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amandacanwrite · 8 months

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Halsin Headcanons For When He's In Love With You/Tav (Ungendered)

I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED TOO SOON

Generously Requested by @cryingoverpixelsetc I can't tell you how much it means to me when people actually WANT to hear about my bg3 brainrot because this game has been my escape lately and also, just a nice little break from the freelance work I have to cram to get done.

(PS if you like these, I am also a writer of my own original stories and I have some WIP's you may like.)

Quick CW|| Some graphic depictions of violence, particularly puncture wounds and viscera, intentions of heavy violence also referenced. In Battle

He trusts you, perhaps more than anyone else, to handle yourself. He doesn't hover, but he always has an eye on you as you tear into the fray.

He always seems so gentle to you that you sometimes worry about your own brutality in a fight. Especially when it leaves you covered in blood.

Because of this, you tend to keep your distance after a fight, too frightened to look into his pretty hazel eyes and see any measure of hesitance or disgust with you. Not that you've gotten used to it, you cant bear the thought of him not calling you 'my heart.'

This is only a fear for you until you got pinned down with a particularly nasty bhaalan cultist. Astarion had already been taken down in the surprise attack, then you were toppled by one of the many in the ambush.

The scream you let out as they sadistically drove their daggers through the palms of your hands was shocking even to you. You felt like a moth pinned to a board--it was too painful to try to break yourself free, even as the assailant wielded his next blade like he was about to field dress an elk.

You'd never felt fear like that.

But it didn't last long. A great cave bear launched through the air and into your attacker, wasting no time before ripping into the soft flesh of his throat and tore it out.

The smell of fear on you was strong, he knew you couldn't fight like that, so he simply stood guard over you, tearing to shreds anyone who got close from what small parts of it you can remember through the utter fear.

It was the after math of that fight when you knew you could never let him go.

He cups your face in his large, warm hands.

"Look at me, dear heart. Look upon me and remember that you're alive. There is no more threat. There is no one to hurt you. I would never let someone take you away from me before nature deigns it so."

The blades, you wept, the blades would hurt to remove.

"They will, but only for a moment, my love. Just a moment of pain before I heal you myself and carry you back to camp."

It's Astarion who removes the blades from your palms and frees you; he has the steadiest hands. But Halsin wastes no time in cradling you close to him, holding both of your hands in his own as he quietly whispers the healing word. You watch as your flesh and tendons weave themselves together. Then he envelops you and comforts you as you cry. Just cry.

How lucky it is that he is so at peace with every expression of you. He takes you as you are at all moments; whether you're bloodthirsty, joyful, or terrified. He basks in it all.

At Camp

Always touching you. Always. To him this isn't a public display of affection. It's not awkward. He loves you, why should he not touch you at every moment he can?

Sometimes it's a small thing, a broad hand on the small of your back as you discuss travel plans with Wyll. A little touch to remind you that he is there, like a tether to safety.

Other times your bodies are a tangle of comfort. Like he's looked for every way he can weave his body with yours. His fingers in your hair, your arm over his shoulder, your leg betwixt his, his wide chest lifting and falling with his sleepy breaths. This is often how you wake in the mornings with him.

Perhaps your favorite, though, is the nights by the fire. He doesn't even ask most days, just places himself behind you and offers himself as your seating arrangements for the night. His arms up behind him as he reclines against a rock or a felled tree, you sitting on his lap or between his lazily bent legs. His husky laughter tickles against your ear, the little hairs on the back of your neck. His rough voice rumbled against you as he regales the camp with yet another story of his youth.

He's a bit of a night owl. You fall asleep long before him most days.

He's also a bit disheartened by how difficult it is to find clothes that fit him in your travels together. Karlach as generously offered to share her clothes with him of course, but...something about her taste doesn't really seem to quite suit him.

(A disappointment to you, considering how nice those legs looked in infernal leather.)

He's the one who does much of the hunting for the party, along with Astarion. Halsin's a shockingly gifted fisher, though most of the fish he brings back to camp have bites in the flesh.

It was unnerving to gale at first, but he learned to live with it when he once brought back a salmon the size of a deep gnome.

When You're Alone

Rarely fully clothed. Not shocking, of course and certainly not something you would ever complain about. He usually just takes his tunic off, he says it feels restrained by it. He feels like he can breathe a bit better when his chest is bare.

No pun intended, of course.

Funny thing though, you always feel its much harder to breathe when he's shirtless.

There are no chaste kisses with this large elf. He seems to not have the restraint.

"I love the taste of you, my heart. It's the finest ambrosia. How blessed I am to have free reign to sate my appetites with you."

He likes to braid your hair and you're not sure why you're surprised at how good he is at it. Braids are a common hairstyle for elves, after all, and the man is a few centuries old. It soon becomes your favorite part of any day.

"I love how long your hair is getting, love. These times with you, my focus lost in your tresses...they have become some of my most treasured memories."

He compliments you often and freely.

One day you tell him about how you worry that you're too brutal to be with him, that you're concerned you'll scare him off one day for good.

"My heart, I spend more than half of my life in the form of a cavebear. I know I have told you how I received this scar. I may treasure the thriving, living of nature but that is only one side of the coin. Nature can be as brutal as it can be miraculous. In you, I see the beauty of brutality. I do not fear it, I admire it."

In Intimate Moments

Potential NSFW below, proceed with caution.

TW|| Mentions of consensual rough housing before...well, you know.

He is...proportionately sized...if you like.

(You do. You like very much.)

You sometimes have to remind him to get his pleasure with you. He is so pleased to be with you in this way that he forgets to indulge himself, even when it would be a moment of shared pleasure.

He loves every iteration of making love with you. He loves to take you fresh after a battle, covered in blood, to remember what it is to live and be alive.

He loves to take advantage of the vulnerability of a bath in the rivers and lakes of Faerun. Seems to particularly enjoy the sounds that come out of you as he thrusts up and into you, the sounds of your bodies muted by the water so he can hear every whimper and hitch of your breath.

He loves to hunt you. More than once you've stolen away into the forests and he gives you a head start. It's some of the most thrilling experiences you've had being intimate with someone.

This is no simple game of hide and seek, it is a true pursuit.

He always finds you quickly and he is fast, but you are faster. It's always a struggle for him to catch you. When he finally does succeed in his quest, you are so lost in the thrill and challenge of the pursuit that it becomes a struggle.

This part he always wins though. Sometimes because your desire for his body takes over your desire for besting him.

Sometimes you are still fighting when he gathers both of your wrists in a single one of his hands and carefully locks your legs beneath his.

He is careful though. He would never do anything without your express consent, without your enjoyment. He may be lost in the moment but he is old enough and wise enough to keep his head.

"Do you still want this, my love? Does your body still burn with need? Or has the pursuit run away with you?"

When you tell him you want this; you want him. That brief tarry into gentleness vanishes. He smiles sharply and turns you over, taking you as an animal in the wild might. Rough and unrelenting.

His hands dig into your thighs, your hips. His fingers tangle and pull your hair.

But when all is said and done, the kisses are soft and sweet. Peppered over your shoulders, down the path of your spine.

He collects you in his arms and soothes you.

"Have you pain anywhere? Is there anything I can get for you my love? You have been so generous with your body this night, it is only right that I take care of you for the remainder of it."

He likes to discuss your intimacy at length. He wants to know what you liked, what you didn't like, what he should change. At first you didn't like to critique, but he pressed you about it once he started to notice changes in your demeanor or reactions in the act. It's gotten much easier for you to discuss these things with him over time.

He simply loves discussing the potential of a family with you. Sometimes enough to be ready for a second round. But that second round is much gentler and more loving than the first. Like he's dreaming of a future with you.

#writing community #writers on tumblr #writing #bg3 headcanons #halsin headcanons #halsin x tav headcanons #Halsin x reader #my writing #romantasy #writeblr #authors #historical fantasy #halsin x tav #halsin smut #baldurs gate halsin #bg3 x tav #bg3 halsin

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alchemistc · 3 months

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fascination with your presentation | bucktommy 1/1

read on ao3

Tommy likes to touch things. It's just a random quirk of his that Eddie's noticed - a hand sliding along the back of the couch as he follows Eddie into the kitchen to grab a beer, fingers balancing along the table as he leans, elbow pressing into the frame of the doorway like he's gauging the space between walls.

He's tactile - a smack to the space between his shoulders, fist bumps and high fives and teasing hair ruffles when he's got Eddie pinned in the middle of a spar and they both know Eddie isn't getting out of it.

It's nice. There aren't a lot of men, especially with their background, in their line of work, who are remotely comfortable expressing affection like that.

He's a fan.

Christopher is less so, when Tommy lays a big hand to the crown of his head and goes for a noogie. He huffs, rolls his eyes, rolls his head forward and away from the touch, makes some noise about a call he's supposed to make later that night and how he doesn't want his hair messed up for it, and Tommy holds his hands up in apology, fighting a grin as Chris smooths his hair back down.

Eddie's used to it already, so it takes him a second to really notice Tommy rounding the edge of the table to flick through papers and pictures and receipts tacked to the fridge as he digs through one of his drawers in search of the bottle opener he knows he has stashed in here somewhere. Eddie's more of a twist cap beer guy, but Tommy's oddly flavored fancy bottles always need an opener.

"Here," Tommy says, and Eddie turns just in time to catch the keys Tommy slings at him.

"I don't like your truck that much," Eddie tells him, which is a lie.

Tommy tips his head forward to indicate the keys. "Bottle opener, Diaz."

Which makes sense. He should get one for himself, actually. It's a little shocking neither one of them carries a utility knife on them. The preparedness rules maybe didn't stick after discharge as well as they could have

Tommy's gaze drifts, and Eddie watches his head tilt, ring and middle finger reaching up to tap at one of the pictures on the fridge. Chris and Buck, a few years back, some trip to the museum during either Buck or Chris' dinosaur phase. Buck's holding a giant stuffed pteranodon ("Pterodactyls were smaller and had cone-shaped teeth and backward-projecting crests, actually, and this isn't technically the most accurate depiction anyway, it's generally accepted they probably had feathers, now." -- So, definitely Buck's phase, now that he's remembering.) and Chris has a specific brand of smile across his face that Eddie has quietly dubbed his Buck-smile. Something around the edges of his eyes that's always just a little brighter for Buck.

"Cute picture," Tommy says, and Chris's eyes draw to it as Tommy taps his knuckles once-twice to it before dropping his hand to his side.

It's not the first time someone in this circle of three has brought up Buck.

The first night Tommy'd been here, camped out on the couch watching a game, Chris had had a million questions, and Buck had come up pretty naturally over the course of them comparing disasters they'd been a part of, or worked.

Chris had brought up the tsunami, which had led to a back and forth where they discovered Tommy had likely flown right over them at least once during that disaster of a day, and then it had evolved into Chris memorializing all of Buck's greatest (most traumatizing) hits - pinned under a fire engine, climbing a crane tower in the middle of a county wide panic about a shooter targeting firefighters (he doesn't bring up Eddie being shot, which - maybe they should revisit that at some point, make sure Chris isn't burying that), Buck getting struck by lightning, Buck taking charge in the bridge collapse.

And obviously, if Chris was gonna debate Star Wars, he was gonna bring up Buck's involved opinions on Machete order and OG vs Prequels vs the Somehow Palpatine Returned era, and be delighted that Tommy's opinion differed from Buck's, because that made Chris the victor in that ongoing battle.

Buck is a big part of Chris and Eddie's lives, so he's gonna be dropped into conversation. Nothing strange about that.

Tommy always calls him Evan, which is a big old dose of whiplash every time, and he can't think why he does that, because despite Buck introducing himself (weirdly) as Buh-Evan Buckley, they've seen each other since, and no one else Tommy talks to calls him Evan, so he doesn't know why Buck hasn't corrected him.

Chris' mouth does something strange as Tommy keeps looking at the picture, his expression going a little curious in a way Eddie can't quite parse, and then he's grinning. There's no reason to be suspicious, except for the way he actually puts down his phone to engage with Tommy as Eddie passes a beer off.

"Yeah, Buck always takes me to exhibits every time there's a new one. He's cool like that."

Tommy hums around his first sip, expression placid, posture relaxed. "Maybe I could take you to the next one."

Christopher's eyes narrow.

Eddie's lost.

"Uh, not without Buck. Carla took me once without him and he pretended to be fine about it for weeks until I asked him to take me again. He was not happy we went without him. But you could come with us."

Tommy tap-tap-taps his finger against the rim of his bottle, unfazed by the slightly territorial way Chris had phrased it. Eddie's fazed. Eddie is not sure there's not a second layer to this conversation he's missing. "I'll look it up. Jot it down in my day book."

Christopher is too young to have a clue what that means, but he doesn't seem to be quite done with whatever the hell it is he's got going on right now. "Good," he says. "Buck's single right now, so he's got a lot of extra time for stuff."

Tommy's gaze flits to Christopher's, and Eddie doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on, but it's a weighted look for half a second before Chris' gaze turns back to his phone.

"You have his number, right? Maybe you should call him and figure out a day we can all go."

Something happens around the corners of Tommy's mouth that he hides by tipping the bottle mouth against his lips again. "Yeah. I've got his number."

For a second Eddie wonders why, before he remembers catching Buck down at Harbor before the fight. When had Buck gotten his number?

"Cool," says Chris, eyes already glued back to his phone. "We usually get lunch first. Buck really likes pizza."

"Everyone likes pizza," Tommy says, eyes glimmering with mirth that Eddie absolutely does not know the source of.

"Yeah, but Buck's picky about it. He says there's a perfect pizza to crust ratio that most places don't get right. Also he likes it when they have a stone oven, and the little pizza risers."

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth. And - why is Eddie watching this interaction so carefully? It's not like he's worried Tommy's gonna say something weird to his kid, even if his kid is being weird.

"I'm gonna go throw the game on. You hungry?"

Tommy's eyes shift to meet his, and Eddie feels that same frisson of excitement he gets sometimes when Buck is paying close attention to him. "I could eat. Not pizza though. There's nowhere around here with a good stone oven."

"Dad likes pineapple on his pizza, his pizza opinions suck."

Eddie tosses his hands up. This is an old argument, one created entirely by Buck because Chris hadn't minded a good Canadian pizza before Buck declared war on them. "Pizza's just pizza. I was thinking Chinese, anyway."

"Can we get those spring rolls Buck always gets?"

Tommy's gaze slips to the fridge one more time, eyes drifting across the picture he'd pointed out earlier, before he unclips the menu for the Chinese place down the street from its spot half-covering the calendar to hand it off to Eddie. He spots the circle around their plans for Thursday and reaches out to touch the date.

"You invite anyone else for Thursday?"

Eddie rolls his top lip over his bottom one. "Buck hates basketball, turns me down every time I ask. I might ask Chim, though, he and his brother always liked to play."

Literally nothing in Tommy's expression changes, but Eddie feels like he's reacting to something in that sentence anyway. He's trying to figure out how to cut the weird tension in the room when Christopher starts listing off his order, and he's so distracted by trying to get a list prepared to call that he misses two thirds of Chris and Tommy's continued conversation, which is somehow, for some reason, still about Buck. Geez, is Chris pissed that Eddie's got a new friend? He should invite Buck next time he makes plans to hang out at home with Tommy.

