, and she begins to wonder if Elain prefers to get her hands dirty; if it's proof of her work.  

“Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment. And I wondered if she preferred to have torn and sweaty hands, if the dirt and cuts were proof of her labor. Her joy. (acofas)

We’re then reminded of this evolution in the Feysand bonus chapter:

I glowered at Rhys. “You think Elain’s boring?” 

“I think she’s kind, and I’ll take kindness over nastiness any day. But I also think we haven’t yet seen all she has to offer.” A corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Don’t forget that gardening often results in something pretty, but it involves getting one’s hands dirty along the way.” 

“And torn up by thorns,” I mused, recalling a morning this past summer when Elain had come into the house, her right palm bleeding from several gashes thanks to a stubborn rosebush that had pierced her gloves. The thorns had broken off in her skin, leaving sharp splinters that I’d had to pull free. (feysand bonus)

It’s interesting that Feysand discuss Elain’s hands in their bonus chapter: gardeners often get their hands dirty for a pretty result (living art). And then, in Azriel's bonus, he thinks about how Elain couldn't possibly know how his hands have been sullied far beyond their scars (by his deadly art). Sully is a synonym for soil, which means to make dirty. Soil is often used to describe the upper layer of the earth where plants grow, bringing us full circle.

Sarah could run with this hand imagery in a few different ways, but it reminds me of someone else in another world who also bloodies their hand on a rosebush…

Dorian held up his bloodied hand. “Thornbush.” Rosebush made his cuts seem that much more pathetic.

“The hand is—very complex,” she murmured at last, studying the cuts. “I just wanted to make sure that nothing was damaged and that there weren’t any thorns lodged in there.” She swiftly added, “Your Highness.” (com)

Why do I keep coming back to Dorian? Although he is heavily involved with the witches in tog, he is not a witch. So what is he doing here? It will lead back to healers and witches so stay with me. Dorian evolves over the series and becomes a force to be reckoned with; his raw magic allows him to learn other types of magic, including how to shift and wield magical hands.

His hands trembled—and not just with fear. No, there was some force still running through him, begging him to unleash it again, to open himself up … Dorian crammed the last book back onto the shelf and took off at a run. He could tell no one. Trust no one. (com)

-

Chaol stared at Dorian in mute horror as his friend’s eyes glowed a deep, raging blue, and the prince snarled at the king, “Don’t you touch him.” The ice spread across the room, up the legs of the shocked guards, freezing over Sorscha’s blood, and Dorian got to his feet. He raised both hands, and light shimmered along his fingers, a cold breeze whipping through his hair. (com)

Anyone else think Dorian’s snarl sounds a lot like Elain’s snarled don’t touch my sister? Yeah, me too. In Seed of power, I wondered if Elain possessed raw magic like Dorian, and before I’m accused of giving her excessive powers, I think this might be the case for all three witchy sisters. They are blessed by fate and gifted with powers to match Rhysand whose power is described as raw. When Rhysand uses Feyre as a conduit in acowar, her magic comes out as raw, brutal power to weld the Cauldron back together. It reminds me of this:

"Once, the High Fae were more elemental, more given to reading the stars and crafting masterpieces of art and jewelry and weaponry. Their gifts were rawer, more connected to nature, and they could imbue objects with that power." (acosf)

Feyre welded the Cauldron and Nesta hammered swords, creating her own trove of nightmares. Elain will likely craft something with her magic as well, and it may be the other side of the coin to Nesta's nightmares: a trove of dreams. It could be witch mirrors hidden in ordinary jewelry, or even herbs with the power to heal and kill, if she can weaponize plants.

Now back to Dorian and the reason I mentioned him in the first place. He uses phantom hands, as @ladynightcourt3 has pointed out before:

Then those claws were pinned in the wood beneath phantom hands as Dorian sauntered over, face so unyieldingly unmoved. The Bloodhound thrashed, those claws trying to wrench free— The creature screamed as those invisible hands crunched down on bone. Then through it. […] It was not flame or wind that snapped the Bloodhound’s neck. But invisible hands. (eos) 

Interesting. This reminds me of another phantom hand, albeit a bit gentler:

And as it faded, dark ink splashed upon Nesta’s back, visible through her half-shredded shirt, as if it were a wave crashing upon the shore. A bargain. With the Cauldron itself. Yet Cassian could have sworn a luminescent, gentle hand prevented the light from leaving her body altogether. (acosf) 

This gentle, glowing hand intervenes on Nesta’s behalf, and it seems to be connected to the wise, soft voice.

A soft, familiar voice whispered the words. As they had been whispered to her long ago. As it had warned her in Oorid’s darkness. A lovely, kind female voice, sage and warm, which had been waiting for her all this time. (acosf)

This gentle hand and voice also seem like the Other Yrene bargains with in an important healing. The Other is most likely Silba, the goddess of healers and bringer of peace and gentle deaths, in Erilea. The one who is associated with owls and purple and healing magic. 

