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comfortless · 2 months

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Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

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

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

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

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

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

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

Nine, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you dream of fire.

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

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

Yet, you remain untouched.

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve overslept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no talk of the Goths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe not to most, but to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps he would even give chase…

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

Only then does he turn to look your way.

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

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

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

“Can you understand me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think it means?”

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

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

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

“You’re a bit rude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Run, then, little one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just not you.

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

“Where were you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then rest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

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

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

“You are married?”

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

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

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

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

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

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

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

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

“Do you trust me?”

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

“… I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

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

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

“That’s all?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You dream of fire.

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

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foibles-fables · 2 months

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writing patterns tag game

RULES: List the first line of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

Thanks @bluntblade for the tag, I love this one!!!

1- entering light (Horizon)

Countless nights spent alone in the wilds trained Aloy to be a light sleeper.

2- you never lived so light (Horizon)

Quiet morning in a western weald, interrupted.

3- sink into the edges 'round you (Horizon)

In every tired night’s late hours, defenses fade.

4- brave this time (Stray Gods)

Starlight shines through an ordinary window into an ordinary apartment, spilling over the entwined bodies of two beings who are learning to navigate ordinary’s lack.

5- bury these old knives (Horizon)

Despite her every white-knuckled intention of self-restraint, Ritakka flinches.

6- embodiment (Horizon)

Morning comes slow and calm and quiet.

7- dream geometries (Control)

Jesse’s nightmares are hazed in red.

8- don't go too deep into the flood (Horizon)

After, sated, they lie with bodies fast-entwined on a shared bedroll—face to face, skin held tight against skin, all the heat built up between them tempering down into silken, hazy warmth.

9- genuflection (Warrior Nun)

And Beatrice is learning that this, too, is an act of holiness.

10- keep me on fire (Legend of the Seeker)

It’s a hard world.

PATTERNS: uhhhh they're. Usually short? Other than that I got nothin', unless you can see something I don't!

TAGGING: ANYONE who wants to participate! Tag me as your tagger because I wanna see!

#tag games #foibles_fables

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trulybetty · 9 months

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Chiffon | Chapter One

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Warnings: implied alcohol abuse, implied drug abuse, reference to a previous volatile argument, angst. Word Count: 4,049 Summary: It's been almost a year since Bryony and Dieter have been in the same room, the last time had ended in raw truths and bitter words. AO3: Linked

x.chiffon masterlist.

Chiffon Chapter One.

Los Angeles, Present Day.

The Chateau Marmont, a timeless Hollywood icon, had borne silent witness to countless tales of glamour, scandal, and whispered secrets of the entertainment industry. If its walls could talk, they would spin legendary tales that would captivate any audience.

The Chateau's gardens had been transformed into a sparkling Eden, with fairy lights twinkling amidst the dark foliage. The normally humble pool, now under the luminous glow of floating lanterns, had been transformed, their flickering lights casting playful shadows. The scene was straight out of a vintage Hollywood film, radiating an opulence that spoke of the golden days.

The invitation had drawn Hollywood's crème de la crème to the 'Silver Screen Soirée: A Night of Legends,' a nostalgic nod to the glorious era of Hollywood, echoing the grandeur of Steve McQueen, Elizabeth Taylor, and Paul Newman. A notable industry event, it was hosted by one of the major studios, their flair for the dramatics was evident in the enchanting surroundings.

Dieter made minute adjustments to his suit jacket as he ventured into the lavish scenery. Respecting the theme, he had donned an impeccably tailored, single-breasted white suit jacket that nodded to the classic aesthetic. Underneath, a pristine, pleated bib tuxedo shirt peeked out, complemented by a sleek black satin bow tie. The ensemble was harmonized with black trousers and loafers, exuding elegance.

Tonight marked his first venture into the public eye since embarking on his quiet journey to sobriety. Already, the contrast was startling. The incessant heckling from the paparazzi, once an easily shrugged-off annoyance, now stung sharper in his newfound clarity. He’d struggled to maintain a façade of cheerfulness when an interviewer, with poorly masked glee, referenced the catastrophe of 'Cliff Beasts 6', suggesting that his career couldn’t plummet any lower.

Forcing down the lump in his throat, he replied, "Art, you see, is art. It's not confined by genre or bound by expectations. It's about exploring new horizons, experiencing diverse narratives." He paused, catching his reflection in the lens of a nearby camera. "After all, isn't that what makes us humans so extraordinary?"

He regretted the words as soon as they escaped his lips, the taste of his feigned pretentiousness threatening to make him retch. Yet, at that moment, standing under the lights at the Chateau Marmot, Dieter Bravo realized that the journey of self-discovery he was on would not be without its struggles.

He navigated through the kaleidoscope of Hollywood's elite, and expertly sidestepped the waiters who wove through the crowd, offering flutes of champagne on silver trays. Each offered glass was a gentle reminder of his recent commitment. While he hadn't gone completely teetotal, with the odd glass of wine at home on a rare occasion, he was certainly limiting alcohol at events like this that were usually a trigger, a resolution that he was intent on keeping that evening.

He surveyed the extravagant hotel grounds, an elaborate tapestry of luxurious flora and lavish decorations. The grand estate bore witness to countless debaucheries and the hedonistic exploits of celebrities past and present. The Marmont, as insiders affectionately referred to it, held as many stories as it did secrets, with Dieter's own personal narrative interwoven among them.

His memories of this place were often hazy, like a reel of film exposed to too much light. One particularly wild memory surfaced—a late-night post-premiere party where decorum had long since been abandoned. Recollections of naked bodies plunging into the pool in the early hours of the morning, lines of cocaine arranged with meticulous precision on gleaming silver trays just like the ones the waiters now carried—these were all fragments of a past he was striving to move beyond.

He had been one of them, a part of the revelry that night, swept up in a wave of reckless indulgence. The night had ended with him and a group of fellow stars in a hedonistic attempt to recreate the infamous pool scene from 'Showgirls'.

Now, sober and more self-aware, Dieter felt an odd disconnect. He was still a part of this world, but he no longer fit into it the way he used to. The ghosts of his past indiscretions still lingering.

Dieter approached the bar, bypassing the familiar allure of the myriad of alcoholic options on offer. He ordered a soda water with a slice of lime, choosing the drink for its tart taste that encouraged slow sipping. This way, he reasoned, his glass would always be in hand, providing a silent yet effective rebuttal to any offers of alcoholic drinks. While he was not ashamed of his decisions, he wasn't particularly interested in it becoming a subject of speculation or casual party conversation.

This journey towards sobriety was not his first rodeo, but it was the first one he was genuinely committed to. He had no desire to hear sarcastic references to his previous failed attempts—one of which had culminated in him making a show of checking into rehab for the benefit of the paparazzi, only to sneak out through the back door moments later, greeted by an idling limousine while having already downed half a bottle of vodka.

He murmured his thanks to the bartender and discreetly slid a generous tip across the smooth surface of the bar. Then, as if on cue, in a moment that seemed to be plucked straight out of an old Hollywood movie, the crowd of people momentarily cleared, and his eyes landed on her. Across the sprawling gardens, she was a vision, her deep brunette hair catching the light, creating a halo that seemed to set her apart from everyone else.

As he drank in the sight of her, a pang resonated through his chest, his heartbeat skipping in the familiar dance of yearning and remorse. It twisted his insides, a poignant reminder of what he had lost, of the love he had carelessly squandered.

Bryony.

She stood out even amongst the sea of Hollywood's glitterati. Many guests had adopted a relaxed interpretation of the 'Old Hollywood' theme, but Bryony had gone all in.

Her gown, a stunning blush pink that was reminiscent of the days when film was silver, fell to the floor in a cascade of silky fabric that hugged her. He watched her turn to greet someone who had called her name, the cape of the dress skimming the floor twirled with her in a bright upturn, much like the smile that now graced her face.

It was a visual homage to the bygone era, a nod to the glamour and sophistication that old Hollywood was known for. It was breathtakingly, heart-stopping beautiful—much like the woman wearing it.

Luxury was on grand display. Champagne was flowing in bountiful fountains, cascading down towers of crystal glasses that sparkled under the twinkling lights. Feathered centrepieces graced each table, adding an air of old-world glamour, while black and white portraits of classic movie stars from the 40s and 50s were scattered strategically across the sprawling hotel garden.

One particular portrait caught her eye. A golden-framed black and white photograph of Steve McQueen alongside his iconic car from Bullitt. She couldn't help but smile at the slight oversight. After all, Bullitt was a classic from the late 60s, missing the party’s theme by a good couple of decades. Nonetheless, the charisma and rugged charm of McQueen felt right at home among the vintage allure of the evening.

As she stepped into the luminescent garden, Bryony couldn't shake the feeling of being somewhat on display. Her attire for the evening was a pure work of art, something that she would have no business in purchasing for herself. Who, after all, could justify splurging a few thousand dollars on a dress that might never see the light of day again? Luckily, having a best friend who was a renowned stylist had its perks. Cricket, in her eternal resourcefulness, had procured the stunning dress for Bryony, a freebie loaner for a friend, that was worth a small fortune. Which also added to the anxiety Bryony had for the evening.

When the invitation came through for the event, Bryony had been reluctant to go, but with a script she was having a hard time getting traction on she needed the opportunity to network and pitch. So she had turned to Cricket for help, or a more apt explanation was that once Cricket got wind of Bryony attending an actual real in-person party for the first time in what seemed forever, even if it was a work event, had badgered her until Bryony gave in to Crickets request to dress her.

What followed after was a back-and-forth of emails with ideas and sketches from the stylist before Bryony off-handedly mentioned a love for a particular movie from the 40s and then as quickly as the emails had started they stopped. Communication abruptly ceased for three days, Bryony had been puzzled but also grateful for the break from the seemingly never-ending emails. Then, without any warning, on pinged her inbox. Its subject was impossible to ignore: 'THIS IS THE ONE, STOP LOOKING NOW & OPEN ME!!!'.

The dress was breathtaking. A meticulous modern reinterpretation of Lucille Ball's iconic outfit from "Du Barry Was A Lady" - the film Bryony had casually mentioned. Its unique cut emphasized Bryony's figure, while the ombré beadwork on the left shoulder added a touch of subtle opulence. The pièce de résistance, however, was a flowing cape that accompanied the dress. The cape swirled around her, making her feel as if she was wrapped in a bubble of glamour, and she found herself wondering if capes could become a staple in her everyday wardrobe.

