#3/3 for fatalities (technically)

[breezysuffers]

guys what if the people who crashed into sunshine, sam, and gabe were the same bitch

[theallstore]

hello hello hello!! my @mcytblrholidayexchange gift for @cohnal !

words are from maize stalk drinking blood by the mountain goats + i have no idea if tumblr will keep the resolution or not so if it doesn’t this should be high res -> https://postimg.cc/wysKZc5j

[janedoez]

PIETRO SAID :     you’ve tried everything,   haven’t you?       [ ACCEPTING. ]     /       @rapinatore

         ❝    —   oh ye of little fuckin' faith.        bet  you'd  like  t'  think  i've  used  every  trick  up  my  sleeve,    huh  ?         less  competition  for  ya,   ❞            a  dramatic  roll  of  her  eyes  rids  them  of  the  annoyance  they  possessed  when  looking  pietro's  way.        calamity  refocuses  on  their  shared  target  sitting  across  the  club   . . .   the  charge  she's  determined  to  nab  first.       it's more so for bragging rights than anything else.        her  wallet  is  already  stacked  fat  from  a  week  of  dancing  for  a  series  of  severely  neglected  soon  -  to  -  be  divorcees.         no,   this  is  something  she  can  lord  over  his  head  when  he  underestimates  her  like  this.        (  god,   men  are  so  fuckin'  dense !  )        fortunately,   though,   that  means  if  she  can  seduce  this    MR.  MONOPOLY    guy  they're  eyein'  up   . . .   he'll  be  robbed  blind  as  a  bat  in  no  time.    

       a  smirk  so  sharp  it  could  break  skin  edges  its  way  onto  her  face  when  she  spots  an  opening.      from  there,    she  stands,    eyeing  pietro  in  the  process  as  she  drops  her  coat  to  her  forearms     (  bare  shoulders.      an  instant  classic  !  )     and  tosses  her  curls.       ❝    think  we  can  both  agree  i  got  a  lot  goin'  for  me  that  you   don't,   mmm  ?   ❞       she  laughs,    a  hand  strategically  posed  by  her  chest.       ❝    don't  worry,   sweets.      i'll  put  on  a  good  show  so  y'  don't    get bored    over  here.    ❞    

[holydramon]

me wanting to talk about events and deaths and stuff in my fatal exception error au vs the part of me who still somehow holds the belief I may actually write it one day and I don’t want to spoil it

[earl-grey-crow]

ahhhhhhhh

[fierykitten2]

One of the meds (the email summary didn’t give any more information and I can’t find the part where it says that in the email itself) I ordered is out of stock so the pharmacy has delayed my entire order and gradually pushed back the estimated dispatch date so it’s now after the day I’m gonna run out of the most essential of the three meds I ordered because fuck the disabled amirite (joke)?

I don’t like relying on emergency prescriptions because I’m always worried they’re gonna be like “hey, hey, hey, you seem to be ordering a lot of meds. What are you, a drug dealer? lol idc if your life depends on these meds, you don’t mind dying do you (not joking lol)?”

[invidiatechdemo]

realizing this /is/ my own blog so. kh fancharacter blast.

[ralfmaximus]

on the way home, the Tesla Model 3 barreled into a tree and exploded in flames, killing von Ohain, a Tesla employee and devoted fan of CEO Elon Musk. Rossiter, who survived the crash, told emergency responders that von Ohain was using an “auto-drive feature on the Tesla” that “just ran straight off the road,” according to a 911 dispatch recording obtained by The Washington Post. In a recent interview, Rossiter said he believes that von Ohain was using Full Self-Driving, which — if true — would make his death the first known fatality involving Tesla’s most advanced driver-assistance technology.

Finally, they have a witness. A survivor of an Autopilot mishap who can testify that the driver was using Full Self Driving mode at the time of the crash.

See, this has been impossible thus far because (1) survivors are rare, and (2) Teslas are programmed to automatically disengage Self-Driving milliseconds before the crash so that when investigators review the telemetry it clearly shows FSD wasn't turned on.

And due to this technicality, Musk has been able to claim Autopilot has never killed anybody. Until now.

[ot3]

top 10 pokemon that are girls

'gender'.... much like 'animals' this is a concept from our world that has made itself present in the pokemon franchise. all pokemon began having genders (except for the ones that don't) in the second generation of games, in order to facilitate the pokemon breeding mechanic which has become a staple of the main series

you may think this means the issue of which pokemon are girls and which ones aren't is already settled. but do we really trust game freak to be the deciding voices on this one? i certainly don't. so here's a nonexhaustive look at some pokemon that are doing their best to be role models for young women everywhere who have been picking up and enjoying these games for decades.

#10 - NIDORAN♀

Not only is Nidoran♀ canonically a girl, she is the first pokemon to be canonically a girl as the gender distinction between Nidoran types predates the introduction of gen 2's breeding system that gendered all pokemon. she broke the glass ceiling, and for this we salute her.