A woman’s voice that was both familiar and foreign. A voice that was both Hafiza’s and … another. Someone who was not human, never had been. Speaking through Hafiza herself, their voices blending into the blackness.

[…]

A daughter of Fenharrow will pay the debt of a son of Adarlan? 

Yes. 

She could have sworn a gentle, warm hand brushed her face.

[…]

The Other said, You offer this of your own free will? 

Yes. With my entire heart. 

It had been his from the start, anyway. Those loving, phantom hands brushed her cheek again and faded away.

[…]

The Other said, I chose well. You shall pay the debt, Yrene Towers. And I hope you shall see it for what it truly is. 

Yrene tried to speak. But light flared, soft and soothing. (tod)

The Other is not named, but it says it chose well and we know that Yrene was blessed with powers by Silba, so it seems likely that this is Silba’s voice. Interestingly, one of the healers also mentions Death:

Before Yrene could answer, Chaol demanded, “What cost?” 

A stillness crept over them, and even Yrene looked to Hafiza as the woman extracted herself from Eretia’s care. The Healer on High said quietly, “The damage was too great. Even with all of us…Death held you by the hand.” (tod)

This scene shares so many parallels with the Feysand rescue; it is a powerful healing with a high cost. We learn through Yrene that healers can sense when death is near, which is one of their less savory abilities. Death lurks near Feyre before Nesta uses the Trove, and that is when an otherworldly being looks out from her eyes. The Feysand healing would have taken place after the gods were banished from Erilea, and we did not actually witness their deaths. Is it possible the Mother is connected to Silba?

There is also a place beneath the Torre called Silba’s Womb where healers soak in natural spring waters in the form of dozens of tubs. The darkness Yrene senses in this underground cavern is connected to creation, rest and unformed thought, reminding me of Elain’s iron mental gates that are covered with sleeping buds, leaves, and thorns. This sleeping garden could be a hint for a dormant power like Dorian’s; when his sleeping power is awoken, it is described as something ancient and slumbering deep inside of him, and it opens an eye.

And the darkness above her … it was different from what she had spied in Lord Westfall’s body. The opposite of that blackness. The darkness above her was that of creation, of rest, of unformed thought. Yrene stared into it, into the womb of Silba herself. And could have sworn she felt something staring back. Listening, while she thought through all Lord Westfall had told her. (tod) 

Silba’s dark womb of creation is also eerily similar to the dark womb that Nesta senses in the depths of the library:

There was night, and there was the darkness of extinguishing a candle, and then there was this. Not only the true absence of light, but … a womb. The womb from which all life had come and would return, neither good nor evil, only dark, dark, dark. […] Her name drifted to her as if rising from the depths of some black ocean. […] The darkness pulsed, beckoning. (acosf)

The healing magic we see in tog reminds me quite a bit of the Cauldron, which is that dark womb Nesta mentioned. Healing light not only weaves things together, but devours darkness:

More of the world faded away. I am not afraid of you, Yrene said into the dark. And you have nowhere to run. Duva thrashed, trying to unseat Yrene's grip. Yrene pressed down harder on her chest. Time slowed and bent. She was dimly aware of the ache in her knees, the cramp in her back. Dimly aware of Sartaq and Kashin refusing to offer their position to someone else. Still Irene sent her magic flowing into Diva. Filling her with that devouring light. [...] "Utterly pathetic," Yrene repeated, her magic rallying behind her in a mighty, cresting white wave. "For a prince to prey on a helpless woman." The demon scrambled back against the wave, clawing at the dark as if it would tunnel through Duva. Yrene pushed forward. Let her wave fall.

Yrene's tidal wave of light devours the dark of the Valg like the thread of Hope piercing the Void. The language is similar to the wave imagery of the Cauldron and Elain’s white void when she is overcome by despair and strange new powers. If her void is not the typical dark nothingness but white, could her healing power be opalescent light that devours the darkness? As bright as the sunstone palace of Dawn that holds the light of a thousand suns, piercing the shadows of night each morning?

If Silba and the Mother are connected (one and the same, or part of the same consciousness of formless, higher beings), could Elain—a seer with theoretical raw magic that can heal and destroy and everything in between—act as their watchful guardian, an otherworldly bird of prey?

Even though it perched atop a gnarled branch of iron that flowed across the door itself, wings flared wide as it prepared to leap into the skies, it seemed … alert. Aware of all who passed that door, who perhaps gazed too long in the direction of the workshop. (tod)

Perhaps time and space also work differently for her, as they do for the Ancients.

Next: The Ancients, or Elain’s connection to ancient witches.

Series: seer. wise woman. witch.

[oflights]

Hello!! I'm very excited you're taking requests considering I just recently inhaled all your works 🥳 Can I request an extra scene from all the western stars? Perhaps something about Draco and Harry's lives in the future, with Draco at Hogwarts? Thank you!

hi there!! thank you for this! love this prompt. i will say i do have a sequel to all the western stars tentatively planned, but this snippet would take place well after that one, too.

i'm fairly certain if you haven't read all the western stars, this will read like a random seer (+hogwarts divination professor) draco/werewolf harry, established relationship, possibly thinking about kids fic?? so enjoy that, haha.