As she navigated through the crowd, sipping her champagne and exchanging pleasantries with industry execs, she couldn't shake off the niggling feeling of anticipation. A sense of déjà vu washed over her as if history was about to repeat itself. Scanning the crowd, she spotted a few familiar faces. Some of them peers, others industry veterans, and a few up-and-coming talents.

And then, there he was.

Suddenly she was trying to catch her breath, her voice stolen. A wave of heat surged from the pit of her stomach, spiralling up and coiling around her neck. It settled as an uncomfortable lump at the back of her throat, a silent testament to the onslaught of chaotic emotions coursing through her.

The universe truly had a cruel way of throwing her in Dieter's path over and over again when she least expected it.

Dieter was holding sway over a crowd on the other side of the lush gardens. Even from this distance, his magnetism was unmistakable. His laughter, as infectious as ever, ricocheted, piercing through the dull murmur of scattered conversations around her. Each echo was a sharp twinge in Bryony's chest, her anxiety gnawing at her as she considered the possibility of crossing paths with him.

He appeared changed. He had filled out, shoulders broader and posture more commanding. His healthier appearance was hard to miss, an added vibrancy to his aura that made him seem more... alive. He bore striking resemblances to the Dieter she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

This was the first time Bryony had laid eyes on Dieter in nearly a year, marking the longest duration of time they had been apart since their initial encounter in New York half a dozen years prior. With each passing month, the notion that Dieter was genuinely a figure from her past gradually solidified. It had allowed Bryony to seriously consider, and even start to embrace, the prospect of moving forward without him.

The last time they had been in each other's presence, it had ended in a blazing argument of bitter truths. Bryony hadn’t held back, wanting to hurt him, and she did. She’d screamed at him until her voice was hoarse until he’d become silent at the viciousness of her words. Even then she hadn’t stopped, she had told him she didn’t care what became of him, even if he ended up in the gutters and to top it all off, that she would be happy to never see him again.

It was all lies.

She wouldn’t forget the hurt that had crossed his face at those words, the ones that had sobered him on the spot enough that he didn’t even have a trademark retort to throw back at her.

Hot tears on her face, she had just wanted him to feel the pain that she had been nursing ever since their bitter breakup years before. Wanted him to experience the ache that he constantly tried to drown in a sea of drugs and alcohol. She had wanted him to understand the depth of the wound he had inflicted on her—a wound that seemed to open anew every time they crossed paths.

As their eyes finally met over the din and sparkle of the party, a moment of acknowledgement passed between them. A moment stretched into a small eternity in which the noise of the world seemed to dim and their shared history came rushing back. The tension between them was palpable, even with a sea of people separating them.

Suddenly, as if a bubble had just popped within her ears, the pressure of the muffled noises around her dissipated and their silent exchange was quickly drowned out by laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the undercurrent of Hollywood gossip.

Her attention was pulled back by the gentle squeeze of her date's hand, Craig—a quiet, unassuming gesture that felt both comforting and alien. Looking up at him, she was struck by the contrast he presented to Dieter. Her date was not a magnetic force like Dieter, but he was solid, reliable. His eyes held a softness that offered security, a trait that was in stark contrast to Dieter's intense gaze.

As they moved deeper into the party, Bryony's mind was a tumult of thoughts. "You look stunning, Bryony," Craig murmured into her ear, his warm breath tingling against her skin. He pressed his body against hers, his hand finding its way to the small of her back, offering silent reassurance.

A practised smile graced her features as she replied, "Thank you." It was a token of appreciation for his compliment, one that felt hollow in her chest.

They waded through the claustrophobic, jostling crowd, the ceaseless buzz of conversation, the clang of glasses against each other echoing around them. Bryony's gaze inadvertently flickered back to the far side of the garden to where she had just seen Dieter, he was gone now. A sharp uninvited pang of melancholy pierced at her chest that had her reaching up and placing a hand against it as if to stop the feeling from spreading, but it was too late. The anxiety and sadness that Dieter’s presence brought her seemed to be a permanent cross she was due to bear and she wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve it.

As if sensing her upset, Craig offered her a warm smile. His fingers intertwined with hers, their connection tethering her amidst the sea of chaos. His voice was a gentle hum in her ear as he tried to distract her with humorous anecdotes from his recent project. She laughed, the sound echoing around them, a semblance of normalcy in a situation that was anything but. Yet, even as she laughed at Craig's jokes, her gaze would drift, time and again, towards Dieter.

Elegantly weaving through the throng of industry professionals, producers, and artists, Dieter had managed to disengage himself from the mundane conversation he had just been a part of. He had been distracted by the presence of Bryony, her solitary figure amidst the sea of people, was all the motivation he needed. Her face was alight with a reserved excitement that made his heart skip a beat, even after all these years.

Approaching her, he watched as her gaze shifted, from abstract greenery around her to him. He watched Bryony’s eyes widen a fraction before looking around for a likely means to leave before he got to her. The uncertainty in her eyes as he got closer formed a knot in the pit of his stomach causing him to frown. There had been a time that his presence of just his name in a conversation would light up her face.

"Hey," he said softly as he finally reached her, "It's been a while."

She was as beautiful as he remembered, perhaps even more so. His eyes traced the elegant curve of her jaw, the softness of her lips, and the bright spark in her eyes that had always captivated him. He remembered how those eyes used to soften when she looked at him, how they used to light up with laughter.

"Dieter," she greeted, her voice steady, betraying none of the tumultuous feelings stirring within her.

She had spent the evening skillfully sidestepping any chances of coming face-to-face with him. Her heart pounding as she manoeuvred through the room, engaging in animated conversations, laughing at all the right moments, sipping her drink just so. To anyone watching, Bryony was the epitome of poise and grace, unflappable in the spotlight. But beneath the composed exterior, her thoughts were a chaotic jumble.

Every conversation seemed to revolve around Dieter to some degree, the industry insiders speculating on his noticeable sobriety that evening, questioning the sincerity of his recent rumoured attempt at rehab. They spoke in hushed tones, taking bets on how long until he would relapse. Dieter had earned his reputation as the Hollywood bad boy over the past three years for due reason, his erratic behaviour and substance abuse issues leading to him being blacklisted from all major studios.

Whenever his name surfaced in conversation, she'd listen politely, an unreadable smile on her face. Then she could she would expertly steer the conversation in another direction.

And now, here he was, standing in front of her. She couldn't deny the lump in her throat or the slight fluttering in her stomach. Again, taken aback by how good he looked, it really was as if he was glowing.

For a moment, they stood in silence, an undercurrent of nostalgia and unspoken words passing between them.

"Da-" his nickname for her on his tongue, not sure if he was allowed that formality anymore he corrected himself, "Bryony," he replied, his voice more husky than he intended. "It's good to see you."

Bryony eyed him for a moment, she hadn't missed the slip in the almost use of his nickname for her. There hadn't been a moment since their breakup where he hadn't relished using it or dropping it in conversation. The fact that he'd stopped himself left her conflicted, one part was thankful that he was finally respecting her boundaries, while another part mourned the loss of the intimacy the endearment had represented.

The mental back and forth of the evening was giving her a headache.

"How are you?" she asked, purposefully avoiding the question of whether she was glad to see him, especially when she was still working that one out herself.

"Good," he responded, the word so simple, yet full of meanings she wasn't sure she wanted to decipher, "I'm doing good."

The awkwardness, the formalities, and the fact that he hadn't made a sexually inappropriate comment yet were disarming to Bryony.

A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only with the ambient noise of the party. As they stood there, a sudden gust of wind rustled through the leaves overhead. A stray lock of Bryony's dark hair was caught in the breeze, obscuring her face momentarily. Acting on reflex, Dieter reached out and gently tucked the strand behind her ear.

It was then he spotted it. The delicate outline of a triangle nestled inside another triangle tattooed just behind her left ear— a small, discreet, yet significant mark. His breath hitched slightly, memories flooding back with poignant intensity.

"You didn't…" he started, his voice just a whisper. The tips of his fingers traced the tattoo's edge, she stiffened at his touch.

"Dieter…" her voice was low, almost a murmur. She didn't meet his eyes, in fear of what she would see there.

He moved his hand away, a torrent of emotions swirling within him. Betrayal wasn't one of them. Hurt, maybe. Confusion, definitely.

"You said you had it removed," he said quietly, his gaze now fixed on her profile.

Long ago, still hurt by his actions and their recent breakup, she had claimed the tattoo was removed. She recalled the flicker of hurt that crossed his face, swiftly masked by his trademark grin as he ordered another round of shots for the group he was entertaining.

With a playful twirl, he had left Bryony alone at the hotel bar, his arm already slung around a blonde bombshell who seemed all too eager to whisper sweet nothings into his ear—her tongue not staying entirely in her own mouth. The memory lingered, a poignant reminder of the complicated history they shared.

She finally turned to meet his gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. "I lied," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the soft rustling of leaves and the hum of the party around them.

His mind was spinning, old emotions and new revelations colliding within him. Yet, he knew this wasn't the time to unpack everything. She'd lied, yes, but she'd also carried their shared symbol with her all these years.

"That's… surprising," he finally said, his tone carrying no accusation, just raw honesty.

She nodded, her eyes still locked with his. In that silence, a new understanding passed between them. Their past was complicated, their present even more so.

Over the months Bryony had imagined so many different ways of running into Dieter again, each one she’d act nonchalantly and give him no time of day. What she hadn’t planned for in all of these theoretical scenarios was that he could show up seemingly sober and looking like her Dieter, the one before Hollywood got their claws into him.

Her breath catching in her throat, anxiety bubbling in her chest she clutched the champagne flute in her hand so hard she was afraid she was going to break it. She needed to leave, she needed the calm that only came with distance from Dieter.

She finally turned to look at him, unable to meet his eyes, afraid she could easily slip into old habits

“It was good seeing you Dieter, I'm..." she paused, grasping at what to say, before she settled on, "I'm glad you're doing well.”

“Bryony,” he pleaded, unsure himself what he wanted from her, but knowing he wasn't ready to see her leave.

“I have to go,” she finally muttered before quickly turning away from him,

Dieter watched her go, slipping into the crowd and disappearing out of sight. He was very much aware that he held no claim over her, and had no entitlement to any part of her.

The chase of his first highs had hit a wall in the aftermath of his Oscar win. He had tried and failed to recapture the intoxicating ecstasy of that victory. The newfound pressure that came with the title of "Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo" was a weight he was unprepared for. It had sent him spiralling, the chase of his initial highs morphing into a desperate escape from the reality of his faltering grasp on everything.