#9 - KANGASKHAN

Both culturally and in media single mothers are subject to a lot of scrutiny and scorn, but kangaskhan breaks the mold. powerful, responsible, yet loving and joy-filled. the look on her baby's face tells us all we need to know; she holds on tight to the pouch, clinging to the safety she knows her mother can give her, but gazes awestruck and wide-eyed at the world around her, knowing its wonders will be there waiting for her as soon as she feels ready for it.

#8 - CELESTEELA

Technically, celesteela's gender is 'unknown', but it's obvious that celesteela represents what life can look like for a woman who truly has it all. As one of the largest and heaviest pokemon ever discovered, she's not afraid to take up space. she doesn't feel the need to soften herself to be more accepted by the world around her, but she's also comfortable enough with her feminine side to let it shine through where and when she wants. nobody tells her how to live her life but her and also she has big lazers

#7 - MISMAGIUS

Well she's not called MISTER magius now, is she?

#6 - LYCANROC

Perfect embodiment of the wolfgirl you knew (or, perhaps were?) in middleschool. There are many doglike/canine pokemon in the dex, but something about lycanroc's exaggerated unkempt mane and lanky, awkward posture evokes the physicality of a teenager who exists as a beast beyond the boundaries of her own body.

#5 - CHIKORITA

This saultry little binch...

#4 - RAYQUAZA

It's an uncomfortable truth in life that many women find themselves in the position of needing to play the mediator in order to stop the people around them from acting in destructive or harmful ways. But just because mediating conflict can be a difficult and unfair position to be put into, that doesn't mean it's a bad thing. Rayquaza just goes to show us all everywhere how a real woman can still thrive under these circumstances, doing her best to build a more peaceful world while not letting that push her into the shadows or make her take a back seat in her own life. she is a community leader and an innovator.

#3 - SALAZZLE

She's the archetypal femme fatale. A dominatrix. A baddie. Does she make me uncomfortable? Yes, absolutely. But I'm not a furry so I'm not really the target audience of what's happening here.

#2 - SLAKING

I know so many butches who look exactly like her. you love to see it.

#1 - MEWTWO

as one feminist philosopher has said: "I see now that the circumstances of one's birth is irrelevant, it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are."

I think any woman living in a patriarchal society can sympathize with mewtwo's story. enraged at being treated like the property of the people who created her rather than her own fully realized person, she goes on a rampage where it quickly becomes obvious that she is even more powerful than that what she was originally created in the image of. Although this takes her down a dark path, she eventually learns to self-actualize by working on herself rather than pointlessly lashing out at people who had nothing to do with hurting her. it's empowering stuff. doubly empowering because she killed all those clowns who DID hurt her

now, of course, there are plenty more pokemon that are girls than just what i've listed here today. but i hope youve learned a little something from this.

[mouseoho]

i knew i shouldntve started watching q/ueendom puzzle im already annoyed

[ask-the-no-killing-game-au]

People who are casually following this au, please read the tags - this is almost exactly right !! I can't even think of any problems here that are important enough to explain why they're wrong, it's practically perfect

Now, keep in mind you can do anything with asks. If you want a character to do something, say it. This au is based not just on my actions but on the audience's too.

How does everyone feel about their decision to spend the rest of their life here? Can they change their mind and leave if they want to?

They can't change their mind - after applying, they can't leave until they die. There's no way to get out.

On the topic of opinions:

Ace: "Of course I regret it." (He doesn't.)

Arturo: "I think being here is for the better." (Likes the distraction from his past)

Arei: "I don't want to assume incase it goes bad." (??)

???: "I'm grateful for the experience." (They've found things out about their identity that they could never have done without it.)

David: "I don't know." (Doesn't like to percieve what's happening.)

Eden: "I like it! I regret nothing." (She's a bit unsure, but seems happy.)

Hu: "I think that this is the best place for me."

J: "Not having the attention is nice.. I don't regret it."

Levi: "I don't have an opinion."

Min: "...It's nice."

Nico: "...." (Doesn't regret it.)

Rose: "Being able to draw my own art.. this is good, I think."

Teruko: "I don't think I can say." (She's happy.)

Veronika: "I admit it, I don't like it. I'll do anything to leave." (She's going to get out, no matter what she has to do.)

Whit: "I didn't really have a choice, but it's alright!!"

Xander: "This is an improvement."

Theory people, if you read this far. This post is important. What happens next essentially relies on whether people figure out what's going to happen, and the asks you send based on it. You can use asks to get the characters to do things, not just answer questions.

This image is the biggest clue yet. Focus on everything, but especially the placement of the objects, who they represent, and compare it to the relationship diagram.. someone's relying on it. The wording of a certain person in this post is also important..

[kedreeva]

Today in measuring your peahen, Bug is casually 2 foot, 3 inches tall (she can stretch a little taller when she REALLY wants a treat). This is just tall enough to see over a tray table and pull things off of nightstands and end cabinets.

Bug is also a little over 3 feet long from tail tip to beak tip. Most of Bug is made up of tail and neck. There is a 6lb dead weight in the middle somewhere that she knows how to directly place onto the ball of one foot while standing on you.

