#yellow flicker beat was also such a slay
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#one thing about the hunger games films is they roll out the hits!!!!#they have the budget they know the hitmakers etc#safe & sound is one of my all time top Taylor songs but#yellow flicker beat was also such a slay#also shoutout to gale song by lumineers I ADORE that song. I just didn’t include it in the poll because it’s not recognizable from the film#thg#hg#tbosas#my polls#polls#olivia rodrigo#Coldplay#Taylor swift#Lorde
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Only Other
chapter one of three.
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Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader
content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.
notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^
wc: 11k.
The barbarians are here.
The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.
Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.
The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.
You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.
Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.
Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.
Could any of them even speak in your tongue?
What stories could they tell?
Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?
With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.
Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.
The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.
Nine, then.
Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.
Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.
The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.
In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.
Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.
Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.
Instead, you dream of fire.
You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.
You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.
Yet, you remain untouched.
Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.
You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.
You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.
There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.
The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.
You’ve overslept.
Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.
It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.
You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.
As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.
The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.
A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.
Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.
The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.
There’s no talk of the Goths.
With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.
The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.
That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.
The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.
You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.
If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.
Maybe not to most, but to you.
The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.
Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.
There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.
You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.
One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.
Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.
The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.
Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.
There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.
The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.
Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.
Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.
You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.
Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.
The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.
Perhaps he would even give chase…
There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.
Only then does he turn to look your way.
There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.
So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.
You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.
“Can you understand me?”
There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.
Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.
“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…
Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.
Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.
Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.
“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.
He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.
Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.
You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.
“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.
His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.
You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.
“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.
“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.
“What do you think it means?”
That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.
He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.
Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.
“You’re a bit rude.”
“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.
No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.
You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.
After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”
It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…
Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.
You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”
Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.
Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.
The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.
Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.
“Run, then, little one.”
It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.
His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.
Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.
They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.
König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.
You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.
Just not you.
It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.
“Where were you?”
You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.
Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.
“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.
Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.
It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.
You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.
His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.
“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”
“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“
“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.
It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.
“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.
It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.
What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.
“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.
The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.
It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.
“Then rest.”
When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.
You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.
You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.
Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.
Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).
When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…
And perhaps he will chase you.
— — —
Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.
You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.
The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.
“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.
You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.
“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.
“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.
She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”
You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.
Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.
There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.
Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.
“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…
You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.
You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.
The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.
Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.
You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.
The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.
Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.
You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.
Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”
“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”
The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.
You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.
The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.
The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.
You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.
“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”
“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”
You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.
“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.
Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.
“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”
You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.
Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.
“You are married?”
“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”
“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”
You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.
Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.
Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.
“Not after tonight,” he hums.
When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.
He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.
“Do you trust me?”
König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.
“… I don’t know.”
He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.
“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.
He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.
“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.
One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.
You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.
It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.
The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.
When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.
The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.
You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.
The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.
You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.
“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.
“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.
He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…
König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.
The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,
“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.
“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.
“We are leaving in the morning.”
“Oh…”
“I will give you the horse when I return.”
Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.
“That’s all?”
König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.
He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.
“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.
You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.
He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.
Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.
No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.
It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.
When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.
When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.
And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.
“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.
You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…
Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”
König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.
He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.
You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.
When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.
Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.
“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”
And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.
Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.
The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.
The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.
You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.
You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.
There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.
That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.
Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?
You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.
Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.
The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.
Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.
You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.
The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.
They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.
You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.
The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.
Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.
You dream of fire.
#könig#könig x reader#könig x you#konig x reader#konig#konig x you#cod fanfiction#f: only other#tw: dubcon
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Do you plan on making the talk ur talk universe a trilogy? If you do, then YAYYY MORE FAMOUS NICO, and if you don't, then YAYY I HAVE A NEW FAVORITE AUTHOR
this is HILARIOUS bc i was actually DEEPLY CONSIDERING IT. like. just a few weeks ago. see the thing was i made this playlist, and i was super into it, and i was like, well shit, i already have the rest of this outlined- would i be willing to go on further???
i'll give the gist of it here: basically a majority of the first fic was around the start of his career. this fic is centered around this one album that will come out in a long long time toward the end of the fic + the seven memoir.
the third fic WOULD (heavy emphasis on would bc i'm still not so sure abt it) be centered around the egot.
in case you don't know what that is, it's basically like this prestigious thing where you've won an emmy (tv shows), grammy (music), oscar (movie), tony (musical theatre)
i once responded to this comment on talk ur talk asking whether i was intending on nico ever achieving egot status and i said no, because i don't really see him straying too far from what he's doing rn - he writes music because he loves it, and for the art, not for the prestige, but that i could definitely see apollo getting an egot sometime in the future bc i had mentioned him already having an emmy, grammy, and oscar, so he would just have a tony left and lets be real he would slay on broadway
but then i got into this mini hyperfixation on - if nico were to ever receive egot status - how would he do that?? grammy's are a given, and i went down this rabbit hole for how he could win the others, sticking to the fact that he adamantly refuses to act
oscar would be easy, best original song - something like "no time to die" by billie eilish (which won the award) or "yellow flicker beat" by lorde are movie songs that i 100% think he could write
for the emmy's there's an award for like best documentary pop culture or something like that (i can't find the doc where i put all this in but trust that i did the research at some point) which he could def do, or something that like he collaborated with apollo for - a documentary of some sort
and here's where the mini hyperfixation came in - the tony. now here's the thing i don't actually know a lot abt musical theatre. i was in like two musicals in middle school and that's it. so i did a deep dive on all the musicals that have won tony's, listened to a few soundtracks, found out that the lightning thief got TOTALLY SNUBBED???