He’d taken advantage of Bryony being there, secure in the belief that no matter what he did, she would always be there to pick up the pieces. Because no matter what shit he pulled, she always showed up.

Until one day she didn’t.

He knew that he couldn't lay claim to any part of her. He had forfeited that right when he had chosen everything but her and expected her to be okay with it.

He was left standing alone in the crowd, his heart heavy. The echo of her absence was a grim reminder of the price he had paid for his choices. And as the party went on around him, Dieter was left struggling with the sobering reality of his actions and their fallout.

He had a long way to go and many bridges to mend.

Bonus:Cricket's email...

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the bubble

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buriedabove · 5 months

Text

@blitzkriegers

It started happening again. The restless nights, which are somehow worse than the sleepless ones, standing above the chipped sink in the motel bathroom and scrubbing away the blood that isn’t even there ( not visibly, at least; his palms always feel drenched ). All of that crowned with countless hours of staring into the mirror for so long until he looks like himself again. If only he could take this burden, those immeasurable heaps of anguish in his cracked hands, squeeze it into a suitcase and bury it six feet under in the middle of nowhere… If only anything was ever that easy, if only he wasn’t riddled with such aversion whenever it comes to admitting things. But it seems like one way out, the least complicated one, never goes away. Run ahead and pray whatever you’re running from won’t eventually catch up with you. Usually, Leon would go back to Colorado — hole up in a rented cabin and hunch over a fishing rod. This time around, he didn’t even notice when a slight shift in his trajectory led him here. Driving down some old cobblestone road. The car radio breaks into a fuzzy cacophony of squawking and screeching the closer he gets to the gate adorned by oh-so welcoming iron spikes at the top. The engine soon joins in, banging and rattling until it gives out. A vexed groan rumbles at the back of his throat as he fights with ignition, sticking the key in over and over again, twisting it back and forth before the last breath disperses under the rusty hood. “ I needed to stretch my legs anyway, ” he mutters to himself and slams the door close, scaring off a horde of birds feasting on scarce seeds to his left. No such thing as too precautionary, so he thrusts his loyal Silver Ghost into the holster fastened to his belt at the back, right under the worn out sheepskin jacket. And off he goes. Leaning against one side of the wooden gate, he pushes it open to reveal a weirdly forlorn village. Almost like it belongs on a page torn out of a fable retold by generations as a chilling urban legend. It’s strange, but also half-familiar. With shadows of mountains towering over him far on the horizon, blurred by the thick fog, he stomps down the beaten path taking him to one of the many houses looking like a harder blow of the wind could knock it down ( if not a sneeze alone ). Peeking through the split window, it seems like it was abandoned all of a sudden. Like someone left in the morning and didn’t make it back home. Scattered stained cutlery, pots still on the stove, a picture frame laying face-down on the floor. Compelled by curiosity, Leon shuffles towards the door. The cottage might be on the verge of falling apart, but the lock turns out to be holding it together. More luck next time, maybe. Walking off, deeper and deeper into the village, he nearly misses out on the hazy silhouette passing past his peripheral vision. He spins around on his heel; a disdainful smirk begs to dig its claws into the corners of his lips, “ Hey, uh… You’re the tour guide? ”

#sorry to barge in like this. ❯ writing.#depersonalisation tw #blitzkriegers #there ya go i'm ready for the chaos >:)

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uchiha-7thsingularity · 2 years

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When Last legacy and fictif was at it's peak in the beginning...I made a fanmade song. Was curious what the song would be to introduce the Last Legacy 2.0, if Mike Morgan (disgusting idiot he is shown to be), when releasing the game at comic con to hype fans up.

Last Legacy Theme Song

[Intro]

Downloading…….

1 …. 2

3 ….. 4 …… 5

6…..

……..7…….

8 ……… 9 ……… 10!

Download Complete.

Begin Game.

[Verse1]

For so long, the hazy days went by before my curious eyes. I was foretold of the legends that flew so high in the hue sky. Till the day, I was summoned upon an illuminated realm of mystical journeys. A trail of secrets is laid out as the routes' goes on with a hint of doubt.

[Pre-Chorus 1]

Breathless for a moment, purely grateful for a new reality. Just a chance to cosplay as the soldier for a brand new day. Heartbreak is a risk but my possibilities are endless.

[Chorus 1]

Not a moment to, late the Starsworn sealed their own fate. Destiny had ventured through a portal to announce their mortal doom. Heart and soul, the consequences will grow, but my love for you is pure than you'll ever get to know.

[Bridge 1]

Aahhhha.. Aahhhhh…. Aaaahhhhhh!

[Verse 2]

Beware the shadows roaming all around.

Magic starts to play a role in a magical tale foretold in ways to warn lost souls. Last legacy prospers every second of the day to fulfill a promise guaranteed.

[Pre-Chorus 2]

Ventured forth to achieve the true ending which feels like an eternity. On the edge of the horizon surrounding a mystical foreign land. Illpheta roamed along with humans to create a peaceful world to live upon. One foolish man corrupted, roaming over every lifeless man, who blindly kneels before his tainted throne.

[Chorus 2]

[Bridge 2]

Aahhhha.. Aahhhhh…. Aaaahhhhhh!

[Verse/ Bridge 3]

For years, the Starsworn vowed to fight to save their one and only home they've ever known. A mercenary escaped without a trace, masking the misery he formerly faced against, only to find a faithful calling. Wielding a blade the loyal knight captures those against the law, reclaiming herself from her tainted blood, in her eyes her moral code is never wrong. Merely, grieving his first love reaped by death's familiar hands, the necromancer aspired to use his magic to unearth his family's validity, in the depths of a hollow hell he will surely rule with a single goodbye spell.

[Chorus 3]

[Bridge 4]

Aahhhha.. Aahhhhh…. Aaaahhhhhh!

[Outro]

Salute the soldiers, bid them all well, for your story leads to a list of credits. In hopes of beholding the stars once again, be sure to restart from the beginning, careful of the choices you make in the next subsequence. For neither fates, nor the stars, can keep you far from the final sincere end.

Wouldn't be against it, if anyone wanted to sing this?!

P.s.: Still waiting for Dorian to do anything or something with Fictif.

I hope you enjoy!

#fictif #last legacy #felix iskandar escellun #anisa anka #sage lesath #theme song #fan song #lyrics

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iamdotwav88 · 8 months

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The Legend, the Assassin and the creative visionary who helped change my perspective on life…

It was winter of 2022 and I was laying on my sofa, listening to 90’s hip-hop and other underground tunes, when I came across a Kool G Rap song titled “Real Life”. The song was incredibly catchy, sexy and reminded me of a summer night cruising through the city while looking at the skyline and smoking some good herb. New York hip-hop has been my top selection ever since I can remember when I first developed a love for underground rap and hip-hop. I’d put Nas, Kool G Rap, Wu Tang Clan, MF Doom, Mobb Deep among other artists on shuffle but lately, I’ve sparked curiosity for artists from the West Coast and the South- so that definitely enabled me to expand my horizons musically. I had OutKast and UGK incorporated into a random hip-hop playlist I compiled together, then PUTS, The Pharcyde, and Dilated Peoples were added along with other artists- Alchemist making an appearance and the playlist began to expand. I immediately delved into the song “Real Life” and decided to watch the music video and research who produced that song. I discovered two men in the video who looked very familiar to me and it began to click, Cypress Hill was in that music video with Kool G Rap and I looked up the group members of Cypress Hill soon after, seeing that the same producer of Real Life was a man named DJ Muggs. Sure this was a recent discovery for me but it was magical. There he was - he piqued my interest not only physically, but as soon as I kept on listening to more of Cypress Hill, I discovered that he produced a plethora of songs over the course of 30 + years and eventually, I became enamored by his music and persona. He created an entire musical Collective called Soul Assassins well outside of just his Cypress Hill fame. He has worked with artists from many different genres of music over the decades and has even scored music for several films. Incredible. He even acted in a Soul Assassins movie that is being released soon. I have never seen any other music producer really go beyond their own limits like Muggs. Coincidently, DJ Muggs is originally from Queens, exactly where Kool G is from so he decided to incorporate New York sound into some of his productions while switching back to Latino-influenced hip-hop fused with dark, hazy beats that he sampled from other genres that essentially was Cypress Hill’s identity. I noticed that Muggs has been currently working with another Queens-based rapper, Meyhem Lauren, who slightly reminds me of a cross between Biggy and Kool G Rap. It’s refreshing to see this creative dude tap back into his NY roots.

I would get lost in some of his songs. His music touched me so significantly in unique ways that nobody’s music has ever had the same effect on me- not even some of the DJ’s I grew up listening to, such as DJ Shadow, Cut Chemist, Herbie Hancock and more. I began to watch his interviews and listen to more of his music. A few songs in particular, including General Principles featuring Wu Tang’s talented GZA the Genius, was on repeat and got me through some incredibly melancholy, dark and fucked up thoughts that made me reevaluate where I wanted to go with my life. Where I’ve been, isn’t it. Call it an outlet, it doesn’t matter. It helped me not want to throw myself out of a window. My apologies for anybody that is triggered seeing this, but I have to be sincere. I’m over those thoughts now, please rest assure.

Going back to the topic of Wu Tang Clan, seeing the game of chess incorporated into hiphop music especially how much of it is spoken about in Wu’s lyrics, was so refreshing to see. Reminded me of my childhood when I used to play chess, but I wasn’t any good. I even began to appreciate Cypress Hill more and discovered that B Real is also a chess player. I can honestly say that Cypress Hill is one of my all time favorite music groups aside from Muggs’ production. I love B Real and Sen Dog’s chemistry and lyrical flow. I like Eric Bobo’s drumming style. Where have I been all these years? Speaking of years, S/O to all of the other artists you’ve worked with throughout the years.

There is something about you that just draws me in. But I feel dejected that my efforts have lead me to nowhere. What entices me the most about you, is that raw energy that you bring to the table, your unapologetic and brash nature yet how subtle and humble you are. You always remain somewhat of a mystery to your audience and I can’t help but feel excited to listen to one of your songs. You’re so versatile that you can work with any music genre besides hip-hop. You don’t necessarily like to conform but try to stick to maybe more of that and not really focusing on what your male listeners care about - half nude women in music videos. You’re much better than that with extraordinary talents in music and the visions you have. Who can forget your “Muggstep” phase back in 2011-2013? So incredibly cute. Trust me when I say, that’s the side of you that arouses me. You intimidated me but in a way, if I spent enough time with you, I’d feel comfortable around you. Your dark complexion, aqua colored eyes, rugged and distinctive features are only a small portion of what’s attractive about you. The way you spin around 180 degrees on the turntables, just like you did during the DMC competition during your youth, nothing changed and I love that about you. You’re full of life. You even hold up gang signs like it’s a fashion statement and look mellow yet assertive doing so — the confidence you exude, the way you effortlessly put together melodies in such a harmonious way. You even did backup rapping for Cypress Hill back in the day, I remember that. There is nothing you cannot do musically even if you took up a new instrument. Your talents are unparalleled. Your rebellious nature is unwavering.