Bug's wingspan is around 3.5 feet, thought I didn't get a measurement. It will be over 4 feet as an adult.

Bug is growing in her spurs. As a Spalding (hybrid) hen, Bug will likely have one inch bone knives conveniently attached to her tarsometatarsus. This is technically fused foot bones, not a leg bone. Curiously, pure Pavo cristatus hens have spurs, and pure Pavo muticus hens have spurs, but many domestic Pavo cristatus and low-percent Spalding hens lack them. This is one of the indications of domestication in the cristatus species. As I prefer the wild type, I prefer my hens spurred, so this is a good sign!

Bug's toes measure a smidge over 5 inches from the tip of her rear-facing to to the tip of her longest front facing toe. Try measuring that on your hand.

Bug's nails measure 1/2-3/4 an inch long, depending on the toe. That's almost as long as one finger section for most people.

When I had snakes, I got asked all the time if I was afraid of them biting me. The answer is no. I have been bitten by a 6 foot long, 20lb boa constrictor, and have no scars to prove it. Meanwhile I have so many scars from peafowl sitting on me, particularly on my forearms, that I have had to reassure people I am not a danger to myself.

I post these photos as a reference, but also as a precaution. This is a BABY peafowl, and a female at that. She is only 6 months old and weighs a little over 6lbs, which means she's about 2/3 of the way grown, and adult hens are typically 3/4 the size of an adult male. These are BIG birds that can do a LOT of damage, even accidentally. When they become aggressive, as in the case of hand-raised males or poorly bred birds, they become a potentially fatal threat to any other fowl you have. Unlike chickens, they are more than capable of (and prone to!) jumping to human face level before they flog (kick with their feet in a way that allows their spurs to hit home), which means they could easily take out an eye or cause other serious facial injury if they get a lucky strike. I have seen more than a few people end up with stitches, and more than a few birds end up euthanized because people think they are gonna be cute cuddly friends.

I know that Bug is a cute bird, but I also want to stress that a) she has an outstanding personality as a result of breeding choices and socialization b) she hasn't hit maturity, and won't do so for another 2+ years, so her personality could change considerably still and c) I have been raising peafowl one way or another for my entire adult life, which has been structured around keeping them. I love my birds, and I would love for more people to keep peafowl as they are great animals, but they are not casual animals. They are large and potentially dangerous farm fowl that take a lot of space, care, and knowledge to keep.

[mllemaenad]

Dragon Age Origins: We are all, in some sense, outcast from society. It may only technically be two of our number's job to save the world, but frankly, none of us have anywhere else to go - and definitely nothing better to do.

Mass Effect: We emerge from complex histories. We are separated by prejudices and old injustices, and how any of us are figuring out to fly this half-human-half-turian monstrosity of a ship is anybody's guess. But as the world hurtles toward an apocalypse, we may find the strength - not just to beat the Reapers, but right some of history's wrongs as well.

Baldur’s Gate 3: Okay. Seriously. Does anybody here not have a probably fatal to themselves and possibly to everybody around them pre-existing condition that has nothing to do with the current tadpole crisis? Anybody? No wonder no one's too fussed about the mindflayers, we're all going to die of previous poor life choices before that even becomes an issue.

[love-that-we-were-in]

Let All Your Damage Damage Me

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader Summary: There's something to be said for patching up Camp Half-Blood, especially when you end up seeing more of Luke Castellan than you thought you ever would. Or 3 times Luke starts a fight and 1 time he doesn't. Word Count: 4.6k Warnings: smoking, mentions of low-grade drugs and underage drinking, implied sexual content and more teenage dirtbag luke because @initialchains was kind enough to let me steal him for evil!

a/n: this is the most brainrot i've ever brainrotted and again, all credit for this version of luke to noli. enjoy!!!

There’s this weight that carries the name Luke Castellan across Camp Half-Blood. Once, it was a new camper - years on the run with a young daughter of Athena and a fatality at the borders that drew interest. In the time since, it’s become something different, reshaped and frayed. A promising young demigod lingering on the outskirts where possible, creating his own tethers to the mortal world like it’ll detach itself from him if he doesn’t. 

It confuses new campers at first, the dichotomy between how Luke is spoken of and who he is. The best swordsman in almost three centuries, a once favorite son of Hermes. To look at him then, take in his scuffed shoes and the cigarette tucked behind his ear - it makes them wonder what it took for him to fall so far out of alignment. 

No one ever asks. 

1.

The conch sounds from your left and the rest of your campmates spread out across the land with a battle cry. You know how this evening goes, too many of them spent alone in the quiet of the med-bay. There’s three of you as it stands, all waiting for someone to show up with a cut to tend to as the game gets underway. Will stands outside, eyes wandering over the edges of the forest as if he can see through the trees to what’s happening within them. It’s his first summer, the thrill of camp yet to be lost on him, and you’re glad he can find excitement in being on the sidelines. Lee has already tucked himself into a corner, technically a part of the medical team but mostly waiting to tag into the game. A back-up player. 