and then fell down the hadestown rabbithole
so i'll just leave this info right here - i gave so much detail bc i'm still not rlly sure if i ever want to go into this?? simply bc i *do* know quite a bit abt pop music/production from watching videos and documentaries and stuff, but i'm really not a musical theatre person. so.
we'll see if this ever actually becomes a thing, because i know that greatest of luxuries covers a huge timespan and i'll likely be working on this for *quite* a long time, and we'll see how much motivation i would have to continue it after this! if nothing else, i think i would def go back into the universe from time to time to write little oneshots just bc of how this au has become such a huge part of my lifesjdf
aside from that, THANK YOU SO SO MUCHSDKF <333 i definitely intend to continue writing more solangelo even after talk ur talk is over, i have *so* many other au ideas and wip's that maybe i'd finally get a chance to start once talk ur talk isn't consuming so much of my time!! (not in a bad way, i truly do love writing it) <3 thank you for the ask!!
oh also, bonus note: even if i do end up ending talk ur talk after greatest of luxuries, it most definitely won’t be the end of famous nico!! i love me some fame au’s and wouldn’t be able to be stopped from writing them even if i tried😭 id likely just try out a different form of a fame au at some point, like my actor!nico and country singer!will fic based on so american which i swear is still in progress im working on it it’ll get there !!!
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Practically a Weasley pt. 1.5
Charlie Weasley x Reader
Summary: Writers block gets the better of (Y/N). Her loving boyfriend, Charlie, now on the brink of baking genius, plans to get her out of her funk. With a war looming above the world, it seemed only fitting the path that lay before the couple. This path also happens to rhyme with ‘hoping’.
Word Count: 3.5k
Warnings: A few swears, nothing major.
A/N: AH! Eloping! Feelings! Charlie! To say I got sappy in this one is an understatement my dudes. I haven’t had this rush of inspiration for a fic in forever. Seemed fitting Dragon Boi once again pulled me from it’s clutches.
Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Epilogue
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The sweeping hills and dipping valleys of the reserve went on seemingly for miles. Patches of greenery freckled with the fairest pinks and yellows of the wildflowers surrounded the dragon sanctuary, enveloping the tiny village of wizards and dragons alike. Various cottages were sprinkled along the dirt paths, the gentle sloping of their roofs matched that of the hills in the distance. Upon one of the quaintest cottages, an open window allowed the aroma of a freshly baked pie to escape.
“Cherry?” (Y/N) groaned, stretching her arms above her head. She had been cooped up in the study, feverishly working on her next book.
“Nope,” Charlie hummed, rubbing the light dusting of flour off his apron, watching the white powder sprinkle to the floor. “Apple.”
“Damn. Here I thought coming out of my dungeon would allow me to reap the benefits of my favorite pie,” said (Y/N), wistfully looking at the pie, now sitting on the windowsill. “But I guess not.”
“We were out of cherries, flower,” Charlie laughed. “Maureen’s wife had some extra apples from her tree, brought them into work yesterday. I figured a pie is a step in the right direction to get you out of your creative funk. Besides, you know I love to bake.”
“Creative funk?” laughed (Y/N), weaving through the counters to reside closer to the pie. And perhaps her boyfriend.
“You said so yourself,” the clatter of dishes hitting the sink rattled throughout the kitchen. “You’ve been trying to write that book of yours for months now.”
“I never said creative funk!” (Y/N) exclaimed, more laughter trailing the end of her words. “I just can’t figure out where to take the story next. My mind has been preoccupied—”
“I know,” Charlie motioned to his maroon smock, tied just above his hips. “You really can’t get enough of me in this apron, can you?” His brown eyes flickered mischievously.
“Preoccupied with the war, Charlie,” (Y/N) cocked her eyebrow. “I thought that after the move, being closer to the dragons and you, of course would’ve helped my writers block…”
“My poor princess, locked away in her tower, day in and day out, plagued with a terrible curse,” Charlie sighed, hand clutching his chest. “If only her valiant and ruggedly handsome prince could help… perhaps, with a pie, made with the love of a thousand men!” Now on one knee, Charlie motioned to the pie, resting still on its perch in the window.
“But will a pie slay the dragon along the way? Or will the prince do the dirty work himself?” (Y/N) mused, playing along with Charlie’s fantasy.