@ everyone else: send me prompts!

this is ~2.3k words (🤦🏻‍♀️); cw for vague allusions to past violence between harry and draco, discussion of having kids, and a tiny bit of blood.

Harry smells the Divination Classroom before he's all the way up the stairs. He pauses in sight of the open trapdoor and breathes in a moment, enjoying the scent—not because he’s a particular fan of the mingled scents of lavender and sage in and of themselves, but because they smell like Draco.

Then he clambers up the ladder, swearing as he feels it wobble beneath his weight. Draco had promised him he’d reinforced the ladder with spells after a vision he wouldn’t go into detail about but Harry assumes involved him plummeting onto his arse by the way Draco kept thinking about it and snickering. It’s those snickers that have him doubting Draco’s honesty, the git, so Harry pauses this time to cast a Feather-Light Charm on himself, then continues his ascent.

The classroom is empty but for Draco when he finally crawls through. He tries to quell his slightly heavy breathing once he sees that Draco’s sitting on a pile of too many cushions with his eyes closed, his feet bare, and his teaching robes abandoned on the tea table next to a crystal ball and a slew of empty china cups. He’s meditating, and Harry tries to be quiet, forgets the Feather-Light Charm, and trips on his own feet with a cursing yelp.

He knocks into the tea table and sends the crystal ball rolling to the floor. Draco doesn’t open his eyes, but he does smile, and it’s so fond and knowing that Harry smiles helplessly back, ending his charm, scooping up the ball, and dropping down onto the cushions with it tucked under his arm.

“Hello,” he whispers, watching Draco’s nose twitch and looking for any signs of dried blood. “Are you done?”

Draco gives a heavy, dramatic sigh, keeping his eyes closed, but leaning in close so their sides touch. “I suppose so,” he says, but his cheek is slightly pink and a little warm when Harry leans over to press a sloppy kiss to it.

Then his eyes flip open, sparkling, lovely gray Harry adores the sight of. He kisses the side closest to him where crinkles form, kisses the soft hair at the nearest temple, and when Draco purses his lips expectantly, he kisses the very corner of those lips, laughing lightly when a pout forms. No pout should be that criminally adorable on the face of a man in his 40s, and Harry truly can’t help kissing it, sighing at the pleased, satisfied noise Draco offers him in return.

Encouraged, Harry parts his lips and swipes his tongue at the peak of where Draco’s lip goes plump—and Draco pulls back abruptly, more than pink the face now, narrowing those lovely eyes.

“Harry, quit it—if that old bat catches us again, she will sack me, there’s no question!”

“Why don’t you try not calling her an old bat and see where that gets you?” Harry asks around a devilish, unrepentant smile. He’s rarely ever as attracted to Draco when he’s squawking at him for one bother or another. “You know her Animagus form is a cat, not a bat.”

“Wow,” Draco says, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling as Harry cracks up at his joke. “Incredible. I don’t know how I’m expected to maintain brain matter when this is the level of intellectualism I’m exposed to daily.”

“You’re a swot; you’ve got plenty to spare, don’t worry,” Harry says, cupping his hand over the crown of Draco’s head and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Draco swats at him, perfunctory, but leans further into him, letting Harry’s arm drop around him. He puts the crystal ball back on its stand so he can hold Draco properly and catches his look; he winks. “You dropped that.”

“I did, did I?”

“Yes, while your eyes were closed.”

“Well, I suppose I’ve seen no evidence to the contrary.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a menace,” Draco says, reaching up to cup Harry’s face and kiss him once more. They fall into that for a few more moments, though Draco keeps it firmly chaste—which is fair enough.

Draco and Headmistress McGonagall seem to have a grudgingly peaceful employer-employee relationship made possible by Draco keeping his distance—he lives in Hogsmeade with Harry, he splits most of his time between the Divination Tower, the Slytherin Common Room, and the kitchens for all his snacking trips. Giving her more ammunition in their very frosty territory war in the form of her walking in on Harry and Draco being inappropriate—again—is the last thing Draco wants to do.

Harry knows—because she’s told him so—that McGonagall respects Draco as the foremost expert in his field, insofar as she respects the field itself. She’s also told him that she can’t deny the rapport that Draco has with students. He seems to collect what Harry calls ‘Luna Lovegood types’—Draco calls them Looneys, very affectionately, and never in earshot of his Headmistress—who all tend to follow him around, hang on his every word, bring him treats from Hogsmeade, and vent their oddest dreams and imaginings to his mostly patient ear.

They also all have pet crows, following Draco’s example. McGonagall has much less respect for that.

“Are you ready to go?” Harry asks as he gently breaks the kiss, eager to take this someplace where chasteness doesn’t have to be a factor. He’d been away for three nights, working on a complex warding job in Cornwall, and with the full moon only a few days away, Harry has really felt every minute of his time away from Draco. He tightens his arms around him, careful but firm, trusting as always that Draco will shove him away if he’s being too clingy.

