#(which is to say he's killed a lot of people but it was always 'necessary' for whatever mission.)

[befuddled-calico-whump]

ok well now that you've raised the scenario:

How long would it take sahota (or even vic) to break themselves out of jail?

-🕯

so if Sahota had a mission to complete or thought he didn't deserve to be there, he could escape with relative ease

if the guards/warden knew his skillset and who they were dealing with, they'd implement countermeasures to make escape a lot more difficult for him, but he'd likely still get out on his own eventually, it would just take a lot more time

However, if it was Vic who turned him in/betrayed him to save his own skin, he might just... stay. It might even turn out he likes prison better than being Vic's captive.

[ashtheketchum]

NSFW alphabet Daryl Dixon

A/N: I don´t really have a smut right now, so I just post this- Maybe I will write such alphabets more often, but with other characters, let's see :D

Warnings: +18 CONTENT, GN.Reader

Masterlist!

_________________________

A(ftercare: How are they after the sex?):

Daryl actually always takes care of you after you two had sex. He cleans you up, kisses you, and gives your some of his clean clothes. Sometimes he even kisses your entire body from top to bottom again before forcing you to go to the bathroom. (He read somewhere that you should always go to the bathroom after having sex).

B(ody part: Their favourite body part):

If Daryl had to choose one body part that he finds most attractive, he would choose your thighs. He loves grabbing them, he loves massaging them, and he loves when you vage his head between your thighs.

Your favorite part of Daryl's body is either his arms or his slim waist. His arms are well-trained and it feels nice when he holds you in them. Even in public, you sometimes can't help but hug his upper arms or just put your hand on them. You just love that his waist is so slim. Broad shoulders, broad chest and slim hips. Sometimes when you hug each other, you wrap your arms around his waist instead of his neck.

C(um: Everything that has to do with cumming):

Daryl doesn't come inside you (whether you're a man or a woman). He knows the risks all too well and therefore only comes on your body or in a condom. At first he always pulled out before he came, but sometimes he stole condoms from Glenn.

D(irty Secret):

I'll go with the classics and say that Daryl has often imagined fucking you on his motorcycle. He would simply drive out with you, somewhere where you are alone and where it is safe, and then he would fuck you on the motorcycle. Daryl also sometimes felt more comfortable outside of the group, after all, he spent half of his childhood outside, in nature.

E(xperience: How much experience do they have?):

I don't think Daryl has no experience at all. After all, he had Merle as a brother and he either talked about sex or drugs. (Sometimes maybe some racist things too, I don't know-). So he knows the basics, but he's open to knowing more.

F(avourite position: In which position do they like to fuck you the most?):

Daryl actually likes almost any position, but he prefers the positions where he can see your face. He wants to see your face change, twist with pleasure. That just turns him on even more. So if he had to choose, it would be either missionary or cowgirl. Since Daryl also likes to touch you, he always wants to touch your thighs or ass, massage them, or sometimes even pinch them.

G(oofy: Are they humorous?):

Daryl isn't humorous in other situations, so why is he humorous during sex? He thinks that sex is something special between two people and he doesn't want to ruin it, especially with you. Besides, Daryl would be too caught up in the lust and the feeling that he wouldn't even think about being humorous.

H(air: Are they shaved?):

Pfff, please- Daryl doesn't cut his hair, so why should he shave his body? If it really bothers you that he has pubic hair, he'll trim his hair a little, but that's all he does. He doesn't understand the point of it. And of course, Daryl doesn't care if you´re shaved or not. You should do what you feel comfortable with. "Ya think a lil' hair can scare me awa'? I kill fuckin' walker, darlin´…"

I(ntimacy: Are they romantic during the sex?):

Unfortunately, Daryl doesn't know much about how to be really romantic during sex… He once asked Carol for advice, but he didn't really learn anything from it. But he tries to make you feel good and comfortable. He kisses you passionately, sometimes lights a few candles to make the atmosphere more romantic, and he also gives you flattering compliments.

J(erk off: Do they masturbate a lot?):

Daryl never saw sex and masturbation as necessary. Before he had you, he masturbated maybe once a month, and even since he had you, you haven't had sex very often. When you were just friends, however, he had put his hand on you more often (maybe once a week, or so-).

K(ink: What turns them on?):

Daryl loves getting compliments. He may not be good at taking them, but when you compliment him on how good he makes you feel or how good he looks- dude, this man goes crazy!

L(ocation: Where do they prefer to do it?):

Even though Daryl sometimes dreams of fucking you on his motorcycle, he prefers it when you two have sex in a private room. So his bedroom or your bedroom.

M(otivation: What puts them in the mood?):

Daryl gets a turn on when you can fight or defend yourself. I think everyone can agree with me when I say that Daryl likes people who are strong and can survive in the nature, so when he sees you hunting for food or killing a walker, he feels a little tingle in his lower abdomen.

N(o: What would they never do?):

Besides the fact that he would never hurt you, Daryl would never fuck you in public. He would love to do it with you in the deep woods, but not in Alexandria behind your house or on the walls. It would be far too uncomfortable and embarrassing for him if someone caught you two. In the deep woods, Daryl can at least see everything clearly and he also knows places that hardly anyone would pass by.

O(ral: Do they prefer to give or to receive?):

Daryl prefers to give it to you. Not that he doesn't enjoy it when you give him a blowjob, but your well-being is his number one priority.

P(ace: How fast do they like it?):

For Daryl, it depends on the mood. If you had a romantic evening and everything was relaxed, you have slow and passionate sex. But if you both really want to let off steam, you have hard and fast sex.

Q(uickie: Their opinion about quickies?)

Even if Daryl doesn't enjoy them, he accepts that you sometimes have to have them. He is an important part of the group and therefore doesn't always have time for sex. But he prefers it when you can take your time with sex.

R(isk: Do they sometimes take risks?):

No, no, no, no! Be it the risk of being caught by walkers or by humans, he wants to avoid both.

S(tamina: How is the stamina?):

Daryl has very good stamina, but he sticks to your stamina when it comes to sex. He could definitely last 4 rounds, maybe more. (Depending on his mood, sometimes more.)

T(oy: Do they use toys?):

Daryl doesn't understand the point of a toy. He also doesn't see the point in risking his life for a plastic dildo or vibrator. He can satisfy you just as well, if not even better.

U(nfair: Do they tease you sometimes?):

Daryl really wants to make you feel as good as he feels, but sometimes he changes his pace from fast and hard to slow and gentle. He enjoys the way your face twists in frustration, but he also quickly releases you by changing his pace from slow and gentle to fast and hard again.

V(olume: How loud are they?):

Daryl just growls and sighs quietly. On very rare occasions he whimpers loudly, but these moments are very rare. If you want him to be louder during sex, you will unfortunately have to talk to him about it.

W(ild card: A random headcanon about them):

Daryl loves it when you give him attention. But not too much and not in public. Play with his hair, massage his shoulders, kiss his face or just sit with him and hug him tightly. He then feels incredibly comfortable and loved and very often you end up having sex. Plus points if you hold him close to you during sex or gently pull on his hair.

X(x-rey: How long are they down there?):

Nah, now... let´s be serious... I have seen many, MANY pictures where you can clearly see that he is not small! His dick is probably 8 inches long (20 cm), very thick around the base and he also has some strong veins that you can see when there is a lot of blood flow through them.

Y(earining: How high is their sexual drive?):

Not very high. Daryl has a way of accumulating everything. He could survive several months without sex and have no problems, but as soon as you become sexually active again, he lets it all out.

Z(zzz: How fast do they fall asleep after it?):

Daryl never falls asleep after sex. He takes care of you, makes you comfortable, and then watches you sleep or goes back to work.

[yusiyomogi]

mithrun as a character doesn't have his own pov in the story, and i think this is the main reason why interpretations of his actions may differ so much. it was a conscious choice to write him that way, we're supposed to see him as a bit of a mystery and figure out what's going on with him. but i think it's fascinating how it also makes him a divisive character.

there are only a few instances where we get a brief look into his mind. one of my favorites is in the gift exchange extra with this short but interesting narration:

it's not really canon or anything, but kui is very consistent in how she writes her characters, even in silly extras like this. and here we can see a bit of a mithrun's thought process and it's surprisingly revealing. he participates in the event and even wants to buy a book token, which is a simple but reasonable gift. but when he learns that he can't get them anymore, instead of trying to think about another gift, he simply puts some money in the envelope. the same idea in his mind probably, you can still buy a book with money of course. or maybe he simply gave up. rin, who gets that envelope as a gift, see this as extremely lazy and callous, since from her pov he didn't think about gift at all.

and i think a lot of mithrun's actions in the main story have the same effect on the readers, because we never see his pov. in some instances, it's obvious that he tries, despite his condition. in some instances, it doesn't look like he tries at all. in some instances, it's not obvious that he tries, but he still tries.

i think, the way every reader looks at those moments eventually determines how they will perceive mithrun as a character, including his personality and morality.

case 1. mithrun ruthlessly fights a bunch of guys who want to kill his squad and kabru. he teleports them all into walls, leaving only stone statues behind. while the narrative doesn't put focus on this, the shapes of those statues reveal that mithrun left each person's face unobstructed, so they can breathe even while being stuck in a wall. why would he do it like that? surely it requires a lot of precision to teleport people like that. was he following some orders, maybe to not kill civilians or was it his own decision?

case 2. as a giant mushroom attacks a crowd of adventurers, filling the air with mind-numbing spores, mithrun declines any help from his squad. he attacks the mushroom himself and, surprisingly, teleports it on another level completely, into the water instead of stone. all the water he teleported as a replacement washes over the crowd and we can see that some of the people start gaining consciousness again. canaries laugh at his unexpected move. why would he waste mana on this? was it necessary to drown the mushroom or did he actually want to get all that water? was it just a part of his plan to find thistle or did he try to help those adventurers?

case 3. this one is something most interpretations agree on, so i won't focus on this too much. mithrun always tries to negotiate with other dungeon lords instead of killing them immediately, even though it's more dangerous. mithrun isn't particularly good at talking, but he says what he believes they need to hear. it's something that even kabru found surprising the first time it happened. was it something that mithrun had to do as part of his job? or was it something he personally wanted to do? why he always tries but gives up so quickly and attacks them anyway? is he being lazy and callous?

case 4. after chimera falin attacks him, mithrun teleports a stone above her head and it hits her. then he starts calmly talking to her, holding his hand on another stone, basically threatening to kill her if she doesn't move. even people from his own squad are unsure what his plan was: did he miss on accident or was it intentional? why would he want to keep her alive? was he simply afraid she's gonna crush thistle or did he actually see her as a person and didn't wanna kill her?

case 5. after spending a few days with kabru, mithrun goes from using him as an improvised projectile against monsters to putting himself between kabru and monsters. was this just a coincidence or mithrun started to care about his companion?

case 6. when laios becomes dungeon lord and everything seems to fall apart, kabru loses his composure and starts questioning if it was all his fault and what was even the purpose of his survival. mithrun interrupts him by slapping his face. after a few moments he continues to attack him and it turns into a small fight. what was the purpose of this slap? did mithrun genuinely want to interrupt kabru's panic episode? why would mithrun then attack him again? was he still angry at kabru for stopping him and making him trust laios or was he angry that kabru didn't follow his plan?

i could probably find other examples like this, but pretty much every scene with him can be interpreted at least in two different ways. in the end, your choice to see his personality in positive or negative light depends on how you read those moments. mithrun's main symbol throughout the story is the mirror and i think it's interesting that until chapter 94 what every reader see in him is basically a reflection of their own ideas. you can't really look through the mirror, you can only see yourself. and only chapter 94 finally gives us a clear look through that mirror and it certainly doesn't answer every question.

[barrel-crow-n]

Something that makes me crazy is the difference in how Kanej deals with their issues.