Aside from your music, even though I don’t know you on a personal level, I tried to achieve that and failed because I was anxious and scared shitless. I don’t know if you realize that. I only know what I have seen on the surface level but I'm mostly a blank canvas to you. I think you may be genuine and you actually are loyal and care about your fan base. You have probably had an overwhelming amount of fans and groupies try to win your over attention but my goal hasn’t even been that. I care more about your life, upbringing and what made you continue being passionate about music. Your wealth, popularity and fame hasn’t been important to me. It’s just you as a person, but I don’t want to get into semantics and I’ll just leave it at that for now.

Either way, I would apologize because you didn’t do anything wrong - that was my bad. If I could take it back, I would. You’re someone who I value even if we don’t personally know one another. It’s not as though I can easily communicate with you, it’s not really feasible thus I’m going to try to once again— leave it alone for now. It’s too fresh. If you happen to see this, I hope you know that you are unique, you are a visionary, you are creative and you are someone I would probably never get bored speaking with. Unfortunately, my anxiety and nerves interfered and you did not see the positive sides of me when we did briefly meet. I hope that I’m not overstepping anything but if I could get another chance to see you and maybe speak to you, I’d do it in a heartbeat, under different circumstances that is. Thanks for making incredible beats and being generous to your fans. Thanks for pushing weed legalization and getting on the SNL stage 30 years ago, lighting that joint and not giving a damn. You made a statement. You’re bold, never afraid to push the envelope, are hardworking and unlike any music maker out there.

For any haters who don’t support you, they have poor taste and fail to understand you. You think I may one of those people but I wouldn’t be writing this entry in my blog if that was the case. I’ve always supported you until I became bitter and upset. So I want to try and know you better, not just on the surface level. I haven’t taken any of this lightly and I broke down because sometimes, I don’t know what I’m even doing truthfully and it’s an unsettling feeling. To meet someone important to me and have it backfire, was not my intention. My life isn’t at all where I want it to be but I won’t get further into that now. What I can say, is that you’ve indirectly inspired me to write more about music, create content and do different things that I never envisioned myself doing. I’m becoming more fearless now, am starting to take better care of myself mentally and physically and am finding ways to get out of my comfort zone. I’ve learned how to stand my ground and no longer put up with anybody’s shit thanks to you. I wish I could forget all of this and move on, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. In the interim, I don’t have much of a choice. I have to handle a lot of important matters but you’re definitely still on my mind. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t pursue your music or your life story sooner but you’ve indirectly done a lot for me through your music.

Our families are both European immigrants. We’re 20 years apart. Dali is one of my favorite artists and I was the Dali museum in Florida. Fell in love. There are many layers I want to peel away if you allow me to.

I’m giving credit where credit it due. Never forget how rare you are. You will influence so many other artists for years to come, however, nobody will be able to replicate you. It’s just a generational thing. The way you grew up listening to your uncle’s classic rock records and the street environment you grew up in — helped shape your music style. It’s simply engrained in you. So in general terms, someone either has it or they don’t. You were simply born to make music.

Take care of yourself. You have my respect.

Good times | Bad times

Till later.

-z xx

2000

1997

2021

2022

1987 -1988

1991

2005

1997

2009

1999 or 2000?

#cypress hill #soul assassins

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hazethestrange · 2 years

Text

Hazy Horizons Legend : D

I was having way too much fun with him lolol

#doodle #legend of zelda #loz au #hazy horizons #hazy horizons legend #hh legend #sorry for spamming my au #i just haven't motivation to do fanart as of late #but will get back to it soon hopefully!

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mx-illusionment · 11 months

Text

Battlefront Legends

“Report, Sergeant,” Captain Willbough commanded. He didn’t bother looking up, engrossed in the holo-projected map of the deployment zone.

“Everything on schedule,” Sergeant Bandris replied with a snapped salute. “Materiel in place. Troop drops incoming, no losses reported.”

“Good,” Willbough said. He didn’t continue, which Bandris knew was to be taken as a dismissal. Bandris walked out of the crude shelter crafted from a munitions crate from the last supply drop. Always the best for the Guard, as usual. Ed and Tom were waiting outside, also as usual. The two always managed to have the most nervous expressions on their faces, despite their muscled bulk and years of veterancy.

“What’s the news, Sarge?” Ed asked, his fingers tapping against the barrel of his lasrifle.

“No news,” Bandris replied. “Captain is heads-down in his holos. But he’s not shouting or red-faced, so I’m assuming everything’s in order. For now.”

“Weren’t there reports of knights incoming?” Tom asked. “I mean, the traitor ones. I can’t imagine them sending out any of the noble houses to defend a nameless rock like this one.”

“Just rumors,” Bandris said. He started making his way to the armory. Predictably, the two followed at his heels. “Besides, with as close as the front is we would have heard their footsteps already.”

“From that far off?” Ed asked, staring off at the horizon as if he was trying to make out the events occurring miles away. “You’ve seen them in a fight before?”

Bandris nodded, “Once. Three of them. War Dogs, they called them. And those are the smaller ones, too. Still did a number on any unit they got in close to.” He shook his head and strapped his favorite pistol to his belt. “Be lucky you’ve never heard or seen one. Only reason I made it was that I was crewing a Basilisk on the back line.”

The sounds of battle were getting closer. That was expected. Bandris wasn’t permitted to make it widely known, but most of the lives being spent out there were just a delay tactic to set the stage for an Astartes drop. It was about 50/50 whether this camp would be overrun within the hour.

Dark clouds started pouring in over the horizon, black even against the dark sky of this cursed moon they’d been sent to defend for what reason only the Emperor knew. The flare of lasfire and explosions glimmered faintly against the clouds, but muffled. Like the clouds were eating the light itself.

And then a familiar, pounding quake ripped through the ground. Steady, implacable. Bandris’s throat went dry and he looked up, his gaze matching Ed’s now. How? That sort of thing doesn’t just sneak up. What in the Emperor’s name?

All three of them were staring now, at the smoke, at the clouds, at the horizon. A pair of glowing eyes, dozens of feet from the ground, and a mechanical mask of a monster. Somehow both here and not here, its form was hazy and translucent. Only the red of its eyes and the unmistakable aura of a volkite cannon felt real. And the fury of that weapon as it scorched man and earth alike.

“The Ghost of Nachmund,” Bandris whispered. “It was supposed to be a legend.”

#original writing #writeblr #writing #microfiction #flash fiction #warhammer #warhammer 40k #fanfic #astra militarum #chaos knights

0 notes

sabineelectricheart · 1 year

Text

Song of the Caged Bird

Summary: Cupid has only one thing for herself in her prison, her singing. Her captor takes that away, too.

Rating: M - Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Words: 1000

Notes: The tag on AO3 was so lonely that I felt that it was a waste. So, here we are.

Cupid cried, kept quiet, slept and sang.

Every day was the same for her. The sun rose and fell from the sliver of a horizon that could be seen from her window, in a place that she does not know where it is, exactly. In fact, everything in these last few years is strange and hazy at best, and no-one was interested in walking her through the timeline of events. Not that there was anyone to talk to, anyways.

He left her in a cute little room underground, which served essentially as a holding cell, and said he would be back as soon as possible. It has been some seven sun cycles since then, but she is not holding her breath. It was lonely, but she could appreciate the silence.

There was little to do, though. He had taken away her bow and arrow, which she had been able to steal back, and there is not much in the way of entertainment in this new world. It reminded her of her earliest years as a goddess, back to the times of the Bonfire of Vanities. Things are strange and she longs for the life she has known as human.

Cupid is allowed some concessions, though, as she is allowed to retain artifacts from the times before. He wanted her to play with the expensive items he brought and preserved for her until he came back, so that she would not be too bored and remember him.

Yes, it was incredibly nice to be surrounded by things to remind her of him. Even if it hurts to see love and happiness and electricity shown on the screen, even if it came at a too steep of a price.

So, she sang and sang, to escape reality. It had been a habit she had picked up during her centuries of godly cloister, a habit she had not been compelled to follow on in the seven years she lived in Los York.

She closed her eyes and dreamed that she was free again. She wished to be free when she was singing, just like in the olden days. Singing was her only key to escape from him, from this place, and she wanted to protect it no matter what.

Alas, she could not.

"I will be right back, I promise." He kissed her lips with a deceiving softness and hugged her firmly.

Cupid started singing as soon as she heard the door closing. She closed her eyes and dreamed, unaware of him.

He listened to the woman for a long time. Did she always sing like this? Why did she not sing when he was with her? Is this why his soul, before he was awakened to his true nature, felt so connected with her? It is like the sirens of the Odyssey, it is sweet perdition in song form.

She just proved to him that she indeed is an actual goddess. Not the sort of grotesque creature, like Minerva, or self-aggrandizing fools, like Jupiter. A goddess from the legends that Aristotle taught him many millennia ago. One with actual powers and abilities, with potentialities, and not merely the representation of a meaningless feeling that floated in weaker hearts and minds.

Alexander was enthralled.

"My beautiful, divine goddess. My queen, my precious goddess."

The moment that Cupid heard his ecstatic voice, she stopped and started to tremble. How could she be so careless?

"Why do you never sing while I am around?” The blond man wonders aloud and opens the shut door. “You are a shy, so shy goddess, trying to withhold this gift from your Basileus."

He enters the room again, sat down on a chair and took the woman on his lap, snaking his strong arms tightly around her waist. He grabs her face with pure admiration and caresses her hair.

"Your shyness makes me so wild, my goddess, I can barely contain myself. I scarcely believe that you had this gift all this time and never deigned to mention it, even once. How could you hide it from me?” He wonders, with just a tint of rage lacing his voice.

“Dominus, I…” Cupid choked, but words would not leave her throat.

Alexander held up a hand, demanding her silence. He smiled, one that, in all objective metrics, should be just like the one which she once loved more than life itself. Alas, this man did not seem like himself, it was a twisted smile, tainted with blood, violence and obsession. None of the innocence she came to love, all gone to never return.

