#〚 ☼ ─ answered . 〛

[losojos-decupido]

🎄😏

after taking a moment to recover from his Little Thing with mitama, fogado decides that the net gain of kissing people outweighs whatever mental problems he's got going on, because brother, who DOESN'T have mental problems going on, it's nothing to lose kisses for. and so, fogado departs for his great KissQuest.

the next person he catches under the mistletoe? a familiar scarlet mop, combed over and styled to frame a handsome pair of brown eyes. fogado grins. " what's crackin', sylvain? "

he casually walks over to meet his friend after taking a second to confirm Mistletoe Placement. " my friend, it's so weird. i just woke up this morning, and some rascal's gone around and put mistletoe everywhere! i mean, that's so crazy, right? " he says all of this while getting dangerously close to sylvain. that's crazy.

what he's thinking is super risky, but at the same time, if it lands, then he might have a category five Holiday Moment on his hands. he tangles one of his hands in sylvain's and pushes their heads together, fogado's eyes crawling down to look at his ginger pal's lips. well-moisturized. respect.

" so, like, " he begins, kissing sylvain's cheek so softly that the touch barely registers. " i've been wondering, y'know? " next he kisses the corner of sylvain's mouth, firmer this time. his eyes flicker up and he moves his mouth to ghost over his friend who is a boy's. " you still got a little bit of that monster left in you? "

[mentally-stable-child-of-apollo]

hello my name is darcy!!!

i'm a daughter of apollo

facts about me:

☼ my age: 15

☼ my ethnicity: african american

☼ my mortal parent: my mum, and my step-dad (who are the best)

☼ sexuality: ace and heterosexual <333

☼ job: healer at the infirmary

☼ my besties

angie: @poseidons-favourite-daughter

stephanie: @that-asian-child-of-aphrodite

☼ powers: heliokinesis, photokinesis, vitakinesis (or healing), and archery

☼ weapons: my bow and arrow, and my poison darts

☼ hobbies: playing the guitar, painting, archery, singing, hanging out with my friends

☼ fatal flaw: gul libility (i have been backstabbed way too many times y'all), excessive loyalty

☼ appearance: deep brown skin (that glows when i heal), thick black curls, in braids though occasionally i leave it natural. my eyes are dark brown, with extremely fucking long eyelashes. and a small dimple on my left cheek.

☼ clothing style: cute shit. idk honestly. denim shorts and the camp t-shirt?

☼ years at camp: 9 but i'm not a year rounder. i visit every weekend tho.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[avrorean]

@valorcorrupt. 🎬 ↳ clips of the past (accepting!)

The girl had never truly felt cold before. Her house had always been a warm place, fit snugly on one of Nevarra’s layered hills with its bright blue door and the orange trees that grew outside her window, where she took naps to the sound of the rolling of the sea in the middle of the day. But there had been no orange trees once the Templars brought her across the ocean, and the sun had felt like it had lost all of its warmth.

Instead, it had just felt wet, which made the persistent cold even worse. It hadn’t rained, but the fog that had settled over the dark ground hadn’t lifted for days and had only ever grown worse once they reached the lake. The girl sniffled – whether from cold or the threat of new, miserable little tears it was hard to say – tugging the scratchy old blanket tighter around herself as another violent shiver shook her tiny body. That, at least, had garnered her the attention of the old man who had lent it to her, looking up from his place currently rowing the boat. 

(“Don’t you worry now, li’il one. Won’t be much longer now and that tower’ll have ya bundled up warm an’ proper. Promise from ol’ Kester.”) 

The little girl blinked her wide, wet eyes up at him. The old man’s smile was friendly, but it was no good despite his intent. The girl had barely started reading in her own language before she’d been taken, and she hardly understood a word of the common tongue as of yet. If she had caught one word in twenty when someone spoke to her mother or father, it was a success, and the old man’s accent was impossibly thick. The only person she could get any thought across to was her escort, Templar Alban; he wasn’t a cruel guardian, but he was cold. Cold as the lake and the wind and this hard green country, and despite speaking plain Nevarran, he didn’t seem to want to talk to her much at all unless he needed to. Not even to tell her what the old man had said. It had stopped disappointing her during the early days of the voyage, shortly after she’d finally stopped crying.