You know that within the hour, you’ll likely lose both of them to the game. It’s not something you mind, dealing with the minor injuries alone. There’s an element of peace to it, tending to everyone else’s wounds and sending them on their way. It’s what you’re best at, a healed knife wound last year the reason you were claimed. Still, it makes capture the flag last for eons - every hint of action happening further than you can see, often too far away for you to even register until someone pushes their way through your door in need of help.

So you settle in, let the peace of the evening wash over you. When one of the younger Demeter kids rushes into the room, you observe Will treating the deep cut on her arm. Disinfectant, gauze, a small bandage. When he’s done, he looks at you and you’re all too familiar with it. The longing to be part of the action. At your nod, he takes off, hot on the heels of the young girl and into the thick of battle. 

Eventually one of Clarisse’s siblings bursts into the room, fire in his eyes and you can hardly blink before Lee is standing to attention. It’s the way of the game and you wave him off lightly, lowering yourself back into a chair and letting your head fall against the cool surface of the wall. 

Another hour. 

If you had to guess, you would say there’s less violence on the field today. It’s Annabeth’s first time leading a team, you know that, and you’re aware of the way her mind works - lower injuries, higher soldiers. There’s little doubt that she’s ran the numbers, with backup plans for her backup plans to find and steal the flag. You know you should be rooting against her, Apollo partnered with Ares this time around, but you want this victory for her. 

There’s a flurry of movement from outside moments later, a groan followed by a muttered “I’m fine, Annabeth” before the girl is in front of you, frown pulling across her features. 

Beside her, or rather resting his weight on her, is Luke Castellan, eyebrows scrunched together and arms covered in thin cuts. 

You don’t really have much of an opinion on Luke if you’re being honest. You know the basics - a crash course given to you by Silena when you arrived at camp, actual information littered between rumors. Son of Hermes, incredible swordsman. Snuck out of camp two years ago to get a tattoo because he was drunk. Bribed Katie to start growing weed in one of the rarely used greenhouses.

Now, faced with him in a bloodied camp t-shirt and lacking his usual cigarette, you sort of want to know what’s true. 

“What happened to him?” There should be more urgency to your actions, you know, but you help Annabeth guide him into one of the beds at the side of the room slowly. 

“He decided to pick a fight with a bunch of kids near the lake,” Annabeth says, rolling her eyes. Even as she does, there’s this adoration that seeps out of her, the same one you’ve always known her to carry where Luke is concerned. “Three on one.”

Luke groans as you shift his position, glaring at the girl in front of him. “They deserved it. The shit they were saying.” 

Part of you wants to ask, desperately. Annabeth chuckles, nudging his shoulder and says, “Yeah, I know. I already thanked you so stop fishing for compliments.” 

He laughs lowly and you almost forget that there’s a real reason Annabeth would’ve brought him here. You’ve only seen Luke in this room once, late last winter, so it’s odd that he’d be here now. He tilts his chin at her, and then at the door. “Go win that flag.”

She starts to protest, talking about having faith in her team and how making sure he’s safe is more important. Still, she glances towards the door. 

“He’s in good hands with me, Annabeth,” You say when she stops to breathe for a moment. She bites her lip. “I promise.”

“She promises,” Luke repeats from behind you and apparently, that’s all Annabeth needed. With a final glance between you, she retreats, working her way back into the game. “Just me and you now, Angel.” 

There’s some sort of shift with Annabeth’s absence, thicker in the air and not completely unwelcome. Maybe it’s the nickname, too familiar for people having their second conversation, but there’s this way Luke says it, no intention twisting around the letters but settling warmly into your system anyway. You ignore it. “Where are you hurt, Castellan?” 

He grimaces and it’s the first time you notice his hand clasped at his side. It drops and you take in the darker color of his camp t-shirt there, the way it sticks to the area damp with blood and probably a lot of sweat. 

“Holy shit.” 

“It’s not that bad,” he jokes and you raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

You shake your head. “Come on then, let’s see it.” 

It’s something you don’t do often, this informality with a patient. Bedside manner means something in healing but right now, you can’t think of the right way to channel it. To be gentle with Luke would feel awkward, restrictive almost, and to be too formal would just be rude at this point. What you’re doing now seems to work, if the way he grins is any indication, and you excuse yourself to the supply cabinet as he does as requested.

When you turn back around, Luke has his shirt off, legs still hanging off the side of the bed. You almost want to tell him to lay down, for your own peace of mind. Make it so you can simply treat the wound without having to look at him properly. Because Luke is…

Luke is really fucking pretty. 

You’ve known he was attractive - everyone knew that. It wasn’t something openly spoken about, not with how he exists on the outskirts of camp most of the time, but it was mutually understood. For all his faults, Luke was incredibly attractive. 

Now, though, even with blood covering half of his torso, he’s really fucking pretty. 