----

"It was a date," Buck tells him, a week and a half later, while Eddie's staring at his phone like looking hard enough might make it, and his relationship with Marisol, maybe disappear. Just for a little while, while he squares things up with God.

Eddie tosses his phone, turns to look at Buck in the second before it computes, manages to pull back just enough so that it's not a full, ridiculous double take.

"When you and Marisol ran into me and Tommy, we were on a date."

"Really?" Buck usually tells him the second he's interested in someone, because for some reason he thinks Eddie has any idea how to have a loving, lasting relationship, even though Eddie's been lobbing live grenades straight at love since he was fourteen. He hadn't said a word to Eddie about -

Well.

Well actually --

Well shit.

Oh, he's definitely giving Tommy and Christopher both shit about this later.

"Wait, Tommy's gay?"

A whole host of things are suddenly lining up -- Buck at Harbor the afternoon before the fight, and Buck asking half a million questions after the fight, and Buck and Tommy both picking at the thread of Christopher's praises for the other, and -- Buck had been jealous. Buck had been jealous of Eddie spending time with Tommy. Buck had shoulder checked him to the court and sprained his ankle because he liked the guy enough to lose his head about it.

Oh, he's gonna hold this over all of their heads for sure.

Which for the moment is apparently not that great an idea because Tommy'd pressed pause after one date, which is fast even for Buck. He tells him so.

"When we ran into you guys I kinda made an idiot of myself and he said he doesn't think I'm ready." Buck looks -- sad. Disappointed. Nervous, hands rubbing at his thighs like he's soothing himself. It's a fair point, on Tommy's part, even if he doesn't know all the details.

(Something about hot chicks pings in the back of his mind, but he shelves it for later.)

Buck's never really hinted at romantic inclinations in that direction, although some of his comments about good looking guys are making a little more sense, in retrospect.

"What do you think?" Eddie's pretty sure he knows the answer to this question, but he asks anyway, because Buck likes to work these things out. He likes to talk about them. Eddie imagines not being able to articulate exactly what he was feeling without wondering if his friends would think it was weird probably (definitely) contributed to his wildly dramatic behavior the last few weeks.

Geez, Tia Pepa would be eating this telenovela shit up.

"I kinda can't stop thinking about him," Buck tells him, and it's a voice Eddie's not entirely sure he's ever heard from Buck before -- at least when he's talking about someone he's into. Buck's always got a checklist and a trillion rationalizations. Now he just sounds... smitten.

And Tommy is too, Eddie thinks. He is absolutely gonna call him out for pumping his kid for information. Maybe accuse him of only befriending him to get to Buck -- see if he can make the unflappable Tommy Kinard flap, a little.

"You should call him," Eddie tells him, already imagining double dates with a partner of Buck's he doesn't hope will spontaneously combust in the middle of dinner. Maybe between Tommy, Chris and Eddie they can finally convince Buck to go to one of the car shows he's always rolling his eyes at. Maybe Tommy and his terribly hidden romantic side can actually match Buck's crazy.

Eddie hugs Buck on his way out the door and feels the tension drain from his shoulders.

Maybe touched starved Buck will get to enjoy that little tactile quirk of Tommy's, too.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #eddie&tommy #eddie&buck #eddie: oh yeah it's aaaalll coming together #christopher: i see exactly what you both are doing and i'm definitely gonna encourage it

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necromelli · 10 months

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prologue

— tw include but are not limited to: typical hunger games violence, depictions of death & killing, references to alcohol. read at your own risk.

wc: 1k words

you're crowned the victor of the 69th games, the most ruthless tribute in panem history.

In.

Out.

Hold.

That's what Enobaria had taught you. Inhale until it stung. Exhale and let your lungs deflate all the way. Hold until you thought you'd pass out and do it all again.

You opened your eyes to the rewind of the tiny throwing knife getting lodged in the stomach of a girl from six — no, eight. She was from eight, you reminded yourself.

Thirteen out of twenty-four tributes in the 69th Hunger Games died at your hand. The most kills recorded in Panmen’s history. You could feel the thick, sticky blood still burning your hands. Hell, half the time you could see the blood coating your fingers dripping, dripping, dripping onto your marble countertops.

The loud ring of a cannon fire rang in your ears, pleading eyes from the girl slowly dimmed and slacked, her hands that had been in your hair dropped, and she slid from the throwing knife and crumpled to the ground. Lifeless.

The worst part was that you still didn't know her name, even after being out of the arena for weeks. You hadn't bothered enough to know the girl you selfishly killed and laughed about with your allies.

Bile rose in your throat and you sat up a little straighter. You swallowed it down and brushed non-existent wrinkles from your clothes. You pretended not to be affected by the scene. By any of the scenes, with each one leaving you more hollow than the last. You had only gone through six, you still had seven left to go.

In.

Out.

Hold.

Caesar Flickerman sat next to your throne, watching the recaps intently, curiously as if he hadn't watched them live. When he noticed your struggle, his brows sew together in worry, and he taps your arm. When you turn to look at him, he’s offering you his barely touched glass of champagne.

You can barely hear him when he leans in. “It’ll help. You trust me, right?”

You wanted to scream that you didn't trust him. That he found the Games just as amusing as any other Capitol vulture. But, you didn't. You bit your tongue and took the glass of champagne, offering a pretty smile as you downed it in one go.

The Capitol wasn't all bad. They had kept you fed, clothed, and happy for your whole life. Protected. They looked the other way when you were trained at the academy, which allowed you to win. They gave you a gorgeous house for free, enough riches to last a lifetime, the promise to never be reaped again. The Capitol wasn't all bad.

The champagne made you feel warm, staticay like the sound of your TV when the foil was moved the wrong way and the program went out. Caesar was right. It did help.

You had sobered back up by the last death. A district twelve boy that should have won, instead of you. He didn't plead for his life, not even when you started screaming at him too. You wanted — needed — something to lurch you towards him. Your hands clutched the throwing knife, your last one, eyes trained on his face. He just stared, breathing ragged, as he waited. Scoped you out.

You didn't expect him to throw the knife you had embedded from the girl in six. Even now, you could recall the cold shock hitting you as if it was happening all over again. You pulled the knife from your shoulder, screaming and groaning. You caught the number three scratched into the handle. You looked at him, realizing you killed his ally.

That you had the chance to kill him too but you failed. You didn't do what you were trained to do.

You ran towards him, knife number three sinking deep into his leg. His scream of pain hurt your ears, haunted your dreams. Twelve pulled you down with him, knocking the air from your lungs. He tried prying your other knife from your hand, but you threw it away from you. Instead, you headbutted him, rolling on top of him.

Twelve threw punches, skinny hands doing enough damage to fracture your nose. Wanting it to be over, your hands wrapped around his throat. You squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed so hard you heard a crack and then the boom of the cannon.

Your hands slowly unfurled from the boy's neck, already bruised. Already tainted forever with your touch. You screamed, hot tears spilling past your lashes. You sobbed into the boy’s chest for a solid ten seconds before you heard the announcement made.

“Relishing in the glory of winning?” Caesar Flickerman mused cheekily, snapping you back to attention.

You stared at him for several seconds, before an arrogant smile twitched your lips. Caesar was right. You fought to win the Games. There was no reason to be ashamed or feel guilty. If the districts had listened in the first place, no one would've had to die. “Oh, well, you know,” you shrugged confidently. “I did work very hard to win.”

“How many was it in all?”

A frown tugged your lips, but instead chose a tight lipped smile instead. “Thirteen.”

You could name them all. You had killed the entire Career pack slowly through the entirety of the games. Besides you, there were six others. Then, you killed the girl from district six, the boy from three, girl from five, both district eleven tributes, the boy from nine, and finally, the boy from twelve.

“That's a record, I believe! That is just fantastic.” Caesar exclaimed, the Capitol elite and last victors scattered throughout began to clap. “See? Even they think it's fantastic.”

You looked out to the crowd, scanning the first few faces. You gave Caesar another tight-lipped smile, letting him continue.

“We learned you were smarter than you let on when you managed to kill all six careers. District one, two, four, and the girl from seven. Would you care to explain your thought process?”

“Of course.” You nodded, beginning to explain.

You started killing the careers sporadically through the games, always when a tribute was near that you could blame it on. None of them ever thought wiser. All too arrogant to assume one of their own allies were lying about killing them. It had to be the jealous and weak tributes. Not some career.

“Impressive, darling. I can see why you have the highest kill count in all of Panmen's history.” Caesar paused, holding a hand to his ear piece. A wide grin broke out on his face as he grabbed your hand, pulling you up. “I've just been told the crowing of the victor for the 69th annual hunger games will take place momentarily.”

You felt Caesar stepped away, leaving you standing in the middle of the stage alone. You felt goosebumps form on your exposed skin as you felt President Snow walk towards you. He smelt like roses and metal. He wore the smell of blood and death like a perfume.

He stands next to you, microphone in hand. He talks so slowly it starts to eat you from the inside out. It's like he did it on purpose, because he knew how uncomfortable being on that stage made you.

“In honor and celebration of the new, official game record set of Most Killed, there are thirteen connecting chains, each chain sitting below a jewel representing the district the fallen tribute came from.”

That was a joke. That had to have been a joke. The fact you killed thirteen children was being applauded and celebrated. Like it was something to cherish and remember when all you wanted to do was forget.

The crown was heavy when Snow placed it on your head. The chains fell in a swoop around your head, accentuating your new nose and blazing eyes. The freckles that dotted your cheeks and nose.

When Snow opened his mouth, you held your breath. “I'm expecting great things from you.”

With that, he held his hand out for you to shake. You did, listening to the crowd cheer for you when he finally stepped away.

You, with the gorgeous crown, bruised knuckles from hitting one two many walls. You with the surgically fixed nose. You who had done one too many sinful acts to ever be considered good again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar Flickerman’s voice rang in your ears; loud and grating. “The victor of the 69th annual Hunger Games!”

#catching fire #fanfic #mockingjay #the hunger games #finnick odair #thg fanfiction #thg finnick #annie cresta #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine

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travelingthief · 1 month

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Ares Devotions and Offerings

Devotional Acts

Workout/Exercise

Boxing, wrestling, martial arts, etc.

Attend a protest

Self-defense training

Learn about wars

Go to a shooting range

Identify and cope with your anger

Go to a rage room

Play war video games

Play war card/board games

Start a fire

Watch war movies/documentaries

Learn about your countries military and understand why people join and what they do when they serve

Visit war sites/memorials

Learn about society’s reactions to different wars

Scream! Yell! Shout! (productively)

Get out of your comfort zone

Get adrenaline pumping

Address/work through your fears

Chain his statue

Learn wound care

Take home security measures

Play contact sports

Talk to veterans/people who served about their experience

Learn about PTSD

Practice divination, particularly ornithomancy

Support people who are currently living through wars

Listen to peoples’ stories who have lived/are living through war

Learn how your state/town reacted/participated in times of war

Offerings

Swords/daggers/knives

Spears

Guns/weapons

Soldier imagery (like toys)

Tanks/cannon imagery

Dog tags

Shields

Helmets

Armor

Boxing gloves

Workout gear (dumbbells, lifting gloves, running shoes, etc.)

Sports equipment

Dragons

Skulls

Bones

Depictions of death

Depictions of war

Preserved animals

Ashes

Chains

Urns

Vultures

Trophies/ribbons/awards

Military memorabilia

War books/movies/games

Matches

Roosters

First aid kits/wound care

Snakes

Bird imagery

Feathers

Teeth

Metals

Claws

Blood depictions

#ares #helpol #ares worship #mars #ares offerings #ares deity #hellenic polytheism #witchblr #paganism #ares devotee

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gaminghardwareingames · 8 months

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Super Smash Bros. Brawl - part 1

From https://www.ssbwiki.com/List_of_stickers_(complete_list)

From https://www.ssbwiki.com/List_of_SSBB_trophies_(Super_Smash_Bros._series)

From https://www.spriters-resource.com/wii/ssbb/

From https://www.ssbwiki.com/Flat_Zone_2

#Super Smash Bros. Brawl #Depicted by: Nintendo Wii #Depicting: Nintendo DS #Depicting: R.O.B. (Robotic Operating Buddy)#Depicting: R.O.B. blocks #Depicting: Wii Remote #Depicting: Super Nintendo Entertainment System Super Scope #Depicting: DK Bongos #Depicting: Derivative #Derivative: R.O.B. (Robotic Operating Buddy)#Depicting: R.O.B. gyro #Depicting: Wii Classic Controller #Depicting: Nintendo GameCube Controller #Depicting: Game & Watch Fire #Depicting: Disk-kun shaped game case #Depicting: Wii Nunchuk

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sunonyoreface · 2 years

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He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 14

An: Well, it only took 36,000 words to get here, but here we are! It's a long one and I had so much fun writing this part, so I hope you like it!

*Edit: I will be putting this series on a short pause for a few weeks so I have time to catch up on school. Thanks for understanding :)

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 6100

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: 18+, Smut, nsfw, angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of guns.

Image credit: @ave661 (they're amazing!!)

I’ve never shot a gun before, but as I hold Ghost’s in my hand, I try to imagine what it will feel like.

The weapon is like solid lead in my hands. I weigh my options as I click the safety on and off. I feel like a broken scale and I’m indecisive at heart. Tonight is no different.

I twist the weapon around to get a better look at the black coating. It’s well taken care of. Everything Ghost does is so meticulous and thought out. So, to see him leave the cabin in such a haste is cause for concern on its own. Did my words really affect him that much? Or was that all his own doing?

Part of me wonders if he’s watching through the window. Does he think I’d risk attempting to shoot him? I could turn the gun around in my hand. He wouldn’t expect that. None of them would. But then neither of us would get what we want. I’d never see my family again. There’s no satisfaction in the thought.

I also know I couldn’t kill anyone else either. No matter the harm they’ve done. There’s already so much pain in the world. Who am I to add to it? Who am I to decide who gets to live or die? I’m no God.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the world would be better off without men like him.

So, I set the gun back down on the table. And then I pick it up again. I slide the magazine out and take each bullet. I slip them into my pillowcase. This is as much power as I take back tonight. Whatever Ghost does if or when he returns is all on him. I am staying as far from this game as possible. I never wanted any part. There are enough men dead because of me.

I sleep with the sound of bullets quietly rubbing and clinking against each other beneath my skull. When I feel his hand cold against my skin, I swear I see Death himself.

The ragged gasp for air feels like my first breath. My heart is racing. I feel the hot, meaty muscle as it climbs its way up my throat and suffocates me as it beats against my windpipe. Thump, thump, thump. My eyes immediately lock on the ominous shadow.

Ghost slowly retracts his hand. He smells like sweat and the outdoors. The cold scent lingers on his clothes and mixes with the smell of burning wood present in the cabin.

Moonlight filters in through the window and mixes with the warm glow of the fire. Between the two, I can just make out the watchful eyes behind the balaclava. He sits on the edge of the bed with both hands now resting on his thighs. I didn’t even feel the dip.

I sit up and pull my knees to my chest and away from him.

“How long were you there?” I don’t expect much of a response. I don’t know if I want one. Once I open this door, there are only so many places it can lead.