“Almost,” Draco says, and Harry works hard not to groan. Draco smiles as if he’d heard the groan anyway and then nods towards the still-open trap door. “Just a few more minutes, I think.”

He spends half of those minutes leaning back into Harry’s hold, pulling at his arms so the hold tightens even more—and then pushes them away, straightening up a little.

Harry can take that hint. “Student?”

“Last one.” Draco checks his watch and lowers his voice. “This will be Letty, the one with the religious—Muggle religious—parents who thought she was possessed before we found her. She’s had a vision almost every night this week, and I know she’ll want me to hear this one.”

All of Harry’s impatience evaporates, and he gets up dutifully to sit on the other side of the tea table and give them space. “Got it. I can clear out, if you—”

“No, I think—she likes an audience,” Draco says, smiling a little. He checks his watch one more time, then looks over at the trap door.

Right on cue, a tuft of brown curls appears through the door in the floor, and so follows a tiny little girl named Letty, eyes wide. They widen as they land on Harry, who gives a little wave, and then she scrambles up and races to the pile of cushions, kicking her shoes off and dropping down onto a cushion all in one, frantic movement.

“Hi, Draco!” she says, and then she looks at Harry and stammers, “Erm, I mean, Professor Malfoy-Potter—”

“Oh don’t mind him; that’s Mr. Malfoy-Potter, and he won’t tell the Headmistress on us,” Draco says, waving dismissively at Harry, who mimes sewing up his lips. McGonagall does get an eye twitch whenever the students call Draco by his first name in front of her, and Harry is glad to spare her that. “How are you, Letty? Any new dreams?”

Harry is certain that Draco already knows what vision Letty has had; he probably remembers more details than she does. But he still sits with a kind, open face and lets her launch into a 10-minute ramble about it, nodding along, even Summoning a scrap of parchment and scribbling notes.

Letty stays mostly focused on Draco, opening up and brightening under the sunshine of his attention. Every so often, she looks at Harry to include him, blushing when he smiles at her encouragingly, but mostly she looks at Draco, and Harry truly can’t blame her. He’s not very good at not looking at Draco, either.

At the end of her ramble, when she’s a bit out of breath, Draco begins a gentle, probing discussion about what she thinks the vision means. In a few minutes, he has her turning it over in her mind, borrowing the parchment to scribble her own notes, and then widening her eyes as it starts to make sense. It’s all seemingly effortless, easy, and Letty seems lighter afterwards, no longer buzzing with pent-up energy.

“Remember to meditate at least 10 minutes before bed,” Draco tells her as she starts to leave, clutching the parchment in her hand. “It will help you sleep, I promise. And do let the Hospital Wing know if you have a worse nosebleed than normal; there’s no reason to let that affect your energy levels when Blood Replenishers exist.”

“Thank you, Draco!” Letty says. And then: “Bye, Mr. Malfoy-Potter!”

“Bye, Letty,” Harry says, watching her go.

Draco watches her go, too, an unmistakably wistful look in his eyes. He swallows hard, then stands up with a sigh, pulling his robes over one arm and then reaching down to help Harry up with the other. “All right; now I’m ready.”

Harry takes the offered hand, but instead of getting up, he pulls Draco down to sit in his lap, smiling at his huffed laugh, his small, annoyed swat. “Hey,” Harry says, wrapping his arms around him again. “You okay?”

He feels Draco’s nod more than he sees it, but the resignation in Draco’s voice makes him cringe inwardly, knowing he’s put it there. “I’m fine, Harry.”

“You’re not,” Harry says, dropping his forehead to Draco’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to fight again.”

“We don’t have to fight. I just—” Harry sighs, spreading his fingers across Draco’s chest, rubbing his palms over his thin shirt until he feels the tell-tale catch of scarred skin there.

Draco puts his hands over Harry’s and shakes his head. “You’ve got to work through this at some point,” Draco tells him softly. “Kids or no kids—the issues still need to be seen to.”

“I know; I know that. I just don’t understand how you can’t be worried, too.”

“Because I know you; I know what a soft, wonderful, caring man you are. I know what a brilliant father you’d be, how lucky any child we’d have would be just to call you dad. I know you’d do anything to protect us—” Draco squeezes Harry’s hands over his scars and shakes his head again. “And I know that scares you, but it doesn’t scare me.”

Harry closes his eyes, breathing in that calming scent again. He tries to do what Draco always tells him to—to clear his mind, banish the worry, the deep-seeded, gnawing guilt that lies in him.

Draco’s right, of course—Harry would do anything to protect the people he loves, and there’s no distinction anymore between the wolf and the human in him that doesn’t see a line he wouldn’t cross for that. He still struggles to cope with that, to reconcile the guilt that spurs with the love Draco has for all those parts of him.

“I love you,” Harry says, twining their fingers together, rubbing over both the Malfoy signet ring and the wedding band that matches Harry. “I love you so much, and I know you want to do this, I know you want this so badly—”

It had been gradual, this want of Draco’s, building up as they parented their Crup, Sting, over the years, then blooming as he started working with children at Hogwarts. It became something they talked about, then argued about, a real, true rift that scares Harry a lot.