“I’m just going to clean it first,” you say when you reach him and it comes out quieter than you intended. You stand in front of him and his head tilts back slightly to look at your face properly. “Do you mind if you just- I need to get a little closer to look at it.”

You expect him to turn to the side, let the wound face you a bit better. Instead, the space between Luke’s legs widens enough for you to take a step closer, almost like a challenge, and you take it anyway. 

You work on instinct, wiping the blood away, pressing gentle fingertips into the skin. Habits formed over months, usually steady hands shaking just slightly as you wipe the cloth against Luke’s torso, his even breaths hitting the side of your neck at this angle. 

It’s not as deep as you expected, the skin still open, completely raw but not as ugly as it could be. As what you expected it to be. Gently, you press the gauze to it, lifting your head to be met with Luke’s eyes. They’re brown. They’re brown and completely relaxed and you kind of really want to find out how wide they could get in the right situation. 

“I told you it wasn’t that bad,” Luke says and you feel it more than you hear it. It shoots through your veins and you distantly remember Silena telling you that she once caught him with a line of coke. They rattle together before falling silent and you can hear your own breathing again. Luke’s too, slower than yours but close enough that you can count the length of each one. 

“You still should’ve come to me when you got injured.” 

“I’ll remember that next time.” It drifts across your cheeks, warming the skin there and you look back down at your hand pressed against Luke’s side. Pulling the gauze away, you quickly replace it with a clean square, sticking it in place carefully.

You run a finger across the edges before muttering, “All done.” 

There’s a right thing to do. Take a step back, give Luke the privacy to redress and send him on his way with instructions for looking after the dressing. That’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s what your brain is screaming at you to do, actually, but Luke’s skin is still so warm under your palm and each breath makes you more aware of the dip in his collarbones and you can’t think of a single good reason to move away.

When his lips part, you think he’s going to give you one. Instead, he whispers, “Tell me no,” and it just makes more sense to meet him halfway than say yes. 

Turns out, Luke Castellan is a really good kisser. It matches him, the blase way he leans into the action, tilts his head and adjusts the pressure to match whatever you do. Distantly, you remember to move your hand, dropping it from the gauze and resting it on his thigh instead and there’s this noise Luke makes in the back of his throat as you do so that makes you want to do it again.

He breaks off in the end, drawing in deep breaths. To see him disheveled isn’t entirely new, not with the lack of care he puts into maintaining his camp uniform, but to see him like this - dark curls run through, cheeks flushed red and lips swollen - is something else entirely. Without thinking too hard, you dip your head and place a kiss to the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He shivers and you take it as an invitation, pressing another to his shoulder and then one to his right collarbone. 

His loose grip on your hip tightens and you wonder how far you could take this before you would have to stop. Based on the low curse Luke lets out when you repeat the motions on the other side of his neck, it’ll probably take until another camper comes to find you. 

Dragging your gaze down Luke’s frame, you come to the reasonable conclusion that it’s a risk you’re just going to have to take. 

2.

You expect it to happen sooner, staring at the door each evening willing it to open. A week of counting the hours, locking the med bay every night and still no sign of Luke. He’s back from his quest - Will had rushed in with the news when he’d crossed the border back into camp - but you’re yet to see him at all. Silena tried to tell you about his quest, about his failure really, and you’d shut her down before she could give you anything more than that he’d been badly injured. 

Lee had been on duty the day he’d returned. Written the notes and left them filed away. 

Deep scarring on the face. Nectar and ambrosia required on arrival. Patient refused monitoring. 

He doesn’t offer any further insight when he catches you reading over them the next morning, just shrugs like he expected Luke to refuse his help. Like he’s surprised the other boy even showed up for treatment at all. It’s moments like that, where there’s this judgement surrounding Luke’s mere existence, that remind you of the weeks before his quest. The five hectic weeks of bruised knuckles and how soft they could be against your skin. Of how nice cigarette smoke could be coming from Luke’s lips instead of just lingering in the air. 

So it catches you off guard when the knock sounds on your door, the same familiar quick raps of knuckles on the wood that you grew accustomed to hearing late into the night. He’s there, when you pry the door open, and he’s nothing like you expected. 

He’s still Luke, from the ragged tee to staggered breathing, but there’s blood covering half of his face, dripping from the stretch of open skin running down his left cheek and a dip in his spine he never had before. 

“Do you want to berate me first or can I just come in?” 

Stepping out of the way, you gesture into the empty room. There’s a familiar routine to this now, despite the week without it, and Luke takes his usual path to the bed near the cabinets. It’s wrong, the way you attach yourself to the casualness of it, to the comfort of having him back in this space with you, instead of rushing to do your job. 

But it’s Luke, a little broken maybe, but still Luke. 

“Who’d you fight this time?” You ask as you dig through drawers for everything you might need. You tell yourself it’s to be prepared - you both know what it really is. “Don’t tell me the foxes are back.”

“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.” 

It’s a running joke, borne of concern the first time Luke showed up here after curfew with a cut on jaw and nose a little more crooked than before. Something to reassure you, to stop you shifting yourself into professional mode. A way of assuring you that there was no rush. 