“A while,” Ghost’s voice is quiet and strained. He says he’s been here a while, yet his hands are still cold. Or maybe I just imagined they were cold. None of this feels real anymore, only my drumming heart demanding resolve. “Where are the bullets for my handgun?” his question catches me off guard. I didn’t think he’d notice so soon. Maybe he has been here a while? Maybe he already knows. I glance at the table to see the shadows of the weapons in the same spot as before, visibly untouched.

“I hid them,” I say without making eye contact. If I do, he’ll know for certain where they are. There’s something about him that’s almost angelic in the way he reads people. It’s utterly terrifying.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure anymore,”

“Y/n, you know I’m not going to shoot you,” It almost comes out like a question. I know, in theory at least. He can’t shoot me because he needs me, but does that mean he won’t?

Part of me knows he won’t because there are better ways to kill a person. Cleaner ways. More personal ways. They could make it look like an accident. 141 could erase me from existence - make it look like I was never born - if they haven’t already.

“Why are we doing this?” my voice is barely audible. His actions over the last day have left me feeling more confused than ever. First, he says it was all a part of his plan and now he’s saying it wasn’t. Deciphering the truth has become more frustrating than ever.

“Could you recognize the men who did this to you?” I hear the strain in his voice again, like he’s holding back.

“I was blindfolded,”

“Their voices?”

I shake my head. “They all blend together,” A pent-up breath escapes my chest. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does,” he lowly urges. “Y/n, I need you to know what happened to you was unacceptable. That was never the plan. You were to be kept on a low dose of drugs for a limited amount of time, just enough to disorient you. What they did – those marks on your skin – should have never happened. Never,” He insists. I wrap my arms around my knees as he shifts closer. An anxious feeling creeps up the back of my neck. “I can’t punish them if I don’t know who they are.”

“I don’t want more people getting hurt because of me,” I finally look at him. He leans toward me with one hand resting on the bed. There’s a nervousness in the air.

“Not because of you. Actions have consequences,” he says. “Their behaviour will be corrected.”

“Please don’t,” I quietly beg as I shift onto my knees. I take a risk and gingerly grab onto his forearm. “It’s not worth it,” I’m livid it happened in the first place, but their punishment is just spreading the pain around in my name. I don’t want that. I want it to end.

“If I don’t, it’ll happen again,” Ghost says as he looks down at my hand. His words are resolute. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. His strong arm is tense under the henley, but I don’t pull away.

“What about the man behind this one?” I reach to pull my shirt over my shoulder. His soulful eyes latch onto the bruised skin. Ghost’s chest heaves with a deep sigh. He knew this was coming.

“He needs more than just correction,” Ghost’s eyes are glued to the marks.

“Like what?” I risk the question. It’d be so easy for him to shut me out. To turn around and leave. But I need to know. What kind of a person is he? How does he perceive his own cruelty? I silently pray he stays.

“Only Hell can help him,” Simon finally looks up. His eyes are filled to the brim with so many emotions, they’re hard to discern. But what stands out the most is how much pain is evident behind that mask.

“I don’t believe that,” I grip his arm tighter. Part of me is afraid of his answer. I don’t know the truth behind his words. I only have a small idea of the violence he’s capable of. I’ve only glanced through a crack in the window of pain he’s caused and even that was significant.

“You don’t know half the things I’ve done, y/n,” his hands tighten into fists.

“I’ve cut, burned, fucking butchered people without a second thought. I kill men. It brings me so much pleasure to watch those animals die, y/n. I’m not someone who can live without violence,” Ghost starts to tremor. ”There are only so many places for a man like me.”

I shake my head. “I don’t…I don-”

“Believe it,” Ghost cuts me off. “Look at what I did to you,” he moves closer as his other hand reaches up to my exposed arm. Ghost’s fingers lightly trace the bruises. His hands are hot, different from how I remembered them moments ago. There’s a warmth to him, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Part of me wants to make excuses for him: that it was the heat of the moment, or because I knowingly withheld information that put us all at risk. That doesn’t make it okay. None of this is okay. My moral lines have become so blurred within the last several weeks, it’s hard to know when they’ve been crossed.

I don’t know what to say to him. I focus on the feeling of his gentle fingers on my arm.

“It was the only thing that fixed my father,” His voice deepens. I’m not prepared for where this conversation is about to go. I feel my heart racing in my chest, ready to break free. “I used to hate him for the things he did, how he’d hurt my brother and mum. Fuck, would he hurt her. He hated her and took every ounce of hate out on that woman. He left her beaten and bruised for years,” Ghost wraps his hand around my arm, under the dark bruise. “And look at me now. Look what I’ve done to you. You don’t deserve this.”

My throat tightens and I feel tears prick at my eyes. I tilt my head back and force them down. I feel his careful gaze follow down my neck, across my collarbones, then land on the damning marks above his fingers.

“You’re better than he is, Simon,” it’s barely a whisper.

“You don’t know me,” Ghost’s voice cracks.

“Maybe not. But you’re here right now. And that tells me all I need to know,” our eyes lock together. I see the distress behind his mask. How he so badly wants to believe me. “Simon, I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t know how this ends, y/n,” he murmurs. I shift closer to him again so that our legs rest against each other. His breathing deepens at our proximity. His hand leaves my arm to wrap around a strand of hair. He examines it quietly, his thumb slowly tracing the length.

I feel the heat and tension radiating from his body, yet find myself strangely at ease in his presence. He cares. He won’t dare say it, but I can feel it in his gentle touches, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. He had my back when his men were making crude jokes in the van. I think of his concern for me when we were at the last safehouse and I didn’t have shoes. How he lingered to make sure I was okay. How he gave me an extra blanket and touched my shoulders when everyone else was sleeping. I remember when he immediately noticed something was off after the prisoner confronted me. The first thing he did was make sure I was okay. He’s always cared.

My heart still races, but not because I’m scared. My fear has morphed into a more dangerous emotion. One I can’t say out loud. One that would put both of our lives in danger.

When I look into his dark eyes, I see them mirroring my own. Shadowy pools of desire lap at his irises.

“Y/n,” he warns as I look up at him. His eyes flicker down to my bottom lip brawn between my teeth.

“Can I lift your mask?” his head starts to shake even before I’ve finished speaking. “Just a little,” my voice is barely audible. The warm glow of the fire bounces off the walls. Ghost is tinted red. He tilts his head down, searching my eyes. Part of him is still reluctant to trust me. There have been so many people in his life who’ve betrayed him, who’s to say I won’t do the same?

“Ok,” he whispers, dropping the strand of hair.

My hands meet the hem of the balaclava, resting just above his sternum. I slowly roll the fabric up, leaving time for him to stop me. This is the first time he’s ever allowed another person to do this. I feel his vulnerability with each shaky breath. The backs of my fingers trace along his neck as I move the fabric. The scruff that lines his neck and jaw brush against my hands. His adam’s apple bobs as he forces down a nervous swallow. “Just a little more.”

I move the mask just above his jaw. Like the rest of him, it’s sharp and strong. Dark hairs fill in the space after missing his daily shave. Ghost’s hands move to my outer thighs and his thumbs rub along my skin with a reassuring pressure. I bring the mask over his lips and rest the excess material over his nose. Ghost presses his full, slightly chapped lips together as he watches my eyes roam his face.

Part of me wonders why hasn’t he stopped me. Does he yearn for the same type of connection? Does he think about me in the dead of night with wandering hands? Is this something we’ll use against each other in the future? Will there be a future? All of this is a bad idea. But I can’t help the longing. The yearning. How badly I want to feel his hands on my bare skin. Tangled in my hair. Reaching the darkest parts of me.

When I look up, his eyes are so incredibly intense, it’s impossible to look away. A large hand cups my cheek and wraps around the back of my head. Neither of us dares to move any further. We stay frozen in a state of almost vulnerability. It’s not too late to turn back.

It’s hard to see where his irises end and pupils begin, they’re so dark. His eyes hold every word he’s too afraid to say. Words are dangerous. They confirm every want and desire. I’m no braver than he is, not by a mile. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.

Ghost leans down and rests his masked forehead against mine. The soft fabric presses into my face. His nose tenderly brushes against my own.

“Y/n,” he murmurs as his thumb tenderly traces along my skin. “You have no idea the things you do to me,” I feel goosebumps run down my back at his low, sultry voice. Simon’s cool breath fans against the nape of my neck.

The air between us is charged with tension. I feel a heat start to burn low in my stomach.

Ghost doesn’t move any closer. He has aired his desires. Now it’s my turn. How far do I want this to go? How far am I willing to take it? Nothing happens unless I initiate.

I run my hand along his strong jaw as I lean forward. I hesitantly brush against his lips, providing one last opportunity for us to turn back. Simon ghosts his lips above my own. My muscles tense in anticipation and my breathing is fast and shallow. I loop a finger through his belt loop and pull him closer.

Ghost takes this as permission and gently presses his lips onto mine. The kiss is soft and fearful and longing. After a breath, I pull away ever so slightly to read his eyes. They open slowly and linger on my lips for a moment longer. Ghost swallows thickly before looking up. There’s an insatiable hunger swimming in those dark pools of desire.

I long for those hot August days spent on the poolside almost as much as I long for him to drag me under the surface. I feel Ghost’s calloused hands moving up the side of my body like waves. Shivers run along my spine. My senses feel heightened. My lungs burn as icy water floods every cavity. I want him to hold me under until every breath of air is stolen from my lips.

Ghost shifts onto his knees and slowly stalks above me. His moves are calculated and predatory. There is only one thing he is on the hunt for. Only one thing that can fully satisfy his appetite.

I lean back as he moves closer until I’m fully pressed against the bed. Ghost leans down on his elbows as his knee urges my legs apart. A dull pulse throbs in my lower stomach. A large hand brushes the hair out of my face as he leans closer.

The kiss is harder this time, needier. Simon’s breath is hot against my mouth. My lungs smoulder with each breath, threatening to burst into flames. I run my hand under the back of his mask into his hair. I want more of him.

“Sweetheart,” my heart skips at the name. “How far can I take this?” his hands cup the side of my face. There’s a different type of seriousness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.

“All the way,” I watch as he licks his lips in anticipation. “I want all of you.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I have to be gentle with you,” but I don’t want him to be gentle. I want every pent-up emotion branded into my skin with an iron rod. He’s held back so much from me. I want everything out in the open.

“All of you,” I repeat, brushing my thumb against his jaw.

“Y/n,” he warns as his lips brush against my ear. There’s an exciting sharpness to his tone.

“Don’t hide from me,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he holds his head up to search my face. There’s genuine fear behind his eyes, but as they flicker down at my lips again there’s an even stronger desire. Once he starts, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. Every part of his life is so disciplined, that once he relinquishes control, all self-restraint is gone.

“I trust you,” I trace my thumb above his full lips, pausing in the center. His brows furrow, waiting for me to take my words back, change my mind, tell him I don’t mean it. But I do. “I trust you, Simon.”

He uses the last of his restraint to search my eyes one last time. There’s no uncertainty, no fear or hesitancy. I want all of him. Need all of him. Desire burns within my core and he is the only one who can satisfy it.

His lips are hot and fervorous. Ghost’s eager fingertips drag across my pliable flesh as his hands skim under the hem of my shirt. I want to feel his touch everywhere, my lips, my neck, arms, and chest. I need him everywhere. I want to be consumed by him.

His sweet tongue slips between my lips. It’s a natural motion I welcome with my own. He’s gentle at first, cautious even. But then the hunger grabs a hold of him. His teeth latch onto my bottom lip and pull. Dark eyes test the waters as he gauges my reaction. How far can he really go? A small gasp escapes my chest and I almost miss the corner of his mouth twitching into a devious grin.

“When I tell you to do something, say yes sir,” his husky voice whispers into my ear as a large hand lightly wraps around my throat.

“Okay,” I respond. He’s not the only one testing the waters. I feel the strong hand tighten ever so slightly. I can’t help a sly smile at his reaction. “Yes sir,” the words noticeably arouse him. Ghost draws in a deep breath as he drags his bottom lip between his teeth. I think of all the times I offhandedly called him that the last several weeks. I wish I knew what a hold it had on him. “Is that better, sir?” I tease.

“You’re trouble,” his tone is suggestive. I love the feeling of his hot breath hitting my neck. I want to feel it drift even lower.

Ghost’s hands are back at the hem of my shirt. He gently tugs at the fabric and I take the signal to sit up and slide it off. I toss it to the side as his eyes take in my figure. I notice how they falter on some of the larger bruises, but in another instant, they’re back on me.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs.

His rough hands travel up my torso - taking care to avoid the bruised areas - as his lips find my neck. He starts off slow, deeply kissing me behind the ear, before moving towards the nape as he begins to suck on my tender skin. One hand begins to tenderly massage my breasts. I feel my eyes flutter shut with pleasure, but then a small part of me remembers I don’t want marks left above the hem of my shirt, especially these kinds of marks.

“Your turn,” I tug on the bottom of his henley.

“That’s not how you ask,” he mumbles as his teeth rake against my skin.

“Please, sir?” he thoughtfully hums against my neck.

Ghost sits up as he straddles me to pull his shirt off with one hand. My breathing hitches. He is stunning. Years of relentless work have shaped him into the machine he is today. Ghost is built like a predator. Strong, sturdy, and sharp. Scars from past challengers and victims litter his chest like medals. His tattoo wraps around the entire length of his arm, around his shoulder, and spanning across half his chest. I’m left speechless as he leans down to meet me again.

My hands unapologetically travel across his vast chest. His muscles flex under the pads of my fingers and I’m reminded of just how strong he is. But I don’t get far, Ghost grabs both wrists with one hand and pins them above my head. He enjoys looking down at me, completely under his power. There’s something about our size difference that is thrilling. He is in complete control. He can do whatever he wants.

Ghost’s lips return where they left off, slowly moving down my delicate body. Past my neck, down my sternum, and right to the spot he is looking forward to the most. His other hand wraps around my back, finding the clasp to my bra. His eyes peer up through his mask, looking to me for permission to keep going. I give him a small nod and immediately I feel the release of the band. He slides the bra up my arms, letting go of my wrists only to free us of it once and for all before grabbing them again. Ghost’s other hand returns to my back, urging me to arch my chest to his lips.

Sharp teeth nip at my soft breasts between deep kisses that are certain to leave more bruises. Ghost adds more pressure to my back as he pushes me closer. He takes his tantalizing time teasing me with his tongue as it swirls around my nipple before the abrupt feeling of his teeth pulling on my skin takes over. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. I press my lips together to hide my heavy breathing, but it doesn’t get past him.

“Let me hear you, sweetheart,” he tastes the tender skin. “No one around for miles.”

Both his hands wrap around my waist as he pulls me flush against his chest. I take the opportunity to run a hand along the waistband of his pants, slipping a finger just under the edge of the fabric. Ghost pauses as his chest heaves from the movement. I grab his jaw and guide his lips to mine again, mimicking his previous movements by tugging on his lower lip with my teeth. I can’t help the growing smile on my face.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart,” his hand trails down my stomach, slipping between my pants and underwear. Two thick fingers circle around me above the thin piece of fabric with growing pressure. My head sinks back into the pillow as my breathing becomes more jagged. Sparks fill my vision from the intense pressure.

“Oh fuck,” I whimper from his touch. His eyes are intent on my face as they watch the pleasure wash over me.

“That’s a good girl,” he says eagerly. “Wet for me already?”