But the old man hadn’t been wrong, at least insofar as Alban would have known; the boat ride hadn’t taken too much longer before the knock of wood against the dock signaled their arrival, and the armored man lifted her out of the little wooden dinghy and, for once, carried her the rest of the way inside. His armor’s cold, too, the child thought as the large wooden doors parted before them.

Inside was indeed warmer, and reactively the girl shuddered in the Templar’s arms with relief as the warm air worked itself right away to combating the cold in her bones, but even that hadn’t dissuaded the rise of fear at the number of armored men waiting within the grey halls. There were only a dozen or so, but to her, it felt like a hundred. Cold and faceless in their helmets and still like statues. Just like the ones that chased mama, she thought, shrinking back into Alban’s arms. Even if he was a Templar too, at least he was familiar.

Alban clearly hadn’t felt the same, however. Gently, but unsympathetically, her templar escort peeled her off and sat her feet-first on the ground, pulling the scratchy blanket the old man had given her away and leaving her standing before two more old, bearded men. One was hard-faced and armored, the other in colorful robes that reminded her of the bright rugs in her house and laugh lines at his eyes beneath his long hair. 

“Hush now.” It had felt like forever since Alban had last said more than a few words to her, much less in her own tongue, so the girl stared up at him with a jump. “Do not cause a fuss. This is the last of it, so behave yourself.” 

(“Maker be praised for your safe return, Templar Alban. This is the mage from Nevarra?”) 

Though he addressed her escort, the Old Templar’s unflinching eyes had fallen firmly onto her, watchful and analytical, as though he’d found an animal in the woods and was debating on whether or not it would try and bite him. The little girl shrank beneath it and backed away several steps until she felt the light touch of Alban at her back, holding her in place.

(“Do not intimidate the poor girl, Greagoir. By your templar’s accounts, the journey has been an ordeal.”) The old man with a long beard chastised, which only made the Old Templar’s scowl deepen. (“Be welcome to your new home, █ █ █ █ █.”)

Alban translated the last part for her this time. The girl bit her lip sullenly, digging her chilled fingers into her muddied skirt and said nothing. The Bearded Man merely smiled in a way that seemed like understanding, before turning back to the Old Templar to mutter sharp words together. The girl didn’t think she wanted to know what they were arguing about. Instead her big purple eyes wandered the walls of her new environment. Tall and grand, yes, with its high walls that had no pictures or tapestries and bars on the few windows she could see. 

Colorless. Dull. 

She hated this. She wanted to go home, to her mother and father and her little baby brother, who’d just started to crawl. To take a nap by her window with the orange tree and sneak figs from the big bowl in the kitchen. She wanted to feel her mother’s arms around her. The feeling of her father’s tightly wrapped hair beneath her fingers when he sat her on his shoulders, and the way he’d securely hold her legs to keep her from falling. Every time she asked Templar Alban when they could go back, he ignored her, which had only amplified her cries and tantrums on the ship, which Alban had simply let run their course by herself until she was too tired to cry anymore. The girl didn’t think she had anymore tears to cry, but as these strange, cold people talked around her, she felt them burn the corners of her eyes again. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

(“... the reidentification forms on my desk. Is that necessary? The child is-”)

(“Blame the girl’s family, Irving, not I.”)

Another sniffle, unbidden, snapped the attention of the Old Templar and the Bearded Man back to her. She shrank again. The two conferred again, quieter this time, and made a motion to the Templars she couldn't quite understand, but they clearly knew what to do.

Templar Alban nudged her again, giving a quiet command to walk to one of the vestibules by the door. As her tiny feet shuffled three steps for every one of his long, armored strides, she found herself distracted briefly by the intricate webbing of vine-line bars that caged it off from the rest of the room. It had been the first thing the girl might have called pretty.