“I want to give you everything you want,” Harry continues. “But I don’t know how to let this go.”

It’s fear, guilt, self-hatred—no matter how much Draco has done to help him accept being a werewolf; no matter how many times he’s absolved Harry of hurting him, has tried to allay his guilt. He just can’t reconcile what he’s capable of with the idea of being a father.

“I know,” Draco says, voice soft.

“I wish you could just tell me what happens,” Harry says. “Tell me what you’ve Seen, tell me if I ever do get over it.” That’s been another part of this fight—Harry’s certain Draco has Seen their future child, that it’s part of the driving force behind wanting one so badly. Draco has never confirmed or outright denied this; he’s very selective about what parts of the future he tells Harry, and even in all these years together, it’s something they both struggle with sometimes.

“I can’t tell you,” Draco says, still soft, as Harry remembers casting a Patronus and saving himself and his friends because he knew he could. “I don’t think it’ll work if I just say it.”

Harry nods, understanding that. But then Draco reaches his hands out and Summons the crystal ball into them. With wide, slightly wet eyes, he turns in Harry’s arms and holds the ball between them, fingers pressed against it tightly. “But what if I could show you?”

Harry stares down at the ball, already getting cloudy, magical energy flitting over it from the tips of Draco’s fingers. A thin line of blood, just a trickle, starts dribbling from Draco’s nose, and he doesn’t look down at the ball but straight at Harry, pleading, powerful, utterly, spectacularly brave in a specific way that Harry has never quite managed.

It’s not even a question, really. Harry nods, feeling like he’s stepping over a ledge, takes a breath, and looks down into their future.

[crowfeatherd]

who, what, where: scene 2!

he approaches with his best impression of a thoroughly despondent look -- seems the set this time has him coming to a table to sit across from the other actor. a long, dramatic sigh, then jiaoqiu begins -- "oh, good fortune teller... I have had such a horrible week. I went to a support group only to be assaulted by a man who never sleeps and carries coffee beans around in his pockets. then, I tripped over a few things I couldn't see, and also lost track of my favorite pair of shoes, and spilled my soup at lunch... it seems this week is even worse than the last one. can you tell me? will my suffering ever end?" and as if to punctuate the pleading question, jiaoqiu leans forward to bury head in his folded arms -- the next words come muffled as head barely turns to continue. "what should I do to end this cursed luck of mine?"

Generally speaking, this isn't a scene too out of the ordinary for Moze. The stage, the line of supporting actors pretending to be impatient or nervous customers waiting beyond the printed screen covering the door, and the cloth-covered table littered with all manner of divination materials are all certainly quite novel, but not the complaining foxian who's draped himself dramatically over his arms across from him. Moze almost doesn't need to pretend to wear the vaguely concerned, vaguely irritated, vaguely skeptical look he regards Jiaoqiu with now.

"It hasn't been more than a day since your last visit," he says, but then concedes with a sigh through his nose. "Fine."

The little tent is filled with the smoke of incense, diffusing the candlelight in such a way that it scatters off of shards of mirrors and other glittering objects suspended from the ceiling, creating nearly a trance-like haze. Mimicking the diviners he's seen over the years (many of which were certainly fraudes), Moze closes his eyes and sets his hands on the collection of crystals gathered on one side of the table like he might hear the answers from the stones themselves.

Of course, they say nothing.

So he lays his hands on a box of weighted silver balls. They're silent, too. The cards are no better either, especially since he neither shuffles nor flips them. Then, finally, a smoke-filled orb... which also gives him no answers.

Slowly, Moze opens his eyes again and studies Jiaoqiu, whose face is still buried in his arms.

"These bad things happen to you when you leave your house to visit me," he says, compassionate and compassionless at the same time. "Stop coming."

[loderlied]

🎪 for Sol?

small scene in the night after sol went ham and burned down their entire village and then got spared by some paladin(s) of sarenrae.

Your hands, no, hand, is charred beyond belief. Itchy. Truly nasty. Your one remaining eye stares at the starless sky (I know you have always loved the stars, and I can already hear you thinking that this is part of your divine punishment for yesterday.) as you scratch the wound on the right side of your face open again. This pain soothes you. You think you deserve it. (You do not.) You cannot stop, even though you and I both know you should. And I have tried too many times to make you stop, though it seems I have only upset you further, so I believe it is for the best that I stop (for now. Don’t think I’ll let you get off easy!).

I apologize, for what it’s worth. Not that you’ll ever listen to me—and there, the blood flows in streams down your face again. You’re relieved. Why? And now the blood mixes with your tears. One of the knights dressed up in white, metal garbs with sun symbols embellished on them crawls out of a hastily set up tent. They are displeased, probably with us, Sol.

“Will you stop this incessant whining? Do you think the people here had a chance to cry? To mourn? Pathetic. “ They spit on the ground near you. You flinch, but pull yourself together and sit up straight immediately. 