My thoughts are too twisted to come up with a smart response. I press harder against him for more traction. If only he knew how much I’ve thought about his hands and all the things his fingers can do.

While slipping a hand under the fabric, he leans down letting his lips press against my neck. Our bare chests brush against each other and his other hand winds through my hair. Ghost fists the strands against the back of my head and slowly pulls back, further exposing my neck for better access. I feel the edge of his teeth take my tender flesh between them. I imagine the marks that will litter down my neck leading across my chest.

A thick finger slips into me while his thumb focuses on my clit. The feeling is so intense I can’t help the moans escaping from deep within my throat. Ghost pulls harder on my hair. A deep chuckle reverberates through his chest. He’s enjoying this.

I wrap a hand around his belt, pushing the leather through the loop, ready to pull it off, but then a large hand clasps over mine.

“So soon?” Ghost teases. The intense pressure of his other hand leaves between my legs as he slides his belt off. The buckle jingles as he twists the leather into itself. When I look down, I realize what he’s created.

There are two spaces for a set of hands to slide through while the belt acts as a pair of handcuffs.

“Simon,” his name is breathy on my tongue.

“Arms up,” he orders.

I raise my hands above my head and feel the leather restraints slip over my fists. “Not tight,” I tell him. His eyes glance down at me and he seems to understand. He pulls the leather band, leaving just enough space that I could escape if I really needed to, before looping the leather back through the buckle.

“Okay?” he whispers and I nod my head in response. “Atta girl,” the side of his mouth quirks up.

I watch Simon trail his thoughtful lips down my torso. He pauses at each bruise, pressing a tender kiss lightly on top of each one. Butterflies swarm inside my stomach. I never thought I’d see such a man be so gentle.

Simon’s thumbs rub in circles over the corner of my hips as he makes his way even lower. There’s a growing anticipation between my legs as I wrap one around his back, pulling him closer.

The black mask lowers between my legs. Swollen lips kiss the inside of my thighs. The edge of his teeth grazes the tender flesh. I draw in a sharp gasp as he bites down. Hard. A full pain throbs along my inner thighs. His previous gentleness slips away. This will leave a bruise lasting for days.

“These are the only marks I want to see on your skin,” his passionate eyes look up from between my legs. The black balaclava covers the rest of his face aside from his lips. How I’d love to run my hands through his hair.

Simon’s arms wrap around my legs to hold me down by my hips. I grasp the belt with whitened knuckles as he moves up, leaving another mark, but not before pressing an apologetic kiss to the area. Small whimpers escape my tight throat as he switches legs and leaves a growing trail of marks closer and closer to the hem of my underwear. I want him to make me feel good again.

“Please Simon,” I feel his lips humorously twitch against my skin.

He pulls away and all of his delicious warmth leaves with him. Simon rests on his knees, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight before him. All I can think about is the heat of his hands as they travel over my skin. Fuck, I need him. I need him everywhere. In the darkest parts of my body and soul.

A rough thumb traces over my lips. “You still want this?” there’s doubt in his voice, like he’s expecting me to change my mind.

“So, fucking bad,” my lips move against his thumb. I take him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the thick digit, lightly starting to suck on him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he mutters under his breath. His other hand slides beneath his jeans as I press my mouth further down on his thumb. But I don’t let him relish in the feeling.

“I need you, Simon,” I murmur. “Please, sir,” my voice is breathy and desperate.

I can feel the need pooling between my thighs. I ache for his touch.

His hands light my skin on fire as he slips my underwear off, pulling them down my legs. Simon wastes no time stepping out of his jeans, his large erection straining against his boxers.

“Of all thing things I’ve wanted to do to you,” he cups himself over the fabric. I wait for him to expand on his thoughts, but he doesn’t, simply leaving them to hang in the thick air.

Simon grasps himself over his boxes, slowly stroking as he watches me. My eyes never leave his. I feel the growing heat of the fire burning within me. With every stroke, he stokes the flames.

He leans down, lips hovering above mine. One hand gently holds my cheek while the other wraps around his tip. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathes into my mouth before tenderly meeting my lips. A small vein of nervousness is present at the back of my mind, but I channel all of my attention into my growing desire.

Simon adjusts his position as the boxers slide down. The anticipation is too much. He bites his bottom lip as the head of his cock traces my entrance. My heart is pounding. My hands grasp at the belt.

“Relax,” he glances up at me. “You’re tense.”

A gentle hand massages my inner thighs along the bite marks he left. The length of his shaft glides across my clit, sending tingles up my spine.

“Simon-”

“Look at me y/n. I want to see your face when I stretch you out,” my breathing falters at his words. I dare to look him in the eyes just as he pushes in for the first time. Fucking hell. The feeling is completely unmatched. My breathing is heavy. Simon’s thumbs rub reassuring circles along my inner thighs to ease the sensation between my legs.

“Oh God,” I whimper, tensing around his thick tip. His eyes hungrily watch my expression, burning it to memory. The amount of pleasure he gets from watching is almost equal to that of participating. Simon’s fingers circle my clit with a heavy pressure. I feel the throbbing intensify as he begins to push deeper. I hold back a whimper as he pushes deeper, stretching my tight walls around him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he growls. “You’re doing so good.”

Simon gently moves back before thrusting further in. My walls pulse around his thick cock as he picks up pace. My legs are wrapped around his broad back. One of his hands roughly kneads a breast as he bows his head into the nape of my neck. The metal dog tags hanging around his throat swing in the space between us, bouncing against my skin.

Simon’s breath is hot as it travels down my neck and across my chest. With every clench around him, I’m rewarded with soft needy moans into my ear as he nips at my lobes.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” his breathy voice rumbles against my neck. I feel the tightness in my stomach begin to build as he thrusts harder and his hands press into my clit. The world around me blurs. I’ve never been fucked this hard before. He feels so damn good; it’s like he was made just for me.

His hand drags across my breast, up to my neck as he wraps his strong fingers around the vulnerable area. I should’ve known he wants complete control. For so long he had none, now it rules every aspect of his life.

“You take me so well, y/n,” my name drips sweetly off his tongue like honey. I want to hear him say it over and over again. y/n. y/n. y/n. Fuck, does that sound good.

Every muscle in my body begins to tighten. My breathing quickens. My heart is racing. Every sense feels incredibly heightened. A lucid feeling begins to take over as Ghost’s grip around my throat tightens.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” his hand moves to my jaw.

“I’m close,” I gasp as the blood rushes back to my face. My cheeks feel hot under his intense gaze. “Simon I-” his name rolls off my tongue, but I lose track of my thoughts. With every thrust, I feel him deeper in my soul. All of the pain. All of the tortures of our diverged pasts are melding together. Right now, I have all of him.

Simon keeps his pace but thrusts his throbbing cock even harder. The sound of skin hitting skin overtakes the crackling fire. The heat is almost too much. Like a flame under a tank of propane. Pressure builds under the heat, ready to combust.

“I, I-” fuck, I can’t think. It’s too much. His hands are tightly woven into my skin. My fingers are white against the leather. My heartbeat is so damn loud. My face twists towards the covers as my body writhes under his touch.

“Don’t look away now sweetheart,” his voice is so incredibly thick with need. “I’ll stop if you look away,”

His dark eyes are a whirlpool pulling me in. Suddenly I forget how to swim. Simon drags me under as his thick fingers wrap around the sensitive bundle of nerves. I gasp as my lungs breathe in water. His lips are heavy against my own. My vision darkens and no other pleasure in the world can match the burning sensations coursing through my veins. My orgasm is the sun’s light from the bottom of the ocean.

I break the surface as Simon’s hot lips hastily press against my forehead. His movements quicken and his grunts deepen. His hands roughly grab onto my waist as he thrusts into me with uneven, jarring movements.

“Fuck, Simon,” the whimper is soft against his skin and the cause of his undoing. His hard cock throbs against my walls once more as he collapses against me from pleasure and exhaustion. Simon’s heavy body lays limp on top of mine. The weight is comforting and safe. No one else in the world can touch me. Only him.

Simon reaches up to undo the belt and free my hands which find their way to his broad back. I trace invisible pictures across the vast space, skimming across old scars and the edge of his tattoo. His hand gently runs down the length of my hair, petting the top of my head. I feel my eyes begin to droop as sleep creeps up from behind me. I want him to hold me forever.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, arms caging me in as his dark eyes peer down at me. The emotions behind Simon’s eyes are too conflicted to decipher. A cautious thumb brushes along the side of my face. For a moment, he simply stares at me, trying to memorize everything that’s just happened and the gravity of it.

“Y/n, I need you to listen very closely,” he murmurs, pulling the balaclava back over his jaw. I feel my brows furrow as a different type of tension takes over.

“Okay,” my voice is barely audible.

“No one can ever know about this,” Ghost’s tone is soft, but I don’t miss the significance that is present. I pause to think about his words. Really think about them. What are the consequences of what we’ve just done? Our actions have just irreversibly complicated 141’s entire mission. Possibly even damaged it.

“What happens if they find out?”

Simon doesn’t respond. I feel a growing, hollow, cavity within me as I consider what happens to the people who interfere with their missions.

This was a mistake. A consequential mistake.

Pt 15:

#cod ghost imagine #cod imagine #cod ghost #cod #mw2 fanfic #mw2 imagine #call of duty mwii #mw2 #ghost mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley imagine #simon riley smut #simon riley angst #ghost imagine #ghost x reader #he knows

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lvgrdn · 23 days

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dreamscape • zoro

note: hello! thanks for stopping by for a read ☁️ i took a spin on sleepy mosshead's napping habits and what came to be of it was this piece. it was an interesting "inner monologue"-esque study of how the man with near perfect resolve when it matters most, is actually quite the vulnerable person in his dreams 🥺

warnings: dream depictions of assumed death (strawhats), inner turmoil of inadequacy

everyone always assumed they knew why zoro slept so much. answers usually ranged between obvious rest and tlc, to snarky remarks of obliviousness to the sun and how high it hangs in the sky. despite the rapid responses and reactions to his snoozing form, it was a wonder why no one bothered to actually ask the swordsman himself.

yet he was thankful that the question has never come up, zoro admitted quietly to his own person as he jolted awake again for the subtle fourth time that bright afternoon on the deck of the sunny. it was a grace period of calm waters after visiting a small touristy island a day ago for restocking purposes, activities on deck simplified to those of solitude or seclusion as everyone took advantage of the chance to recharge. with the ability to control his composure by the minute millisecond upon settling back down to reality, not even the ever so observant eye of somebody like robin has caught the utter wave of disappointment that crashed through zoro every single time he came back to earth from his dreams.

he doesn't recall when it started or how it came to be like this — but he has been treating going to sleep the last while like a game; a puzzle that his mind created that felt like there were infinite possibilities upon starting but zero valid solutions after attempting.

why? why did it matter to him?

why did it fuel him so much to enter these mental landscapes, over and over and over? why does he have to remind himself on the cusp of falling into his subconscious that he could easily clear his head of all that roamed around up there, only to let himself tumble through the same sceneries constantly?

why was he here again—?

and why were you in front of him once more, just like the last thousand times?

zoro took in a breath, air staggering in his lungs. his eye adjusted to the fog surrounding the two of you, the looming mist bellowing over the rocky terrain environment in his peripheral vision.

he knew this was familiar, all of it, yet he relished in the way the edges of the dream twisted inward as it usually does. three more heartbeats resonating in his ears and then the smell will hit him with the force of several obliterating suns. the fog swirling around your hair and gliding over your skin wasn't fog at all, he noted almost nonchalantly. he watched as blooms of grey and black dusted across your features, his own growing ashen as he brought the corner of his arm up to shield his nose.

it was smoke.

"what the goddamn hell?!" he muttered the line as if rehearsed, sounding phony even to his own ears. zoro tried to orient himself though he doesn't have to, his eye darting around and taking in the flames that fluttered beyond the haze. like clockwork, he registered the ground he was standing on wasn't stable; in fact, it has been rumbling in tandem with an otherworldly uproar located behind him.

despair lodged itself in his gut when he turned around. he knew what sight would welcome him every time he got to this point. zoro felt them before he could see them — his crew and their fear, unadulterated and raw, icing his blood over despite the fires zeroing in and licking at his ankles.

someone was screaming for him but his name got muffled behind the horrific growl of the hidden beast amidst the shadows. the concentration of dust and ash stung at his eyes, his feet wobbling as the ground beneath him shook with the strength that would knock anyone else backwards without a moment's notice. one would think by repeating this dream sequence time and time again, he would know how to properly calculate the distance and strength needed to save everyone — but somehow, no matter what, it was never enough.

this was it — this was the part where he found out how nightmares were formed.

everything happened in slow motion. his gaze befalling on each of his friends, arms and hands outstretched to only him; the saviour that they were counting their lives on, the one that would choose to capture his crewmates' souls in safety and release his own into hell unbounded.

the earsplitting crack of the earth beneath them all, fissures dividing up the land and revealing blood red magma below. zoro finally toppled backwards, losing the grip on the hilt of his swords as he went, body numb upon impact. he couldn't move, he couldn't understand why he couldn't move— but it was futile, he was helpless, and his throat closed up with the guttural wail kept intact as he watched his friends disappear over the cliff's edge.

silence enveloped him instantly. sound and space vacuumed out from his vicinity before he could fathom the loss of the people he called family in such quick succession. the echoes of their horror still rattled within the forefront of his head before his mind took over. disorientation grappled him by the heartstrings when a hand landed on his shoulder, jolting him from his stance as he jerked his head upward.

there you were again, ethereal and pristine. nothing tainted had touched you and you didn't look like you were harmed in any way. a wisp of pure relief brushed his gut at the sight of your face, always a beckon of serenity for him in times past, but the feeling was quickly snuffed out and replaced by wrenching guilt by the words that you spoke next.

"you could have saved them."

"i..." his breath failed him momentarily. i'm sorry. "i... i know."

you blinked, once then twice, before nervousness twinged against your features. hesitantly, you took your hand off his shoulder and raised it in mock innocence. "w-wait, you actually sound distraught. luffy and chopper are okay! they were just play-fighting a little too rough on the upper deck, is all..."

a gentle breeze wafted across the sunny, picking up the scent of the familiar salty sea below that made zoro's skin prickle with awareness. he was awake. and you had no idea what he was referring to earlier based on that wary look in your eyes. they continued to scan his face as your words tumbled out of your mouth, awkwardness taking over and you tried desperately to fill the void of his silently tormented demeanour in front of you.

"when they fell over the railing and screamed, i just thought you heard them but decided to ignore them... like the rest of the crew..." your voice dropped several octaves when zoro casted his gaze away from you finally, noticing how his shoulders sagged a tad as he sighed gruffly. "... sorry for the dramatics— i genuinely thought you were awake. i didn't mean to wake you."

"no," zoro said quickly in retort, the sharp rigidness of his back straightening itself out. when he looked up at you again, it was his turn to notice how you pressed your lips together in a grim line, albeit finding yourself backed up in a corner with how he was handling this chance encounter.

this was all simple in retrospect and you couldn't have known what he was going through mere moments ago — for the last several moons, really — so he sighed again; gentler this time. "don't apologize. the dream wasn't so great anyway."

before you could process what he said, zoro got himself up in one fluid motion, throwing his arms up above him to stretch. the sound of ruckus and chaos still echoed from the other side of the deck, and you watched the swordsman make his way over. with his hand confidently on the hilt of one of his swords now, he turned his head around just enough to let it be known he was addressing you. zoro's other hand flicked up slightly, gesturing you to follow him.