Kaz was hurt so he hurt others. He got scammed so he became the scammer. He was beaten up so he became the one beating people up. He found a way to thrive in the toxic cycle of violence in the Barrel. This keeps him alive, but makes him a bad person. Kaz doesn't care. Kaz left decency behind the second that was what was necessary to survive. He shrugged it off like a cheap coat. Don't like touch? Simple. Break anybodies wrist that dares touch you; break their arm. Give them a reason to keep away. Make them scared because that keeps you safe (and as a result will keep them safer from you).

Inej was hurt so she prevents others from being hurt. She hunts down slavers so children won't have the same fate as her. She can't just leave decency behind, her values and beliefs won't allow it. She does penance after every kill, she cried after killing the first time, she isn't keen on violence and only does it when completely necessary (at odds with Kaz that attacks at the slightest provocation to the point of everyone giving him a wide berth). The violence committed on her makes her angry (and righteously) but she doesn't lash out at everyone like Kaz does, she holds that back for a select few, to make them pay for the suffering they've caused.

Kaz felt like he died and became someone new so he leaned into it. He change his name from Rietveld to Brekker, he became someone new, a stranger. Nobody knew who he was, or where he came from. Kaz Rietveld was dead, and a monster had taken his place.

Inej also says that she feels like she died. She says that the girl she had been died in the belly of a slavers ship. However, unlike Kaz, she refuses to change her name. And dehumanisation links to this!

Kaz was dehumanised so he dehumanised himself further. Dirtyhands. Per Haskell's rabid dog. Demjin. Kaz thrives in this, because it makes him feel safe, it makes him feel untouchable. Kaz Rietveld was weak, so was replaced by Kaz Brekker. When that isn't enough, Dirtyhands is there to get the rough work done.

Inej was dehumanised so she humanised herself. She is not a lynx or a spider or a wraith. She is Inej Ghafa. She is a pirate vigilante, rescuer of slaves. And the interesting thing is that Kaz offered this to her too! He asks her "Is that what you prefer to be called?" (referring to her name, Inej Ghafa) when buying her indenture at the Menagerie. He is offering her the same thing he did. A change of name, a clean slate. But she declines. She is a Ghafa and no matter what happens to her, she always will be.

Kaz was traumatised so he isolated himself. He holds people at arms length because he sees them as weaknesses, or as obstacles between him and his revenge. He put his gloves on and doesn't take them off, he failed once with Imogen and decided to never try again. He yearns for connection but it only serves to isolate him further. Because they have no idea what it's like to watch friends hug, knowing you can never have the same. Kaz builds up armour (the gloves) but he doesn't tackle the root problem that is his fear of touch. He tried once and failed and quit (which is actually out of character for him, in contrast with him learning magic ceaselessly until he has mastered it - and shows how terrified he is and how disgusted he is at himself) and this serves to make him feel like he just can't. Like the dream of friends is hopeless.

Inej was traumatised so she seeks human connection. She has Jesper and Nina. She has the other Crows. She tries to heal, to open herself up. She might still flinch at touch occasionally but her friends are helping her and she wants to try and heal. She knows how to ask for help.

In all, Inej's ways of coping are a lot healthier. Kaz is stuck in a toxic cycle, and has been for years, but Inej is giving him a way out of it. Finally, he can make the step towards proper healing. He won't change his name back. He won't stop being a gangster. But he can feel more comfortable in himself and with his friends. And that's what Inej wants to give him, because she knows how important that is.

[restinslices]

Everything

PJO Show Ares x Child!Reader (no gender specified)

Word count: 2459

Summary: Ares supposedly hates kids, so it’s really strange that he comes when you call. (Do not let the summary fool you, this is not fluff. Based on a dream I had a couple days ago. Warning for possible ooc Ares and brief mentions of abuse. Blink and you’ll miss it type shit)

“I don't wanna say”, Grover fingers fidgeted with each other as he purposefully avoided eye contact with you. 

“We're friends, right?”

“Of course!”

“Then you have to tell me! You spoke to my father, I gotta know what he said! What was he like? I bet he was really cool! Man, I wish I could've been there and talked to him”, you looked down at your shoes and added more misery to your face than was necessary. It was extremely childish and petty but Grover kept refusing to tell you what your father Ares was like. You had to know though. You doubted he brought you up, but you still wanted to know what he said and what he was like when he was just out and about. Grover had the opportunity to have a long talk with him and that was something you'd kill and suffer for. 

“I doubt you'd wanna do that” he mumbled, but you heard him. 

“Why'd you say that?” You asked. 

Grover refused to expound on what he meant… at first. 

Everyone knew Grover couldn't hold water so it didn't take too much prodding before he spilled his guts. 

The memory replayed in your head more than you'd like to admit, and if it were up to you, you'd no longer be a half blood. 

It made you feel pathetic. Tons of gods- no. All the gods were shitty parents. After all, they had children with mortals and left the children on Earth, knowing they'd be hunted down. Plenty of half bloods died in a gruesome painful way and at a young age. Plenty of gods never claimed their children, even if they made it to Camp Half Blood. But Ares did claim you, so you assumed that that meant he cared for you in some way. He even gifted you with a double sided sword. Surely, he must've loved you. 

You were foolish and you hated how foolish you were. You should've known he didn't care. He left you here with mortals and watched as your home life got worse and worse which was due to multiple factors including a piss poor mother and step family, the aura children of Ares give off that makes people around them experience rage and of course the random monster attacks that your family blamed you for. It was as if they thought you begged Ares to be his child. As if you'd ever do something as stupid as that. 

The rain soaked through your hood, making your hair all wet and gross. You were an idiot. You tried coming home for the school year, thinking maybe your family changed. They said they did. They tended to lie a lot though. You got into a huge fight and stormed out and you were in such a hurry that you completely forgot to grab your pouch full of drachmas and you didn't wanna step another foot in that house. So now here you were, outside with freezing cold hands that couldn't be warmed because your hoodie was soaking and you couldn't call Chiron. Perfect.

You checked your pockets once again, hoping to find something other than the lighter and fruit roll up that was there but alas, nothing magically appeared. You held the two objects in your hand and an idea formed in your mind. 

You could always set the fruit roll up on fire as an offering. You could pray to your father and hope he hears you and sends you something to help. 

No. That's incredibly stupid. Could you even light a fruit roll up on fire? It didn't matter. Not only was that the stupidest offering ever but you refused to pray to him. You'd rather sleep out in the rain then sneak inside when your family was gone to get your shit. 

You put the two objects in your pocket and let your head rest on your knees, exhaustion hitting. It wasn't even physical exhaustion. It was all mental and emotional. Like a leech was sucking on you constantly. Or a vampire. You'd prefer that. At least you'd die quicker. 

The hum of a motorcycle filled your ears, getting closer and closer. Best case scenario, it was a neighbor. Worst case scenario, it was a murderer. Honestly, you'd welcome both. 

The hum stopped and a familiar voice made you look up, “rough night”. 

It was him. Ares. God of war. Father to who knew how many. It was someone you definitely did not want to see… or so you thought. Part of you absolutely despised him now and everything to do with him and wanted to rip him apart. The other part of you though still felt an immense amount of joy when you saw him and you wanted to cling to him like a child clings to its favorite toy. If you were alone, you would've screamed. 

Then a thought crossed your mind. You didn't burn anything. You didn't make an offering. 

“You were going to” he said, seeming to read your mind. 

“Why are you here?” you managed to get out after some time of just staring at him. 

“Why do you think I'm here?” he asked and you could tell by his tone he meant it sarcastically. Like “the reason is so obvious. Stop being stupid”. 

Something about that sarcastic and irritated tone made you think back to what Grover told you. 

“Why don't you like me?” You asked and you hadn't meant to. It was supposed to stay in your head. 

He squinted his eyes at you and looked you up and down, “what?”. 

You could've let it go. You could've said nevermind, thanked him and let him help. You couldn't though. You didn't know when you'd have this chance again (the camp visited them but damn, there was a lot of you) and if you did something to make him not like you, you wanted to fix it. But that wasn't your job, right? Parents are supposed to care for their kids. 

You did that a lot. Your mind juggled opposite thoughts and it drove you insane. This was just the latest bit of juggling you'd been doing. 

“Grover said he spoke to you-”

“Who is Grover?”

“Percy's friend. The satyr”. A look of anger flashed in his eyes. You knew he remembered Percy. You didn't give him time to start yelling about the 12 year old that beat him in a fight. “Grover said that he spoke to you. I asked what it was like and he said that you said that you hate kids. Even your own. And when we visit, it's the worst day of the year. So, I was just wondering why you don't like me. Is it something I've done?”. 

Ares just rolled his eyes and sighed, “you're taking that personal?”. 

“It's kinda hard not to”. 

“I came to take you back to camp, not talk about whatever crisis you're having right now”. 

You didn't know if you were angry because of what he said, or because of his effect on others. Either way, blood started rushing to your head. “I'm not asking for a lot. I'm asking for an answer. A simple answer. Why don't you like me?”

“I don't like any of my kids”

“And that makes it better?” You asked in disbelief. Ares just stared at you, emotion void on his face. 

“Why do you do this? You keep having kids even though you hate them. Why?”. 

“It's not that simple and I don't have to explain anything to you”. You wished he'd show emotion. Any sliver of it. He was too calm, too numb. You'd prefer him yelling at you but nothing seemed to phase him. He was talking to you the same way you'd talk to a toddler. 

“It is incredibly simple. Just stop having sex with mortals. You already have Aphrodite -who is a married woman but whatever-” you rushed the last part. You didn't particularly care for the affairs between the gods. “How could your eyes possibly wander?”. 

Seeing him show a sliver of anger when you mentioned Aphrodite only filled you with more rage. That’s what angered him? That’s what got emotion out of him? “Really? That's what gets you? What about me being drenched?”

“You chose to come out here” he said through gritted teeth. If you knew Aphrodite was the key to him showing any piece of human emotion, you would've brought her up earlier. 

“I didn't choose this!” Your voice rose, “I didn't choose to be abandoned by my father and be stuck with a dysfunctional family for the rest of my life. You should be angry at that, not me mentioning Aphrodite. You should be enraged at the thought of anyone putting their hands on me and your hands should be covered in their blood! That is how it should be”. 

“Believe it or not the gods aren't too keen on the idea of killing mortals”

“But turning them into various objects and ruining their lives when it's a boring Tuesday is ok?”. His face went back to being blank and emotionless and your plan to stop talking was scrapped. You weren't even sure what you wanted. You wanted him to show something besides anger. Sadness? Regret maybe? Just something to show that maybe, just maybe, he cared deep down and regretted leaving you. 

“None of us asked for this. You all just decide to create and leave us. And you hating the people you created is… I don't know. And it's so stupid that I've spent years of my life trying to get you to be proud of me, only for it to be impossible!”. 

“I claimed you didn't I?” he defended himself, but you scoffed. 

“That's the bare minimum dad! That's like saying your kids should be grateful because you feed them!” You were full on screaming by now and you wouldn't have been surprised if a neighbor came out to see what the fuss was about. “I don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you. You probably hate being called 'dad’ and you don't care. You're never gonna get it”

“I try everyday to make you see me and you do everything in your power to not see me. To not see any of us. I would work myself to death for you. I would betray anyone close to me for you. If you asked me to burn down the world for you, I would. If you asked me to extinguish the sun, I'd find a way to because to me… to me you were everything. You are everything”. 

You couldn't tell if your face was wet from the rain, or from tears of sorrow and anger. It could've been both. Your eyes certainly stung and you hated it. You knew you had every right to be frustrated, but you hated how weak it made you feel. The children of Ares weren't supposed to cry. They were supposed to be headstrong and fight their enemies. They were supposed to be fierce warriors capable of bringing armies down to their knees. They were meant to shed blood, not tears. 

You thought for a second you saw an emotion cross his face. You couldn't pinpoint it though. It happened too fast and there was a good chance you were imagining things. 