“Flower, you know how misrepresented dragons are in the media,” He mumbled. “I could never slay the dragon protecting you, after all,” He rose to his feet, inches away from his girlfriend. “They only protect the finest of treasure,” He leaned in for a kiss, capturing (Y/N)’s lips with his. The crisp taste of apples danced between the two, as Charlie couldn’t resist a mid-baking snack. (Y/N) laced her hands around his neck, feeling his hands do the same to her waist. “Well,” He paused. “That and the eggs.”
“You’re an egg.” She rolled her eyes, continuing their kiss. This was truly the domestic bliss they’d dreamed of.
“I’m sorry that you’re having a rough time with your work,” Charlie whispered. “The Order is doing all they can at a time like this. I’ve been working non-stop, recruiting other members for our cause, protecting the dragons. No one expected it would escalate the way it has.”
“I know you’ve been working hard,” (Y/N) mumbled, releasing herself from Charlie’s grip. “Hell, this is your first day off in about a month,” She motioned to the pie. “And you spent it baking for me, when you could’ve—should’ve been resting.”
“I can rest when I’m dead,” He felt the icy look (Y/N) had shot him in that very instant. “Which I’m not planning on doing anytime soon, don’t worry.”
“All I can do is worry, Charlie. You and your family are apart of something great, something that can help end this war. What am I doing? Writing children’s stories? Living in my own little world and pretending the world isn’t going to shit?”
“You know how I feel about you joining The Order,” Charlie’s hand moved to the back of his neck, as if holding his head upright, the tension growing. “I want to keep you safe.”
“I’m not going to argue about this again. You know I’m a more than capable witch,” This time, it was (Y/N)’s hand flying to her chest, making a point. “I want to help. I want to support you.” The air in the kitchen was growing thicker, the words lingering around them.
“I’m not saying you’re not capable, love. Don’t you think I know that more than anyone? I just want to protect you!” Charlie blurted, not intending to raise his voice.
“Then protect me!” She huffed, voice cracking. "Let me be by your side! You can’t protect me if you are hundreds of cities away, can you?!”
Charlie was silent. The gravity of his girlfriend’s words hitting him square in the chest. “You’re right,” He mumbled, voice low. “You always are.”
“Glad you could come to your senses,” (Y/N) crossed her arms. “I hate fighting you on this, but you need to know how important it is for me to be by your side. Through all of this.”
“You’re right,” His eyes flicked upward, meeting (Y/N)’s. “I want—no—need you standing by my side.”
“I’m very persuasive, I know that I can help recruiting new members! I can pack my bag in two ticks if you can tell me where your next meeting is!” said (Y/N) excitedly, clasping her hands together.
“No, not just that,” He shook his head. “I need you standing by my side forever. Especially after this war.”
“Well of course I will. I’m your girlfriend, Charlie.” (Y/N) giggled airily, slightly confused at her love’s sudden seriousness.
“You need to be more than that,” Charlie shook his head again. “Let’s go to the courthouse, right now! Change our titles.” He laced his fingers through (Y/N)’s, tugging her towards the front door.
“I’m not following?” She glanced at Charlie, fumbling to put on his brown leather boots.
“You want to stand by my side forever, yeah?” (Y/N) nodded. “Let’s go get bloody married, then.”
“Married? Right now!?” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, shifting between both of her boyfriend’s own rapidly.
“Right now.” He nodded, only ever so slightly.
“Are you mad? Do you have a fever?” The back of her hand reached Charlie’s forehead. He pushed it away in jest, sitting upon the last few steps of the stairs.
“I’m not mad! What’s stopping us?” Charlie grinned, finally lacing up his boots successfully.
“For one, a lack of a proposal?”
“Alright, then,” Charlie moved from the stairs to his knee, grabbing (Y/N)’s hand. “Will you marry me?”
“Well of course, but—”
“Consider yourself proposed!” He laughed, the sound echoing throughout the cottage. “Put on some shoes, let’s go get married!”
“I’m hardly dressed for a wedding,” (Y/N) motioned to her pajamas, a green top and light pink sleep shorts. “As a matter of fact, neither are you!”
“You look ravishing as always, flower,” He sprang to his feet. “Besides, you love the apron.”
“I do,” (Y/N) sighed, momentarily distracted. “This is all happening much quicker than I could’ve imagined.” She laughed, a hand running through her hair.
“But you’ve imagined it before, yeah? Let’s go and do it,” Charlie clasped his hands around hers, looking (Y/N) dead in the eyes. “You mean more to me than anything in this world. I don’t know what I would do if something were to happen to either of us and I didn’t make you an official Weasley.”
“If you died I could’ve married Fred or George,” (Y/N) chuckled, merely teasing. “But you’re right. I suppose tomorrow isn’t promised. Let’s get married.” The two share a kiss. Softer than their kitchen escapade earlier, somehow sweeter than the apples before. “But please give me five minutes to change.”