"let's see what the commotion is about."

questions aren't zoro's forte. answers are expected to be concrete, purposeful, and solid. as much as he has molded himself to embodying that type of persona, any chance of doubt — even the theoretical or subconscious — lodges a thorn in the deepest corners of his soul that he would rather not visit to find. he knew curiosity was pulling you to him but zoro was yet again grateful the questions you had never landed as you fell in step with him to join the others.

maybe one day, he will know why.

#🌷; garden #zoro x reader #zoro x you #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #op x reader #op x you #the presence of reader in his dreams at the current state of this piece is truly ambiguous #but one could say as their relationship dynamic shifts... dream!reader gets more personally involved with dream!zoro #but not in the way zoro ever wants irl #his resolve is beyond impenetrable in the waking hours of the day #but the inner conflict he feels when death is at everyone's door knocking — who does he choose to save?#(he wakes up in cold sweats for those dreams and can't really hold eye contact with anyone for at least two days afterwards)#this is the sort of thing i love exploring when i write about my muses but i feel like it's not the typical fluff or angst #but alas i hope this lands with someone out there #i might just make posts with bulletpoints — headcanons as they say? — if my brain cells simply cannot compute pure paragraphs about this #dreamscape!zoro my dearest — you'll be okay 🥺#💐 for zoro

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highlordofkrypton · 1 month

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my ACOTAR wips // you wanted a villain?

I've been sitting on this one for a hot minute. I wrote this as a response to my annoyance with the shift in narrative, specifically towards Rhysand in the ACOTAR series.

So, I figured I'd introduce my morally gray boy (idek if he's gray, either), and see how it holds up, but then I got attached to the sibling dynamic with Amren. I also really enjoy writing ancient horrifying creatures, so...

Not sure if I'll continue this, but it was cathartic to write.

TL;DR - There's a new menace in town, and he's... Amren's older brother? Beware of depiction of violence, if ever you're not cool with that. Read the WIP under the cut.

TAGS: YOU ASKED FOR MY OC, YOU'LL GET MY OC. @watcherintheweyr @amalhe-kofee and @feyres-divorce-lawyer this is my anti-IC WIP that I mentioned... IT'S NOT FEYRE FRIENDLY BTW IM SORRY

The House of Wind rests on the side of a mountain, atop a valley, overlooking the beautiful city of Velaris. It is the throne upon which the high command of the Court sit, watching over the peasants who rebuild after war and knitting fanciful tales of proximity. From high above, behind their wards and between wild oak walls, they tell themselves—these are my people, this is my court.

Lights wink shut across the city, like candles snuffed out by a violent breath. The darkness creeps in from the outskirts, slithering towards the House with frightful purpose. A blanket of silence hushes the people, though most are already asleep. There is no such thing as the winds of change; change simply happens when it is least expected and least desired.

A mouse tiptoes against marble floors, silent as ever. Years of hunting to survive have taught her the habit, even if the need for discretion has long vanished. This is her home and these are her people. She has nothing to hide. (Oh, but who said she is hiding?) The smile that spreads on her face is wicked as she circles her prey, settled in the foyer, looking pensively into the fire. The bond between them remains firmly shut, an important part of her game, and the rest of her family has been ordered to bed in hopes of avoiding an… unwanted spectacle.

Rhysand looks as handsome as ever, if not more tonight. He stands tall and confident, broad shoulders in a dark suit that seems to drink up the dance of the flame. Feyre yearns for him—her love, her male, her mate. She creeps closer and closer, until she can wrap her arms around his waist. She has to stand on her toes to kiss his neck, nuzzle the fine hairs there and breathe in the scent of him. Crisp, cool, like the evening breeze.

“You seem different today, I like it.”

Rhys always finds a way to take her breath away. The house rattles with the impact of Feyre's body against its walls and she sobs.

“Do not touch me,” he clips.

Rhys always takes her breath away, and he would, had he been the one here.

One by one, the Inner Circle of the Night Court appears. First are the three Illyrians, two of which are armed to the teeth. Their armour and weapons are familiar—discarded iterations of better inventions that this realm never did see. Their battle stance implies that they are trained, but not enough. Not for the villain they face now.

“Let her go.” The very shadows warble around them as Rhysand makes his demands and utters his threat. “Or I will tear your throat out.”

Johan’s icy gaze slithers from the pseudo-Fae to the false prince. His face remains handsomely impassive.

“Oh, would you? I’d rather like that.”

There’s a glint in his eyes that betrays the rest of him. His tone is dead, like his soul at this very meeting. Is this all they are? The famed Night Court? Children, all of them.

The High Lord of the Night Court moves. Probably to save his mate. The second he starts, Johan squeezes harder. Feyre’s head turns red, then a little purple with suffocation. Her eyes bulge a pretty hazel. It is still a struggle, after all this time, for him to piece together recognition in the form of faces. He can scent the anger, the soaps they use to clean themselves and even the nature of their magic, but he cannot—will never—see them.

Threat of his mate’s death is enough to stop Rhysand in his tracks. The other two had started to circle him and they mirror the movement of their lord. While the demonstration of reason is reassuring, the clear weakness is disappointing. Johan squeezes a bit more, each increment with the end goal of snapping her neck and watching the life blink out of her. An unsatisfying end, but there are many of them here and he has many questions. One answer for one life, that should do. The first murder is always meant to send a message.

“Hanni?”

Amren enters the room, her voice so soft, it’s unrecognizable to the Illyrians she’s known for years. The way she looks at the stranger makes her seem much younger than her fifteen thousand years; it’s the longing that fills her expression, shattering every knowledge they’ve had of their friend. (Did they ever really know her? A creature this old and devastating?) She spares no glance at the violence against her friend, only bolting towards Johan to tackle him in a tight hug. He remains unmoved.

“I have missed you.” Her eyes wrench shut as she holds him. Not even the sound of Feyre hitting the ground and her friends darting to care for the once-human High Lady will take this moment from her. “You’re back.”

Johan’s hand rests in her hair, jet black to mirror his. (And their eyes, brighter than any stars in the Continent’s skies.) The touch is awkward. Stunted. “I am.” He says, flatly.

“You know this asshole?” Cassian whines.

When she pulls back, Amren puts little distance between herself and the visitor. “Yes, he is my brother.”

“Your brother?” Cassian sputters, choking on his own saliva. The room stills, every soul in it staring at their ancient friend who only ever hints at her past. The thought that Amren, a creature just barely contained in her flesh, could have family is beyond them. The younglings swallow audibly. They are afraid.

They should be.

Rhysand stands while Morrigan tends to the High Lady of Velaris, a boy defending his territory. “Tell your brother he is in my house and he will not lay a hand on my mate.”

How could you mistake him for me, his voice echoes down the bond and into… nothing?

“So long as I am here, all bargains are off,” Johan drawls. Even the ones made with the heart and the soul. Something he said must be amusing because he can feel Amren’s amusement bubbling up beside him, despite her mimicking his impassive expression.

The rest of the children in the room are of mild interest to him, part of a task. Nothing less, nothing more. Tilting his head, he inspects Amren. He towers over her, both in stature and demeanour. If she was cold, then he is the ice that drew the world to a standstill. If she is distant, then he is the yawning crevasse between humanity, faeries and whatever they are supposed to be.

A metal finger slides beneath her chin, tipping it upwards towards him. His lips part to speak to her, but before he can get a word out, a wheezing useless sound interrupts him.

“What does that mean,” Feyre breathes, struggling to her feet. It would have been a better show of strength, had she not needed two people to keep her standing. “What… happened to the bond? Amren?” She looks to her friend, expecting their relationship to sway the situation in their favour how it always has.

Amren rolls her silver eyes towards Feyre, then back to Johan. “These are my friends.” She chooses her words carefully. For they all have been through together, the being before her would not understand the notion of family. Not with these people.

Johan’s handsome features twist into a brief scowl, but he smooths his expression just as suddenly. Her relationships mean nothing to him. They are infinitesimal before Amren, even smaller compared to himself. It is only out of affection for Amren that he does not flay the once-human. He does not bother with answering her question, he owes her nothing.

“What are you doing here, little one?” He finally asks, gleaming the answers from the cosmos in her eyes. “This is not your home.”

From the outskirts of the room, Amren’s friends flinch. Velaris had been her home. For now.

“I was trapped in this realm when you all left.”

A frown mars Johan’s features, no matter how slight. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers. She does not need to say it for him to understand. Left behind. He mourns the injustice in his own way. “Do you wish to return home?”

It’s not a question she can answer now, not without betraying one (or both) of her families. Amren steps back, schooling her emotions into their usual iron. Johan’s gaze follows her with the same attention a predator would offer his prey. One wrong step and he could have her between his teeth. All this time, she wrought fear to all the Fae around her—a bedtime story to keep them in line—but she is nothing compared to her brothers. (If Johan is here, then the Other must be, too, wreaking havoc across the continent.)

“Why are you here?” She speaks on behalf of their house.

You know why.

“Speak it, so that we all may hear.” The order is bold, a risk she has weighed out. Her friends stand at the ready; she’s still on their side and they trust her.

Johan surveys the cast before him, properly this time. There is Amren, standing in a new light by allying herself with children playing politics and heroics. The High Lord shares a handful of similarities to Johan, calling back to the origins of his line and his Court, but still only a shadow of its former glory. He is pleased to see the way Illyrians have developed. Still strong in build and character, with no visible adversity to techno-magic (despite its archaic shape). His gaze lingers on Azrael. Not his face, never the face, but the whole of him. The fae’s magic whispers to him—shadowsinger—and Johan’s nostrils flare in the only visible tell of amusement. This will need to be revisited. There is the female fae who is of no discernible interest to him and lastly, the High Lady who’s stature as fae decreases with every waking moment.

“This world is corrupt. I am here to return it as it should be.” Simple as that. “Your bond is no longer and so is your Making. Neither were earned, but if you are truly worthy, I am sure you will be able to gain one of those back.”

Shadows warble around the room as the High Lord winnows across the room, dagger in hand. He aims right for Johan's heart. Metal clangs loudly as the blade’s tip collides with Johan’s false hand. His other one slides behind the High Lord’s neck to pull him close. “Anything you can do, I can do better.” Johan purrs.

Rhysand would not be the ‘strongest of all High Lords’ if he did not have a vast arsenal of weaponry to use against any assailant. (In the background, Feyre tries to help, but stumbles when she comes to the sudden realization that she is no longer High Fae.) He barrels into Johan’s mind with the ease of daemati, and the mistake is his. Johan puts up no shields, welcoming him into the chaos of his mind.

“Rhys, no!” Amren shouts, but it is too late.

Johan’s mind is—

A wasteland made of shadows. Light withers in his presence, basking him in primal darkness. Fear in its purest form lives in him, surrounded by the souls of the dead. (Failed experiments, blood on his hands and ghosts beyond even his explanation.) They haunt him endlessly, robbing him of the ability to connect with the living. (He is one of them and they will never let him go.)

Rhysand claws at his face, fighting invisible monsters after spending a whole second inside the mind of an ancient demon. His eyes roll to the back of his head, body hitting the marble floors and seizing violently.

“What did you do to him?!” Feyre shrieks, crawling over to her mate and cradling him.

Nothing. Nothing was done to him, but the answer seems so obvious, it’s not worth speaking. What happened to Rhysand is a product of his own making. What point is there to all the power if he does not know how to wield it? Power pales in comparison to pure skill, and skill is nothing without the intelligence to know when and how to apply it. Johan simply tilts his head questioningly and looks down at the famed couple.

Cassian steps forward, ready to avenge his master, but the shadowsinger rests a hand on his shoulder, halting the thought with a shake of his head. Johan watches Azrael for a long moment.

Good boy, he presses into his mind. The thought is made of warmth and velvet. It slithers down Azrael’s spine and curls in his belly. The Illyrian flinches, glancing away from the invader. “What does that entail? Returning the world as it should be?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“What could—” Azrael’s question fades to nothing. Whatever he was going to ask, there’s no point. The man—the being—or whatever he was is already gone, clearly uninterested in entertaining their curiosity (and their fear).

Wisps of black smoke dance across the room as Amren is slammed into the wall. Johan manifests himself. “That is the last time you will question me on behalf of your mortals.” Her breath hiccups in her throat.

With that final word, he vanishes to finish his investigation of what this world has become.

#my wips #my ocs #acotar #acotar fanfiction #amren #pro amren #anti ic #anti acotar #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti feyre

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sunnystrollblog · 5 months

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Creek: Okay, but what if we went to dinner not as friends this time?

Branch: AS ENEMIES?!

Creek:…

Poppy: I see the red flags, I acknowledge that they're there, and then I completely ignore them.

Poppy : I have been tricked, I have been backstabbed, and I have quite possibly been bamboozled.

Poppy : Three of the four elements are represented as types of hockey. Air hockey, ice hockey, and field hockey. Fire hockey needs to be a thing.

Branch: Fire hockey absolutely does NOT need to be a thing.

Creek: Do you care NOTHING for the balance of the four elements?!

Creek, holding an unconscious Poppy : Oh no. Please don’t be dead.

Branch: *nudges Creek at 3am* Pretty fucked up that we depict the moon as a girl and the sun as a boy. They're just floating rocks in space. Creek? Wake up, Creek! Listen! They're sexless!

Creek: The sun isn't a rock, go back to sleep.

Branch: Are pigeons drones?

Poppy : What? No, I'm trying to sleep.

Branch: Think about it. How come you've never seen a baby pigeon? And why do you never actually see a pigeon nest? Because they're DRONES!

Poppy : *Crying* Please let me sleep...

Creek: Branch doesn’t look very happy.

Poppy : That's their happy. They're just a bitch.

Creek: Hey I got you food, pick a number between 1 and 10.

Branch: Uh 4?

Creek: Wrong, no food for you.

Branch: Wait what?! WHY?! CREEK PLEASE—!

Branch: Poppy , we tried things your way.

Poppy : No, we didn't.

Branch: I did it in my head and it didn't work.

Poppy: Let’s watch Sharkboy and Lavagirl.

Creek: Okay.

Poppy: And make out during the scary parts.

Creek : Th-

Creek : The scary parts.

Creek : Of Sharkboy and Lavagirl.

Branch: You know, sometimes dandelions remind me of Creek.

Poppy : Aww, is it because they’re like a little sunshine, spreading light and hope everywhere?

Branch: What? Gross, no, it’s because they’re like a weed that you can’t get rid of!

Creek: I’m scared that when you become rich and famous you’ll be embarrassed by me.

Branch: Oh Creek, I’m already embarrassed by you.

Branch: What’s up with you?

Creek: What do you mean?

Branch: You’ve been nice and helpful and considerate all day. What’s your game?

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #trolls fandom #trolls branch #dreamwork trolls #branch trolls #creek trolls #trolls creek #poppy trolls #trolls breekoppy #trolls breek #here’s some breekoppy incorrect quotes for you all #inncorrect quotes #they’re so silly #i headcanon branch has insomnia

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vigilskeep · 1 year

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why the kirkwall chantry is dedicated to hessarian, and why that gives us more than just a cooler name for it with a sexy accusatory nickname for anders in there somewhere: an illustrated guide!