“I- I apologize, Sir. It will not happen again, Sir.” Your voice is weak, small, not the powerful shouts full of conviction I came to know and love in our past. I do not think I like it, but I also cannot exactly blame you.

“Right, whatever. You make me sick, do you think we don’t know your history here?” They spit out these words with venom. “I don’t know why Ser Eren believes that someone like you would ever have a chance at redemption, but I—“

“Enough.” Another one of the knights steps out and puts a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Please. We have a long pilgrimage ahead of us—do try to get some sleep.” They focus their gaze at you as they say this. Is that sadness in their eyes? They pity you. Then they gently but firmly pull their peer back into the tent.

You lay back down, but you and I both know that you will not sleep tonight.

[athenasparrow]

No. 19 - Shadow | Jily Micro March

Thank you @jilymicrofics, for the lovely prompts xx

Read on AO3 | 797 words

Or cut for story that includes smut xx 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼

“So we’re done,” James said tentatively, breaching a topic they hadn’t discussed in months.

The sun had set and the warm summer air blew a gentle breeze of relief. The sky was a deep shade of blue on the verge of blackening into night. The symphony of laughs, clinking glasses and music still rung in James’ ears even in the quiet streets.

“Yeah, we are,” Lily said turning to face him.

She looked radiant, James thought as his eyes travelled over the stunning woman beside him. Well, she always looked radiant. But tonight, resplendent in her flowing red dress as she walked the shadowed streets of Paris, she looked positively breath-taking.

It was fitting then, that such a divine woman be surrounded by a scene straight out of a romantic fairytale. The old, irregular stones of the alley were softly illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlights, the air was full of the sweet aroma of pastries as the chefs began their day at dusk, and the warm breeze ruffled through the trees making James wonder what precious secrets were being whispered between them.

Eight months ago they’d agreed to be friends, even though James’ body had been aching for her since they’d met. Sometimes he swore his soul was stretching right out of his body, just trying to touch hers.

But they’d had research to do. And moving the needle forward on viral solutions for glioblastomas had been important to both of them. So important they’d agreed to put aside their overwhelming attraction for one another so they wouldn’t end up in a mess.

But eight months later and James’ feelings were far from resolved. He’d felt them burning inside him, growing stronger each day. He had been attracted to her from the moment he met her, how could he not be, but eight months later he had her friendship, her trust, and was her closest confidant. 

And now, as they stood on a deserted street in Paris, their last fundraiser done, James could finally kiss her.

Her lips seared against his like he imagined lava would hit the ocean. He felt a burning mist deep down his body and settle deep in his heart. The moment between them ignited, the kiss deep and urgent, fueled by a hunger that had been building for too long.

Fuck she felt good.

He captured the moan that escaped her as he slid his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss and moving their bodies so he could press her flush against the wall. James kissed her with abandon, the lights and noise of Paris fading away as he felt the contours of her body, heard the softness of her sounds, and the met the feverish intensity of her lips.

Her legs squeezed around him as he hitched her up so he was holding her, hands around thighs, moving to press hot kisses down her neck.

“Shit, I’ve waited a long time for this” Lily gasped out as he licked a gentle circle behind her ear before dragging his teeth across her earlobe, giving it a slight tug at the end.

Her confession caused a rumbling laugh to unravel deep in his chest as he pressed his hips into her, groaning long and deep.

“It’s been eight months of torture,” James agreed, finding her soft lips again, unable to stay parted.

“Many unsatisfactory wanks in the toilets at work?” Lily asked tauntingly, as she pulled his bottom lip between her teeth.

James’ hold on her faltered. Her back slid down an inch from where she was pressed into the outside of some poor sods house.

“You know about that?” he asked, staring at her in horror.

“At least I know you’re vocal when you finish,” she whispered, grinning against him as she resumed their sensual kiss, ignoring his huff of indignation.

“And if it makes you feel better, your little indiscretions at work made me soaked,” she said huskily.

“Fuck” James murmured.

“I thought you’d like that,” she said, letting her head rock back against the house as her breasts rose up and down rapidly as she caught her breath. James moaned, showing her how much he liked it by pressing into her so she could feel him hard and aching; by slipping his hand up her dress and down her knickers, murmuring a quick curse when he found her dripping. He showed her when he dropped to his knees, pulling one of her legs over his shoulder and took a long lick of her hot centre. And finally, he showed her how much he liked her dripping, and how much he loved her, when he buried himself inside her and made love to her against the side of the house, hidden by the shadows of the night.

[theroomfloor]

Send me: prompt list [01 or 03] + prompt number [01-31] + a ship

I found this, I thought it was cool and I want to try!

I will be accepting (mainly) HTTYD and Hellaverse ships (especially Dagcup and RadioDust, pleeeeease ask for Dagcup and RadioDust). But I can get another ship from My Other Fandoms too.

You can send the request here or in the question box.

The link to The Original Lists and prompts are included under the cut!