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The trip to the courthouse was quick, thanks to their Apparition. Hardly any wait to fill out a marriage license, not many couples were getting married on a Monday afternoon. Charlie rapidly filled out his portion of the license, almost letting the ink flow directly from his heart into the quill. (Y/N) filled it out just as fast, freezing only at the place where she needed to sign. In a beat, she let her name hit the tip of the quill, tracing itself onto the paper.
(Y/N) Weasley
“Alright you two, let’s make this quick,” said the judge. He was a short man, round in every sense of the word. “As much as I love doing these… ‘end-of-the-world’ weddings, I have some chocolate frogs to attend to.”
“Jim, we’ll repay you in plenty of chocolate frogs, I assure you,” Charlie laughed. “Thanks for doing this on such short notice.”
“In my few years of knowing you, Charlie, short notice is the normal amount of notice,” Jim chuckled heartily. “But I’ll take you up on those frogs.”
“As you should,” (Y/N) nodded. “Charlie may need a reminder, though.”
“Well, with a beautiful wife like you, Charlie won’t have much to worry about,” Jim smiled. “Alright. Stand together and listen to me…”
The judge began to speak, reading from a small booklet about the size of a deck of cards. The words flowed into the air, though neither the bride or groom cared to pay attention. Their focus was solely on one another. Charlie granted (Y/N) the five minutes she had requested before, allowing her to change into something more bridal. Close enough to it, anyway. An off-white dress, glittering with small pink roses, growing larger near the hem. She looked ethereal, the very definition of a bride.
Charlie’s bride.
“…and I suppose the two of you have vows?” Jim huffed, glancing up from his book. “Or did you not get that far?”
“Well, I suppose we didn’t have time to write anything down,” Charlie motioned to his apron and chuckled. “But I reckon I could come up with something now.”
“I could too. I’ve drafted mine a few times before,” (Y/N) flushed, glancing down. “Only to help with writers block, of course.”
“I’ll start,” Charlie grinned, gently grabbing (Y/N)’s hands. “(Y/N). My gorgeous, courageous flower. I never thought, nor did I ever dream I could find someone as witty or as tenacious as yourself to love. Blimey, I hardly imagined loving anyone more than dragons if I’m being honest.” (Y/N) chuckled, rubbing her thumb across the back of Charlie’s hand. “Honestly, when I learned that you were best mates with my twin brothers, I thought perhaps you were a bit deranged. But I learned that of the three of you, you’re the one that carries their shared braincell.”
“Hey…” (Y/N) muttered, taken aback slightly.
“I’m only half joking, love,” Charlie beamed. “But, besides your amazing good looks, I love you for your heart and soul. I promise to always take care of you, to prepare your favorite tea when you’re cold. I promise to cuddle you when you’re sick, even when you say you don’t look cute. I’ll even promise to indulge your wildest fantasies, putting this apron on whenever you ask. Even if it’s the only thing I’m wearing,” Another chuckle. “I love you, (Y/N). I can’t wait to spend the rest of my days with you.”
(Y/N) could hardly keep the tears from falling. A gentle droplet rolled down her right cheek, hanging delicately on her chin. How could she ever top the sap that flew from his lips? Surely her drafts of her vows were written in a dream-like state, normally jesting to herself a reality that wouldn’t come to fruition until much later. Hardly could she imagine standing in the quaint shack—the reserve’s excuse of a courthouse—sharing these feelings with Charlie. But, she had to try.
“Charles Septimus Weasley,” (Y/N) croaked, barely able to recite his full name. He flinched at the mention of his title. “No amount of divination could’ve predicted I would end up becoming a Weasley. I admire the little things about you. Your beautiful brown eyes, warm as the morning sun, ready to accept me at any moment. The never ending list of scars and burns that litter your skin in different patterns, stories of your bravery and kindness,” Her thumb stroked against a seemingly simple scar on the edge of his finger, relaying her point. “Your dedication to your family is the strongest sense of truth that comes from you, Charlie. Hell, how many people would willingly break into a school to rescue a dragon, all to help their younger brother?”
“Not many.” Charlie boasted, puffing his chest slightly.
“Your sense of humility is solid too,” (Y/N) quipped, smirking lightly. “I promise to always be your shoulder to cry on, especially when the dragons ignore you more than usual. I promise to never let you fall too deeply asleep on the couch, always welcoming you back to our bed, even if your feet are colder than the Dementor’s breath,” Another chuckle. “But, above all, I promise to love you, Charles Weasley. I’m dedicating my life to stand by you, through this war and beyond. I love you.”
It was Charlie’s turn to weep. How long had he been crying? Surely (Y/N) crying had been the stepping stone to get to his current emotional state. A sniffle was heard between them, causing the couple to whip their heads towards the noise.
“In all my years,” Jim sneezed, filling his handkerchief with snot. “I have never seen more beautiful vows. Normally it’s the same, rushed shtick. But you two,” he sneezed again. “You two are perfectly in love and I just—”
“Jim...” Charlie started.