“You can go. I'd rather sleep in the rain. I wouldn't wanna be even more of a burden” you spat with such venom you didn't know it was possible. Sure, you could have a bit of a temper but this felt different. It wasn't just anger or annoyance. There was a mix of grieving. 

It went silent for awhile, and the adrenaline you felt slowly went down. Reality started to sink in. You just yelled at a god. People who were known to cause destruction for something as small as “I think my shoes are better than yours”. 

“Are you gonna curse me? Or, I don't know, strangle me with my own shoe laces?”. Ares reached into his pocket and you looked away and closed your eyes. You expected to feel a burning sensation. That's what you assumed being cursed was like. A burning sensation and then you'd lose a limb or something. 

All you felt was something land on your lap. You looked down and saw a red pouch with gold string keeping it closed. You looked up at him, but he didn't say anything. You untied the string and opened the pouch and inside laid a pile of drachmas. 

Now he spoke, “call Chiron or whoever else works at that camp. Don't die out here”. 

“You're leaving?” You asked. You didn't know why you were disappointed. You should've been happy. After all, you just went off on him about how shit he was. 

“I have a busy schedule”. You wanted to ask if he'd be seeing the married woman he slept with or another unfortunate mortal, but you figured you pushed your luck enough today. 

“Thanks uhh…” you debated on calling him dad but instead you called him by his name. “Ares”. Then you remembered some gods could be particularly upset when you used their name. “God of war and all those other honorifics”. 

“Yeah” was all he said before he sped off, leaving you alone once again. You didn't know what he was saying “yeah” to but you didn't have enough time to ask and he probably wouldn't even answer. 

You called Chiron and asked to be brought back to camp but you didn't tell him about the conversation you had with Ares. 

You couldn't get the conversation out of your head, even after you showered and laid down to finally get some rest. 

Of course you kept thinking about the conversation and how lucky you were Ares didn't throw you into the street and run you over. 

Another thing stayed on your mind though. 

You didn't give an offering. You were told the gods would listen if you burned something that mattered, like the thickest piece of meat on your plate. You weren't sure they were actually listening and honestly you thought it was a real asshole condition. 

All you had was some stupid candy and you didn't even burn that and the minute you thought about it, he appeared like he was already watching. 

But you doubted he was watching. You doubted he listened to your prayers at all. 

You were one of his children which was something he hated. He'd claim you, possibly send a gift then be done with you. He didn't listen to you anymore. He didn't watch over you anymore. 

It was a coincidence. That's all it was. 

You were sure of it. 

At least, you tried to be. 

This is definitely ooc Ares but YA’LL KNOW I’M A LITTLE FUCKING SLOW! BE PATIENT WITH ME GOTDAMMIT😭 If you saw any errors, no you did not. I already proofread it once and I don’t feel like doing it again like I typically do. It’s 1am. I should be asleep.

[ohdeerfully]

Hii! I really like your work :3

Can you do demon alastor and his goth human girlfriend comfort scenarios? :D

hii! i hope i did some justice, i dont know much about alternative subcultures (,: i tried something new, with some bulleted headcanons and a oneshot afterwards! thank you so much for the request! <3

How to Summon an Overlord

Alastor x Goth!Reader (fluff) TW: mentions of animal death/taxidermy

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Alastor definitely appreciated the goth aesthetic

He lived in Hell, yeah, but a lot of the style there was more punk or grunge. Not that he even knew what these words meant but he could visually tell the difference

Similarly, you adored his red color scheme. You thought it complimented your black extremely well

He wasn’t particular about the music, it wasn’t quite his taste, but he didn’t mind listening as long as it was with you. He could manage to enjoy what you enjoyed

You typically conjured him into your world two or three times a week. You weren’t a busy person, but he was a busy demon

You typically spent a while before seeing him getting into a full goth getup, perfecting your white foundation and sharp eyeliner for what felt like hours 

He would assure you that it wasn’t necessary, but wasn’t overbearing about it. He knew some people just liked to get dressy

He did kind of like knowing that you were so excited to see him and show yourself off to him though

The dates you shared with him were… untraditional, to say the least

He enjoyed taking you out deep into the forest to explore and find bones and such to add to your collection at home. You were brave alone, but before meeting him never dared going as far in as you two did. There was so much you had been missing out on

He would never tell you, but when you weren’t looking he would use some of his powers–which were much weaker in the human realm than in Hell–to quickly catch and kill a small rodent if you were having no luck. He knew you’d probably get upset with him about the morality of it

Even though you’re literally dating a demon

So like. What morality

“I was a hunter in my life,” He had said when you caught him standing over the corpse of a deer. “I know how to… track them. When they’re dying.”

You loved that sinister grin of his. You never knew what was really going on behind it, but you found that and his glowing red eyes so… attractive. Oddly enough

At-home concerts were a must. As stated earlier, he wasn’t a huge fan of your taste in music, but he would never admit it. He did his best to follow in your steps and you swung your arms and sang out to your song of choice

He forced you to dance along with him to some jazz, too, of course. He left you no option for that

Baking was probably the most normal thing you two did together

He didn’t like sweets at all, but he liked shaping the dough into little themed cookies

He also loved helping you dye your hair; so much so that the second your roots started showing signs of your natural hair color he was the first to point it out

He loved being able to sit behind you and run his fingers and work the dye into every strand of hair. He didn’t care if it stained his fingers

Gifts weren’t very common from him, but you could tell that when he did get you something, a lot of thought went into it

Recently he had given you a dainty black chain with the most beautiful, glimmering blood-red ruby dangling off of it

You always asked him about what Hell was like. You asked and asked and asked, so many questions. And he was happy to talk your ear off in return

Part of him wanted to convince you to choose a sinner’s path, to join in him Hell. Honestly, he had a feeling you would if he simply asked. You seemed genuinely devoted to him

But, at the same time, the other part of him did care about you in a way that didn’t want to see you stuck in that place. Even with him

That was something he’d think about later

You were always so upset when it was time to exorcise him back to Hell. Harsh words, but it was just technicality

You clung onto his fingers for longer than you needed to. You knew he’d be back in a few days, but you had begun to feel increasingly lonely in the time between his visits

He would give you an affirming squeeze on the shoulder, and rest his chin against the top of your head for a moment before you performed the ritual

He kept in contact with you through the haunted radio you met him through, of course, a daily meeting that had become routine

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You loved antique shopping. 

Especially when you end up with your own little haunted radio.

Especially when that radio had the smoothest voice, with the most peculiar and out of date accent. It was charming. And, it knew your name.

You sighed as you stroked your fingers down your cat’s back, smiling softly as it arched into your touch. Your legs were crossed in front of you, sporting a comfortable and fuzzy skull-patterned pair of pajamas. Your eyes kept flicking expectantly to that old radio, and you were growing impatient. You hadn’t heard from the demon haunting it all day, and you were growing lonely.

It felt incredibly surreal and peculiar, feeling ghosted by a literal ghost. Or demon. Or monster. Or whatever it was.

You weren’t really a lonely person, preferring to stay inside–enjoying the comfort of your cat and a good song or show as you practiced tattoo flashes on the kit you bought yourself as a birthday present. But you had grown fond of that voice, as strange as it may seem. And you believed he had grown fond of you as well, what with the pet names he had begun referring to you as.

A crackle of that radio made you jump to your feet, which startled your cat. You quickly ducked down to apologize and rub behind his ears before scampering over to the coffee table and crossing your legs as you sat in front of it. You couldn’t help the smile that beamed across your face.

“Little bat,” The voice practically sang. You rested your head on your hands, careful to avoid a fresh piercing you had given yourself earlier in the day. “Sorry, I’ve been quite busy with my duties down here.”

You sighed, a childish grin playing across your face. “I was beginning to think you forgot about me. After all that work I did repairing you.”

“Darling, I would sooner redeem myself in heaven than forget about you.” Your brow quirked at his statement.

“Isn’t heaven like… all sun and happiness and grandeur.”

“You’d be surprised.”

You let the conversation end there. You couldn’t get over that voice of his. Maybe it was the combination of the accent and the filter of the radio over it, but you just knew this demon had to be a handsome one. Though, you had considered the idea of him being some sort of terrifying, eldritch horror. You could probably get behind it, honestly.

You purse your lips in thought, fantasizing about seeing the owner of the voice.

“Why haven’t you told me your name yet?” You asked him. A few seconds passed by.

“How incredibly rude of me!” He announced, and he sounded genuinely upset with himself. “I forgot my manners, I truly never expected this radio to be touched again. I’m Alastor, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” You laughed a bit, playing along with the formality. You reached forward and brushed a settlement of dust near the base of the mesh cover. 

“Hey,” You said slowly. You continued after he responded with a hum of curiosity. “I have a bunch’a books on like… summoning demons. And stuff. Do you know if…” You trailed, hoping that he was catching the idea.

He did catch on, and you heard an amused chuckle. 

“I’ve never thought about it,” Alastor admitted. “I’ve been too busy down here to really care about visiting the human world.” Even through the filter of static, you could tell his curiosity was piqued. And you were suddenly very, very excited.

“Stay here,” You jumped up without a second thought and scampered into your room. You had a cabinet full of small antiques and trinkets, from cute bunny figures to reptile skulls. You gingerly opened a lower drawer, careful not to knock anything over, and rummaged through an old storage of books you didn’t often touch.

While you were in your room, you quickly swiped on basic makeup. There was no way you had time to do a full face, you felt that you were risking it already even putting a little bit on. You teased your hair and threw on a simple outfit, layering some jewelry over it. If you were going to summon a whole-ass demon in your house, you wanted to at least look hot. Obviously.

You hurried out back into your living room. You felt a little nervous as you neared the radio, which had gone quiet. Usually, when Alastor was connected, there was a garble of frequency that announced his presence.

You skimmed your fingers across the mesh and, nearly instantly, he was back. You wondered if he felt any physical connection to the thing. You decided to ask him about it later. You gently picked up the radio and traveled into your basement.

It was the perfect ambience for this type of thing. A bit dreary, empty, cold… You really only used the basement for storage, so the air was thick with dust and stagnant oxygen.

“Okay. I got a couple books on different ways I could go about this. I should have all the candles and salt and stuff…” You flipped through the pages, muttering as you set out different books on methods of evocation that seemed interesting around you, your legs crossed comfortably.

He hadn’t said much since you mentioned summoning him to your realm. You began to wonder if this was a good idea. Were you jumping the gun? Was he actually as interested in you as you were in him? Did he want to see you?

You suppose he noticed the long pause in your mumbling, because he finally spoke. 

“Find anything, (Y/N)?” You smiled at his question. You took that as a good enough sign that he was interested.

“I found some… I just hope one of them works.” Alastor simply hummed in response.

You carefully drew a symbol on the concrete floor, hand dripping with white paint. Your arm was pressed against your chest to keep your stack of necklaces from dragging along the ground you kneeled down on. Your eyes flicked back and forth between your work and the book, trying to make it as perfect as possible.

Alastor hummed a little tune as you laid out the necessary candles. A few white ones dotted the formed circle, for “purification and spiritual protection” the book said. You figured it wouldn’t hurt, just in case Alastor did end up being some hideous monster. You crossed your fingers.

“Okay…” You said slowly, standing up to examine your work. You bent over to pick up the book you followed. You also carefully placed Alastor’s radio in the center of the symbol you drew. “Get ready.”

You read over the words a few times before trying out the chant. 

You must’ve done it just right, because as soon as the words began tumbling from your mouth, a wind manifested and twirled around the circle you had created. Amazingly, the candles remained lit.

The lace on your clothes billowed in the wind, and your hair blew into your eyes. You furrowed your brows in an attempt to stay focused and kept your eyes on the paragraph. You could see that radio slightly glowing out of your peripheral.

A flash of light concluded the chant, and your eyes squeezed shut at the unexpected shine. You had thrown your arm over your head, and carefully began to peek under your elbow as the wind settled.