(wait, wait, please remind me who hessarian even is, i hear you ask. hessarian was the tevinter archon who ordered andraste’s execution on the pyre. but struck with guilt at the last minute, he mercifully (i GUESS) killed andraste with a sword rather than let her suffer in the fire. he converted to andrastianism a decade later and took the rest of the imperium with him. he’s really popular in tevinter because, you know, he kind of improves their whole role in the story, and the chantry there likes to think he’s the most important disciple. you may recognise him from being one of the spirits in the urn of sacred ashes gauntlet, from the lore behind the blade of mercy gift for fenris, and the ‘blades of hessarian’ group on the storm coast in inquisition.)

okay, let’s first get the basics down: why do i think the kirkwall chantry is dedicated to hessarian? merrill, our glamorous tour guide to andrastian nonsense, is going to show us why

here’s merrill examing the architecture of the kirkwall chantry. and it’s covered in this guy!

how do we know this guy is hessarian? let’s compare it to some other, canonical andrastion depictions of the latecomer disciple. hessarian is typically depicted with some type of crown or headwear to demonstrate his status in tevinter, robes to denote him as a mage, a long beard probably also symbolic of tevinter culture at the time, and, of course, his blade of mercy. we can see all of these on the figure repeatedly shown in and outside the kirkwall chantry, as well as a certain similarity in the face to the other depictions.

here’s another variant of how the kirkwall chantry depicts the blade of mercy! these are Everywhere, including right over the doors.

and here’s more variants of the same figure inside. he’s carrying some kind of incense burner instead of a sword here, but it’s clearly the same face with the same crown and that classic hessarian beard. note his position of power flanking the enormous andraste figure.

so... why does that matter? isn’t it just a repeated asset?

no, it’s CRAZY actually. and here’s a couple reasons why!

(fascinated by genitivi’s word choice of glitzy mansions, btw.)

firstly, the kirkwall chantry’s dedication to hessarian’s figure is one of the biggest markers that it, along with the gallows and the darkspawn, is a legacy of tevinter. as i said, he’s the favourite there. kirkwall was once emerius under tevinter’s rule, and from the moment we see the weeping twins that welcome you into the city, we’re supposed to remember that the city of chains has not changed all that much. just as emerius’ prisons now incarcerate mages, its industry is now powered by refugees, and the worst parts of its lowtown hold elves probably just as they once did, its magisters’ estates continue to hold the most powerful voices in the city: in this case, that of the chantry and grand cleric elthina. the hessarian statues that demonstrate the chantry’s wealth and power are inarguably either tevinter made or at least made in their style, with such similarity to the statues of slaves that terrorise the gallows courtyard. hightown is no more free of that inheritance than the circle.

secondly, the focus on hessarian can’t be an accident in dragon age 2, a game obsessed with the mercy kill. “without an end, there can be no peace,” says flemeth. somebody has to kill wesley rather than watch him turn into a ghoul. anders has to kill karl. hawke possibly has to kill their other sibling if they catch the taint in the deep roads. varric can kill bartrand when he goes insane. killing the serial killer of elven children rather than letting his madness continue is one of the most universally approved decisions in the game. in her last words, leandra thanks you for ending the mage keeping her alive with twisted necromancy, even if, and especially because, it means the end of her suffering in death. merrill has to kill a possessed keeper marethari. many more can be killed for being “too dangerous” to live, like the blood mage idunna. orsino is slain by hawke after transforming into a monster he would never have wanted to be. there’s probably a dozen more examples i can think of. and of course, in one of the most game-defining decisions hawke has to make, there’s the option to kill anders after the destruction of the kirkwall chantry. merciful is not the word i would use for that, but it has certainly been framed that way. i suppose that’s the same as what i think of hessarian’s actions, isn’t it? (we’re focusing on the andrastian relevance here and not the godawful treatment of mentally ill people in this game, btw, although. yikes.)

“don’t compare yourself to andraste,” says sebastian to anders. he could try telling the game that. hawke gets cast into a lot of roles, but when anders believes they will kill him, he’s casting himself as the martyred andraste, dying to burn rebellion into the face of thedas, and hawke as his hessarian, quick with the merciful blade. i suppose it’s fitting that the kirkwall chantry should be consecrated in the image of its champion. and that the chantry covered in that image gets destroyed moments before hawke makes their choice, if they decide to make a different one. it’s also worth mentioning that meredith is a mimic of andraste, too, with her stolen crown, making anders and meredith obvious combatants for andraste’s legacy in the game. hawke doesn’t get much command of the narrative, but maybe they can at least dodge being anders’ hessarian, if they choose.

idk i think it’s really fucking cool and we should talk about it more, basically! there’s a lot of other angles to take. hessarian is such a fun lore figure to explore. for example, i didn’t even get into the prominence of an andrastian mage figure here, or that the blade of mercy is the symbol of the templar order and was invoked even earlier, in dao, as the “blade of mercy” by traumatised mages who desperately sought to be purified by the templars’ judgement.

also, i think ‘the chantry of hessarian’s mercy’ sounds good. maybe ‘the chantry of our lady’s spilled blood’? that could be sexy. whatever. i’m workshopping it

#long post #kirkwall #anders #i’ve been to the church on spilled blood in st petersburg it’s so extraordinary

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mostlymarvelsstuff · 5 months

Text

Too Close to Saying Goodbye

Summary: Tav gets injured fighting the Absolute, and its too close of a call for everyone but especially Karlach

Warnings: typical in game violence, somewhat graphic depictions of blood/injury, near death experience, angst(happy end!)

Authors note: my first time writing for BG3 and Karlach, so go easy on me please if its not the greatest

Word count: 1956

Karlach Masterlist BG3 Masterlist

What you currently stand in was once, no doubt, a beautiful open field near the forest. Now however, it has become a shell of its former self. The once green grass is now a dull brown, and it's marred by trails of upturned dirt that lead off into the distance towards a camp of Absolute forces that have clearly been stationed here a while.

In the distance you notice a few pillars of smoke rising into the sky, showing you exactly where the enemy is camped down at. With the hours growing late, you assume the fires mean that they've decided to settle in for the evening. You wager this means only a few will be out and about on their regular patrols, which would be easy enough to deal with if needed, so it should be the most opportune time to take your companions closer in order to observe and see just what you're dealing with.

This however, proves to be the wrong decision. For some reason, a small squad had been out on a patrol. And unfortunately for you, they had spotted you snooping nearly at once. There isn’t time for your party to hide or retreat, making a fight the only option. It truly isn't ideal with how they outnumber you, but you trust in the strength and strategy of your companions.

As the battle commences everything seems to be going smoothly. You’ve watched all your friends land a multitude of blows against the enemy, even managing to down a handful of the cultists despite being outnumbered. But, as all things with your little group, nothing can ever be as easy as it initially seems.

You had just managed to take down a rather large Orc, and were wrenching your blade free from his flesh when a Drow decided to take advantage of the situation and charged at you. You'd managed to spot him in your peripheral area in time to block the first blow with your bracers, but without a weapon you were not so lucky when the second blow came. And with a sickening squelch, the blade plunges into your shoulder.

Your yell echoes across the area, and Karlachs eyes frantically begin searching for you. Relief floods her when she finds you, but that relief is short lived when she notices the precarious situation you're in.

“NO!” she shouts, quickly felling the cultist in front of her before dashing in your direction. The drow pulls his blade free, causing blood to start pouring from the wound in a manner that has panic flaring within her, especially when she watches your knees give out as you crumble to the ground.

Worried that any time wasted fighting could prove fatal to you she summons all her strength and when she strikes, she easily cleaves the cultist responsible for your pain in two. His body falls to the ground not far from where you lay, and her bloodied ax clatters down next seconds before her arms are pulling you into her lap, “No, no, no. Tav!?”

You hiss in pain as something presses against your wound, but recognizing the warmth that now encompasses you, you call out, “Karlach”

“I’m here” she replies, pulling you even closer as tears cloud her vision, “I’ve got you”

You smile, but it lacks your usual warmth and doesn't quite meet your eyes. This makes her stomach drop even further and her eyes frantically start searching the battle again, this time for signs of the raven haired Cleric, or even one of the druids. But to her frustration she can currently spot none of them.

“I'm sorry” you mumble, effectively getting her gaze back on you, “I really did wanna explore the city with you….”

She shakes her head, “Don't talk like that. We'll make it to Baldur's Gate. Together.”

“Karlach…”

“I'm the one that's got limited time, remember, not you. So, you're gonna be just fine” She responds, clearly in denial of just how bad the situation is, “Just need some healing and rest. That's all”

The smell of your blood being spilled had brought another of your companions to your side, and though he's used to the sight of the coppery smelling liquid, when he sees the sheer amount of yours that's soaking into the grass, even he became queasy

“Karlach, is Tav…are they…?”

“Astarion, they need healing! Please get help!” she responds in such a panicked tone that he knows the situation is as serious as it seems, if not worse

He sprints off in a blur to where he had last seen the Cleric, he'd be damned if he was going to fail you now. No, not after all you've done for him, or for the others. No, you were truly too good of a traveling companion and friend to die so soon, and like this. He’d get you help. You would be fine.

As his footsteps fade into the sounds of the battle that still surrounds you, you become all too aware of just how bad the situation is. The dizziness and black edges to your vision tell you that you're losing too much blood far too quickly, and even if Astarion does find Shadowheart, with all the chaos going on there's no guarantee that she’ll even be in a position to come to aid you.

So despite the pain you're currently in, you're determined to offer some comfort to your beloved tiefling who cradles you in her embrace. You somehow manage to lift a hand to her cheek, and your thumb wipes at her tears, “You are truly incredible Karlach. How lucky I am….to have gotten to spend the time that I have with you….”

“Please, just stay with me love. Help will be her, it will”

You exhale shakily, “I’m not sure I can…

The way your voice is so small, so unlike you, has her bottom lip trembling and her grip on you becomes impossibly tighter, “Please, you can’t go yet…”

When Astarion spots Shadowheart a twinge of hope twists in his chest, and he wastes no time in running up to her and grabbing ahold of her forearm, “You're needed!”

“I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, in case that's gone without notice!” she reptiles, pulling her arm free to cast a firebolt at an advancing goblin

“I don’t care how bloody busy you are! Tavs dying, damn it!!” he snaps, “Go tend to them and leave these bastards to me!”

Her eyes widen for a brief second before determination takes over her features. She nods to the pale elf in understanding before darting off in the direction he had come from. Astarion swallows the lump of anxiety in his throat before turning to face the few goblins that she had been dealing with.

By the time Shadowheart reaches you she's almost afraid that she's too late, but the slight raise of your chest calms her fears, if only temporarily. A blue-green glow encompasses her hands as she kneels next to you, opposite Karlach.

“Tell me you can fix them Fringe, I can’t fucking lose them”

The Cleric takes a deep breath as she looks down at your wound. Normally something this bad wouldn’t be a problem, it would exhaust her but she could manage. But after using up as much energy fighting the cultists as she has…she's worried she may not be able to fully mend you.

“I…I can only try my best Karlach”

Though she nods in an attempt to remain stoic, a small sob does escape her, and it successfully breaks the half elfs heart. Shadowheart focusses her all on your shoulder then, letting the mending magic flow from her hands and onto your shoulder. The wound begins to close up and your breathing remains steady, which are both good signs. All that's left to worry about is the bloodloss.

The feeling of your flesh stitching itself back together is definitely strange, but what's even stranger is how it doesn’t seem to be helping your faint feeling. Your lover must be able to sense your confusion, or at least the fact that something is still off.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

Your brows furrow and you choke on your words before going limp in her hold. Panic completely overtakes her then, “Tav?!”

The sound of feet padding against the dirt nearby is the first thing that your senses register, the next thing is the small stuffed bear tucked under the arm that had been uninjured in battle. You smile softly before opening up your eyes, it takes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit surroundings but once your eyes adjust you can see the silhouettes of everyone sitting around the campfire in the distance. Well, everyone except Scratch and the Owlbear cub who are laying at your feet, standing guard. And Karlach of course, whose pacing was the source of the sound that had likely made you stir.

“Karlach” you croke out, grabbing her attention immediately

She's beside you in a second, her warm hands gently cupping your face and caressing your healed injury, “Oh thank the Gods”

“I think thanking Shadowheart may be more appropriate”

A smirk crosses her features, “Oh believe me, I’ll get to that. But right now…Right no I just want to look at you. And hold you.”

You nod your approval and she gently scoops you into her arms. You return her hug and feel your heart clench in your chest as she nuzzles against your neck, letting her tears land against your bare skin, “Oh, love…”

She shakes slightly with a sob, “Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me? You had me scared, so fucking scared, soldier.”

“I’m sorry love, I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“Damn right you will be. You won’t be allowed to fight more than an arm's length away from me, and I mean that!” she clarifies, snaking her tail around your waist, “I can’t lose you. Not after everything.”

You hum and run a hand through her hair, trying your best to ignore that pit in your stomach that tells you that all too soon you’ll be the one in her shoes. Begging her to stay, begging for more time and cursing the unfairness of it all.

“I’m not going anywhere, not while I have you”

After a few more seconds of soaking in your presence she pulls away to rest her forehead against yours, “We should go see the others, they we worried about you too”

You lean forward and press your lips against hers briefly, “Alright, let's show them all I’m alright”

She helps you get to your feet, but when she sees how wobbly you still are she opts to just carry you over to everyone, “Look who's awake!”

Everyone's heads turn to look at the tiefling carrying you, and the look of relief on their faces as Karlach holds you brings a smile to your face. It truly warms your heart to see just how close this group of misfits has become.

“Glad to see you're alright, I wouldn’t have known how to comfort any of these weirdos if you weren’t” Astarion quips, but you see the real amount of care and worry in his eyes

“Well, I can’t leave you in that situation now, can I? Guess I’ll need to be more careful so I can stick around”

“That would be preferred, yes” the Cleric agrees, offering you a small smile which you return

Gale passes you and Karlach both bowls of stew, “I agree, we all would be quite lost without you to guide us. But let's stop being melancholy and enjoy this night together”

You smile and glance back at your lover, “Yes, lets”

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 karlach #karlach #karlach cliffgate #karlach x reader #karlach x tav #bg3 fanfiction

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cafeinthemoon · 11 months

Text

Ever Dream (Apollo x reader)

Chapter 1/1

Wordcount 7,3k

Title Ever Dream

Fandom Shuumatsu no Valkyrie / Record of Ragnarok

Symbols ✔ . 1️⃣ . 💛

Warnings: Apollo is extremely inconvenient in the beginning; angst with a soft, bittersweet ending

Tagging ? (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N. A. Finally I can fulfill my promise and post this little story with Apollo!

At first, he wasn't appealing to me at all, but as his character was developed, I found myself liking him (I basically understood that my lack of interest in him and his fight was due to me not moving on from Hades' loss, since snv doesn't feel the same for me anymore) Also his personality is a bit weird in this one bc I've started to write it before his flashback came out, and since I've wrote so much it would be a waste to restart my work to adjust his depiction to something more "pleasing", so I just kept things this way. But I hope you have fun with it :)

“Come out, come out

Wherever you are [...]