But the hint of wonder was brief. When the Old Templar and the Bearded Man approached her again, it had felt as though all the coldness from without had come flooding back inside. She didn’t know why, but the Old Templar had begun to recite something; what it was, she couldn’t have begun to say, but she noticed that Templar Alban had stood straighter, his hands locked firmly behind his back in a soldier’s respect. And then they’d started pulling things out of a velvet lined box that another, faceless templar had brought them: a vial, a wooden medallion-like circle covered in strange writing, and something sharp. 

Terror seized her then, as the Old Templar’s recitation made the strange and scary objects begin to glow, but Templar Alban had a firm grip on her tiny wrist, keeping her palm stretched out no matter how hard she tried to wiggle free from his metal grip. She ignored the Bearded Man’s attempt to soothe her, thrashing and whimpering in the Templar’s hold. She could get out. She had to get out. If she could just run back out the door, the kind old man with the boat had to take her across, right? He could row her all the way back home, she bet. He had a boat and these faceless, armored men didn’t. But Alban held her firm. The words she wanted to plea wouldn’t come, but as the strange device glowed red, the whimpering was more than sufficient a plea to get across. The Templar was unmoved, but had the decency to look uncomfortable.

“Hold still,” he said quietly as the Bearded Man and the Old Templar approached her with their sharp and glowing things, finished with their chanting. “It will only hurt for a second.”

[fatedefyd]

guess who remembered their password to this account??

[sarastuss]

i am so conflicted about this pinned i can not decide whether i like it or not

[steel-hound]

"If you're talking about the one I know, then bad."

He scowls, seeming uninterested in elaborating any further.

[sentinelspecies]

I sure hope that orange canary guy has not run to space. That wouldn't be too great.

That would be really, really bad. He would've had to arrange for someone else to deal with your meltdowns in his absence.

[xrns]

I CARE ABOUT YOUR POETRY AND ALL YOUR BLOGS AND EVERYTHING :(

</3

[feuerwizard]

he's a 10 but he can't do accents to save his life

♢      —        send  [ THEY’RE A 10 BUT … ]  and finish it in my muse’s inbox.

[mskwtz]

cris I need to know how hawk feels about taking tory's spot in the sekai taikai squad after everything that went down

NOT GOOD. He was thrilled for the opportunity to go after all because he’d been really bummed about how shit went down with Demetri. He gave up on the fight to let Demetri have it even though he really wanted it because their friendship was crumbling before his eyes and he didn’t want to make it worse. It was like his silent apology. But he was disappointed anyway. In his ideal world it would have been himself, Miguel, Sam, Tory, Robby, and Demetri. They were the ones who he’d have wanted to have a trip to Barcelona with and the ones he think would be the strongest contenders to go - even Demetri who Hawk thinks had improved so much since he started. He wasn’t lying when he said the 6th spot was his. The only reason he’s going though being because Tory bowed out and especially the reason why? It doesn’t feel good.

We discussed the timeline and how fucking weird it is but he tried really hard to talk to Tory. Get her to come back even knowing what that meant for him because he’s worked so hard on letting C.obra K.ai and the cut throat instincts it gave him go because it’s not the guy he wants to be anymore. Unfortunately he’s in a weird middle ground still where he doesn’t know entirely what he wants and who he is and he’s walking a fine line between doing what’s best for him and doing what a good friend/brother would do. He wants Tory to be happy though, first and foremost, and it bothers him that he has no fucking idea how he can help.

I think if anyone can relate to the situation she found herself in at the end it’s him. I think he’s held onto the ck way tightest even if he thinks he hasn’t. He’s still angry, his gut still tells him to strike first in situations where he feels threatened in some capacity. I think Robby fully embraced MD before he was CK and especially now he’s a lot lighter. Not always but more so than he was when things were bad for him. Miguel wasn’t so much CK as he was Johnny’s karate student. Johnnys way has always been his way. Hawk and Tory are the ones who both went full cobra until things got bad enough that they had to get out. He understands how she feels when it comes down to it on that front. He hates it, don’t get me wrong, but he gets it. And more than anything he feels for her.