“I care not for excuses, and it does not matter. Now, sing for me." He demands, lust taking over his eyes. "Sing for me, my goddess."

"Please, please do not do this." She cried.

"Why are you crying? Are you too shy to sing?" He kissed her lips.

"It was my only way to…" She sobbed. He stopped holding her face and rested her head on his shoulder. "You cannot have it. You have so much, and I…!"

"Shh. It is perfectly fine if you are not ready, yet.” He consoles, patronizing. “We have all the time in the world and you can sing for me later."

"N-no!" She tried to get away but he held her tight. "Let me go!"

"My shy little goddess needs to be comfortable enough, that is all. Do you understand me?” His hold on her waist tightens uncomfortably. “You are too shy, which is why you are acting like this."

"No, I want to go. I want to be free!" She cried and sobbed over and over again.

Cupid felt cornered, as if her entire existence was now over. His hands running through her hair and waist made she shudder. She felt like a trapped pet, crying and begging for a mercy that would never come, praying for a god that has already been slaughtered.

"Quiet, I am here." Alexander lovingly kissed the top of her head.

She screams in despair.

*_*_*_*_*

Cupid Parasite Masterlist

#cupid parasite #Alexander the Great

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suicideourstory · 2 years

Text

Suicide; Our Story

authored by Joseph M.

Chapter 8: Stories Cross; The Stories Crossed

“I ship fresh human meat; that’s a difficult opportunity to come by,” said the Brooklyn Butcher. “Sure, my business has had complications and setbacks in the past, but those are minor flaws.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s becoming unethical,” the principal said. “Picking nosy students: putting their noses where they shouldn’t be, in the back dumpsters and in the closets of our school kitchen; it’s just not right. Either we stop doing business together or you get your human meat cuts from somewhere else; one of your victims was found in the school dumpster. They were skinned, mutilated and their fingers were hacked off, and now the deputy sheriff has his eyes on us.”

“Then get his eyes off us,” replied the butcher. “Tell him something to ward him off. Give him an excuse like, ‘I’m too busy to be murdering a bunch of children,’ or, ‘Don’t tell me why they’re skinned in a dumpster; I wouldn’t know,’ something like that.”

The principal muttered, “One of our students knows too much. His name is Justin Williams, and he’s a close friend. Particularly, he’s close to you. He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

Gripping his meat cleaver, the butcher grumbled, “Yes, but he isn’t in the way. He’s a minor obstacle in our business. If he finds out, I’ll butcher him too.”

Slobbering childishly over icky, gooey bubble gum, Detective Ridley said to my therapist, “The accusations of first-degree murder, assault and cannibalism are cleared. The police are looking at his boyfriend as a suspect though. Jasper’s fingerprints were found on a cleaver ditched at an old warehouse near the scene of the crime.”

“Perhaps then,” said Doctor Brannings, “Jasper might be the real perpetrator, wouldn’t you concede the same?”

Clicking his pen, the detective reasoned, “The blood on the cleaver was fresh when we found it several days ago. We examined the deoxyribonucleic acid, and it matched with the DNA of his school’s principal.”

I said, slinging my duffle bag around my shoulder, “A couple nights ago, I had a dream about an abattoir. I was skinning a dead cow, before I woke up; a couple nights before that, I had a dream I was in a detective noir, and several nights before, I was contacting a master who said his name was Kajira. Does that name mean anything to any of you, or does it have anything to do with this investigation?”

“Legends tell that Kajira mastered a form of light energy; supposedly he was able to conjure powerful visions of the past and the future. His sorcery was so great, but he was enveloped by The Undefeated Nothing, which mastered the antithesis of this unknown and light energy,” said Doctor Brannings. “The Undefeated Nothing drained his powers, and eventually swallowed him whole. This dark energy is seemingly manifesting every day within a lifeless corner of the known universe.”

“Dark energy is a trouble the good doctor is familiar with,” said Doctor Francos Mos-Gerran.

Doctor Brannings embarrassingly realizes, “I forgot to introduce you to my colleagues; him over there is Detective Ridley, the lovely gentleman over there in the white lab suit is my assistant, Dr. Bryce Jessman; he over there is Justin Williams, ex-patient of mine, and I’m Doctor Brannings, and to everyone, this is Doctor Francos ‘Cosmos’ Mos-Gerran.”

Doctor Mos-Gerran said, “What you call dark energy and bad vibes, we theorized to be an ancient darkness approximately three thousand years ago, called dritchen, and this dritchen is the cause to sin and the cause to despair and heartbreak; gluttony, sloth, wrath, envy, lust, greed and pride all stem from dritchen. But that was a myth—until now, and we’re in danger. So bring in the tarragon, dragons and wyverns, and drakes and giant flying lizards of mythos, because there’s a war on the horizon, and we need firepower.”

From a noir detective scene, to a hazy and tinted rouge abattoir, to a soft, beautiful meadow of cherry blossoms and cornflowers, with children sprinting through the fields, and bumble bees sipping surplus nectar from the moist flowers, and peacocks, flamingos, doves and robins swept through the trees, and the trivial chitter-chatter and babbling of happily clueless adults, then I stumbled into a lovely garden, with a familiar figure dressed in azure garments stamped with yellowish stars, and swaying robes and softly flowing brown hair, and their lovely blue eyes laid on mine, and led their hand led me through a lovely village, where nobody needed to toil for food, and she told me I was repentant, therefore absolved, and I could return to the earthly realm to seek soon peace, and I would return here when the time came, and soon be free of my nightmares, and I nodded, and the woman led me to the earthly gate, and I woke up.

“Suicide hurts people; millions of lives are taken every day, affecting hundreds of thousands of families,” said Vice President Torres. “To stop the suicide crisis, we must reject stereotypes, and accept kindness.” Of course, I knew he didn’t mean this. He was saying this to flatter himself.

Vice President Torres is a corrupt dictator, and he wouldn’t save a suicidal person. He spoke like this to warm up to the audiences; his “from-the-heart” ideas on suicide would be on their mind when they cast their vote, and he would become president. His words were nothing more than meaningless babble, trying to sway public opinions. Of course, I already had the shotgun pointed to my chin, so any talks of suicide prevention, whether by a corrupt ruler or a kind passerby, wouldn’t talk me out.

I was shaking; a river of tears poured from my dreary red eyes, as I perched over my bed, over moist, crumpled towelettes; over viscous bleach spilled on the marine-blue rug. Trembling like an injured, dying, roadkill-to-be, left to die on the gravelly highway that I wandered onto, I said, “Lord God, I tried to live, but there’s no other way anymore, with my boyfriend being a murderer and my parents dead, and now there’s a war against bad vibes, or something like that, on the horizon; and the school kids are bullies and the principal is dead; Lord God I tried to live, but I’m sorry, because I can’t.” I pulled the trigger, bang, thump.

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callunavulgari · 2 years

Text

Scrapbook 2022 | Pt II

For anyone that’s new to this, this is how I keep track of all of the things that I enjoy and/or create throughout the year. I have literally been doing this since I had a livejournal.

It’s a nice little snippet of my life and helps to organize my brain.

A reminder:

Normal font - Indifferent/Neutral Italicized font - Enjoyed bold font - Loved with an asterisk* - All time favorite (bracketed titles) - Re-watches/Re-reads strikethough - Disliked

Goals are: read 80 books , finish six video games, write more than 20 fics or something larger than 20k, and expand on your original novel outline to the point that you START WRITING.

Past Years

Part I - Jan-April

MOVIES

May

(Howl’s Moving Castle)

(Treasure Planet)

(Riddick)

The Suicide Squad

(My Neighbor Totoro)

(Ponyo)

(Singin in the Rain)

(The Philadelphia Story)

Little Shop of Horrors

(Beetlejuice)

June

The Secrets of Dumbledore

July

(LotR: Fellowship of the Ring)

(Spirited Away)

Thor: Love and Thunder

(Kiki’s Delivery Service)

Doctor Strange and the Multiverse of Madness

TV SHOWS

May

The Owl House, s2

Moon Knight, s1

Business Proposal

Four Seasons in Korea, Episodes 1-3

Watcher: Are You Scared

(Loki, s1)

Kinnporsche

Star Trek Discovery, s4

(Arcane)

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Stranger Things, s4

June

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Kinnporsche

Star Trek Discovery, s4

What We Do In the Shadows, s2, s3

Engineering an Empire: The Aztecs

Stranger Things, s4 (Vol 1)

Star Trek: Strange New Worlds

July

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Kinnporsche

Star Trek: Strange New Worlds

The Owl House, s2

Watcher: Too Many Spirits

Stranger Things, s4 (Vol 2)

The Umbrella Academy, s3?

What We Do In the Shadows, s4

Ms Marvel, s1

(Stranger Things, s2)

BOOKS

May

The Traitor Baru Cormorant | Seth Dickinson [Fin]

The Priory of the Orange Tree | Samantha Shannon

Siren Queen | Nghi Vo [Fin]

Ice Planet Barbarians | Ruby Dixon [Fin]

Book of Night | Holly Black [Fin]

Divine | Boaz Lavie [Fin]

Book Lovers | Emily Henry [Fin]

I Kissed Shara Wheeler | Casey Mcquiston [Fin]

June

The Priory of the Orange Tree | Samantha Shannon [Fin]

Meet Me In the Margins | Melissa Ferguson [Fin]

Under One Roof | Ali Hazelwood [Fin]

The Summer Place | Jenner Weiner [Fin]

For the Throne | Hannah Whitten [Fin]

July

Something Wilder | Christina Lauren [Fin]

Daughter of the Moon Goddess | Sue Lynn Tan [Fin]

Over and Under the Pond | Kate Messner [Fin]

Dial A For Aunties | Jesse Sutanto [Fin]

A Prayer for the Crown-Shy | Becky Chambers [Fin]

Crier’s War | Nina Varela

PODCASTS

May

N/A

June

N/A

July

(The Magnus Archives, Episodes 199-200)

(The Magnus Archives relisten, Episodes 1-22)

VIDEO GAMES

May

Horizon Forbidden West [Fin]

(Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time) [Fin]

(Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask)

Doctor Mario

Yoshi’s Story

Outer Wilds

Gris

June

(Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask)

Gris

Control

July

Control

Gris [Fin]

Stray [Fin]

POSTED FIC

May

tear you apart | The Untamed | SXX | 6,656 words | “Awful lot of effort,” Xue Yang says. “To save someone you’ve never met before. Don’t you get something out of it?”