“Let me do my job, Charlie!” Jim cautioned, holding a single finger up. “Now, the answers seem obvious, but for legality reasons I need you to answer after me,” Charlie’s ears perked up. “Do you, Charles Septimus Weasley take (Y/N) to be your lawfully wedded wife? Through sickness and—”
“I do,” Charlie professed, eyes not leaving (Y/N)’s for a second. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said all that sap before, no?”
“Right,” Jim scoffed, a bit annoyed. He turned to (Y/N). “Do you, (Y/N) (Y/M/N) (Y/L/N) take Charlie to be your—”
“I do!” (Y/N) chanted, too eager to allow the judge to continue.
“Where was that sense of urgency when reciting your vows?” Jim mumbled, flipping through his book. “Seriously, the one part I get to do…” He took a deep breath. “Well, by the power vested in me by the Wizarding Council, I now pronounce you man and wife. You can, uh, kiss the bride.”
Charlie wasted no time kissing his blushing bride. It was the moment he had dreamed about since laying eyes on (Y/N) in that coffee shop only a few years prior. The promises of their love were overflowing between the two in their shared moment of pure bliss. Never had a kiss felt like this, like a growing spark begging for release. Neither of the newlyweds wanted to part, remove themselves from this moment.
“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,” a woman sang, momentarily stunning the couple out of their bliss. “Congratulations.”
“Ah,” Charlie faltered, face surely shining with the brilliance of roses. “Thank you, Maureen, for being a witness on such short notice.”
“It’s not a problem,” She cooed, waving her hand. “I’m honored you thought of me, Weasley. I’m also glad my lunch break lined up for your happy day,” She laughed. “When the two of you have an official ceremony, make sure to keep Lauren and I on your list, yeah?” Maureen clicked, quickly signing the marriage certificate before exiting the small courtroom.
The certificate was handed to the receptionist, who didn’t seem jaded by the quick marriage that had taken place moments prior. She smiled up at the couple. “I’ve seen plenty of weddings here, but you two,” She paused. “You two give me hope in these dark days.”
“Thank you,” (Y/N) stammered, touched by the stranger’s words. “Thank you, to both of you,” She motioned to Jim. “I assure your payment in chocolate frogs will be arranged promptly.”
“A woman of her word,” Jim cackled. “Shame she’s taken.”
“Taken she is.” Charlie responded, placing a gentle kiss to his wife’s knuckles, his fingers still interwoven with hers.
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The couple decided to take the long way home, enjoying the purple sunset that blanketed the valley. In almost no time at all, before the sun dipped beneath the earth, the newlyweds entered their cottage. The aroma of pie not yet left the quaint building.
“Shoot,” Charlie mumbled. “I was supposed to carry you across the threshold!”
“It’s fine, Charlie,” His wife laughed. “We’ve been going against tradition anyway. What’s one less thing?”
“I just want to make our wedding day memorable, flower,” Charlie stroked (Y/N)’s hair. “But I suppose I could just carry you to our bed?”
“Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“We have to consummate it at some point.” Charlie grinned, eyes slanted down towards his wife.
“I’ll take you up on that, my husband,” The new title rolling off her tongue almost mockingly. “But we should have some of your pie first, no?”
“I suppose so,” He hummed. “We should have a proper dinner, I wouldn’t want to spoil dessert.” Charlie’s hands trailed down to (Y/N)’s sides, quickly grabbing a handful of her backside.
“Charlie!” (Y/N) gasped, watching her husband retrieve the pie from the windowsill, acting as if nothing had happened. Before he could shut the window, an owl flew through the crack, landing on the counter.
“This doesn’t look like a letter from The Order…” said Charlie, grabbing the purple envelope from the owl’s beak. In an instant, the owl flew off, back to where it had come from.
“What does it say?” (Y/N) asked, drawing closer to the counter, curiosity growing stronger.
“It’s a wedding invitation. For my brother, Bill,” Charlie laughed, continuing to read. “Blimey! Set for the first of August!”
“I guess this war is causing everyone to jump the gun and get married, huh?” (Y/N) smiled.
“At least we did it before Bill,” Charlie mirrored the grin. “That’s something I can hang over his head until the day I die.” He lifted (Y/N) up onto the counter, sealing her lips with his.
“But,” (Y/N) fought the kiss. “The pie?”
“Consider my appetite spoiled,” Charlie mumbled against her lips. He sucked lightly on her bottom lip before continuing. “I’ve decided that I want dessert first.”
“Charlie…” (Y/N) moaned, deepening the kiss, hands pulling at Charlie’s hair tie, letting his unruly locks fall into her fingers. She tugged lightly.
“(Y/N),” Charlie groaned, enjoying the sensation. “We should move this to the bedroom. Have to tire you out for a good night’s rest if we’re to travel to France tomorrow.”
“France?” (Y/N) panted, pulling away slightly.
“For The Order recruitment.”