[losojos-decupido]

🎄 she hasn’t quite decided on a nickname for him yet. fogeykins? gadokins? fogey? but the time to figure it out isn't afforded to her — especially not with the bough of mistletoe hanging right above their heads, vibrantly verdant and hard to miss. no matter. a lady always knows how to improvise.

"and who better to find myself under the mistletoe with than none other than prince charming himself?" dorothea teases, leaning in with a devilish grin as her finger traces a slow pattern over his chest. "you know, for all that talk about home... you’ve yet to show me how those from solm steal hearts, fogado. tsk, tsk!"

he has to be the most careful around the people he loves the most.

flirting with random passersby that he sees in the hall is easy because it's something he's done all his life. people know him as the boy with a big heart and a smooth tongue---it's so easy to adhere to an idea when nobody bothers looking past it.

but for the people that know him, even if it's just a little more than his surface, he has to be so damned careful. he can't risk mixing anything personal into what he does, especially for a day like this. he has to keep it light and fun---making sure the other person has a good time, making sure they're happy. that's all he wants.

so when dorothea approaches him under the mistletoe, the first thing fogado thinks is that he has to make this as pleasant as possible for her. the two of them are quite similar, he thinks, and for someone that has to brave the world like he does he must give her the utmost. it's what any good friend would do, right? " boy, what a coincidence, huh? " fogado hums, smile shimmering like the tinsel that decks the halls. " guess you're the luckiest gal in the whole monastery. i'm known for bein' hard to catch~ "

he flourishes his arms as dorothea pulls closer, shrugging dramatically. " all this talk about my beautiful country and i haven't even shown you how i put the moves on. shame on me, am i right? " his smile is genuine. it's rare that anyone bothers to meet his flirtatious banter and rarer that it's with someone who holds so much space in his heart. he has to be so careful.

dorothea's fingers run over his chest and fogado invites them upwards with his own hand. his fingers gently catch hers and pull, up, up to his lips where he gently crowns them with a kiss. " you'll let me make it up to you, right? " he mumbles through her skin, eyes flitting up to stare through long lashes.

he kisses her hand, then her palm, then her wrist. after intertwining their fingers, fogado closes the gap between them, totally still and totally calm. with his other hand he gently grabs her chin, tilting her head up so that he can reach. fogado comes closer, lips missing hers and pulling towards her ear, and then, in a tone sugar-sweet and syrupy---

" it's hard knowing what to do when i don't see pretty ladies like you in solm. can you blame me? "

he trails kisses along dorothea's cheek before cupping his hand over her face and finally, finally do his lips meet hers. despite all of the buildup, the actual kiss is nowhere near as fancy or full of playboy affect. it's soft and cool like an evening breeze, only daring to go as far as dorothea reciprocates. fogado's heart feels fit to burst---agh, how much he loves loving and all of the people he wants to love---but all he can think about is how dorothea feels. is she content with this? is this what she wants? has fogado given her enough chances to back out, to reconsider?

how blessed he is to have so many friends he cares for so deeply. how terrible it is that he must force himself to love them in moderation. but that is simply the way of life for the prince of solm.

when he feels the kiss has reached a natural end, fogado pulls away, winking. " so? " he whispers cheekily, eagerly. " have i stolen your heart solmic style yet? "

[777heavengirl]

Girl I was expecting something bad to happen to the reader! Not walburga’s death (rip)

HEEELP no reader is fine… for now.,! but walburga’s death will have consequences i fear 🙂‍↕️

[avrorean]

@theshirallen. [ approval ] - ian volunteers to be the one to go into the Fade after connor in redcliffe ↳Approval memes (not accepting)

Nanna knows by heart now how many days it takes to travel from Redcliffe to the Tower; she had spent more than enough time practicing the route when she'd been hunched over a map with Alistair in clumsy attempts to parse out how to navigate it. But here, as she stood before the dais of the arl of Redcliffe with near a dozen mages standing at the ready, watching her for the signal to proceed, Nanna found she couldn't remember when exactly they'd gotten back. After that first night out of the Tower, everything had been a blur of footfalls and murmured reassurances to the group that followed her. Had the trip been slower this time? Had she slept? She wasn't sure. She still wasn't sure she was even awake right now.