“You didn’t have a healing scar before,” you mutter regardless, slotting yourself into the space between his legs like normal. There’s an overhead light and, from directly in front of him, you can make out the length of it, the shape of the raised skin. It’s still raw, a little puffy, but on the right track. “Or did you forget?” 

“It’s not exactly easy to ignore, is it?” He shrugs, sitting straighter. “Besides, Ares kids are never all that.”

Finally, you think, lifting your hand to touch the taut skin there, there’s the bitterness you’ve heard in his voice so many times before. It’s one of those things you’ve come to recognise in Luke’s tone, the cadence of it when he actually cares, pitching lower than usual, burying itself under nonchalance. 

He watches as your thumb swipes across his cheek, pulling back to observe the way it stains red. You’re used to seeing him a little damaged, easily put back together by your hand. This is something else, a reflection of how everyone else sees him - bloodied and broken and damn near unapproachable for fear of spilled blood - and you want to capture it in your brain for the future, maybe forever. 

“I’m starting to think you might like me,” Luke says, hands moving from where they sit on the bed to rest on your waist. Your eyes stay locked on the pad of your thumb, watching the blood begin to seep into your skin. A beat, the brush of his warm thumb against the skin on your waist, and then, “It doesn’t hurt that much.” 

It goes against so much of who you’ve always sworn to be, finding him so pretty in this moment. Taking in the red of his cheek, the way it stretches down his neck and drips onto his t-shirt. Short of taking a medical oath, you’ve promised yourself to heal. To mend. To treating the injured, regardless of your own feelings on the matter.

Of course it would only take Luke Castellan, dark eyes and tender hands, to challenge that. 

“Tell me if it does,” You whisper and he licks his lower lip as he nods, wiping away some of the blood staining it as he does. The end of his quiet “promise” catches itself between your lips, mingling with the metal on your tongue and making it sweeter than you could’ve ever anticipated. 

This part of Luke is all too familiar, the taste of him to the comfortable weight of yourself on him. You’d learnt on that first night what made him tick, what made its way through him and he would return to you tenfold. In the weeks since, you’ve studied them, picking them apart until there’s been nothing to do but follow them into freefall. 

Now, you use them to guide you. Those small hitches in his breathing, the clearing of his throat, the slip of his palm when you press your lips to the skin above his pulse on the left and let them stain the right to match. It’ll all fade when you come back to yourself, cleaning the wound and stitching him back up, but it’s there when you lean back to look at him again, the undeniable mark of you on Luke Castellan’s skin. 

“You’re really fucking pretty, you know that.”

Luke tilts his head, squinting a little to focus his gaze. It’s this thing he does whenever you get like this, observant and a tad shy, waiting for the ball to drop. You keep silent, arms still wrapped around his shoulders and knees digging into the mattress either side of his hips. It’ll pass, always. 

When it does, the air changes. Not quite the same heated urgency as before, less hazy and with Luke realising the inch he’s been given, taking the mile you’ve offered in the inbetween. He’s still broken, still stained despite your best efforts to remove it, and he settles a hand in the hair at the nape of your neck as you push closer to him. 

3.

Silena told you once that it only takes twenty-one days to form a habit. She was talking about finding cigarette ends scattered around the training centre, a sure sign of Luke’s presence there each day, and how his habits had become too ingrained in him after years for them to be broken. It wasn’t true, you’d known that much, but it stayed in the back of your mind with every new one you attempted to build - daily runs, the correct amount of sleep, offering help to someone you didn’t know too well at camp. None of them ever stuck, lasting a few days at most, but it strikes you again now, Luke pushing his way through your door.

Eight weeks. More than enough time to form an alleged habit. You think, observing the flex of his arm, the thin section of ink peeking out from under his camp tee when he does, that you’ve fallen into a habit with Luke Castellan. Possibly even the habit of Luke Castellan. 

It’s different this time, however. The lack of visible bruising on his own skin, for one. There’s hints of it, smatterings of black and purple stretching across his knuckles, the skin peeling slightly, but his face is unmarred save for his usual scar. You don’t often see Luke mean. Based on the clench of his fists, so tight you’re sure it must hurt, you’re not entirely sure you want to.

“Did you know that he was summoned?” He says through gritted teeth. Sometimes, you wonder if Luke knows how to start a conversation properly. It’s not something you’ve known him to do, never a hello or goodbye, just a topic spoken into the space around you both. Neverending. “Claimed while I was away getting my ass handed to me by a dragon and then summoned for a discussion with Hermes.” 

You understand, then, why his entire body is tense. A carefully curated reputation tumbling down around him after years. The fallen son of Hermes finally getting some comeuppance for his impudence. Being replaced, in spite of dedication given to people who couldn’t stand to be around him. It’s not the first time you’ve been upset for him, but it is the first time it’s made you ache for justice. 

“I heard he got back this morning.” 