“But I thought you said—”
“—and I was stupid for saying anything of the sort,” Charlie agreed, placing hot kisses down her neck. “You had said so yourself, my family is apart of something great,” More kisses. “You’re part of that family now, yeah?”
(Y/N)’s eyes glistened with tears, threatening to fall. She shook her head, determined to not cry any more that evening. She held her breath, a realization struck her. “My stars! Your family!”
“Not exactly a good way to keep the mood going, love…” Charlie continued, working his way across her collar.
“What are we going to tell your family?” (Y/N) gasped. “My family! They hardly know we’re living together, let alone eloped!”
“That’s the excitement of eloping, isn’t it? Not telling our families?” Charlie paused his ministrations, looking at his wife. “But I suppose our families didn’t know about our relationship until a few months in anyway, what’s the harm in keeping this our little secret for a bit?”
“I suppose…” (Y/N) trailed, recalling the passionate feelings their past secrecy had given them. “I suppose it could be a bit of cheeky fun.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Charlie beamed, planting a wet kiss to (Y/N)’s lips, lingering for a moment longer. “Come on, indulge your husband.”
“I just might,” (Y/N) wrapped her arms around Charlie’s neck, allowing him to pick her up like he had previously lamented about missing out on. Bridal style. “My dear husband…” Her voice fell to a whisper, leaning in to sing sweet nothings only Charlie could hear.
“Keep the apron on.”
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General Tag List: @maralisa124 , @leighxlover , @hey-its-me-rai , @missihart123 , @biatheintrovert , @luna-xxxxx , @chocolaterumble, @why-am-i-sad-and-sleepy , @missmulti
Charlie Weasley Tag List: @sungoddessra , @crescent-ia , @phantom-pheonix , @dccomicnerd-world , @marveltrash99 , @graymountaingal, @storiesbycaroline, @mytinybaguette , @garbdump
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#Charlie Weasley#charlie weasley x you#hphm#charlie weasley x reader#harry potter#harry potter x reader#harry potter imagines#charlie weasley imagines#dragon boi#hogwarts#fanfic#fluff#Harry Potter Hogwarts mystery#charlie canonically doesn't have a middle name so DAMNIT i gave him one#it's his grandfather's name ya heard#also yay love and stuff
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when writing Fe what's songs do you listen to?
oh my gosh I listen to sooo much music
the 2 official playlists I’ve published are here: Never Met a Girl Like You Before (the klena version-- it’s kind of chronological and I would say we’re on the last 3 or 4 songs on the mix right now) and Let’s Hang Out (Or Surely We’ll Both Die) which is the Tylena playlist for their arc.
I also have an (as yet) unpublished Stelena playlist for FE that’s going to be entitled You and Me. This one is so angsty it basically slays me, but I listen to it alllll the time. Some tracks on it are: The Only One by Holly Miranda; Apocalypse and Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby by Cigarettes After Sex; and On Hold by the xx.
I also have a Beklena playlist called Universal Charm that I’m listening to A TON right now (that one is coming out soon). My favorite tracks on that are probably Bathtub by Waxahatchie and Looking for Knives by Dyan.
There are also these 2 playlists that @mercurialobsession made for the fic which I’m pretty much obsessed with.
Fairytale Ending Fanmix I
Fairytale Ending Fanmix Vol. II
There are 2 things I do whenever I need to hype myself up like an insane amount before writing: I listen to Placebo’s Every You Every Me from the FE Fanmix volume II (IT IS THE KLENA SONG FOR FE IMO I ACTUALLY SHORT CIRCUIT WHEN I LISTEN TO IT LIKE TO ME IT IS JUST SOOOO KLAUS’S POV) and also I watch my favorite fanvideo of all time, which is here.
Ummm I suppose there are also a few songs that probably won’t make it onto any playlists. Liability by Lorde (think Elena, alone in the mansion for 3 years) as well as Supercut and Yellow Flicker Beat; Seventeen by Sharon van Etten; Leave a Trace and My Enemy by CHVRCHES; Knocking on Heaven’s Door by RAIGN; I listen to Stubborn Love a lot by the Lumineers too because that was on my ATFBBTF playlist way back when and that song is still peak klena for me.
and probably a million others-- it’s been a very long project!
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❖PROLOGUE❖
hiya, howdy, whats up, how’s it goin’
this is the wip prologue of my original story: the book of the damned
such a creative name, i know, right? that’s also a wip...
anyway, if it interests you, read on!
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔪𝔫𝔢𝔡; 𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢
Nagini shot up from her luxurious bed, gasping for air and clutching her chest in an attempt to calm her rapidly beating heart. Long locks of white hair slipped from behind her pointed ears and framed her scale-covered cheeks. Throat dry and a layer of cold sweat upon her skin, the fanged woman tossed the thick covers off of her lower half and placed her feet onto the cold floor that laid beneath her bed. Fluttering her eyes shut, she clutched the side of her mattress and focused on slowing her breathing, swallowing thickly to try and rid herself of the raspy feeling in her throat.