The candles, save for the white ones, had all gone out and the room smelled heavily of the smoke that curled from the extinguished wicks. And, in the center of the circle, the radio was gone.

And a demon sat in its place.

He was sitting, arms catching himself on the ground and a puzzled look on his face. The transition between realms obviously wasn’t the smoothest ride, but he quickly gained composure and stood up, brushing off his clothes.

The first thing you noticed was how tall he was. How he loomed over you, even from a couple feet away. The next was those piercing, dangerous red eyes of his as he made eye contact with you. And then his lips curled up in a wide, yellow grin.

“A pleasure to finally meet you in person, little bat, quite a pleasure,” He said with a dramatic bow. You were too stunned to speak, simply looking up at him with your mouth agape.

You realized that radio filter over his voice wasn’t exclusive to the radio itself, because his voice cracked with it as he spoke to you. You swallowed your intimidation and stepped towards him. He wasn’t a disgusting tentacle monster, which was awesome. He was actually… incredibly handsome. Lucky you.

“It’s… so good to finally meet you, too,” you said. You reached a hand out towards him. His eyes followed your movement carefully, smile twitching and eyebrows narrowing as he considered your hand.

Your hand was stopped at the edge of the circle he had been summoned in. Some invisible barrier prevented you from getting any closer. You both looked down at your hand, and then back up at each other.

You laughed, breathlessly and nervously. After all that work, you couldn’t even get any closer to him.

“Those candles, (Y/N),” Alastor explained with a teasing grin. You looked down at the white candles that still had their flame. You cursed yourself briefly.

“I was, uh, a little nervous. That’d you’d be, like, you know…”

“A hideous, slimy monster?”

“Yeah.”

Alastor laughed down at you. “My dear…” His voice was suddenly incredibly menacing,  the scratching of his radio-like ambience becoming more aggressive. You felt a cold sweat run down your spine. As fast as the tone changed, though, it was normal again. His voice was light with humor once again. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about!”

You stooped down towards a candle to snuff it, but a quick rap from the demon’s cane halted you. You slowly craned your head up to look at him.

“You wouldn’t want to upset the delicate balance of a seance, my bat,” He said smoothly. “You can fix it next time. I should be going, I wasn’t expecting this… I have some things to do back in Hell.”

Next time, you thought, a tight feeling in your chest. You were incredibly excited at that idea, and it helped you not feel so bad about the short visit from Alastor. You nodded at him before turning around and fishing through the book for a banishment spell.

“I’ll… see you later then,” You said after finding the page. You pressed your hand against the invisible barrier again, to which he followed and pressed his own on the opposite side. You examined those long fingers of his. He smiled down at you. His expression was strange and unreadable.

“Until next time.”

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a person in possession of a good blorbo must be in want of art of that blorbo. And on this front, I have suffered because there is really no Háma art out there despite the fact that he’s rad. (I won’t bore you all again with all of the reasons why he’s the best, but you can find that here.) So I asked @rinthecap to draw me a lovely and handsome Háma, and they delivered in the best possible way!!! Here’s my guy, with a lot on his mind as he watches his king slowly lose his grip on reality, but always at the ready to jump into the fray and help.

I love ALL of Rincap’s art, which you should definitely all go check out if you haven’t, and am extremely grateful for this beautiful and necessary contribution to a world that was severely lacking in Háma representation! ♥️♥️♥️ His face, his armor, his hair, it’s all aces!

And here, for good measure, is my Háma headcanon:

His father was the royal armorer in Edoras, and his mother worked alongside him; he did the metal work, and she handled leather. Little Háma grew up around their workshop, playing quietly in the back or listening to his mother tell stories while she stitched together vambraces or gloves. As he got older, he helped his parents with simple tasks, like linking rings for chainmail. When a mailcoat he worked on saved Théoden from a Dunlendish arrow and the king himself came by to thank young Háma, he nearly burst with pride. He knew right then that he wanted to dedicate his life to protecting the king and made it his goal to be captain of his guard someday.

Háma’s father was severely injured in a workshop accident not long after, and everyone marveled at how quickly he apparently recovered and was able to keep turning out work. What they didn’t know is that Háma’s mother took over most of the business, having learned metal crafting over the many years of work alongside her husband. They didn’t tell anyone who was actually making the pieces because they weren’t sure anyone would wear armor made entirely by a woman, but Háma knew, of course, and it filled him with both pride and frustration to hear people heap praise on his mother’s work while attributing it all to his father.

While he was working his way up through the ranks of the guards, Háma met and fell in love with Bryttalif, a midwife in Edoras. Brytta was herself pregnant and unmarried when they met, so she was viewed as a little scandalous. But they hit it off right away and he really didn’t care about town gossip or what other people had to say because she was just the sort of kind and gentle-hearted person that he was. The scandal was eventually forgotten because Háma and Brytta got married, which gave the whole situation a sheen of acceptability. He adopted her daughter Halwinë as his own and was absolutely crazy about her–Middle Earth’s truest Girl Dad. Brytta was pregnant with their second child when Háma was killed at Helm’s Deep. It was a boy she named Wilspell (“welcome news”).

Háma’s sword was recovered from outside the gate of the Hornburg after his death and was thereafter always used by the captain of the king’s guard, being transferred from person to person as part of a little ceremony whenever a new captain was appointed.

He was buried in armor his mother made.

[quasi-normalcy]

Actually, you know what? Ever since I learned that Ira Steven Behr signed that grossly unfair letter against Jonathan Glazer, I've been forced to kind of reevaluate some of my interpretations of things in Deep Space Nine.

Like Section 31. I was willing to suppose that it was always and only intended to be villainous. But knowing as I do now that the showrunner who included it is perfectly willing to turn a blind eye to genocide, I'm forced to wonder...was it critical? Was it?

Like, let's consider canon here. In "Statistical Probabilities", Bashir and the other augments calculate, in no uncertain terms, that the Federation can't win its war with the Dominion. Their model even accurately forecasts things that happen later in the series: the Romulans declaring war on the Dominion; a full-scale revolt on Cardassia Prime. The end of the episode kind of pooh-poohs their model, like, "Well you couldn't even forecast what Serena would do in this room" but like...(1) the premise is basically lifted from Asimov's psychohistory concept, which works on populations rather than individuals, and (2) there's even a line of dialogue in the episode saying that the models become *less* uncertain the further you go in time. And indeed, the Federation ultimately wins the war not because any of their assumptions were wrong, but because there was another factor that they weren't aware of: the Changeling plague. The plague that had, of course, been engineered by Section 31 to exterminate the Changelings.

So again you have to ask: *was* this critical? Or was the real message that a black ops division willing to commit genocide is necessary to preserve a "utopian" society, no matter how squeamish it makes a naïve idealist like Bashir? And yeah, the war is ultimately won by an act of compassion, but only *after* Bashir sinks to S31's level by kidnapping Sloane and invading his mind with illicit technology. So...is this really a win for idealism?

And then we have the Jem'Hadar. They're a race of slave soldiers, genetically engineered to require a compound that only the Changelings can give them. By any reasonable standard, they're victims. And yet, the series goes out of its way, especially in "The Abandoned", to establish that they're irredeemable. You can't save them. Victims of colonialism they may be, but your only choice is to kill them, or else they--preternaturally violent almost from the moment that they're born--*will* kill you. And of course, I've long assumed that this was just a really unfortunate attempt to subvert what had become the standard "I, Borg" style Star Trek trope where your enemies become less scary once you get to know them, but like. I would say that there's pretty close to a one-to-one correspondence between this premise and the ideology excusing the mass murder of children in Gaza.

Or the Maquis. There's this line at the start of "For the Uniform" where Sisko tells Eddington that he regards the refugees in the Demilitarized Zone as being "Victims of the Maquis", because they've kept alive the forlorn hope that they would ever be allowed to return to their homes and...Jesus, when I write it out like that, Hello, Palestinian Right of Return. [The episode of course ends with Sisko bombing a Maquis colony with chemical weapons, though it is somewhat less objectionable in practice than I'm making it sound here].

And you know what...I get that DS9 is a show that's intended to have moral complexity, and to be kind of ambiguous in a lot places, and not to give you simple answers and so on. And I'm *not* trying to do the standard JK Rowling/ Joss Whedon/ Justin Roiland thing where a creator falls from grace for whatever reason and people comb through their oeuvre to show that they were always wicked and fans were stupid for not seeing it earlier or whatever. But I will say that these things hit different when you know that the series was show-run for five seasons, comprising every episode that I've just named, by a man who would go on to sign his name to a letter maliciously quoting Jonathan Glazer out of context to drag him for condemning an active genocide. And given that I've been a fan of DS9 for basically my entire life, this is deeply unsettling to me.

[elioslover]

Ray of Sunshine - Grumpy!Harry x Reader.

Premise: Harry has a tendency to be moody, but what happens when he meets his match? this one's especially for @harrysonlylover 💞

Other Writing

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: She/her pronouns. 3rd person.

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Harry’s car skids recklessly into the almost-full parking lot, dismissing the concept of carefulness in favour of confronting the driver behind the wheel of a sunshine-yellow ‘60s VW beetle, who had pulled into the lot moments before- which should have never happened because it had been behind him, to begin with. 

As if his mood hadn’t been less than pleasant for the past month, what really set him over the edge was the lack of apology from the said sunshine yellow driver, who only honked his way and proceeded to turn into the parking lot as they seemed to have always intended. 

With agitation, Harry neatly swerves into the nearest parking space, barely managing to stay in the lines as he reaches over and snatches his work satchel from the passenger seat, slinging it over his shoulder as he slides from the seat and exits his vehicle. 

In hot pursuit, his long legs help him catch up to the sunshine car just in time for the driver to exit, her back turned to him, leaning in through the open door to collect her items. 

By the time she turns around and lazily swings the door shut Harry is peering over her, wearing a black hoodie, brows furrowed, his body tense. 

She recognises him in an instant- it’s hard not to remember the face of a man who is scowling so sinfully as he hit the hooter for an unnecessary amount of time- all because he couldn't be bothered to indicate. 

“Did you not see my blinker?” He grumbles. 

“Clearly not.” She torts, her face still and expressionless. 

“You’re a moron. It was on.” Each word is more annunciated than the last. 

“It wasn’t.” She shrugs, slinging the straps of her bag over her shoulder. 

“You clearly need glasses.” Harry huffs in disbelief. 

“Maybe if you weren’t blasting your music so loud you would have heard that it wasn’t on.” 

Harry feels a wave of shame wash over him at the idea of her seeing him getting a little too into his playlist, in turn, his chest simmers with defensiveness and deflection, 

“Your driving fucking sucks…” He says, getting no response only encourages him to rant further, “And your car looks like it’s hanging on by its last thread, no wonder you’re a bad driver.” He gestures to her car with a look of distaste, “It’s a piece of junk.”

She adores her car, it is not only special but holds the heart of many fond times, adventures, people, and sometimes just conversation. The car sure has been through the wringer- in age alone- but she can hardly afford another, and she certainly doesn't want one. 

So, she tries not to find offence in this grumpy strangers declaration of her ‘piece of junk’ and does her best to take a deep breath before responding in concession- though her agitation has morphed into sarcasm and it seeps through your sentences,

“Okay, sorry Mister Mercedes. Guess I’ll be more careful next time.”

Harry didn't know what he wanted her to say, but it certainly wasn’t anything along those lines. So with an eye roll and the reminder that he’s close to being late for work, Harry starts to walk away and points out matter-of-factly, 

“Yeah fuckin right, you’re an accident waiting to happen.” 

“Asshole.”

“I heard that.” 

He turns on his heels to see her as calm as ever, an amused sparkle in her eyes, a smirk playing at her lips,

“What ya gonna do? Chew me out some more?”

Harry stared seethingly at the rude and reckless driver who couldn't care less about his mood, her focus was on gathering all the necessary items for whatever task she so desperately had to complete that she was willing to almost kill him. 