June

find hope in the hopeless | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 861 words | Billy closes his eyes on Starcourt Mall, Max a hazy silhouette above him, haloed in light.

like holy days | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 2001 words | “I don’t know,” Billy says, pressing even further into Steve’s space, leaning in to touch two fingers to his sternum, tapping them there, a mocking little ditty where his heartbeat should be. He looks up at Steve from under his lashes, tongue between his teeth, and cocks his head. “We good, King Steve?”

July

this is a life | The Untamed | SXX | 9500 words | “Well,” Xiao Xingchen says brightly. “You’re welcome to join us for a little while. We’re heading to Oregon, so we can basically take you as far as you want as long as it’s on the way.”

my kingdom for your graces | The Untamed | SXX | 2,616 words | In the kitchen, Xiao Xingchen is cutting Xue Yang a slice of olive oil cake, the top of her head just barely visible over the fruit bowl perched on the dividing counter between kitchen and living room.

WIPS | UNPUBLISHED | ORIGINAL

May

100 words of SXX dead dove fic

1.5k of akuroku nostalgia

June

9500 words of MXTX Exchange fic

July

1436 words of undead Billy and Eddie with witch!Steve

2224 words of ghost Billy and Eddie with long suffering Steve

Fanmixes/Graphics

May

AkuRoku Mix

Discover Weekly #101

June

Discover Weekly #102

Sad Ghost Girl: a mix for Emily

July

Statement Begins: a Magnus Archives mix

Discover Weekly #103

Discover Weekly #104

DELIGHTFUL FIC

May

we gladiate but I guess we're really fighting ourselves by Lise | Marvel | Thor & Loki | 2k | Thor faces the Grandmaster's champion - only to come face to face with an unexpected opponent.

and i can hear the sirens but i cannot walk away by annemari | MDZS | SXX | 4k | Xue Yang comes home to bad news.

Confined to Bedposts We Wait by MoonGoddex | Loki | Loki/Thor | 3k | Loki maintained that their crash-landing was Thor's fault despite all evidence to the contrary.

Occultation by EllaBesmirched (El_Bell), KitsuneItsuki | MDZS | SXX | 30k | Five years ago, a pirate ruined Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen’s lives and disappeared into space.

Coral Bone by @kaikamahine | Arcane | Jinx & Silco | 57k | "It's not like you to leave a vacancy," she said. "Let me be useful."

Grenadier by @kaikamahine | Arcane | Caitlyn/Vi(/Jinx) | 24k | She put her hands up immediately and bared teeth. "I surrender! Cuff me, sheriff, I'm at your mercy."

come down to the black sea by Lise | Loki | Loki&Valkyrie | 3k | Loki's attempt to hack into Valkyrie's head doesn't go as planned. In fact, it backfires completely.

1-800-ROBIN by spqr | Batman | Gen | 12k | “Gotham Youth Mental Health Hotline, this is Jason speaking. Can I ask who I’m talking to?”

Why the long face? by spqr | Batman | Tim/Jason | 10k | If Tim runs now, chances are good they’ll never talk about what happened. Which on the one hand could be a good thing. They could skip all the awkwardness.

Lifeline by astolat | Fast & Furious | Dom/Brian | 38k | "Vampires dominate by biting, alpha wolves dominate by fucking. What the hell’s going on between the two of you, I don’t even have a clue."

Life Sentence by astolat | Fast & Furious | Dom/Brian | 19k | “Sit down,” the doctor said. He took blood, three vials filling up dark red. “Any medical conditions?”

Victory Lane by astolat | Fast & Furious | Dom/Brian | 13k | “Hey,” Dom said, coming back out into the pit. “Leon, look here, will you? I can’t see, what the hell is it?”

The Next Quarter Mile by astolat | Fast & Furious | Dom/Brian, Brian/Mia | 16k | Brian was staring out the windshield. “Do you trust me?”

The Barista and the Baker by mikkimouse | Castlevania | 5k | "I have a proposal, if you'll indulge me."

Little Left Behind by @kaikamahine | Arcane | Gen; Ren & Jinx | 14k | Your name is Ren. You are eight years old.

Lesser Evils by Tierfal | FMA | Roy/Ed | 3k | Roy can't walk into a bar, so he walks into a bowling alley. Have you heard this one before?

you can never make the same mistake twice because the second time is a choice by suzukiblu | Avatar | Zuko/everyone | 1k | Zuko doesn’t know who any of his soulmates are.

though the night be dying by spqr | Star Wars | Obi-Wan/Anakin | 10k | By the time the last transport leaves the planet with him and Luke on board, Obi-Wan has no more information than this: that the plague is spreading, that it acts fast, and that the dead no longer die.

June

there is only the war by Lise | Marvel | Loki & Steve | 2k | Loki falls to Earth. When he lands, the impact crater matches the ones from the shelling in 1940s France.

turn my sorrow into treasured gold by cosmicocean | Star Wars | Padme/Obi-Wan | 15k | “It might be better for you to die,” Obi-Wan muses as she holds her children in her arms.

there is a shortage in the blood supply (but there is no shortage of blood) by zarya | What We Do In the Shadows | Guillermo/Nandor | 11k | Something has to go pretty wrong in your life, Guillermo supposes, for you to reach a point where you’re doing heavy mental calculus to determine whether there's romantic subtext behind your boss’s offer to help you dispose of a corpse.

bring back what once was mine by Lise | Marvel | Thor & Loki | 1k | On the brink of confirming what he already knows is true, Loki meets a familiar stranger in Odin's vault.

heel, stay by Lise | The Untamed | SXX | 20k | Or, the one where sometimes you don't want to have sex with your boyfriend's boyfriend. Sometimes you just want to hurt him.

Home Improvement by Neery | What We Do In the Shadows | Guillermo/Nandor | 10k | Nobody warned Nandor that vampire slayers have special penis-hypnotizing superpowers, but he's pretty sure that's the only possible explanation for what's going on.

Accidental Baby Acquistion by cosmicocean | What We Do In the Shadows | Nandor/Guillermo | 27k | “Our only solution is to be wary,” Laszlo concludes. “And to be near Nandor when it happens so we can get in one last great big bloody I told you so before the end comes.”

The Next Life by spqr | Batman | Tim Drake & family | 15k | Tim’s familiar enough with fantasy tropes that he knows there are a few key dangers to raising the dead.

when it catches up by Lise | Star Wars | Obi-Wan/Anakin/Padme | 8k | Obi-Wan detours to the first floor gents, possessed of some mad, delirious idea that it’s going to be written all over his face – but in the mirror he doesn’t see anything unusual.

July

Con Fuoco by Anonymous | The Untamed | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | 25k | "The infamous Lan Zhan! I knew it was you."

what survives of us by @wildehacked | The Magnus Archives | Martin/Jonathan | 32k | Jon doesn't die in the Unknowing. Instead, he wakes up a year after the season five finale, that final click still echoing in his ears.

Here Lies Lan Wangji by DizziDreams | The Untamed | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | 4k | When Lan Wangji agreed to help Wei Ying out and play the role of "Dracula" for his Haunted House, he hadn't expected it to end like this.

Royal Flush by astolat | Game of Thrones | Jaime/Brienne/Margaery, largely gen with political pairings | 85k | Robb Stark had swept his entire hand of cards off the table, and Tyrion couldn’t see how to make a single play at all.

Straight Knife Through The Heart by relenafanel | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | Steve has no idea why he ever agreed to attend something called Death Fest. It has no resemblance to any sort of music and he's feeling cranky about it.

the reluctant shishi by Lise | The Untamed | SXX | 7k | Song Lan has endured for eternities as a fierce corpse. The last thing he wants to be doing with that time is protecting Xue Yang from the consequences of his own actions.

High Octane Lovin' by CeruleanHeart | Stranger Things | Steve/Billy | 4k | Billy offers Steve a ride after an exhausting day of working at the mall.

Some Things Cosmic by stereobone | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 12k | Steve has a dream about Eddie.

the blood in you by Lise | Marvel | Thor & Loki | 1k | Loki swaps bodies with Thor to teach him a lesson about what it feels like to be him. Things go...somewhat awry.

Leomund's Lamentable Belaborment Makes It Hard To Graduate High School by perceived_nobility | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 5k | Everyone knows things happen in threes. Three wishes. Three sons of a king. Three notes make a chord. Eddie's third senior year is his last chance to get out. If he fails again, he's in a time loop.

some nights I call it a draw by Wildehack (tyleet) | What We Do In the Shadows | Guillermo/Nandor, Laszlo/Nadja | 6k | “You are very impertinent today, you little minx,” Nadja says, not getting the letter out of his face.

a polishing of mirrors by occultings (microcomets) | MDZS | Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian | 7k | Or, the mortifying ordeal of being a teenager on a night-hunt with your crush when you fall into some weird grass.

Together, Or Not At All by Eleanor_Fenyx | The Untamed | Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian | 6k | “Hanguang-Jun’s core is strong, were he a lesser cultivator he would already have succumbed. As it is, he will likely be overcome in four days’ time.”

in defense of lightning by fruitys | MDZS | Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian | 15k | “Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says again. His blood is buzzing in his ears, a rush like the ocean and maybe, terrifyingly, like hope. “What did you think I meant?”

DELIGHTFUL FANVIDS

May

The Batman | BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce Wayne | THE BATMAN

The disease of addiction.

Moon Knight || BONES

Mo Dao Zu Shi- Lan Wangji & Wei Wuxian- Carry You

Xue Yang & Xiao Xingchen II So Cold

xue yang & xiao xingchen (the untamed MV) | hold on

MOON KNIGHT | Vengeance

Middle of the Night || Mo Dao Zu Shi | WangXian AMV

RASPUTIN | Arcane

BONES // ARCANE

Jinx--Arcane Blood//Water

ARCANE || Ramsey - goodbye (montage)

MARVEL | Multiversal Love

Marvel || Built For This

Voltron | Waiting For The End

Counting Stars | Arcane

Arcane「AMV」- Beggin

Jinx ARCANE ||Control|| 🔫

Arcane [AMV] - Die for you

Geralt & Jaskier - What About Us?

Cirilla - Unstoppable

Wicked Ones | The Legend of Vox Machina

Trevor Belmont: The Last Belmont

Dumbledore & Grindelwald || Arcade

June

Dumbledore & Grindelwald || Hold On

Jinx | The Outsider

Gutt Ch Paranda - Marvel Remix (Meme Song) 2022

Multifandom - ENEMY VOL.2

Jibaro | Love Death and Robots

Arcane | Battle Royale

Moon Knight || There's chaos in you

The world went quiet.