“Little Snake,” the honey-smooth voice resounded in Nagini’s head, her immediate response being to stand to her full height and reach for her twin blades, but something stopped her.
Standing just a foot away, Nagini watched as the shadows that flickered against her wall from the dancing light of the flame on her bedside table engulfed the candle along with the weapons that laid perfectly beside it. The scent of smoke invaded her senses once she was left in the dark, yellow eyes, that battled the sun in beauty and vibrancy, struggling to adjust to the shadowy room. She stood still in her place for a couple of heartbeats that felt like hours, breathing no longer ragged and hands curled tightly into fists.
“Goddess Shadow,” came the cold response, “How nice of you to visit,”
The umbrage pulled back from the room, allowing light from the outside to peer through the curtains once more. Gathering in one spot, the shadows created a figure in the center of the room before pulling away to reveal their keeper. With hair as dark as the blackest night sky and eyes that put the oceans beauty to shame, Alexandria stood proudly with a sly smirk playing on her red-painted lips.
“Come now, Little Snake,” Alexandria said with a chuckle, her body relaxed and uncaring, “Is that any way to address your Mommy?”
Nagini stared at the ravenette woman with a blank stare before huffing out a heavy sigh, arms crossing defensively across her chest.
“Mother,” She hissed out, “Would you like a spot of tea?” Tone heavy with venom, much like the venom that flowed in her blood, Nagini stressed each of her syllables to further show her distress of the sudden appearance.
Alexandria laughed sharply and tilted her head back, hand resting gently on the exposed skin of her stomach and eyes shut tightly from the force of her laughter.
“Nagini, I think,” She paused mid-sentence, holding back a giggle, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Nagini rolled her eyes and moved to lean against the wall beside her bedside table, eyes carefully trained on the dangerous woman that stood in her room and mind racing with wonders as to why she decided to appear all of a sudden. Hair still messy and untamed and left standing half-naked in front of the monster that raised her, Nagini couldn’t help but feel slight embarrassment settle in her stomach. She clenched her jaw to keep herself from hissing out anything that could anger Alexandria.
“Well, we both know you’re not here to spend time with your grandson,” Nagini said bluntly, yet it nicer than anything else she thought of. “So why are you really here?”
Alexandria hummed softly and lost her cheerful mood, the sudden change of attitude seeming to make the room a couple of degrees cooler.
“Right. Well,” She muttered, “Remember your dear friend, Mavis Phreignox?”
The name sent a shiver down Nagini’s spine as she held back an audible shudder. ‘Friend’ was far from the term she would use to describe that woman.
“How could I forget?” Nagini questioned rhetorically, “She almost ripped my tongue out for the sole reason of it, ‘looking peculiar’.”
The black haired woman in the room smirked at her daughter’s unfortunate memory and waved her hand out lazily beside her, shadows appearing along the floor and creating a lump before retreating back into their rightful places, leaving an unconscious body laying limply on the floor.
“Eris,” Nagini whispered out, pushing herself off the wall and heading towards her fallen sister.
Alexandria held up an arm to block Nagini from approaching her, yet the fanged wielder of sin smacked it out of the way without a second thought. She lowered herself down to her knees and brushed the black strands of hair from Eris’ pale face. Audibly gulping, she moved to rest her sister’s head in her lap.
“How did this happen?” Nagini said lowly, anger bubbling in her chest, “What did Mavis do to her?”
The mother of the two looked down at them with pity, hands folding delicately behind her.
“Nothing permanent, fortunately,” She said, “But the only way we’ll wake her is with your blood, dear. Since I don’t have literal venom for blood, you were the only one who could save her.”
Nagini looked down at Eris’ hauntingly peaceful face before raising a wrist to her lips, mouth opening and fangs digging sharply into her skin. Blood blacker than Alexandria’s shadows seeped out from the puncture wounds, dripping from her arm and onto the previously spotless floor. She placed her wrist against her sister’s mouth and moved to tilt her head back so that the blood may flow down her throat. After a couple of moments, Nagini retracted her wrist and licked the remainder of the blood off of her wounds.
“How long will it-”
“She’ll be awake within the next sunrise,” Alexandria interjected with a reassuring smile.”
With a shaky sigh, Nagini heaved her sister up in her arms and moved to lay her gently on the unmade bed, her usually cold eyes muddled with worry and concern. After making sure that Eris was laid comfortably on the mattress, the white-haired female hurriedly moved to dress herself. Beginning with her simple blouse and brown-leather bottoms, she then began to strap on the simple pieces of armor to her body.
“And what, might I ask,” Alexandria said suddenly, “Do you think you’re doing?”
Nagini scoffed, slipping her gloves over her hands and up to her elbows, tightening the straps once they were secure.
“What does it look like I’m doing, old woman?” She said with a taunting smirk, “I’m going to go slay myself a dragon.”
Alexandria shook her head and held a hand as a sign to stop her daughter’s motions.