He meanly mutters, “Have a fantastic day," before walking off for good, dreading work and in a worse mood than ever. 

⛅️

Harry has an hour for lunch, grateful for the assortment of cafes and restaurants scattered within the city square, along with plenty of boutiques, art deco, and antiques to name a few. 

Most days, he is likely to grab a sandwich or coffee- or both- from the restaurant directly across from his office block, but that would be the third time this week and Harry can’t fathom facing any of the staff in fear of becoming a ‘regular.’ 

He meanders around the centre and stakes out the array of food options displayed in each glass window. 

Just when he thinks he may settle on some early afternoon sushi, Harry spots a bright object from the corner of his vision, his head snapping with such haste he must have strained a muscle. 

Parked directly in front of a shoe boutique is his notorious enemy; the sunshine car. And leaning back against a pillar just outside of the store is the bad driver from behind the wheel. She is halfway through smoking a cigarette, her other hand occupied by scrolling through her phone. 

As if his scowl was so strong that it was sent straight to her, causing her to sense his presence, she looked up from her phone and smiled mischievously at the realization of her new enemy's arrival. 

She tucks her phone into the pocket of her black slacks, taking a puff of her ciggie, a cloud of smoke mixing in with her greeting,  

“Ah, Mister Mercedes.” 

Harry nears but notices his frustration thicken with each step into her space. He crosses his arms across his chest, 

“I recognised your car.” 

“Oh, that old piece of junk?” She asks with nonchalance. 

“Yes.”

“Bothered you so much that you decided to come over here?” Her pout is melting with pure mischief. 

“I’m sorry, okay.” Harry concedes, but it doesn't come off as anything but frustrated so his tone softens in volume and intention, “It was a rough day.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” His brows furrow.

“Yeah, okay.” 

“Fucking insufferable.” He mutters.

His frustration slips over like that of water on a duck, her mood has been calm all day, and his attitude wasn’t likely to spoil it- right? With another puff, she ponders aloud, 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

There is a moment where Harry almost ponders the purity of his intentions, but dismisses it and chooses to interrogate her- he is far too invested in finding out more about his enemy,

“Do you work here?” 

“Obviously.” She shrugs with the softest of scoffs. 

“Hope you’re a better employee than a driver.” 

Now he’s starting to get under her skin. this is her hour for lunch, why can’t it be spent in peace? She does her damndest to maintain a cool demeanour as she asks again,

“Why are you still here?” 

“To apologize, Jesus.” Harry doesn't mean to snap, but neither of them is surprised when he does. His juxtaposition of words and tone render his sorry useless- they both know it.

He tries to reason with her, explaining his frustration, “And all you said was okay.”

She peers over at him incredulously, repeatedly intrigued by the attitude of this man who has gone out of his way to make an enemy out of her, 

“What do you want me to say,” her tone facetious and fiery, “I forgive you, we all have bad days, sometimes we take it out on strangers to avoid hurting those close to us, you’re probably actually a great guy?” 

“I- yes.” 

“Well now that I’ve said it, you can go on your way.” 

Harry feels stunned like she just let him walk out into the snow knowing that there was soon to be a blizzard, he can’t reason with her- nor does he care to at this point, 

“Jesus. I take back my apology.” He grumbles, hands raised in defeat, his head shaking as he scoffs sourly, “Such a mature little thing, huh?” 

She ignores everything but the last sentence, slowly enjoying the opportunities he’s giving her to indulge in going out of her way to increase his already extreme grumpiness. 

Once more, Harry curses out under his breath and with zero intent to say another word, begins to walk away from her. 

Pulling the phone from her pocket, ready to continue her prior activities, she chuckles and calls over his shoulder,

“Bye, Mister Mercedes.” 

⛅️

It has likely been less than a week since their last interaction and Harry’s enemy has decided to treat herself to a proper lunch- sitting down at an actual table in an actual restaurant for a change. 

However, she underestimated her fitness levels and loosely accounted for a good portion of the time her lunch break consisted of. By the time she arrived and got back to her own store, there would be less than twenty minutes left to sit at a table. 

Takeout would have to do, and once she has placed her order, she waits off to the side of the main counter, waiting to both pay and be gifted with grub. 

The food comes quicker than predicted and with excitement she thinks can't be topped, she reaches for her wallet, but the hostess stops her in her tracks and gestures to one of the tables scattered throughout the eatery and informs her, 

“The man at table four already paid for your order.”

It’s her sworn enemy, packing up the contents of his belongings before taking a final sip of his nearly-empty Americano. Harry doesn’t acknowledge her.

“What’s with this guy?” She ponders aloud before making the swift and frustrated decision to go over to his table.

He is already standing up to leave, still not looking her way, and with a bough of confusion, she finally speaks up, 

“What’s this about?” 

“Strange way of saying thank you, Sunshine.” 

Harry frowns and she doesn't enjoy the way it makes her feel, giddy and begging for more opportunities to bother him, 

“Thank you.”

“Whatever. You’re still a pest.” He grumbles, almost bumping his shoulder into her own as he slips past and hastily exits the restaurant.

⛅️

Harry walks into her store with a better attitude than he has in a long time. Things were starting to look up, but one little thing was still bothering him, and she was staring right at him with a scowl that gave him a run for his money. 

Anyhow, he’s here for a reason; an attempt to smooth over the rocky start that was more than likely his fault. And he hopes she’ll take his apology this time. 

Harry approaches, and with each step, he gets a better view of her distinct frown, lips turned down, eyes quickly turning to loathsome slits. She is no longer leaning across the front counter with laxation, her body stiffening to attention, her hand pressed firmly to her hip. 

She couldn’t fathom anything could have worsened her week, and here he was, presumably planning on sucking away whatever remained of her soul for his own sick gain. With a chest simmering with chaos, she asks with incredulity, 

“Seriously?” 

Harry blinks back, a little awestruck, ignoring the pang of disappointment that greets his heart when she seems to confirm her distaste for his presence, he embraces his mildly peppy mood and remarks playfully, 

“Well hello there, Sunshine.” 

“This is not the time.” She snaps.  

“Aw, is Miss Ray-of-Sunlight in a mood today?” He coos. 

“Mmph.” 

She huffs, hardly meeting his eyes, and Harry quite likes how well she emulates his usually grumpy demeanour, he wonders how similar they might be, decides to find out, 

“What happened?” He meets her at the counter, lazily resting his body against the counter courtesy of the elbow he balances on. He leans a tad nearer, a tantalizing smile playing at his lips as he teases,

“Did you almost crash into someone with your junkyard on wheels?” 

“I’d rather drive this than parade about like an absolute dick in an overpriced German car.” Her tone drips with what Harry feels is both disappointment and disgust. 

He feels frozen under her words like his Sunshine had just revealed herself to be Medusa, a sly Succubus. 

Now what does he do? His confidence sits on the floor with his converse, his sentences have turned to slosh in his skull and she is staring at him with such distaste that Harry certainly won’t be saying a word. 

Stunned to silence, he leans away from her, settling a safe space between their bodies as his features morph from friendly to confused. This only seems to increase her frustration and she fiery snaps, 

“Why won't you stop fucking pestering me?”

Harry subconsciously steps back, straightening up and stacking his defensiveness around his skin like a shield. He has no power to prevent a petty eye roll, 

“Oh, please. This is no treat for me either, Sunshine.”

“Are you kidding?” She gets ready to leave him standing alone in the middle of her own store. 

Harry panics and blurts, “Hear me out!” It comes off more desperate than he would have liked. But she has stopped and addresses him with crossed arms, waiting for his next words. Harry is in autopilot mode, more nonsense spilling from his lips, “I- want to make it up to you?” 

“Why, so you can clear your conscience?” She scoffs with sass. 

“Sure, whatever you say, smart mouth.” Harry has regressed and reflects her unpleasant temperament.

“Go away.” 

Their gazes are glued by the calamity of their conversation, tied together with frustration that feels impossible to unwind. 

Harry just wants to tell her why he’s here in the first place, but what’s the point? His presence is evidently worsening her day. 

And though the soft curiosity in him wants to know why she seems so down, Harry’s focus is returning to the ruin of his afternoon. So, in true fashion, he flails his arms in disappointed defeat and turns his back on her with a wonderful version of goodbye,

“Fine. Fuck it. Have a miserable one, Sunshine.” 

“Likewise, dickhead.” She dismisses, grateful his mood is now as miserable as her own. 

⛅️

When Harry finally exits the glass entrance to the bottom floor, relief rushing over him now that work is over, he’s hardly paying any attention to anything or anyone, already scanning his phone for notifications. But then he sees his cloudy sunshine leaning against a wall, arms crossed, no car in sight. 

He ponders pretending to not have noticed- walked away and gone about his eve. That would never happen though, he wants- needs to see her again- his stomach stays unsettled the deeper their discourse divulged. 

He heads over to her with unnecessary haste, scolding himself as he comes to a halt in front of her. She has been aware of him from the minute he exited the building, already prepared for his arrival. 

His body waits expectantly as she eyes him up and down, a cheeky glint in her eyes and when Harry understands that she is in no rush to speak up, his undying impatience rears its head, 

“What do you want?” 

“For you to stop being so grumpy.” She shrugs.

“Rich coming from you.” He mutters, but when she attempts to turn her back on him as they had done so many times before, more words rush out, “Okay, okay. What’s up?”

“I’ve decided to hear you out.” 

“Gee, how kind of you.” 

“I cannot imagine how anyone deals with you on a daily basis.” 

Harry doesn’t take it as an insult, he is fueled forward by the fact that she might be willing to listen,

“I’m actually very likeable.” 

“Do you want me to hear you out or not?” 

He thinks for a moment, leaving her to ponder what in her right mind caused her to take a walk to see him in the first place. 

But, he wants to do this as… right as their attitudes might approve of, so he bravely wraps his palm atop her own, gently gesturing for her to follow and she allows him to drag her along. He encourages, 

“C’mon.” 

“What?” She asks but proceeds to let him guide her. 

“It’s almost six, let’s go eat.” He informs, one step ahead of her as they take the short trip to his regular restaurant

“That is the last thing I want to do with you.” She grumbles. 

“I’ll pay.” He soothes. 

“Fine.” 

Harry keeps her hand cradled in his own, even as they enter the restaurant and he asks the waiter for a table for two. In fact, he only lets go to pull out a chair for her. 

He asks what drink she prefers and if she’d be open to splitting a plate of fries with him. 

But she has been eyeing him with suspicion, and once it’s clear that this won’t waver until she confronts it, the waiter leaves and allows her to question, 

“Why are you being nicer than usual?” 

“Can you stop being snarky for even a second?” He nearly snaps. 

“Ah, Mister Mercedes is back.” She nods as if it were what she had expected all along. 

“No,- Jesus fuck.” Harry feels desperate again, scooching his chair forward, his arms folded across the table, leaning in to ensure her unwavering attention,

 “I- almost got into another accident the day we met.” He sighs out with shame, ready to be met with warranted ridicule. Her expression has already turned to one of bemusement. But he’s not done yet,

“Turns out my left blinker bulb burned out... so...”

She tilts back and finally relaxes into her chair, a gleeful grin spreading to her sparkling eyes, 

“Sweet vindication.” 

“Brat.”

“Dick.” 

Harry has little confidence to spare, now that his confession is out in the open, he is in the dark. 

Her demeanour has slightly diverted swells of amusement and satisfaction dancing along the tabletop.

“Just wanted to try and make it up to you.” He shrugs earnestly, unfortunately having to rely on her newfound information to dictate her next reaction. 

“Make it up to me?” 

He can’t convince himself to meet her eyes, his lowering to study the rings donning his fingers, fearful of humiliation, but not enough to waste the opportunity sitting across from him, looking overjoyed with sweet satisfaction, and far too endearing for him to resist,

“Mm. I didn’t want you to think I was just a grump but…” Her face seems to soften and he feels it safe to continue, “Been tryna ask you out on a date. since.” 