Version 01: Different scenes

First meeting

Training together

Finding job

Helping farmers

Fighting bandits

Hunting beast

Saving traveling merchant

Free drinks at tavern

Cooking/Making potion

Solving riddle at dungeon

Hiding from rain

Asking for shelter

Sleeping in Carriage

Bargaining at market

Dancing all night

Talking under starry sky

Fighting over nothing

Night in tent

Swimming in the river

Making dinner

Flirting

Working together

Giving presents

Fighting monsters

Ambush in the dark alley

Injured in battle

Saving one another

Getting help from healer

Admitting their feelings

Going home

(Extra) Sleeping together

*****

Version 03: In different roles or “what if?” scenarios

Original roles

Switch roles

As DnD characters

Evil versions

In modern AU

As children

As fairy tale characters

Artist & muse

Human & monster

Royalty & servant

Thief & Detective

Witch hunter & witch

Immortal & mortal

Adventurer & writer

Hero & villain

Summoner & spirit

Spy/Assassin & target

Human & android

Warrior & mage

Pirate & mermaid

Bounty hunter & outlaw

Healer & patient

Cyborg & AI

Necromancer & undead

Priest & Succub

Bodyguard & superstar

Cowboy & farmgirl

Alien & cosmonaut

Medium & ghost

Divine & wicked

Your favorite AU

[theskeletoninthegarden]

Baldur's Gate 3: Tav/Durge Character Questions

Character building questions to ask yourself, or to have asked for you by a friend! These questions are not dependent on whether you have entered Act 3, but let me know if they accidentally veer that way.

(I found this list of questions but they're a tad spoilery, so I decided to make a list myself.)

What is their love language? Acts of service, physical touch, words of affirmation, quality time, and gift giving are some, but you can be more specific. Ex: cooking for your loved ones as an act of service.

What was their occupation before the events of the game?

If they had a tent set up in the game, what would it look like?

What items do they come equipped with? Bonus points for descriptions that could be read while examining these items.

As a nod to Divinity 2, if your character had an instrument associated to them that would play as a cover for The Power, what would it be?

Does this character have a favorite party member? A least favorite? A rival, or love interest, or both? If they have a unique cut scene with them, what would it be? Ex. Lae'zel and Shadowheart's scuffle.

What is their idle animation? Do they dance in place? Whip out a book to read? Talk to themself?

What is their build (class, race, weapon choice)? If you can imagine them as a level 20 character, what's that like? (Don't feel confined to the rules of D&D or BG, this is their story, after all.)

Bonus! Questions for them as a recruitable companion, more or less:

How and where is this character recruited? Is it dependent on anything?

What can you find them doing at camp? In front of their tent? Do they have a set of idle animations there?

What can you find them doing during the Teifling/Goblin party?

Are they romancable? Can you have a unique scene with them at the Tiefling/Goblin party? What is it like, if so?

How do you gain or lose approval with them?

Are there any unique scenes of dialog you can trigger with them? As a result of a decision, perhaps? In the moment, or after? While entering a new region, maybe, or witnessing another character do something?

Do they have a character quest associated with them?

What do they have to say about Raphael's offer? The Dream Visitor? Using the tad poles?

As a nod to Dragon Age 2, if you don't romance them/partner with them/create a forever platonic pact to face the world together, is there anyone in the party they will do this with?

What are some banter lines between them and other companions on the road?

If romanced/partnered with by you or one of the other companions, what is the banter that comes up between them and others while on traveling?

What do they say when you dismiss them to the camp, and when you take them back out again?

What do they say if you click on their portrait too much?

Are there any unique NPCs that will show up for them? NPCs that have unique dialog only when they are present?

[plethomacademia]

Beep beep beep coming in hot to ask about this short bit from c9 of You have always needed abundant assistance because it always sticks out for me:

A few days later, a letter arrived on the desk of Lord Enver Gortash. It contained a list of what to bring for a three day backpacking trip. He found the list amusing until he got near the bottom, where “tent” and “bedroll” were listed. He sent a reply:

“Maeve, I understand you have experience in this type of travel but if you send me something that condescending again, I will not be pleasant about it.”

He received a reply later that day: “I know you are thinking of bringing formal clothing as well. Do not do it. It is not worth the weight. Thorm can see your lovely coat when he gives us the runes for his teleportation circle.”

He crumpled up the page. This damn woman.

Omg yay I almost cut this part because I didn't know if people would catch why I wanted it! Answering for this

I wrote too much, jump jump

It should be no surprise based on the fact that I have somehow posted 40k words (wth why) that I love the idea of a being made of divine blood struggling to fulfill the purpose of their birth. She is a wretched thing not because she does objectively terrible things, but because she is always falling short of something she was made to do.

I always imagined that getting involved in the bigger Absolute plot would ramp these feelings up even more. She has finally figured out the temple stuff, she has a good handle on bringing blood to her altar, but now she has to do politics? She has to interact with other Chosen? She has to think outside of one city?

So when she finds out that her friend who knows so much more about all these things doesn't know about backpacking, she is so happy to be able to contribute that she writes him a little packing list and sends it over. She knows backpacking, she did it for years. She is helping!