"Nanna?" The soft voice broke through the white noise of her thoughts and the empty stare at the ritual site, similar if not the same as the Harrowing, to look at Ian. "You don't have to go back in the Fade. I can-"

"You needn't do that." Her tone was sharp and dull all at once, turning back only briefly to look at him without really looking. She watched him press his lips together, contemplating. From the corner of her eye, she saw Irving looking her over, sombre, but nodding. It was ready. The question to be asked was, was she? Nanna didn't think she wanted the answer.

"You are still recovering from..." The words stuck in her throat. They knew, they both knew, but Nanna couldn't say it. It was still too fresh, and if she let a single thought sit upon it, the emotional sticks holding back the dam of her grief would crumble and cripple her. They wouldn't be able to count on her. So she forced her eyes forward. She didn't need to wait, didn't need a second opinion, didn't need someone else to pick up her slack. She needed to do. She was fine. It was fine. What was one more demon to stare down with their hands in a mage? What was one more time lost in the fade? Nothing. Nothing.

Connor wouldn't be like the others in the bones of the Tower.

This one wouldn't die.

"I can endure the ritual, Ian. Thank you."

Nanna Disapproves (but will appreciate it later)

[heeliopheelia]

also, look

OH OKAY OH MY GOD WHATS UP WITH YOU GUYS SENDING ME THE BEST TWEETS OF HEESEUNG 🥴😩

I'm so sick about him 🤒😍

[fishjere]

@connief1sher said: let it go.

he's   tried.    can't   he   see   him   trying   to   let   it   go   ?   he's   leaned   over   sink,   head   hung,   trying   to   gather   himself   as   he   stands   hiding   in   the   kitchen   avoiding   another   second   at   the   table   out   there.   he   rubs   the   back   of   his   neck   with   a   sharp   inhale,   turning   his   head   to   meet   his   gaze,   hurt   swirling   with   a   flare   of   anger.       ❝    are   you    fucking   serious   ?      ❞           disbelief   filters   into   his   tone     ―     affronted   as   he   narrows   ultramarine   eyes   on   him.    

he's   supposed   to   be    accepting   and   tolerant   of   everything   under   the   sun.   he's   supposed   to   be   happy   and   sunshine   everyone   around   them.    he's   not   supposed   to   be   standing   here,   feeling   like   his   stomach's   about   to   fall   out   the   soles   of   his   shoes,   or   like   there's   shards   of   glass   shredding   his   chest   into   pieces.     his   feelings   never   matter.    he's   learned   that's   just   reality   in   this   house.    mom    needs   him   to   be   himself.      ❝         why   should   i ?     because   i    never   take   things   seriously     ―     right   ?   as �� long   as   everyone   else   is   taken   care   of.      ❞         mom,   belly,   conrad.   they   all   come   first.       ❝           .     .     .     please just . . . go   back   to   your    girlfriend   and   leave   me   alone.           ❞

[travelthetrailblaze]

"Be honest with me. How many times have you heard 'You're the man of my dreams' as a pick up line?" Kaia smiled as she looked at the bartender. An extremely cheesy line, considering they were in the world of dreams.

"Not exactly my first rodeo into hearing pick-up lines like those...but I have to say....this might be the sixty fourth time that someone has said this particular line," The mixologist hummed as he then seemed to walk over to a large board that had some sort of counting system.

He soon reached over for a chalk, and crossed out a line, showing indeed, there were people giving him cheesy pick up lines and he had counted for most of them in the tally board.

"Not a lot of people can be creative these days..."