“You can’t go alone, Little Snake,” Alexandria solemnly said, “Eris brought with her two trained Paladins, an Archer, and a powerful Sorcerer. They were taken out swiftly… But not even by Mavis.”
Nagini frowned as she listened to Alexandria speak.
“Mavis had a companion,” The ravenette said with a sigh, “Instead of doing her own dirty work, she got herself an Oracle with amazing abilities to fight her battles.”
“Oracle?” Nagini scoffed, “I’ve taken down bigger and badder than a lowly Oracle.”
Alexandria shook her head, her tone stern and serious.
“This isn’t just any kind of Oracle, Nagini,” She glanced towards Eris, “She can do things that no one thought were possible. Listen, she shattered the bones of the Paladins simply just by looking at them.”
Nagini stood still once she heard just what this girl was capable of, fear flashing through her eyes but disappearing just as quickly as it appeared. Fists shaking at her side, she inhaled sharply before opening up her hands and letting out a long, drawn out sigh. Something she learned to do when she was -cursed- blessed with Alekye. She looked back towards the comatose body of Eris and stared at her emotionless face.
“Then what do you suggest I do, Alexandria?” Nagini said, swallowing back her pride, “Mavis has done enough destruction.”
The ravenette chuckled softly, knowing it took a lot for Nagini to ask for advice, let alone from her.
“Get yourself a team, a strong one. Amazing abilities, strange powers, strong qualities, anything that you think will give you an advantage against that Oracle and against Mavis,” Shadows slowly began to engulf Alexandria as she spoke, “And remember, Little Snake - Your father and I will always come to aid you, you just need to say the word.”
With that, Alexandria winked at her daughter before fully succumbing to the darkness, her figure melting away into the shadows, leaving Nagini there with a small smirk on her face, her cocky aura redeeming itself.
“Well,” She said, looking towards Eris, “Looks like I’ve got some friends to visit.”
#the book of the damned#wip: the book of the damned#wip: prologue#writeblr#writers of tumblr#amateur writer#nagini viskolovia#alexandria thymes#mavis phreignox#eris viskolovia#neadaithe writes#neadaithe wips#original writing#excerpt: the book of the damned
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about your series dear reader, will we ever get to see Nico having a collab or featured song in the future... heehe... love your work btw
thank u for the ask!! and thank u for reading i’m so glad you like it <3 i’ve actually thought abt this quite a bit!! the thing with collabs, is that either i could use an irl celebrity, or i could make a character a celebrity and make them work with nico—so here are my thoughts on both options:
1) a real celebrity - i try to stay away from involving real life people in the fic, as in interactions, because i don’t know any of those people irl and i would hate to, like, mischaracterize someone or write positively abt someone who eventually gets revealed to be like a shitty person, yk? the most i’ve ever done, i think, is that one time i mentioned nico taking a picture with lorde - but even then, it wasn’t him talking abt her, it was just a picture that was posted. that, and the absurd amount of taylor swift name drops that i have, which i will never stop😭
basically, though i have considered it (my mind is literally CONSTANTLY imagine collabs of nico and other celebs/other songs), i literally have a playlist of them, i don’t think i would ever include it in the fic. simply bc of the concerns mentioned above :/
(however, i would like everyone to know that ive been imagining nico as a surprise guest on the rep tour, and having him featured on rep tv, for like- literally as long as ive had this au in my head. ill never write him collating with taylor (bc again idk i just feel strange writing abt real ppl) but in my head, it’s canon)
2) creating a new celeb - this one is hard, pretty much bc i’m… out of characters.
like, i still HAVE characters to use, but i already have plans for most of them and a majority of them aren’t actually part of the music industry. i could justify a collab between alex and nico bc she’s like the only music person i have written, but i also don’t wanna force that
if i ever do, which i doubt, bc i don’t have any plans to at the moment, it’ll be a pjo character, i just don’t have any idea of who that would be :/
oh and! last reason why i’m hesitant to add a collab - i feel like nico writing music is so engrained with him working with apollo as a producer, and their studio dynamic. obviously, it’s good to step out of your comfort zone, but i think that it’s also some sense of caution and comfort between them, that they’re the same people who will work on every nico di angelo song and album.
either way, i have seven albums outlined in total. the time span of greatest of luxuries goes from 2018-2024. that may be subject to change, but im feeling pretty confident abt it (it used to be 2028 btw😭) and anything PAST that time range is completely up to the reader!! i have lots of ideas of what could happen beyond that seventh album, and i have an idea (and a playlist) of the eighth album, but i can definitely imagine a lot of features in the future as he branches out. (and also him on rep tv. or ttpd. will update when ttpd comes out if i think there’s a specific song he’d slay as a feature on)
and lastly, for features. yes. he is on the hunger games tbosas soundtrack bc i say so‼️
(i imagine yellow flicker beat by lorde, even tho that was written for mockingjay, i just feel like it fits his vibe, but also, can’t catch me now works perfectly too)
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