“A date?” 

“Yeah, a date.” 

“Are you crazy?” Her features return to one of confusion, bewildered at his seemingly sudden turnaround, “I don’t like you.”

“Well, I like you.”

“Forgive me for finding that hard to believe.” 

It’s true- that he likes you, and that it’s hard to believe. He likes the surprise shifting his statement. 

“I do.” He nods as if it’s been obvious from the start, “And your attitude, and your silly yellow car.” He admits with bashful fondness, “Guess I hoped we could start over?” 

“Sunshine.” She says. 

“Hm?”

He ponders aloud and it’s her turn to lean forward, stretching her arms across the table. Her gaze has returned to one of sternness, 

“My car. Her name is Sunshine.” She allows Harry a moment to soak up the coincidental information. “She is a piece of junk, but I love her, so shut up about my baby.”

Harry’s head tilts back when a bough of laughter suddenly leaves his lips- amused and even more attracted than he thought possible, he nods along in agreement and chuckles, “Fair enough.” 

There is an elongated pause- at least Harry perceives it to be- as she thinks over the oddly pleasurable past few weeks of finding herself in the presence of a grumpy but playful man. 

So, she gives him one last good look over before deciding to openly give in, 

“You have been a consistent pain in my ass.” He pouts cutely, and she goes on, “Guess we’ll have to find out if there’s more to you.” 

He smiles at that, his head and heart finally settling at the promise of better nights of sleep to follow. Moreso, he’d like to find out more about this so-called Sunshine who seems to simultaneously rile him up and calm him down with ease, 

“‘M name’s Harry, by the way.” He extends a hand.

“Y/n.” Her palm meets his eagerly.

-

Here we go children, this one was really fun to write, I hope it meets your expectations! - Em. xo 💞 this one's especially for @harrysonlylover 💞

[mediumgayitalian]

part three

———

The first step should, in all likelihood, be the easiest.

(“I’m not sure this is something you can really plan,” Annabeth had suggested gently, “as much as my mother would disown me to hear it. I mean, everything I did with Percy kind of just…happened.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure the five years of pining misery and fighting off several other people — one of whom was literally me — was a real walk in the park for you.”

“…Plan on.”)

It is not the easiest.

“You’re telling me the flowers…say things.”

If Nico reaches back into the farthest recesses of his memory, as in things that are shoved somewhere between his sister’s soft sobs the one time he got sicker than he’d ever been and has ever been since and the time he’d walked in on Alecto skinny dipping in the Phlegothon, he can vaguely remember a lengthy rant from his stepmother on something called the language of flowers. He had, at that time, assumed she was simply trying to convince him that everything had voices again, and ignored her.

“Yes,” says Miranda from Demeter Cabin patiently. “Every flower has an assigned meaning. More than one, usually. You can say very rude things with flowers.”

Nico perks up, intrigued. “How do you say ‘you’re a fucking c—”

“Okay,” Jason interrupts, plastering a strained smile on his face and slapping a hand over Nico’s mouth. Nico bites him, hard, and the smile becomes even more strained. “We are actually looking for much nicer things to say with flowers. Kind things. Appreciative things. Feelings, you know. Nico?”

He lifts his hand, looking at him in warning as if Nico is going to be quelled by his Stare of Judgement, of all things. Nico stares back at him until he starts to look appropriately cowed, satisfyingly afraid of the horror that lives inside Nico’s eyes, except he — doesn’t.

He doesn’t look scared at all, actually, which is — which.

Nico takes all thoughts pertaining to the issue and shoves them away.

“I need,” he says haltingly, looking back at Miranda. She looks at him encouragingly.

She doesn’t look afraid of him, either, although she glances quickly down at the circle of grass he’s killed by virtue of standing on it and says, politely, “If you could maybe stop that, I would appreciate it.”

Nico swallows, stepping back. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” She swoops down, hands outstretched, murmuring something too soft for him to pick up. Under her gentle fingertips, the grass blooms slowly back to life, tiny strands uncurling and swelling with virility, stretching towards the sun. Even the dirt smells sweeter, like churned garden soil rather than graveyard dirt.

Something dark and bitter crawls up Nico’s throat — he will always need people to clean up after his messes. No matter how hard he tries. Miranda with the plants, Solace with every one of his endless injuries, Bianca with — everything. She cleaned up after him a lot.

She was only twenty-seven months older than him. He wonders how she would have liked being fourteen, and has to choke back the sob that tries to claw its way out of his trachea.

“Not a lot of people have flower language memorized,” Miranda says, dragging him roughly back to the present. Her large brown eyes are back to focused on him, so he forces himself into normalcy and stares back. “And it’s kind of vague, so I need something to start with. Who’s it for?”

“Classified.”

Nico considers, once again, opening up a chasm beneath his feet. His geokinesis is no bene so he’d probably take Jason and Miranda down with him, but. Necessary sacrifices, et cetera.

“Understandable,” Miranda responds without so much as a beat. Huh. Suddenly, he feels bad for considering her collateral. “Just this then: friend or foe?”

Nico looks at Jason. Jason looks back at him, like, dude, seriously. Nico scowls at him and his uselessness.

“Friend,” he says begrudingly. “…More.”

Miranda nods in understanding. “Ah. Will, then.”

Nevermind. Chasm it is.

“Man, I hoped you guys would finally do something,” Miranda continues, oblivious to the ground trembling slightly under her. (Jason, however, appears alarmed, so Nico summons a tiny skeleton hand to grab his ankle in revenge.) “I love Will to pieces, but there are only so many times I can hear him wax poetic about you before it starts to get embarrassing. When we were twelve you saved his life and he actually cried because he didn’t know how to form the words. Just weeping everywhere about your sword and your hair and how you look a little crazy when you smile in battle. Did you know there are, like, a million syllables for brown? I do. He thinks your eyes are a tie between moonstone and agate, in case you were wondering.”

“I have actually heard that,” Jason mumbles, as Nico’s brain whites out and leaves him, tragically alone, to suffer. “I thought he was just super into geology.”

“Oh, he is. He’s a little into everything. There’s a bi joke, for you.”

“Oh, ha, I get it.”

Is that his body, stranded somewhere below him? Hi, body. Good to see you. You look like hell. Feel free to summon your soul back into yourself at any time, that’d be great.

“I am generally bad at functioning,” he admits, once his essence has begrudgingly reattached itself to his cells and his blood stops ringing quite so loudly in his ears.

Miranda shrugs. “I think you’re pretty okay. Once Percy had to get five stitches on his lip because he was half asleep and mixed up his plate and pizza and bit clean through his plate. It only really needed four stitches, but Will laughed so hard he couldn’t focus right and tore the wound a tad before fixing it. By accident.”

Nico tries very hard not to picture that laughter, not to remember the first time he heard Will laugh, not the hundreds of times after; a loud sound, a musical sound, despite his insistence that he has no talents. Laughter like olive oil laughs in the pan, like wind laughs as it rushes through the poplar trees.

Jason nods sympathetically. “Mondays are hard.”

“Please,” Nico begs the both of them. The nerve he’d summoned after the encouragement of his friends is slowly leaking out of his eyeballs and soaking the ground. “I just need —”

He can’t finish that sentence, either. I need to give Will flowers so he knows I have….intentions, with him, is the most embarrassing sentence ever to be conjured by man, and if he has to say it aloud he knows his father will smite him out of pity, as is their deal. It must only be implied, and even then, he could get egged by any member of Cabin Eleven and turn into a breakfast buffet, his face is so godsdamn hot.

“Will, is, like, unbelievably dense,” Miranda says, taking pity on him. She waits for Nico to finish choking, patting him firmly on the back before continuing. “I guess that’s not fair. He can be quite observant, he just has worse self-esteem than you, even, no offense, so if you are trying to seduce him you’re going to have to be very obvious.”

The wheezing that she has just circumvented starts all over again. This time, Jason joins him. Miranda has no qualms or shame — fitting, since Nico has met her mother, who also has no shame about anything. Nico will never be able to forget that she is the goddess of fertility.

“Who the fuck said anything about seducing,” he manages, finally, lungs chilling somewhere on the grass.

Miranda ignores him. “I would usually say something simple like daisies, but they can be representative of friendship and he will for sure assume they are friendship flowers. Hyacinth can communicate a much deeper breadth of emotion, but, uh —” she glances at the Apollo cabin — “I would avoid Hyacinth.”

Nico sobers. Yeah. That would be wise.

“I think roses send a little too strong of a message for your purposes, so I’m thinking carnations. Pink ones.”

Recovering from the implications of the roses — he’s a little out of time, not stupid, he knows what they mean — he looks at her curiously. “What do pink carnations mean?”

She shrugs. “Love and affection, really. Sometimes gratitude, and in some poetry their colouring is compared to a pleased flush.”

Although he expected much more agony in this particular step of the journey (not that their wasn’t a good, healthy amount; can’t feel good feelings for too long if you’re Nico di Angelo, Cursèd, Son of Hades, Prince of the Underworld, Ghost King, Et Cetera, Et Cetera), pink carnations seem surprisingly…right. Love and affection, he can handle that, and if there’s one thing he always is, regarding Will, it’s grateful. Maybe the whole damn camp should be giving him pink carnations.

“Here.”

Sensing Nico’s hesitant acceptance, Miranda swoops down to the ground, digs around a second, shoots a quick prayer to her mother, and waits. A moment later, several blush-pink flowers shoot from the dirt, along with — Nico squints to read it — a book about the history of grain cereals. Miranda looks confused about one of those two things.

“I am constantly plagued by the Ancient Greek Theoi and their various whims,” Nico explains.

“Your life confuses me,” Miranda responds. She hands him the book and the flowers. For once, Demeter’s gift seems to be the less volatile object of the two. “I’m going to go meditate about it.”

“Good call,” says Jason.

“Thank you,” Nico calls, belatedly, to her retreating back. He glances down at the flowers in his hand. “Jason,” he says, voice strained.

He sighs. “Oh, here we go.”

“Jason, I have to move.”

“You’re fine here,” Jason says patiently. He places a hand on Nico’s shoulder and begins to steer him towards the Big House. Nico, distraught, refrains from judo flipping him into a tree.

“I ruin everything I touch, Jason.”

“You helped out with the strawberries just fine last week.”

“Strawberries are not people, Jason.”

“The kids seem to like you. You let them keep weird skulls and rocks and shit they find in the woods, and they like that.”

“Children are not completely incomprehensible sons of the sun, Jason.”

“Will likes you. By his own admission. He thinks — and I’m quoting here — that you’re gorgeous, even when you’re glaring at him and rueing your own existence.”

Nico has nothing to say to that, because he still can’t quite believe that’s true. It’s — surreal. He had no arguments against it, because he knows, objectively, that Will was not lying, and he can see, with his eyeballs, that Will smiles every time they make eye contact, unless Nico did something stupid in which case Will is huffing and muttering about patients and demigods and how increased power is directly correlated with increased stupidity.

Mostly smiling, though.

At Nico. With love and affection and oh, gods, he is going to ruin things so bad.

“Look,” Jason says, stopping them in front of the porch. Nico takes the pause with equal parts relief and panic, turning to him with the flowers clutched to his chest. “You have — issues.”

Nico blinks, waiting for more sentence. Surely that cannot be all of it.

“…Yes,” he acquiesces, when no sentence is forthcoming. “I am an interloper in this timeline. I am an omen of death. I am —”

“Gods, you’re dramatic.”

Nico agonizes.

“You will be fine, Nico, please, I don’t even know what the hang-up is. He said he likes you, there is literally not a single soul in this camp unaware about how much he likes you. Right?”

The rickety screen door of the infirmary bangs open, slamming against the frame, startling them both so hard they cause a slight earthquake.

“Oh, you got them, you got them!”