Of course, their interactions are mostly the two of them needling each other, so Enver gets this letter and at first he sees it as Maeve messing with him. Like, he's a grown man. He can figure out what to bring in a backpack. But when he gets to "tent" and "bedroll," he does feel condescended to because obviously he would bring a bed. They are friends ("friends") at this point, so having her talk down to him stings a bit and he sends a cranky response.

Then we have Maeve getting this letter back and she is a bit hurt because she was helping her friend! For once she wasn't picking a fight and now he's started one. But this is how they interact, so she hits him back by making fun of his vanity. (And also deep down she does think he would try to find some way to bring an objectively too heavy thing on a backpacking trip, so still helping!)

It's a moment where one of them lets down their guard, the other misinterprets it, and then they are right back to sniping at each other.

I also really like pairing this scene with one in the chapter 10, where Enver is giving her advice on dealing with Thorm. In that scene, they manage to talk without fighting, but it's still guarded and shielded with teasing and humor. Even if Enver is blunt, Maeve does not misinterpret his intentions and they have a nice moment together.

They want to be soft for each other and sometimes they can (in their own way), but it takes nothing for one of them to misinterpret the other and then they are back at it, verbal guns blazing, trying to take the other out before they get hurt.

[steely-eyedmissileman]

The Vampire Diaries, Ep. 1x02

The Night of the Comet

i was very excited about this episode because it seems like it will be about space at least a little bit. and i love space! also, comets are often prophetic omens. and i love divination. it's my favorite of the magicks.

firstly, though, let's talk about the opening scene. like the opening of episode one, we begin with the murder of a (white, heterosexual) couple. the man is killed first and then the woman is afraid, cowering in the space that the man has just left. she is afraid because she doesn't know where he is. men are both predators and protectors, victims and violence. their absence is unnerving for multiple reasons. they could be hurt, they could be about to hurt you. we know, or think we know, that damon is the monster in the dark. a man stalking a man. a man killing a man. the woman in the tent is just watching, passive, side piece to the main action—murder. of course, she dies too. in this episode, the death comes after she claims that she was right about the rain. but the genre aware viewer will know that it's not rain. it's blood. she steps outside, she screams, and she's dead. i loved this scene. it's creepy and creeping, slow and methodical, claustrophobic and horribly open. it's scary because they're trapped in a tent. it's scary because a tent is such scant protection from the world. the trees protect them from prying eyes, which is good if you want to have sex in the woods, as they presumably do, but bad if you don't want to get horrifically murdered.

let's talk about vicki, who is, for those who are ever so slightly confused (me), elena's ex-boyfriend's sister (cannot determine birth order yet), who elena's brother is in love with and presumably lost his virginity to, and she is dating the ex-boyfriend's brother, who is a real piece of work. vicki got bitten by damon in the last episode and dramatically tells her brother she was bitten by a vampire before falling asleep in the hospital. i was very excited about this. maybe she will tell me the lore. she will not. vicki's purpose at this point is to be stupid, to have things happen to her, and to make the worst possible romantic decisions in the world. she fucked her fifteen year old drug dealer and he's the better option of her current romantic prospects!

thus far, vicki is mostly a pawn for men to fight over. she is certainly a toy in damon and stefan's game (who wants to be a murderer). she is also a toy in jeremy and fuck-face's (more commonly known as tyler) game (who wants to have a desperate girl attach her self worth to you). she is also a pawn to her brother, matt, who mostly wants her to just stop doing the dumbest shit in the whole wide world. but he wants that for himself as well as her. her actions reflect on him, in this terrible world where everyone is marred by the actions of their family. she is his damon and he is begging her to stop. (isn't it funny how close damon is to demon? isn't that just such a funny coincidence and not intentional writing?)

meanwhile, vicki is embroiled in a much darker family drama. in a nearly incomprehensible scene, stefan and damon fight over vicki's body (she is awake, but not for the purposes of the scene. she has become essentially an object.) it's clear that the real fight is something deeper, though it is not clear what the real fight is. there's a lot of talk about making stefan drink, about reversing his 'lifestyle.' (shades of homophobia, now that i type that out.) but stefan refuses, and damon doesn't kill vicki or let her tell on stefan because this seems to be the kind of show where we don't kill main characters or fuck them completely over (at least in the second episode). and then vicki's fine and there are no questions about why she was on the roof. because... she was high... at work.....????

meanwhile, elena is trying to talk herself out of dating stefan. which is a good idea because he is a vampire and his brother is a monster. but we already know she won't. because what's the fucking point of having a show with vampires in it if they aren't having sex with the heroine? la la la back and forth back and forth. bonnie is very team stefan which is funny because she then has a vision after touching his hand and leaves his team as fast as she can. anyway, elena goes to his house and they make out to gravity by sara bareilles because it's two thousand nine. meanwhile, caroline and damon are having sex. she is wearing a neon pink bra. this will be relevant in the next episode.

(also, earlier, there was this whole bit where elena talks to damon and it was weird and i don't remember it and i have more interesting things to say about elena and damon in the next episode so we'll go through it there.)