Luke hums and you watch as his cheek hollows, knowing how his teeth are indenting on the skin inside. “Came to find me first thing. To tell me all about it.”

“He came to rub it in.”

“Good girl,” he smiles, the first since walking in, and the combination burns low in your gut. A habit takes twenty-one days to form and it took Luke seventeen to understand the effect those words had on you. “I swung for him before I even realised I was doing it.” 

You perch yourself on the edge of one of the beds, keeping careful track of his movements across the room. “This might be the first time you’ve come here and the other guy is actually going to look worse.” 

It does what you wanted it to, drags a chuckle out of him and releases the tension from his shoulders. “I bumped into Will on my way here. Sent him to patch him up and keep him far away from me.” 

“Are you telling me you planned to get me alone in the med bay, Castellan?”

His nose scrunches, stealing the last of his rage from the air and twisting it into something different. “You were already alone in the med bay. I just planned to take advantage of it.”

The change in dynamic isn’t lost on you, so unused to starting in these positions, but you let it linger for a moment anyway. Ground yourself in the knowledge that Luke knows you, knows your breathing and your movements and your heartbeat. It doesn’t take twenty-one days to build a habit, and you’re far from breaking this one.

“Tell me no,” Luke says and it echoes in a way it hasn’t before. Joins the dust in the air and settles in the sunlight from the high windows. You take a breath. He releases one. “Tell me yes.” 

It’s something you should think about more, letting him ingrain himself in your space the way you have been. Patching him up is one thing, borne from consideration and oath and demanded by a higher power than yourself. In the dark nights of camp, you can pretend the time you spend with him doesn’t count for much - that it barely exists if you want to. That’s how you’ve navigated it so far, pretending not to know the calluses on his hands during demonstrations, brushing it off when Silena points out how he’s been getting into more fights these past few months. 

You should leave Luke Castellan in the shadows, a boy mended in dim lighting and known through hushed conversations. 

But you know the taste of smoke from his lungs, the press of his lips on your skin. You know his blood and his sweat and his mumbled curses. You know more about him than anyone in this camp, maybe in this world, and you’re the only one who cares to trace it over again and again until you can recite him line by line. 

“Yes, Luke,” It comes out louder than intended, completely defined. “Please.” 

Whatever it is about it, the assuredness or the plea, it’s what he needs, crashing into you like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do. There’s an easy confidence to the way he touches you now, swallows the sounds you make to keep them for himself, keeps you half-hidden from the daylight peering in like it’ll protect you both. You bury yourself under his skin, nails and teeth and take parts of him with you when you let go. 

It’s risky, slightly too hurried for how important it feels, but it makes sense with each breath you share. Fits itself to the bitterness that frays your edges, hems them into something more palatable. Luke’s mumbles are half-formed against your skin and yours are incomplete in air and they stick together as something no one else could translate. 

You can’t define this, not with a theory or a diagnosis, but you think it could fall neatly into your notes as a categorised addiction. 

With Luke’s soft curls between your fingers, you kind of forget how to care.

+1

“You know, I could probably beat you in a fight.” 

Luke chuckles, flicking the ash from his cigarette to the ground behind your cabin. It’s a new thing, hiding yourselves away in new locations, and you’re sort of fascinated with the way he chooses where to go. No rhyme or reason. “You think?”

“I would bet so much money on it if we actually got paid here,” You nod, rocking back on your heels. He’s nicer like this, bathed in moonlight and at peace with his surroundings. It’s something you’ve become accustomed to, the casual dichotomy of Luke at night, unburdened by rumours. “I would bet your chain on it.” 

You’re not serious, he knows that - the silver necklace is one of the few things he actually treasures - but it’s funny to see his face lift in disbelief as you say it. He presses the end of his cigarette out under his shoe and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the smile threatening to come out. 

“You really think you could beat me in a fight?” 

You take a step back with each one he takes forward, only to find yourself pressed against your cabin seconds later. Luke’s smile changes, twists a little more into a smirk, and you let yourself relax into it. Instead of an answer, you hum lightly. His hands land either side of your head and you feel yourself smile before you remember to stop it. 

“Take it back,” he whispers and it drifts across your cheekbones. You drop your gaze to the peek of silver above his camp shirt, curling a finger underneath the metal so the charm dangling from it drops into full view. You glance back at him, his gaze dropping from your face to hand on his chest. “Please.” 

Wrapping your hand around the cool metal, you tug him the short distance between you and it feels like the better response when Luke smiles against your lips.