Kenobi Anime Opening - "Kakai Kitan"

Ravenna || Control

Dragon Ball Z/Super || The Search

MultiFemale || SO WHAT!

The Legend of Vox Machina | The call

A reason to exist.

Hope is the light.

Dumbledore & Grindelwald || Arcade

Dumbledore & Grindelwald || Hold On

Jinx | The Outsider

Jibaro | Love, Death and Robots

Arcane | Battle Royale

Arcane || Twisted

Bang Bang || Jinx (Arcane AMV)

Moon Knight || There's chaos in you

The world went quiet.

Kenobi Anime Opening - "Kakai Kitan" (Jujutsu Kaisen OP)

MultiFemale || SO WHAT!

The Legend of Vox Machina | The call AMV

The Fellowship of the Ring Animated - A Lord of the Rings short film

A reason to exist.

Little things do end.

July

John Wick || Boss Bitch

Didn't run away | Stranger Things

Wanda Maximoff - Mad World

Stranger Things | What if the Storm Ends?

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Eddie Munson | Like A Record, Baby!

Eddie Munson - It's My Year

Eddie Munson - Lovely

MDZS Animatic - Take Him Back and Hide Him | Devil's Backbone

Number Five | Teeth [TUA]

DEAL WITH GOD | grishaverse

Eddie Munson | They Never Did See Me

The Witcher | Royalty

Eddie Munson | As the World Caves In

Number Five | Hustler

THE BATMAN | Wrath

Steve/Eddie/Nancy | Heather

(ST) Steve Harrington | The Babysitter

Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson | Make Him Pay [+4x09]

Steve Harrington || Don't Blame Me

Steve Harrington || Boyfriend

billy hargrove | when it all falls down

billy + max (stranger things) | wasting my young years

Billy Hargrove | Daddy Issues

Darth Vader | Running Up That Hill

MARVEL || NO DRAMA

MARVEL || No Woman, No Cry

Way Down We Go || Multifandom || Benedict Cumberbatch

Arcane | POST BLUE

► Eddie Munson | Heroes

Eddie Munson | I Didn't Run Away This Time [+4x09]

DELIGHTFUL MUSIC

May

Haunted - Evanescence

Milkshake - Buddy

Sweet Dreams - Marilyn Manson

Love and War - Fleurie

Love, Maybe - MeloMance

Gemini - Oleksa Lozowchuk - Forbidden West OST

In the Flood - Lovisa Bergdahl - Forbidden West OST

Synchronize - Milky Chance

Sappho - Frankie Cosmos

Spring Breeze - New

Merry-Go-Round - Ji Chang Wook

Oh No!!! - grandson

The Foundations of Decay - MCR

Watermelon Sugar - Unsecret

King - Florence

My Love - Florence

Burn - 2Wei

Le chateau magique - Guilhem Desq

Why Don’t You Stay - Jeff Satur

A Man Without Love - Engelbert Humperdinck

Kiss Goodnight - I Don’t Know How But They Found Me

People Watching - Conan Gray

Love Brand New - Bob Moses

Akhnaten and Nefertiti - Philip Glass

Hits Different - Astrid S

I Have But One Heart - Dean Martin

Running Up That Hill - Kate Bush

Dream a Little Dream of Me - Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong

For Good - Wicked Cast

Skid Row - Little Shop of Horrors Cast

Suddenly, Seymour - Little Shop of Horrors Cast

The Banana Boat Song - The London Film Score Orchestra

End Credits - Danny Elfman

June

That Girl - Stars

Palmistry - Stars

Back to the End - Stars

Stormy Weather - Ella Fitzgerald

Gutt Ch Paranda - Preet Sandhu

Doctor Strange 2: Dream - Krutikov Music

Bang Bang - K’Naan

Strawberries & Sunsets - Fleurie

Let Them Eat Cake - Fleurie

This Is a Life - Son Lux

I Love You - Son Lux

Dust After Rest - Boychik

Gangsta’s Paradise - 2Wei

Babylon - 5 Seconds of Summer

Theme From Kinnporsche - Slot Machine

Dayglo Reflection - Bobby Womack, Lana del Rey

Angeleyes - Abba

Free Fall - Slot Machine

fullmoon - Ryuichi Sakamoto

Teil I - Kjartan Sveinsson

Vila Sei Gora - Ensemble Pirin

Bone - Ben Chatwin

Raindrops - Eurielle

I’m Looking - Kings & Queens

Our Love Is Young - Andrea Litkei

La tristesse du diable - Meimuna

Third Day of a Seven Day Binge - Marilyn Manson

Hydropieklowstapienie - Lao Che

Mowie ci, ze - Tilt

Klocki - Kabanos

Bohemian Rhapsody - Panic

Opera Fight - Son Lux

July

West Coast - OneRepublic

Train Wreck - James Arthur

Bad Blood - Nao

Sankarin Tango - Petri Alanko

Take Control - Old Gods of Asgard

Sharks - Imagine Dragons

Unleash the Power - Hidden Citizens

Expert in a Dying Field - The Beths

Quiet - Stripped

Lovesick - Banks

Death Of Us - Elsie Bay

Rule # 13 Waterfall - Fish in a Birdcage

Aftermath - Neoux

Hex Girls - Lollilia

Cairo - San Fermin

Hold My Hand - Lady Gaga

2021 Playlist

The Host of Seraphim - Dead Can Dance

Osage - Decouplr

Blinding Lights - The Weeknd

Rozi - Eva B

Hadippa - Pritam

For Aisha - Memba

Ms Marvel Suite - Laura Karpman

Makin Memories - Melissa Carper

When It’s Cold I’d Like to Die - Moby

Short Story - Feras Charestan

Elephant - Tame Impala

Wake Up - Young the Giant

Bitter Taste - Billy Idol

#heather says what #scrapbook #2022 #heather writes #recommendations

0 notes

faeryqueenwitch · 4 years

Text

🧚🎉Fairy Festivals🎉🧚

🎉 Fairy festivals take place at crossover points in the seasons. Equinoxes and solstices are determined by the position of the Sun, but the other four festivals are celebrated when the time feels right, so the dates given below are approximate.

🎉 There are other festivals too,such as Christmas Eve,Christmas Day, and New Year’s Day. Any human festival that touches on old traditions,from Ramadan to a Japanese Flower Festival, is a fairy feast. If you celebrate these festivals and make the effort to tune into what concerns the fairies, you will draw closer to their world. If you celebrate a special meal, remember to leave a little outside afterward for the fairies

1. 🌷 Imbolic - 🌷

February 2 in the Northern Hemisphere/July 31 in the Southern Hemisphere

Imbolc means “in the belly,” and this is the time when life stirs in the belly of the earth. Frost sparkles and the pale light lingers each evening,bringing the message that spring is on the horizon. Imbolc is the delicate crossover point from winter’s depths into the New Year. It is a feast of lightness and brightness,but also a time of cleansing,to make way for the new. The Hag, who is Dark Goddess or Dark Fairy, gives way now to the Maiden, who is young and radiant.

Fairies love neatness and good housekeeping,so it is a good idea to have a late-winter sort-out,in preparation for fresh activity. While the fairies are busy coaxing snowdrops and crocuses out of the winter-hard earth,do something creative of your own,such as knitting,painting,or writing poetry. Ask the fairies to lend you a little of their magic by leaving them an offering,such as a piece of wool or a verse written just for them.

This feast is also called candlemas,sacred to St.Bridget,who was the successor to the pagan goddess Bride (pronounced “Breed”). Bride was the keeper of the sacred flame,which represents eternal life. She is the patroness of poetry,smithcraft,child birth, and healing, and is a very powerful fairy indeed. Invite her into your home by lighting as many candles as you like, in your windows and around your house. Ask her to bless your projects for the coming year,and pledge a special act of caring for the natural world in return,to seal your pact as the year waxes.

2. 🌼 Spring Equinox- 🌼

March 21 in the Northern Hemisphere/September 21 in the Southern Hemisphere

The fairies are very busy at the Spring Equinox,looking after all the flowers that are newly blooming.Scandinavian fairies become active now: the Russian cellar fairy,The Domoviyr,casts off its skin and grows a lighter one for summer; and the Russian Rusalki,or river fairies are glimpsed by lakes swollen with melted snow.

A tree planting project is a very fairy-friendly activity at this time. A seasonal blitz on the garden is also called for. While you are hard at work, digging and pulling away at dead winter twigs, it is easy to go into a kind of trance. This, coupled with the spell of the natural world around you,can create the perfect state of mind to catch a glimpse of fairies.You can be sure they are near you,helping you with their energies.Plant some seeds of your choice and, as you put them in the earth, close your eyes and make a special request for fairy help. Visualize the fairies tending your seeds,giving them their love and care. Ask out loud for the fairies to help you,and sing or hum and you plant. Touch the soft soil with your bare hands and make real contact with the earth.

Place water in a pottery or glass jug (plastic or metal is best avoided) and leave it out in the noon sunshine. Ask the fairies to bless it. Imagine them dancing around it and coming up to touch it with their glimmering fingers. Use the water to give your houseplants a special spring blessing.

The Green Man is a powerful nature spirit that has been sensed by many people. He is represented in numerous churches as the Foliate Mask (a face made up of leaves),and one theory about his presence is that the masons who fabricated him had hidden sympathies with the old nature- worship. He is making his appearance now on some new park benches and monuments. However, you can make contact with the real Green Man out alone walking through the woodland. Ancient and wise,he is watching you. Catch a glimpse of him behind tree trunks or in the lacework of budding branches. Hear his footfalls behind you as you walk. He is the very breath of Nature, and his strength is bursting forth in springtime.

3. 💐 Beltane - 💐

April 30 in the Northern Hemisphere/October 31 in the Southern Hemisphere

Of all the festivals, Beltane is the most flagrantly joyful and sensuous as Nature is bursting forth with beauty and excitement. This was the Celtic beginning of summer, and also marked an important transition for the people of Fairy, for it was the time when the Milesian Celts landed on the shores of south-west Ireland. With this, the last of the magical peoples,the Tuatha de Danann, receded from the the world of humans into the Hollow Hills and became the people of the Sidhe.

However, they and the other fairy folk have not gone very far. You will find them dancing in a bluebell wood or skipping in the sunshine,sheltered by a greening hedge. Beltane is the time when good fairies reign supreme and bad fairies retreat. Fairies are very active now and may try to steal butter,or some of the ritual fire that used to be ignited on hilltops and is still lit by modern pagans.