The overworked and overstressed whirlwind known as William Andrew Solace bursts out of the infirmary, tripping over his own shoes and nearly landing on his face had Jason not caught him.

“Woah, dude,” he says, steady hand on his waist. Nico reacts to that totally normally and Jason’s shadow does not at all try to swallow him. “What’s wrong?”

Will barely responds. “Nico, you are the best, I owe you forever —”

Stumbling out of Jason’s hold, he lunges over to Nico, plucking the flowers out of his hand and spinning right back to the infirmary. In total bewilderment, Nico and Jason follow him, watching as he tosses the bouquet in the air, hands glowing golden, and mutters a quick hymn. The flowers begin to droop, then wrinkle, then fully shrivel up, totally dead as they land back in his hands.

“What the fuck,” Jason whispers.

“Sun-dried is better, but I don’t have time,” Will frets. “Son of sun will have to do. Ha. You, and you, over here.” He points to the nurses desk with the yellowed stems, no trace of a question in his voice. The two of them scramble to comply, ducking under the half-door and standing awkwardly behind the counter as Will clears it off.

“That stupid prank — remind me to kill Cecil tomorrow, Nico, if you don’t mind — has three whole cabins covered in skin welts. I don’t have enough beds for them all, and they need to be quarantined, anyway. I haven’t had time to go get more ingredients in between cabins, let alone time to make more ointment.” Two massive stone mortars slam the counter, making both of them jump, followed by pestles with blunt heads roughly the size of Nico’s fist. “Pulverize the petals as fine as you can.” He splits the dead bouquet in half, handing them each six flowers each. “Petals only, no stems or seeds. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to gather it. Oh, and Nico —”

He pauses for a moment, taking a breath. Hesitantly, Nico reaches out and places a gentle hand on his wrist. Instantly, the worried line between his eyes melts away, and he smiles; tired but radiant.

“I owe you one,” he says softly. “You always know just what I need. I’ve been using rose, ‘cause that’s what we have, even though pink carnations is better, but we ran out an hour ago and I’ve been freaking out cause I —”

“Solace,” Nico interrupts. He squeezes gently. “Breathe.”

He does. Inhale, hold, exhale, breath tickling the hairs in Nico’s arm, causing goosebumps to bristle all over his skin. (The grateful smile pointed towards him at full power has nothing to do with that. Obviously.)

“I’m good. Just — thank you, Nico. You knew exactly what I needed.”

A loud groan sounds from somewhere to the east, in the vague direction of Cabin Ten, and Will rushes off without another word, medical bag stuffed to bursting. There’s a thump, and a quick, “I’m good!” and then the sound of running in flip-flops. Nico ducks his head to hide a smile, turning to the dried flowers.

“Well,” says Jason after a moment. “You tried.”

Nico shrugs. He starts plucking the petals off and dumping them in the mortar, Jason quick to follow his example.

“I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

———

part five

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

How about the bishops with a reader that has a ton of different scars? Some they tell stories about, about some they grumble and laugh, and when asked about some they avert their gaze while chuckling and change the subject?

Leshy

He can't really see the scars, but you allow him to feel them and trace his fingers over each one.

Of course, you'll be guiding his hand the entire time should he ask you to, sharing stories about them all the while.

Your tales vary from fights, attacks by Darkwood creatures, clumsy accidents, and a few near-death scenarios you barely got away from....all of which have happened on several missionaries you've undertaken in his name.

There are a few you'd rather not speak of for various reasons.

Including a nasty gash on your cheek that you got from one of the Lamb's attacks, not wanting him to know you failed to kill them.

Leshy 100% understands if you're uncomfortable with talking about specific ones.

He hates it when people ask about his eyes, so he gets it.

It's no different after you both end up in Lamb's cult, although it's easier for him to feel your scars and be closer to you.

If he overhears anybody talking shit about them, he's gonna throw hands (and by that, I mean he'll bite them).

Kallamar

Seeing one of his finest warriors marred with so many scars makes him proud..and yet worried at the same time.

Infection was certainly a risk, so he'll heal any ones that appear new should he deem it necessary.

Although he doesn't ask many questions about where they came from, he does like to remind you that his blessings are a privilege, thus he won't always do this for you every time you get injured.

It's his subtle way of saying "please take care of yourself" without saying it outright.

Never really hears the stories you tell to your fellow followers (not because he doesn't care...he's just deaf af).

But after you both arrive to Lamb's cult, he asks you about them and you explain where you got most of them from.

The coolest ones--at least in your opinion anyways--are the bites from wrestling rogue sharks, barracudas, etc. for food.

Kallamar is both amazed and slightly more terrified of you now.

He sometimes feels bad that he can't heal you up if you get a new scar, but you reassure him Lamb's been keeping you in good health.

Shamura

As a proud warrior of Silk Cradle (and one of Shamura's personal bodyguards), you had the scars to show your fighting experience.

Everything from bug bites to claw marks to flames--you had a lot of stories to share and did so willingly.

Especially to Shamura, although they tend to forget at times...

They even sometimes believe you had more scars than you did yesterday, asking if the one on your arm is new.

Or they may just stare...and you immediately see the concern in your lord's eyes.

But you gently remind them that it's been there for weeks.

It's no different after they arrive in Lamb's cult, with you following suit.

They forgot about every scar you had, and honestly looked a little scared when you approached them and they saw them all over your body.

Once they calm down, though, and get more settled into the cult, you'll reshare stories of your scars (or at least ones you're comfortable sharing), answering whatever questions they may have.

If they ever ask about one that's a particularly painful memory, you'll just subtly change the subject, insisting they rest their head.

Heket

She overheard her cultists listening to your stories about your scars during a feast, and she can't help but eavesdrop.

"And this one? From trying to help the Mushroomos carry a box of menticide mushrooms....it was a splinter." You shake your head as the people beside you laugh. "Embarrassing, I know."

While Heket never says anything outright about your scars, she's impressed that you're proud to wear them.

The one thing she doesn't know is that you've gotten into a fight with the Lamb themselves and miraculously survived.

However the resulting scar(s) weren't too pretty..and you weren't too proud of them, either.

So you tended to them in private, keeping them a secret as you didn't want her finding out you failed to kill that little sheep.

Only after you and her arrive to Lamb's cult do you finally tell her all about them, knowing she can't really retaliate now.

You decide to show her the scar(s)...

And to your surprise she's still able to eat her lunch while staring at them, intrigued.

She did always think you were a great fighter.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | chapter thirteen preview

You expect Blue to be asleep when you open the decrepit door of the hunting cabin. Instead, she's sitting up by the barely-there fire with her legs stretched out, her eyes snapping up to yours the moment the door groans shut behind you. Surprise and relief pass through the blue irises, which are by far more expressive than her father's dark brown ones. And then, a flash of anger.

"You shouldn't have gone," is what she greets you with.

The tension in your shoulders lets go of its grip as you sink to the floor beside her, hands curling in the long sleeves of your new jacket. You're glad to hear more energy in her voice, even if it's backed by anger, and to see the freckles on her face more pronounced now that she has regained some color. 

"It was important."

"It was stupid," she mumbles, looking you over before shaking her head and redirecting her gaze to the fire. "You didn't tell me. You didn't even say goodbye."

"I didn't want to wake you this morning."

"That's a shitty excuse." There is a pause where you can hear the sound of boots shuffling outside as Ghost takes position to keep watch again. Then, Blue lifts up her arm, tapping her pointer finger over the bright, plastic beads that twist around her wrist. "You're my friend, remember? We're supposed to tell each other these things."

You shimmy your wrist out of the sleeve. You'd almost forgotten about the bracelet. Your eyes trail down from the burnt ends of your fingers, where the skin is red and bubbled with blisters, to the matching beads.

"You're right. I'm sorry," you tell her. A tinge of guilt finds you. You realize what is truly bothering her: if you had died and not returned, Blue wouldn't have gotten a goodbye from you. She wouldn't have been able to mentally prepare.

She grabs your hand and, with a soft sigh, gently inspects the burn. 

"Someone hurt you."

For a moment, you close your eyes. Your stomach twists. Cold fingers. A hungry gaze. Your exposed skin.

You reopen them and speak low. "No. I hurt them."

There's an exhale that puffs from her nose, and a small smile, before she lets go over your hand and stares back at the fire.

"You know, sometimes I secretly hope we will run into other people," she says, voice drifting in thought. "—just because I never get to meet any. We haven't met a lot, and the ones we have met, my dad always kills. Except you."

"He kills them for a reason. To protect you. A lot of people are..." Fatigued, you struggle for the best word. Desperate? Selfish? Violent?

Before you can pick one, Blue says, "I know." She glances at the wound on her leg. Back in her jeans, which Ghost must have washed in the river, the bandage is hidden under the fabric. "I've never killed a person before," she adds, so quietly that you almost don't hear her. "Ghost says it's just like killing an animal or a Grey. How... how many have you killed?"

"I don't know anymore," you admit. Your eyes feel heavy, and you tuck your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them with a weighted sigh. "Not that many. It doesn't feel like killing anything else. But... it's necessary sometimes."

"I wish it wasn't."

"Me, too."

[tarabyte3]

I've been thinking a lot about the recent episode of The Acolyte and I have some ✨thoughts✨

(The Acolyte Episode 5 spoilers!!!)

I think the narrative is intentionally making us, the audience, doubt the Jedi and paint them as possibly being the bad guys specifically because now Mae is the one that's going to hear Sol's story. We were encouraged to doubt him and believe he's going to confess something awful about that night to Osha, but instead, I think what he reveals is going to make Mae (and us!) have a change of heart in some way and realize we were wrong. I doubly believe that will be the case because the one casting the most doubt on the Jedi is Qimir, the villain that's also been manipulating and using Mae's anger.***

Because how do you kill a Jedi without a weapon? Easy, you manipulate them, too. You make them paranoid and afraid. You make them doubt themselves and each other. You hurt them in every way that matters. Then you step away and let them destroy themselves. That's a basic Sith tactic, and I think that's exactly what Qimir is trying to do with Sol. Either Sol eventually gives in to the anger and hatred he felt and falls (I highly doubt it) or Qimir wants to get Mae or Osha to turn on/kill him (maybe now he wants to try and make Osha his acolyte instead. Emphasis on try). We've already seen Sol is unwilling to activate his lightsaber when facing Mae because he doesn't want to hurt her (that entire confrontation in the streets), and Sol would probably choose death rather than ever use it on Osha. The girl he connected with and saved and keeps a hologram of and smiles at and loves.

Something terrible obviously happened that night, but I don't believe for a second it was the Jedi's fault. However, it was terrible enough to scar Torbin and make him take the Barash Vow, to make Sol cry, and to make Kelnacca retreat to the woods and hide. Perhaps they all feel guilt for what they couldn't do. Perhaps they blame themselves, which looks like actual guilt from the outside.

But hey, I'm prepared to be wrong and say so, I just don't think it would be very good *Star Wars* storytelling if I am. For 2 reasons:

1) It wouldn't make sense in the existing story. We've seen that Indara, Torbin, and Sol are compassionate, kind people. We saw how soft Kelnacca was with little Osha. Sol radiates warmth, he believed Osha, and he wants to save Mae even after everything she's done. Indara died to protect someone else. For as impersonal and professional as she was when talking to the Coven, I don't think someone that would make themselves vulnerable in a life or death situation to save even one person would be willing to kill an entire community of people unless it was absolutely, completely necessary. I don't think self-defense would even necessarily qualify, I think the Jedi would do everything they could to retreat first. The one caveat I can think of is if someone attacked Torbin. Then I could possibly see Indara as a Master protecting her Padawan, something Masters would give their own lives to do (as we see repeatedly during Order 66), and the situation escalated. (Could be why Torbin is injured and blames himself?)