Give in, give in for my touch

For my taste

For my lust”

(Nightwish, Ever Dream)

Summer days might be the favorites among the mortals, for they were long and favorable to the body and the heart, as a good presage for the ones who needed it, but that didn’t apply to you. Yes, as many, you appreciated cheerful encounters of friends under the shadow of a tree on a warmth afternoon, as well as playing games in the city’s lake with your sisters, but none of these small delights were enough to make you enjoy Summer above the other seasons. Honestly, you would be happier during Spring, when the beauty of the flowers would be in its apex, or during Winter, when you would stay long periods at home, in front of a good fire, with warm food and crafting to occupy your hands; even Autumn had a special place in your heart, with its meadows of red leaves and winds whispering mysterious tunes.

The thing is that you used to work as a gardener during Spring and Summer, and this latter was always the most difficult one, for the land where you lived was always too hot for any activity to be possible under midday sun, so you would adjust your routine to work at early morning or when the sunset approached.

It was a hard work: the plants would suffer with the heat, and you must know the right moment of the day to pour water in them, in order to not burn their roots; some of them would even become dusty with the lack of rain, only to be harmed after sudden, summer storms, and it would take an entire day for you to clean the fallen leaves, broken branches and garbage brought by the wind – not to speak about the mud; and, as if none of this wasn’t enough, you would have to fight against seasonal infestations.

It was a lonely work, also: there would be days when you would stay in silence for so long that hearing your own voice after going back home or speaking to yourself during work brought a sensation of strangeness. But you enjoyed the solitude, using it to perfect your abilities and organize your thoughts.

Some would say that you should start thinking seriously about your situation, that is, that you couldn’t live only for the plants and that you were already in the age of considering marriage, but you would just escape from their demands inside the labyrinths of the garden. Not that you would get angry with them, though. You understood their preoccupations, but you were aware of where they came from: they didn’t understand that happiness could have many sources in human life beyond building a family.

And, as long as your own happiness came from the garden, you would stay inside it.

***

If the humans who knew you were the only ones watching your steps with what you’d call an abnormal interest, you could deal with it. But fate wanted things to be complicated for you, so your peculiar, solitary routine hasn’t caught only the mortals’ attention.

It happened that, close to your garden’s location, upon a greenish hill, a temple was built centuries ago. A temple to honor the deity whose powers were always strong across those lands – Apollo, Son of Zeus and Guardian of the Sun, Master of Poetry and Music, and owner of more titles than you could remember. You’ve never seen him in person, though it was said that he used that building as his temporary residence on summer days, which explained the intense temperatures during that time of the year; it also explained why the lights of the temple would be fed until late hours and why there would be sound of chords, drums and high voices all day. You respected the work of the people living there, of course, but you’d appreciate a bit of silence during a period that was so difficult for you, and there you had another reason to show up only when the sun wasn’t shinning in all its splendor.

Little you knew that, from the highest spot of the temple, upon a parapet only accessible to himself, the Lord of that house, to whom all those honors were directed, has been observing that lonely, little mortal who would come every day to take care of her flowers with the same dedication as Heracles by the time he had to fulfill his twelve tasks.

He couldn’t remember when was the first time he saw you: the only thing he knew was that, while he stood at that temple, he couldn’t spend one day without seeing you. Every morning, before his worshipers woke up, Apollo would walk up the stairs that led to the private space where the highest balcony of the temple was, and he would sit at it, with his back leaning on a column, to witness the girl’s arrival and her preparations before work; he would stay there, watching in ecstatic silence as she separated her tools, touched each plant with those delicate fingers of hers, examined each spot of them and gave them the necessary treatment, smiling and, sometimes, mumbling to herself.

Not only he noticed your diligence and dedication, but it didn’t escape him how much you were beautiful. Yes, you were surrounded by appealing fruit trees, flowers of the most interesting shapes and shades, all of them between intricate green walls that only added in majesty, yet your figure caught the man’s eyes above all of them – eyes that were trained to not miss anything that could be pleasing to one’s sight.

The god would cheer at himself with the fact that you were oblivious to this, while he, at that height, was completely out of your sight. It was like in the old days, where he would observe the mortal realm from his spot at the Olympus, except that this time there would be no difficulties in reaching you: as one of the city’s inhabitants, you were basically his neighbor, and knowing that building like the palm of his hand, he knew the secret shortcuts that would lead him to your garden’s gates.

At first, Apollo would state that his morning observations were just a hobby, and that with all the work to keep him occupied at the temple and the attentions he would get from the worshipers – particularly from the priestesses – he would soon forget about you and your flowers. However, he wasn’t fool to the point of lying to himself for too long, and soon he would admit that he was interested in you. Well, he was already desiring you, in a way that didn’t happen since… a few centuries ago, maybe by the time of that temple’s inauguration, when he would lure some of the city’s mortals into it. And now, there he was, leaving the comfort of his bed every morning, sometimes even before the sun came up to greet him, for anything but to catch the exact moment when your feet stepped into that garden, wondering how your voice would send shivers all over his body in case you whispered in his ears with the same docility you did to the flowers, how soft your skin would feel if he caught your frail form between his arms, and the heat he would sense once his lips touched yours.

This extended for days, until he finally had enough.

That morning, he watched you as always, but this time something inside him awakened, and he just let his body move away from the parapet and reach for his private chambers, where he caught his best garments and a pair of golden sandals, and then wandered to outside the temple, to the narrow path behind the hill, covered in stones and sand, only known by himself, and in one minute or two, he was standing at the garden’s entry.

Today is the day. The day when I shall make you mine.

***

It should be a pacific, ordinary morning of work at the garden.

You arrived at the usual hour, reached for the spot of the garden where you started working the day before, separated your tools and went to take care of your tasks.

You’ve spent one hour, maybe two like this, so concentrated in what your were doing that the sudden rustling between the leaves somewhere behind you made you startle and drop your garden shears. You turned around…

And found quite a spectacle for that time of the day.

Coming out of a narrow space between two green walls, you saw a young man dressed in garments that you supposed to be only appropriate for the Summer Festivities, not so far in the land’s calendar: he had a white toga around his body, which hems and details appeared to be sewn with golden threads; golden were also the strappy sandals he had on his feet, as well as the laurel wreath on his head. The first rays of the sun reached the space between you at that hour, and the golden light poured itself over the man’s figure as the hug of a beloved one, revealing that the metallic ornaments he carried were, in fact, gold, and conceding a singular glimmer to his eyes, which you thought to be of the same shade. But that wasn’t the only peculiarity seen in his appearance: his hair, falling on straight strands to his waist, were of a soft pink that reminded you of some of the flowers in your garden, but a comparison wasn’t possible, since they were out of sight at that moment.

Yes, the visitor was a beautiful man, though eccentric, so your first thought was that he was the son of a noble family that came to the city to honor the god of the Sun at the temple beside your garden.

He’s probably thinking that the garden is part of the temple’s territory. I must clarify this mistake and lead him back through the right path.

And you were going to do that very thing, but he was faster.

Without waiting for an invitation or at least a question about his presence there, the man approached your spot and stopped in front of you, observing your tiny person surrounded by flowers and tools with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief: was this girl really engaging in physical work this early?, his eyes seemed to ask.

You stepped behind, closer to a bush of wild roses, but glanced over your shoulder before touching the thorns – something that made the stranger giggle. You didn’t like that at all.

The first words said between you were his.

– I’ve always said that wild roses were not my favorites, but the truth is that they’ve scared me and charmed me at the same time, and I just couldn’t deal with it – he stretched an arm to touch a spot above and behind you; not disguising the feeling that he was closer than a stranger should be, your eyes followed his movement and found his fingers reaching for a flower of the bush – A ridiculous mistake from an arrogant heart… – and, turning his golden eyes to you, – Don’t you think, my flower?

Your eyes widened, but you managed to control your mouth to not scoff at those words: you’ve been working at that garden for too long now, and from time to time there would be one and other man who would come to celebrate the Summer Festivities at Apollo’s temple, many of them from privileged houses… and about whom you’ve already had a clear opinion.

Let me see… Extravagant clothing at this time of the day, bad sense of direction, abnormally elevated self-confidence and no regard for personal space. Of course, another womanizer who relies on cheap flirting to win innocent hearts. He knows that this type of chatting only works when the speaker is young and beautiful like him, but things would be very different if we had an old, naughty man in his place.

You knew that, if you didn’t do anything to get rid of him, he would bother you for the rest of the morning, and you wouldn’t be able to complete the works of the day, but fortunately you also knew how to deal with this kind of situation, so you decided to act right now...

By moving aside and bending down to grab the garden shears that he made you drop. You stood up again and started removing the small, green leaves from its blades as you spoke.

– My Lord, I suppose you entered here by accident – you started; and, looking into his eyes, still with the shears’ blades up – Because, you see, despite the proximity, this garden doesn’t belong to Apollo’s temple. No festivities will happen here.

It was with a bit of diversion that you observed the bright smile fading from his pretty face, but you remained impassible, for you were aware that this one was an experienced gentleman and wouldn’t give up so easily.

And he didn’t.

– I must be indelicate and disagree with you, Miss – he moved his hand away from the flower, but, with an eye on your shears, he hid both hands behind his back – For a garden is a never-ending festivity itself, and the one that is going on right here owes all its beauty to the work of your hands.

You swallowed. He did have a way with words, then. But not even this would be enough for you to allow delays in your routine, and you made that very clear.

– If this is the case, my Lord, I must make use of the same indelicacy and interrupt our conversation here – in a swift move of your hands, the shears closed and opened twice with a metallic whisper – And keep working on the garden’s beauty.

And, without waiting for a response, you turned your back on the man and restarted to prune the bush with the roses, just as you were doing when he arrived.

Not even this was able to shake the young man’s confidence, for he just stepped aside and continued to talk, caressing the flowers at the same time. No irritation or offense was sensed in his tone.

– Then I must leave you to complete your mission – and, after a pause, – But I’m trapped here, and you’re the only one who can release me... by letting me know your name.

Your hands stopped and you turned to him again. You weren’t willing to reveal it to him, but if that was going to make him go away, you would do it.

– Y/n s/n.

The young man opened a satisfied smile. But, instead of saying his own name in return, he just stepped back and nodded.

– For this I will be forever grateful, my y/n. I will make sure that Apollo’s blessing falls over you and your work concerning this celebration of beauty.

And without waiting for a response, he turned away and left.

***

If only the Festivities in honor of the Lord of the Sun were shorter, or if your garden was located in somewhere else, the strange events of yesterday involving that extravagant individual would be just a funny story to remember in an encounter between your friends, or even something you would forget after a week.

But, unfortunately, things don’t always go as we plan, so to your surprise – and exasperation – the situation happened again in the next day.

You were pouring water on the soil, in a spot of the garden not so far from the one where your first encounter happened, having only the sounds of the water falling from the can and the early birds singing on the trees as your company, when the rustling noise of indiscreet steps upon the grass caught your attention.

You turned around… and found the shinning figure of the young man smiling at you, his right hand leaning on the tree at his side, his golden eyes upon you with the same enthusiasm of the last day.

You bit your lip.

I can’t believe it. Did he forget everything that happened yesterday?

If he noticed your displease or if he chosen to ignore it, you didn’t know, but he started a casual conversation without waiting for an invitation.

– Good morning, dear y/n! – he left his spot beside the tree and walked toward you with no sign of embarrassment – As I can see, the festivities continue today.

You just gave him a silent nod in reply. The man’s smile widened in contentment.

– That’s good to hear, for today I bring you something that you might appreciate…

Only then you noticed the object he was carrying on his left hand: a bracelet made of gold, in the shape of a vine and with a white gem in its center, with rays surrounding it as an imitation of the sun. You looked at the object and hesitated.

– My Lord, it is not…

But when the words were still crossing your lips, you felt a strong hand holding your wrist and pulling it forward, making you drop the watering can; before you did anything, the man put the bracelet around your wrist and spent a moment admiring it, with your tiny hand between his.

You even tried to pull it back, but the he held you in place. You swallowed.

Heavens, his appearance is the most deceiving thing I’ve ever seen! I don’t know many soldiers who possess this strength!

Because of this, you understood that you might have been in danger since the other day, so that time you kept your mouth shut and waited to see what his next step would be.

And you didn’t know if you should feel relieved or shocked when you found it out.

– Now you were granted the necessary permission, my dear – he spoke with softness; and, pulling you closer to whisper in your ear, – The way to the Summer Festivities has opened to you at the Temple of the Great Apollo.

You had no time to respond, to move away or to show any form of refusal. The man, still holding your hand, pulled you with him and started running between the green walls and trees, rushing toward the depths of the garden and not allowing you to stop.

You glanced behind and your heart ached when you saw your work unfinished and the watering can forgotten on the spot it fell, the remaining water leaking and soaking the soil.

***

The path through which he led you, as well as the environment you found when you entered the temple was what you would sense in a dream: in one moment, he was carrying you by the hand through the green labyrinth, in a pace that defied time; in the next one, you were inside high walls of white, imposing columns with marble flowers surrounding them from their highest to their lowest spot, and countless tables of gold with goblets, jars and trays full of fruits, sweets and other tempting treats that were taken by uninhibited, joyful people dressed in flowing fabrics and barefoot, running, hopping and dancing between themselves to the frenetic sound of chords, flutes and drums. The place was a mixture of sounds, colors and smells that confused and numbed your senses, in a way that you were only able to stand thanks to the strong hold of the young man.

Despite that, you still noticed how strange was that those people seemed to move to the music as if they were just one, yet they acted like they weren’t seeing each other, lost in their particular world, to the point you wondered if they knew what they were doing or if they were just caught under a spell.

Are they really happy, or are they forced into this? It’s unsettling...

The people only showed a believable reaction when you arrived… Well, actually, when they put their eyes on the young man, and started reaching for him with no regard for your presence, pushing, bumping and even stepping upon your feet.

In a way you couldn’t understand, he opened his arms wide to receive them without letting go of your hand, with a satisfied smile on his face that seemed to light up when the first rays of sunshine entered the place, embracing him with the same passion as the people around.

It was when a thought crossed your mind as fast as those rays, and you stared at him with a knot in your stomach.

Could it be that he…?

The chorus around you, chanting the same words in delight, was the confirmation for it.

– Apollo! Apollo-sama! You finally arrived, Apollo-sama! Please don’t make us wait this long for you again, Apollo-sama!

His face brightened up with the call of the humans, as if it absorbed their joy and turned it into vital force, returning it to them with the warmth of the sun; to them, he was god, father, husband and master, and he was more than happy in taking all those roles for himself, in what you saw as a hungry, even predatory way. Though you still found it a beautiful thing to observe, you no longer saw any resemblance with a man in his figure.

He was something else.

Feeding himself with their energies and keeping them gravitating around him is like a diversion to him. How scary.

And with the same diversion, he pulled you to a tight embrace, giving you no choice to walk away, for many people came to him and were no dismissed, so that you were trapped between him and them, and you didn’t know for how long you would be able to breathe.

Somehow, he managed to walk among his worshipers and take you with him before you in fact were smothered, and without decreasing in enthusiasm, he looked around and chanted:

– My children, my flowers! Another day of Summer came to bless you! Enjoy it, cherish it like it’s your last!