This is the maypole season, but instead you can always dance around a friendly tree. Link hands with friends, and you may find yourselves spontaneously re-creating the kind of things people used to to do when seeing fairies was commonplace:lingering,walking,and talking, in the open air, away from television,computers,and other modern distractions.

There are many tales of beautiful fairies marrying mortals. Such tales usually end in tragedy, for fairy and human can never truly be joined. Better to borrow some of the fairy enchantment by performing a little magic of your own! Rise early on May Day and wash your face in the dew or simply walk in it. As the rhyme says: “The fairy maid who, the first of May Goes to the fields at break of day, And walk in dew from the hawthorn tree, Will ever handsome be.”

Welsh legend tells how the hero Pwll saw the Lady Rhiannon riding past him at Beltane and, after pursuing her, he eventually won her. Rhiannon is one aspect of the Fairy Queen,riding on her white horse between the worlds. As you sit quietly outside,on a bank in the late spring dusk,listen for the sounds of her horse’s hooves,and open your eyes to the shimmer of her sea-blue cloak. When Rhiannon touches your heart, she will fill it with love and inspiration.

4. 🌹 Midsummer - 🌹

June 22 in the Northern Hemisphere/December 22 in the Southern Hemisphere

This is one of the most magical times of the year, when fairies are very active and visible, playing pranks and even, it is said, stealing away the young and beautiful to join them in the Hollow Hills. The sun is now at the height of its strength and this is an important crossover point,such as the fairies love. For at the Midsummer Solstice the sun stands still, before beginning to recede as we move into the waning half of the year.

Flowers are colorful and luxuriant, and one radiant day seems to merge into another, as late dusk meets early dawn. At no time is the natural world more inviting. Take part in it by going on quests -long walks to sacred spots,evening camping out with the minimum of equipment,to draw close to the mystery that is all around, and to the Fair Folk in particular.

The rose is possibly the most sensuous bloom of all, and at midsummer it is often at its most gorgeous. Roses in the garden are especially likely to attract fairies. Distil water from rose petals and add it to your bath, asking the fairies to lend you some of their enchantment and to help you attract love. Brew tea from rosebuds and drink it,to increase your psychic powers.Plant a rose bush with a friend, to affirm the loving bound between you and invite the fairies into your life.

St.John’s wort is a herb known to break any negative fairy enchantment and drive away depression. Pluck some on Midsummer’s Day and carry it, to keep cheerful.

Look out for water nymphs by streams, or for undines for water elementals on the seashore- or for even the Lady of the Lake herself,rising from the luminous depths.In olden times, these beings were said to have no souls. It is closer to the truth to say that they do not have human morals. Conventions often conceal or feelings, but the beauty of the water fairies opens us to our unconscious tides; see them and let yourself be transformed.

5. 🌾Lammas- 🌾

July 31 in the Northern Hemisphere/February 2 in the Southern Hemisphere

Lammas is “Loaf Mass,” a christian version of a much older festival known as Lughnasadh, or the “Feast of Lugh.” Lugh was a Celtic god,lord of the Tuatha de Danann, and his name means “bright one.” Lughnasadh is a major fairy festival, and many fairies become active during this period,such as the Russian Polevik, who kicks sleepy harvesters awake. It is also a time when fairies move about in preparation for winter,and processions of them may be seen as a line of twinkling lights moving between the hills in the countryside.

At Lammas, the fields are golden with corn and splashed with red poppies. It is hazy,lazy time of holidays and abundance,but there is an underlying theme of death,for the Corn Spirit must be sacrificed in order to reap the harvest. If you walk out into a field of ripe wheat, you may sense the anger of the nature spirits as what is to be taken from the earth,even thought that is a part of the natural cycle of life.Gather up some ears of wheat and tie them into a bunch with red thread,to make a charm for the coming winter to hang over your hearth. At the same time,pledge an act of caring for the earth,such as clearing a derelict site in your neighborhood or garden, or planting and tending a herb, as payment for what you-and all of us- take from it.

At home, bake your own bread, using the rising of the dough as a spell to ensure that everything prospers in your life. While you are kneading the bread dough, say to yourself “As this dough swells, so may my fortunes increase.” Ask for your own personal Brownie, or house fairy, to come and help your bread rise- and remember to leave some breadcrumbs outside afterward,for the fairies.

Some say that Lugh is lord of the waning year, and his dance- through the waving,whispering corn- is a dance of death. If so, it is a reminder that all things come in cycles,and that everything is united in love and beauty. Stand at the edge of a sun-kissed wheat field and see the shimmer and sway that betrays the presence of Lugh. Take a few moments to feel respect for the earth in your heart, and understand the meaning of the Wheel of Life.

6. 🍁 Autumn Equinox (Mabon) - 🍁

September 21 in the Northern Hemisphere/March 21 in the Southern Hemisphere

At the Autumn Equinox, Nature stands poised between light and dark,but darkness is gaining. The veil between this world and the Otherworld is at its thinnest, and all manner of spirit visitations are more frequent now.

The hedgerows are beaded with berries,and mist lingers in the hollows. Sometimes the wind whistles in from nowhere and tosses baring branches. On other says, the mellow sun caresses the fields with slanting fingers. It is a time for reflection, but also for industry. In days gone by, preserves would be made for winter store and the help of the Good Folk would be sought by country people.

Absorb the atmosphere of the season by going blackberrying. In Celtic countries, there may be a taboo on eating blackberries, because these belong especially to fairies. However, as long as you gather them with respect and do not denude the bramble bushes, they will hardly object. Better still,leave out some of your homemade blackberry pie or wine for them,so that they will bless you. When this month ends, leave the blackberries alone and move on. Also look out for a bramble bush that forms an arch-so much the better if it faces east/west, for that mirrors the passage of the sun. Crawl through this three times on a sunny day to be healed of physical ills, especially rheumatism and skin troubles.

At this mysterious time, pay honor to Queen Mab. Her special gift is to bring dreams and visions to birth within us. She is really one of many manifestations of the Goddess, in her autumnal guise of wise-woman and Lady of Magic, and she is linked with ancient ideas of sovereignty- for the king drew his power from the land, and Mab presided.

Preferably at the Full Moon closest to the equinox,place good-quality wine in a stemmed glass or chalice,and take it into the garden or a secluded place.Raise the glass to the Moon,say, “Mab, I honor you”and pour some of the wine onto the earth. Drink a little and say, “Mab, I drink with you,” Then return home,light a bright-green candle beside your bed,gaze at the flame and say, “Mab,give me wisdom,” Place some jasmine or rose oil on your pillow,extinguish the candle-and drift into Fairyland. This is a little ritual that you can repeat during any Full Moon if you wish.

7. 🎃 Samhain - 🎃

October 31 in the Northern Hemisphere/April 30 in the Southern Hemisphere

Samhain means “summer’s end” and is pronounced “sa-wen.” This ancient Celtic festival at the official start of the winter was later Christianized as Halloween- a time when the dead were remembered. There was always a sinister aspect to Samhain,because certain sacrifices had to be made in order to survive the coming cold weather. Animals had to be slaughtered,and some say that human sacrifice took place to propitiate the spirits. Sacrifice,however, is a corruption of nature worship,for life is hard enough as it is and all we have to do is show respect.

Barrow mounds,shrouded in mist,are particularly eerie places at Samhain. Draw close,if you dare,and sit quietly.Do you hear the strange,far-off noise of fairy music,or the sound of knocking? Maybe the mound will open for you and unearthly light will stream over the barren fields.After Samhain,the earth is given over to the powers of darkness and decay.No crops or berries may be harvested after this time,because the Phooka, a malevolent Irish Fairy,blights them. The true meaning here,of course,is that death and decay have a place in the natural order,requiring due honor and respect lest they get out of hand.

Traditionally, this is the start of the story telling season. While the wind whistles around the eaves or the mist comes down outside,gather family or friends around your hearth- preferably with a real fire burning in it. If you do not have an open hearth,substitute a collection of large,burning candles. Sit round and speak of times gone by and people who have passed over to the other side.Ask the Beloved Dead to be present, if you wish(but note that this is not a seance,and the Beloved Dead are invited,not summoned). Laugh,share funny stories,feast,and drink.

Cerridwen is the Underworld Goddess and the Fairy Hag most associated with this time. In her magic cauldron,she stirs a brew that confers inspiration and transformation. Simmer up a hearty soup of root vegetables or pumpkin, to share with friends,then light a black candle and ask Cerridwen to guide you through the darkness into the light. You will be both safe and wise.

8. ❄️ Yule - ❄️

December 22 in the Northern Hemisphere/June 22 in the Southern Hemisphere

Yule is the Midwinter Solstice, when the sun again appears to stand still,as it did at midsummer,but the season is poised for the return of light. Celebrations of Christ’s birth were moved to coincide with the much more ancient solstice.

As you deck your Christmas tree,remember that the evergreen is a powerful symbol of the enduring life in Nature. Of course,is has a fairy on top of it,confirming that it is a festival of the Fair Folk,who also rejoice in the sun’s rebirth. Decorating your tree is an important magical act,for the decorations are fairy charms. Each member of the family should hang at least one special charm of their own,to enable a wish to come true.

Jack Frost is an active fairy in the cold weather,painting windows with intricate lacework. In Russia he is called Father Frost,the soul of winter,covering the trees in ice. Do not shrink from the frost fairy-go out and wonder at his works and he will reward you with hope and joy,just as in Russia Father Frost brings presents for the children on New Year’s Day.

By far the best-known and most powerful fairy at Yule is Father Christmas himself. Today we know him by his robes of red and white, but in the past he also wore green and other colors. As we have seen,red is the color both of life and death, and many fairies wear red caps. The hearty red of Father Christmas is a sign that he is an Otherworld being-very much alive,but not of this earth. He is recognized all over the world, as Kris Kringle in Germany and Pere Noel in France. In Brazil he is Papa Noel,and in China Dun Che Loa. He is the essence of Yuletide mystery,joy and renewal,and like many traditional fairies, he comes in and out via the hearth.

When all is quiet on Christmas Eve, get ready to welcome Father Christmas- light a candle and look at the stars. Pledge a gift for a friend and one for the world, and ask for a special gift to answer your heart’s desire. Write your wish on a piece of paper and “post” it up the chimney if you have an open fire. If not, burn it in the candle flame. Can you hear those sleigh bells?

(Art By: IrenHorrors On Deviantart -Link)

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