2) The point of the story in Star Wars has always been that the Jedi are the good guys. They hold up the ideals of goodness and peace, and even though, individually, they sometimes stumble and fall short of it because they're still flawed, mortal beings, they always try to reach for the light. ("Jedi cannot help what they are. Their compassion leaves a trail. The Jedi code is like an itch.") If a group of them has done something unspeakable, unforgivable, and then covered it up (or worse, the Order covered it up), how do we ever trust the Jedi as the good guys again? It goes against everything they believe in. It goes against the story George Lucas created (or has ever said about how Jedi and the Force work). If this is the story being told, it will be a very bad Star Wars story, and I have to hope that's not the case.

***((Side note: The guy that just killed 6 Jedi and a Padawan did not make a good point with "You brought her here." Sol brought Jecki there, with many other Jedi, as her Master to teach her more about how to resolve conflict thinking they were only confronting Mae. And even then, Sol didn't make Qimir confront the Jedi and kill Jecki. Jecki's death is entirely Qimir's fault since he's the one that killed her. Also for a Sith to have "freedom" to be themselves is to allow them to do evil things through the Dark Side, which is ALWAYS evil. Full stop. The Dark Side twists and corrupts. That's how the Dark Side works. Qimir isn't some guy being oppressed because the Jedi are power hungry and unwilling to share the Force. Fascists shouldn't be allowed the freedom to be fascists.))

[meanbossart]

Sorry if you answered this, I did go through your asks a bit but didn't find an answer and I was just curious if you have any lore regarding the drow and Orin? Does he have, like, any thoughts regarding her as a pseudo-sister or she is just a henchmen that stabbed him in the back? Or like, regarding the fact it was her betrayal that got him out from the cult and eventually meeting Astarion and the gang? I feel a lot of people sanitize the Durge a little too much (which fair reaction, they are very fucked up in the game 😂) so I love hearing about people who have their durge lean on their violent weirdness

Huh! I guess it's been a minute since we've talked about Orin. Yes, their relationship was very significant and you should be able to find all that I've written and drawn with/about her here (save for anything I forgot to tag, which happens sometimes, lol.)

Also as a side note to everyone, please abstain from making comments about how other people choose to write their Durges (and Astarion for that matter) in my askbox, it is rarely (If ever) necessary.

Anyways, I guess this is a good opportunity to try and put it all down cohesively, so here we go:

DU drow came into the Bhaal temple at ages 17-19, he had lived a profoundly isolated life up until that point where his only constant companion would have been the lackey Sceleritas and, for a time, a horse. He had no friends, no companions, and killed the one woman he lost his virginity to the day after he met her. Sarevok and the rest of the Bhaalists taking him might have been a mockery of a family unit, but it was the closest he ever had to it nonetheless - and by far the one person in it that he felt the closest to was Orin, who was close to him in age and in that moment in time occupied a similar place in the temple's hierarchy as himself.

It's important to note here that when I say they were close, I'm talking about a closeness befitting of Bhaalspawn. They didn't share any good times; they had bad times together. And they enjoyed it to the extent that two profoundly dysfunctional young adults groomed to become murderous deities can. There was no tenderness here, feeling was expressed through violence and vulnerability wasn't only discouraged, it straight up wasn't practiced or even conceptualized in either of their heads. They killed together, mocked one-another, and hurt each other on the regular, and it's through those actions that they saw each other.

And yet, DU drow felt a burning limerence towards her from the moment he laid eyes on Orin, and this feeling never faltered, only grew. Orin cut off his matted hair in a careless, uneven slice of a blade, she pulled out his rotting molars with rusty pliers, she mocked his stink and resented his arrival (dare I say she was afraid, because she knew what it meant) but they had much more in common than they had in difference. This was a silent understanding, a screaming fact of life that led to them often gravitating towards each other in both packed and empty rooms, but never once discussed aloud.

I have no doubt that what would eventually become this Rabid, burning crush and later obsession of the drow's towards Orin is a result of their continous Isolation. The rest of the world was beneath them and temporary, and above was only Sarevok and Bhaal. Because of this, DU drow never once thought or desired to search for companionship and love anywhere besides for her, and so he started to see her not only as the vague concept of a sister, but also as his only option for a mate and wife, one which he embraced wholeheartedly (and that's putting it lightly).

Orin, on the other hand, had no such desires. Not to mention that her fear of being replaced and the implied consequences of it always spoke louder than any genuine feelings of comradery.

As DU drow ascended in the ranks and became head of the cult, those fears solidified in several ways. Not only did Sarevok favor him and she could feel herself being pushed aside, but DU drow's ego grew tenfold. What was once a quiet young man who saw himself as an equal to her became a self-righteous bhaalspawn who lavished in his role and all the boons that came with it. DU drow took everything he had acquired for granted, including her, whom he assumed would eventually succumb and become his romantic partner.

It didn't help that Sarevok subtly encouraged this partnership, thinking that through their children they could continue to produce bhaalspawn of a purer and more efficient pedigree.

Ironically, DU drow's disillusions went so far that he never once in his life thought Orin would turn against him, and as much of an egomaniac as he became, his love for her was always genuine - misguided, but genuine, and he never once wished for her death until she betrayed him. Realizing this, as well as that Bhaal would only accept one chosen, she struck, putting the tadpole in his head and sending him off to Kressa.

[letsatomicbanana]

Have any headcanons about my boy Ink sans??

Oh boy, i sure do!

It's yapping time!!! but it's bellow the 'read more'

(spoilers: It's long as hell)

-First of all, Ink can not stand normal texturized clothing and textures (like cotton, fur, silk etc...) which is the reason to why their clothes are always created by him and is used a more paint-like 'esque' to it. (which is canon).

- Case in point, he suffers from 'unable to have normal fashion tastes' disease. He's the type of motherfucker to wear baggy pants under a dress, sandles with socks on, a crop top over a long sleeved shirt etc... They does not care nor follows society's fashion sense/brands, he only gives a damn if the clothes are comfortable or not lmao.

- Genderqueer, no explanation for that one (c'mon, just look at them) also AroAce but that's already canon.

- He definetly has a whole collection of autographs of random sanses that he managed to get. (The obvious one is fell sans but he prob forgot to who the other's belongs to).

- Besides from being able to speak french, they can also speak fluent mandarin and japanese!

- Has a whole collection of random objects he found while travelling AU's. It's not anything particulary useful or collectible (like toys etc..) more so 'things he found interesting' (like that one chesse from the ruins)

- Since he has a canon hyperfixation on Underfell, i like to image that he defends the AU with his whole tiny body, empty mind and non-existent soul (he can't STAND uf slander, it makes his blood boil lmao). Also, they treats fell sans like you would treat your favourite fictional babygirl male character as.

- Definetly engaged in the consumption of illicit drugs at some point in his life, you cannot tell me that this curious asshole never had any interest in drugs, even if it's just recreational consumption. Very open to any options, but they has a thing for marijuana, alcohol, and nicotine (it makes him ADHD go bonkers).

- Now that i've mentioned it. He has ADHD-C (combined type), probably got diagnosed because he saw a random 'Does your child have ADHD' pamphlets hanging around in the wall of some random AU they visited, which made him to be deeply curious (he thought they didn't had it) and eventually diagnosed with it. Note! He's currently unmedicated (i think he would have a problematic history with medications, if i'm going to be honest). (him having adhd is kindaaaa canon??? semi-canon at least)

- Also has undiagnosed Autism and ASPD (sociopathy) in which he has no idea that he has lmao (i made a whole post about this too). Note but i'm killing anyone who says that Ink is evil due to being 'sociopatic'.

- Doesn't engaje in social gatherings of any kind unless extremly necessary, he's energetic but an introvert at heart (this is canon btw).

- Has a better conection to inanimate objects than people, oh! and he's also Objectum!

- They're an ISTP! Which stands for 'Introvert', 'Observant', 'Thinking' and 'Prospective'.

- A lot of times deeply wonders to his apparent lack of family and AU, he won't admit but he's feels a sense of envy for other sanses that have brothers. They also often wanders through the vast multiverse looking for his original family/AU, but he can never find it :(

- Extremly sensitivite to any topics of discussion/conversation that relates to his soullessness, he also cannot stand being called 'emotionless' or a 'tragedy' because of his condition. Has a tendency in de'humanizing' himself over his lack of soul.

- Since he has a very hard time understanding social interaction, they often uses their interest in art as a way to form attachments with people, like painting them outfits or portraits (insert the 'Im bad at people, but i am good at tech' entrapta quote). Art is his special interest!

- He's a very dedicated brony and their favourite pony is Derpy Hooves/ Ditzy Doo!! She's literally him, for real! If he was part of the fandom at it's peak popularity in 2012-2014, they would prob be those famous fandom artist/musicians!

- Reast in piece Ink sans you would've loved Dungeons and Dragons. (/ref)

- Besides from their obvious interest in drawing/painting, he also has a deep interest in music! He canonically can play the flute but he also enjoys playing the trumpet, the piccolo and the clarinet!

- They're generally extremly under-responsive or otherwise sensory seeking to any kind of sensory stimuli. He's also a very oral artistic and often chew/bites on stuff for stimulation. Can often fall into Nonsuicidal self-injury style of stimming such as picking or pulling,when overwhelmed/underwhelmed.

- Another headcanon that he has PICA, where he often eats/craves for things that are not food, like crayons (canon).

[crossdressingdeath]

I actually really like that it's Will who chases Amphithemis away, and Nico who gets upset because he thinks they could've helped him. As one of Camp Half-Blood's best medics in one war and head medic in a second, Will would be familiar with the concept of triage and accepting that there are some people you can't save; Nico is quick to defend his loved ones and never hesitates to kill if it comes down to it, but he doesn't have the same experience with acting as a medic during a war and having to come to terms with the fact that you can't heal everyone. It actually makes a lot of sense that it would be Will who says "No, there's nothing we can do about this, we have to focus on Bob because we can save him and we can't waste time when we don't know how much we have" and Nico who tries to insist on helping Amphithemis despite having zero idea of how to do that, because that fits with how the two of them view the concept of helping people in a situation with no enemy to fight directly.

I also really love it because so much of the fanon for these two is that Nico is always the ruthless one and Will is always the sweet sunshine "gotta save everyone" one, and that... doesn't actually fit them at all. I mean, Will served as a medic in two wars that both had casualties; it tears him apart that he can't save everyone (Will thinking that every person he's failed to save is a death he caused breaks my heart), but he would've had to learn very fast that if you waste time on people you can't save that could easily mean dooming people you can. Nico can be ruthless, the lesson the wars taught him was that he had to be prepared to kill his enemies if he wanted to save his friends, but Will learned that he couldn't save all his friends and there would be times when he'd have to choose to let go of one he couldn't save in order to save another he could. I feel like in some ways these two are probably two of the most pragmatic and ruthless characters in the series, because both of them learned in different ways that sometimes you have to kill people or let them die, which is a lesson that for the most part none of the others ever really have to take on; even with Luke it's ultimately his choice, not Percy and Annabeth's, and otherwise the cast mostly just kill monsters and the occasional resurrected human who they tend to view as basically like monsters since they should be dead anyway. In the case of Amphithemis it falls under the "sometimes you have to let people die to focus on the ones you can save" lesson that Will learned rather than the "sometimes you have to kill people to protect your loved ones" lesson that Nico learned, so it makes a lot of sense that it's Will who chases Amphithemis off so they can continue their quest and Nico who gets upset because they could've stayed with him and tried to help, just like how it makes sense that it's Nico who ultimately makes the choice to let Octavian yeet himself and Will who's against it (and much like Will feeling intense guilt every time he fails to save someone even when he knows there was nothing he could do, Nico is still dwelling on his choice with Octavian over a year later despite knowing it had to be done). Nico's a fighter and Will's a healer; that doesn't mean Nico can never be idealistic in his desire to save people or that Will can never decide that a death is necessary, it just means they're coming at the question of when people should be helped, killed, or left on their own from different angles. The way Nico and Will complement each other was really fantastically done in a lot of ways.