Immediately, the people obeyed him and, as if slowly forgetting about his very presence, restarted the celebration, dancing and jumping around and opening the way for you two at the same time, not really realizing what they were doing.

Not wanting to join them and not being able to release yourself from Apollo’s grip, you had no choice but to follow him.

***

You walked up spiral, white stairs with golden banisters, ran through a corridor and ended up in front of an enormous pair of doors, which he opened with a slight touch of his hand.

They revealed a wide room that, even in your lack of experience in these matters, you knew to be worthy of a god: everywhere you looked, you saw comfortable chairs and couches, covered with satin sheets and surrounded by trays of sweets and fruits, and countless jars of wine; there was also a small fountain pouring water, with a jar and cups around it. You also saw books, parchments and musical instruments ready to be used. Everything there was arranged to display beauty and pleasure, as expected from its owner.

Once you stepped inside, you heard the sound of the keys turning to lock the doors from inside and shivered.

– My y/n, will you follow me to the balcony? – Apollo passed to your side – There’s something I need to reveal to you, but it has to be in an appropriate place!

And, without waiting for your response, he tightened his grip around your wrist and pulled you across the room, to reach the said balcony.

You passed under an arc with a pair of curtains of a peach shade and found yourself in a place that could serve as a common room of a human house by its largeness, except for the fact that it was uncovered; on it, there was wine, fod and water as well, and a couch twice the size of the ones inside the room, yet none of those objects interfered while you walked among them.

Apollo stopped at the parapet with you by his side. With his arm stretched over it, he indicated the entire view.

– Let your pretty eyes enjoy what’s in front of them with no shame, my dear – he laughed – Trust me, the view of your lands from the Olympus is no match for this!

And you were, in fact, impressed with what you saw.

From there, you were able to spot various things, from the mountains that surrounded the city, passing through the town itself, with its marketplace and daily movement, to nearer places… such as your garden, its open fields and the very spot where you were working this morning when Apollo arrived and abducted you.

Your face burned with the thought.

He has been spying on me from here? Since when…?

You never had the opportunity to inquire him on this, because he had no shame in telling you the whole story.

– Since this Summer started, though I cannot precise the day, I’ve been trapped in this balcony, just as I am now – he turned to you with a strange glimmer in his eyes; you sensed his hand letting go of your wrist and wrapping itself around your waist, bringing you closer as he spoke – I’ve been trapped by you, my flower, for I couldn’t spent one morning without seeing you from here, cherishing with your whole figure, your steps, the work of your hands, all for your precious garden…

You put your hands between you and him, in an attempt to prevent him from approaching even more.

– My Lord, with all the respect, this is my work – you managed to speak – I would never be able to properly take care of a garden if I refused to pour my heart into it…

The god’s response was to widen his already present smile, giving to it a hint of something that would be called presumption if he was a mortal man.

– I know it! I know well how these things work, and for this I am jealous – he caressed your face for an instant, his eyes swallowing each traits of yours with greed – I am jealous of your flowers, of your trees, and everything that has been blessed by the touch of your hands…

You gasped.

– My Lord, I think this is going too fa…

Your words were cut off by his next act, which consisted in wrapping his arms around you and lifting you from the floor, taking you to the couch you saw before, not so far from your spot on the parapet. There he sat you down, then knelt to take off your sandals – of course, without missing the chance to let his fingertips wander through your feet and legs. With no visible ways to escape this situation, you could only observe the scene in silence.

The door is locked, I don’t think I could open it as fast as he closed it, he’s too strong for me to put a physical fight and is too lost in his own fantasies to hear a word I say. I see no solution besides climbing up the parapet and jump.

While this thought was still crossing your mind (and your eyes glancing at the parapet), Apollo was already climbing the couch. You tried to move away, but he was faster: holding your jawline, he pulled you close to him, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.

– I beg you, my little flower… stop making me jealous… pour your heart to me… be mine…

You opened your mouth to speak, to reply, to try and reason with him one last time, to ask for his divine favor and beg him to let you go, but Apollo didn’t even give you the time to breathe: convinced that actions would teach you better than words, he covered your mouth with hungry kisses, his tongue reaching for yours in a hurry, his hands grabbing your body with voracity. With the lack of air, your lungs started to burn and your eyes got filled with tears.

Your hands, still free, pulled him away by his chin; he stared at you in incredulity.

– Please… my Lord… – you forced your words out, alternating them with gasps – Please… reconsider…

For the first time, Apollo seemed to have his patience tested, and the slight twist in the color of his eyes instilled fear in your heart like you’ve never felt before.

– Too late to think, my y/n… It’s time to act.

He pushed himself upon you on the couch and a second kiss happened, longer and hotter. Now that your attempt to stop him failed, desperation was taking over you, leaving you with two choices: letting him continue or dying for opposing to a god’s will.

The latter seemed less painful for you, so you opted for it.

Beside the couch, just like the other seats at that room, there was a small table with a metallic jar on it; you glanced at it when Apollo let go of your mouth and brought his kisses to your neck, and supposed that it was full. An idea came to you, but you had to be careful.

If I fail at this, it’s over for me.

With slow movements, you managed to bring your body closer to the table’s side, taking the god with you, leaving him too occupied in his caresses to notice anything around. You even reciprocated some of his touches to disguise your nervousness, and waited until you were sure that your hand would reach the jar’s wing.

When the moment came, you stretched your left arm… and your fingers closed around its wing, lifting it from the table with all the strength you could find.

Everything happened too fast for your eyes to follow: catching him in a surprise was your only and greatest advantage, and you managed to do it. The jar flew from the table and hit Apollo’s head, forcing him away from you and dropping the laurel wreath from his hair; confirming your prediction, the jar was full, and the water spread all over the place as the metal clanged against the floor.

You wasted no time: you dragged your body out of the couch and fled the balcony, leaving your sandals and a paralyzed, dismayed Apollo behind. You crossed the room like a ray and somehow unlocked the door easily despite your shaking hands; not only this, but you had the nerve to take the key with you and lock the door from outside to slow the man who would certainly come after you.

***

Your feet barely touched the stairs while you walked down. Behind your back, there was still silence, but you knew it wouldn’t take long until Apollo reached the door and found a way to open it, so you wouldn’t stay to see what was going to happen.

You soon were back to the wide room where his worshipers were celebrating, and it was with no surprise that you found them as happy as before, and that, as you joined the crowd to reach the exit, they barely remembered you. Still, you couldn’t help finding it scary to be squeezed and pushed to all sides by those strangers, who screamed, sang and danced with no regard for each other and for themselves, as victims of a sinister spell.

***

The image of you running away from him was the most terrifying of the nightmares.

Apollo could have ran after you, grabbed you and pulled you back to the balcony. He could have also stretched his hand toward you and used his golden threads to wrap your body and force you to stay, to submit to him. He even managed to raise his hand while you turned your back to him and moved away, passing under the arc that separated the balcony to the rest of the room… but he didn’t do anything.

He just stood there, paralyzed by the surprise with your reaction and the resulting dizziness in his head, his vision darkening as he came to the shameful conclusion.

What I did… there was nothing beautiful about it.

***

The sun was higher in the sky when he regained his consciousness and left the balcony. It must have been one hour or two, judging by its position now – long enough for the effects of the strike to diminish. His head hurt so much that he was sure he would be dead if he was human.

He left the balcony and passed by a mirror, not so far from its entry. He spotted the bruise on his forehead and flinched: it was darker, deeper than he first imagined. Not that he should be worried about having a permanent scar, of course, but it would ache for days.

The god crossed the silent room and stopped by the doors. One look to the lock and he noticed the absence of the key; the shadow of a smile came to his lips.

Clever girl. Trying to slow me down.

He raised his left hand and, working with his golden threads, he involved the doors and pushed them out of their hinges, destroying both with a thunderous sound. He walked out of the room in firm steps, the wreckage cracking under his golden sandals as he approached the stairs and walked them down.

In a minute, he has reached the first floor, where his worshipers continued to celebrate, yet this time a wave of uneasiness has spread silently among them, clearly provoked by the sound of wrecking materials upon there.

Of course, he was eager to leave and start chasing after you, but he was empathetic with the ones who were there just to love him, and made sure they were all calmed down by his words; with this, they were free to go back to their worshiping, knowing that their Lord would be back in a few moments.

He left the temple and rushed to the garden, as his feet were led by instinct to the place that first connected you, but it was with no surprise that he saw you weren’t there; you didn’t even use the garden as escape route. Still, his heart didn’t ache less with the sight of your tools on the soil, and your flowers abandoned, for they meant only one thing.

Not only you were gone, but you weren’t coming back.

***

Autumn came sooner to those lands that year.

The Temple of the Sun closed its gates long before the last week of Summer, and the worshipers returned to their homes with a strange weight in their hearts; it was clear that their god wasn’t content, but the reason was only known by himself, and perhaps as an act of mercy, he protected them from his wrath by sending them away, assuring them of their innocence and promising a warmer season of festivities for the next year.

The days quickly became short, and the winds of the new season were colder than they were in the previous years; the city’s inhabitants were caught in a surprise, and even feared what Winter has reserved for them. The streets were empty, the markets saw their clientele grow thin, the richest traveled to distant lands and the common people were hidden inside their houses. In the wild, the beasts and the small creatures were sharing the same difficulties, and just as it happened with the humans, there was no guarantee that they would make it through the longer period of cold.

Apollo, on his turn, stood in that house alone, instead of traveling back to his place and his divine fellows at the Olympus: he missed their company, but had no strength to face them after the ugliness he created; it has been a monstrosity and a shame, and this was something he must endure all by himself. And so he did it, spending his days and nights wandering among the cold walls of marble, inside which the sound of chords, voices of adoration and the wine being poured in the goblets wouldn’t be heard, and the echo of his own steps were his only partner; the fires lightened by his followers stopped making him warm even before they turned into smoke and cinders, the sweetness of their incense made him sick and the golden altars and objects of devotion turned gray to his eyes.

All because of what he did to you. Because in his eagerness to make you stay, he ended up scaring you away, and the sun that should have kept you content and safe almost burned you to death. How, he asked himself, how did he deprive love from its natural beauty, he who lived to exalt the beautiful? But silence was the only thing to reply.

***

Apollo visited your garden every morning, staying there for a while before returning to his temple and to his dark meditations. Protecting his physical form from the cold with a gray cloak, he wandered through the natural walls that were once green, but now had only brown and red to offer to his sight; the grass was now a shadow of what they were, just dried vegetation that would crack and whiter under his feet, and the flowers came undone to the touch of his fingers.

Many times he passed by the spot where he abducted you, and tears would fill his eyes as he looked at the watering can and the tools rotten on the cold soil, useless after so long time without executing their functions. One morning, he even considered touching them, but when he approached his hand no remnants of your spirit could be sensed in them, and he moved away.

Well, your presence just vanished from the garden itself, and even from the town: sometimes, he would disguise himself among the mortals and seek for your face in the corners of the streets, but he knew the search was worthless. You were long gone.

Actually, you left and hid on the other side of the land, and even your acquaintances haven’t heard about you since Autumn began. But even you couldn’t deny that the season was less merciful that year… and it didn’t take long for you to realize it had something to do with the episode at Apollo’s House. Maybe he couldn’t accept that a mortal woman defied him, and decided to punish her entire land in return; or maybe he just decided to leave sooner, and with him Summer has left. It was hard to be sure when it came to the gods.

However, as much as you weren’t willing to try and seek for his favor against your will in order to save the people of the city, innocent and defenseless against Nature, your heart has been yearning for your garden, your true house, where your happiness and strength and life purpose were. You’ve been struggling to stay in your hideout and wait until the god’s wrath was over, but you just couldn’t take it anymore.

One morning, despite the cold and the adversities, you dressed up and traveled back there. You had no idea of what you were going to find once you stepped into your beloved garden, and a thousand nightmares haunted you while you were on your way, and the times when you thought of giving up and return to the hideout weren’t few…

But all of this noise disappeared when you found yourself, in fact, standing before the garden’s gates. A breeze passed by you at that moment, coming from inside the garden, and sent a chill through your body – a chill that reached your heart.

You forced your feet to move ahead.

As you walked, farther from the entry and closer to the depths of the garden, you noticed that the sensation of loneliness that you were anticipating didn’t come. Yes, the flowers were dead, the grass was dry and the birds disappeared from the trees, but you had this strange feeling telling you that you weren’t the only living being wandering among the reddish vegetation.

A sudden instinct led your feet to the very place where your watering can and shears were left the day you were taken away by Apollo. Were they in the same place, still waiting for your return? You’d only know if you reached there.

And you did. And they were there. Covered in dirt, dead leaves and ivy.

But they weren’t alone. Someone was watching them in silence, standing among the desolation as if they were just a part of it that was waiting for you to come back as well.

And, perhaps, they were, for when they turned to you, your heart dropped.

It was him. It was him, there was no way for you to be mistaken.

The golden bright in his eyes has faded away, and so was his smile. The pink of his hair was no longer glowing, and the paleness on his skin was unsettling. He was still the god of the Sun, but the Sun just settled.

Suddenly, you were scared. What if he was there waiting to cease your existence in revenge? What if that was just a vision to deceive you, and you were now in a new trap, from which you had no chance to escape like the first one?

You tried to move your feet, but they wouldn’t obey you. Your heart ached inside you, and your eyes were getting filled with tears.

Is this how I’m going to die, then?

Apollo left his spot and walked toward you. He was still silent, but no sign of his intentions could be sensed, and you were too scared to try and guess them. Still, something wasn’t right – and when you finally had the courage to look straight to his face, you understood what it was.

From his eyes you saw tears rolling. And in his expression there was only room for incredulity and pain. It was when you knew: it wasn’t a vision; it was really him. And he couldn’t believe you were there.

Apollo stopped before you and you flinched, not knowing what to expect. You shut your eyes tight… and no touch, no extravagances nor punishment came.

You opened them again and found the proud god kneeling on the dirt soil, taking his cloak from his shoulders and leaving it beside him on the ground, his eyes glued on you all the time, as if you could disappear at the slightest distraction.

You didn’t know how long you stood like this, having only the winds to voice your anguish, but the silence became unbearable, and you opened your mouth to speak – but, as always, he was faster.

– Forgive me.

Two words only, but enough to shake your spirit and think of how strange reality could become. A god apologizing? When would you imagine such a thing?

– Forgive me, my flower – he repeated, since you stood quiet – For those things I’ve done weren’t but terrifying.

He stretched his hand to touch your clothes, but gave up on the gesture as to prove his feeling of shame.

Again, your heart ached, and your mouth dried out. You couldn’t just stand there with no reaction, no word, after traveling for so long to reunite with your beloved garden. But you didn’t know what to do or what would be right, so you just let your body decide.

You knelt on the soil too, before the astonished god, and didn’t try to stop yourself when you saw your arms throwing themselves around him, your head resting on his shoulder, and your skin shivering to the warmth of that embrace. You should be scared, you should be aware of any spell working at that very moment, you should be disgusted to see him there – but you weren’t.

– Yes, Apollo-sama – you murmured, not recognizing your own voice – They were terrifying. But I’m no longer scared.

And that was true. All your fear was leaving. And with the first signs that the Autumn was going away with it, you were strangely in peace.

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