[mmelete]

Ranking LU Links based on their ability to tan:

Time: Ngl he seems like that one off-white crayon in those crayola boxes. He slept for seven years and lived in a fully shaded forest prior to the coma, this man tans like a rotisserie chicken in the oven. 3/10

Warriors: He can definitely tan. Beach boy vibes. And he'll brag about it too. Just don't bring up that one time he got a tanline from his scarf, that was embarrassing.... 7/10

Twilight: THE MOST HORRENDOUS FARMER'S TAN KNOWN TO MANKIND. Dude this guy never rolls up his sleeves, always in jeans and boots---his feet have never seen the light of day. 7/10

Sky: So, in-game and in LU, he's pretty pale. Which is ironic, since he LITERALLY LIVES. IN THE SKY. My man has been getting point-blank sun rays since 1 week old, he's never not tan. 8/10

Legend: Technically, he adventures a lot, especially outside, so you'd think he'd be decently tan. But I think it would be hilarious if he was just like Time. This little spunky guy gets annihilated by the sun daily, refuses to wear sunscreen, gets made fun of for looking like Pink Panther, gets burned again the next day (it's an endless cycle). 2/10

Hyrule: Has the best tan ever, zero sweat. He doesn't even realize how it happens. He'll be laying by the beach all day, wake up from a five-hour-long nap and glow. Picture perfect tan, zero effort, Warriors is jealous (but refuses to admit it). 10/10

Wind: He literally lives on an island, and despite how pale he is in-game, my man is rivaling Twilight with how ATROCIOUS his tan-lines are. Wind also absolutely has a disgusting sandal/flip-flop tanline. 6/10

Wild: My guy has run around naked way longer than he cares to admit. He's taking that secret to the grave. Full body tan, no notes needed. 9/10

Four: He is like a Discord mod but the blacksmith version. You know how Shadow burns in the sun or whatever? Four does too, and doesn't even have the excuse of being a shadow being. Sunscreen can't even help him. Getting burned by a furnace fire? Easy, no problem. Getting burned by the sun? Fatal blow, insta death game over. 1/10

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Happy Accidents | König x Reader

Day 22: Shelter w/ König

Summary: König has always had trouble feeling safe and secure, that was until he accidentally stumbled into your apartment late at night.

Word Count: 713

Warnings: mentions of blood, death, corpses, family, technically break-in but nothing bad happens

A/N: I love this big beefy austrian man, it’s a fatal addiction, hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

He’d always known he had needed some sort of safe space.

And König had managed to create his own, for the most part. No one questioned how the big scary Colonel slept holding a pillow against his chest, the pillow never quite replicating how his little brother had cuddled up to him so many years ago. He journaled, too, using the highlighters and pens his sister had always used in her school notebook, lecturing him on his terrible handwriting that still wasn’t much better.

He would always snatch a second pumpkinseed muffin at the mess hall, the flavor reminding him of his mother’s cooking. Or how his tongue would dart out to barely brush against his thumb pad, using it to get to the second page of a report he was going through in the same way his father had done with his books.

But he still had never managed to fully reach that level of comfort where he felt as if he was in a warm bubble, protected, safe, not in harm’s way, and able to relax.

And maybe it was because König didn’t think he was safe. Not on base. Not at home. Nowhere. He’d watched men be cut through in less than a second, bullets shredding through their bodies and leaving nothing more than rotting corpses and living memories behind. He’d seen it happen to his men before, and he’d done it to other men. There was nowhere that the violence he displayed and observed every day wouldn’t follow him like a shadow, silently judging and whispering in his ear.

He had never felt fully safe before. That was what he believed, and he thought he’d never feel safe again; until he met you.

You, the shy, quiet neighbor who had let him in even when he’d gone to the wrong door, showing up after being gone for almost three months, grumbling German cursed when his key refused to work. You knew the giant next door, it’d be hard not to, with his huge stature, brusque voice, and reserved but respectful nature.

“Hello?”

You’d meekly asked while he’d just gone lumbering in, pushing past you and falling onto the couch in what he thought was his apartment. He didn’t question why you would be in there, not then. Not when his head felt like it was splitting apart at the seams, his glacial blue eyes were watery and drooping, and his body was running out of strength before shutting down.

He wasn’t too worried about what you’d do when he finally passed out. You were nice, having brought him a tray of cookies when he first moved in, a tray he’d promptly devoured in less than an hour as the tiny cookies crumbled in his hands.

You brought him soups sometimes, or leftover dinners, claiming you’d just cooked too much. But König knew someone didn’t consistently cook too much, eventually one learned their lesson, and he knew that you were worried about him. You saw the fatigue in his steps when he came back from month-long disappearances. You never asked him, and he never told.

Truly, he didn’t know how you’d moved him from the couch to the bed. He just registered something soft under his head, his clothes being gently pulled off by uncalloused hands, and a warm rag brushing against the blood that was staining his skin, the now-wet fingers massaging his bruises as he grunted.

A silent plead for you to just get in the bed and let him finally have a warm body to hold while he drifted off.

You must’ve gotten the message because he heard you walk off for a moment, then came the sound of water dripping into the sink, and then you reappeared. You slid into the bed, the bed he realized must’ve been yours, and kicked the blanket up, hitting your pillow to fluff it up.

You pulled the blankets over both of your bodies, and he unconsciously reached, pulling you in, feeling the thin, breathable fabric of your pajamas. It was soft, like you.

When he held your warm body against his that night, he came to two realizations. The first being that, he really could feel safe, and the second being that he needed to do this more often.

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@hawke1917