#because he'd get his head caved in with the curved side of a bow

[gingermintpepper]

There are many things people expect from one called 'God of Blood'. Always, the first thought is the blood of war, the blood of violence, the blood of the weak shed for the goals of the strong. Ares doesn't think of the blood of battle at all. When he thinks of blood, he envisions the many tied knots of blood bonds and bonds forged in the blood of battle. Blood sons and blood daughters, blood brothers and battle sisters, blood oaths and blood vengeance - he watches over them all and keeps close each one of these bonds.

One cannot begrudge his displeasure then when he realises he cannot tell Leto's offspring apart just by looking at them.

It was easier when it was just Artemis. Dark hair curled about her shoulders, a fierce mien whenever Father summons her to the mountain, a scattering of bones and blood shed whenever she was disturbed; the eldest child of Leto was a wild thing, sharp toothed with sharper claws always at the ready. There's whispers of her being a twin, of her other half being made to crawl on their belly as penance for their sin of god-slaying but Ares pays it little mind. What twins look alike among their number? Even dog litters are born distinct with all their unique markings inlaid in their fur. Artemis' twin too would be much more than their sister's mirror image.

Pouring over his list now, he wishes anything about Phoebus Apollo was that simple.

Mirror image did not begin to describe it. The twins were the same height, the same build, had the same colour and texture hair, ate the same raw food and drank the same amount of nectar. There was no difference in how they dressed, no difference in the company they kept, no variance in the weapons they used. There are some days Ares still cannot believe Phoebus will grow into a man and not some nymph with the way his ears have that slender point. He watches them now, sitting together beneath a shady palm and stringing their bows in an uncanny unison and curses because he still cannot tell them apart. What use is his skill in knowing blood when they both have the same damn blood running through their veins? What bond is there to sense when they are tied so tightly together, Ares can scarcely tell brother from sister?

He sighs. Unadorned and completely alone, the only way to know who is who is to speak to them. He'll have to find more ways to tell them apart from a distance. Surely they cannot stay this similar all the rest of their immortal lives.

[zepskies]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGdFgGL1y/

I’ve been loving this trend and then realised this could literally bmd Ben and reader asking him to show how he would’ve moved to her in the 80s and even better cause he literally experienced it, I can see him being unwilling to entertain but slowly caving in when he sees she’s not breaking and giving him attention until he tries

LOL that's adorable. 😂 Thanks for thinking of Break Me Down (Soldier Boy x Reader)! Seems to be a theme this week lol! I went ahead and watched that TikTok and again it got me imaging the thing...

Imagine Soldier Boy (Ben) "Sliding Up" to You in the Club

I can imagine that coming up in conversation if the reader in BMD was being subjected to watching another one of his music videos. She'd be teasing him, of course, but he'd be defending himself and his career choices. It was the 80s!

And for your information, Ben says, women were fucking falling over themselves to have him sign their Rapture albums. It was frankly irritating when he went out. Sometimes, he just wanted to relax with a smoke and a glass of bourbon at the club. You scoff at that one.

He looks amused. "What, you think you would've been the only girl in America who didn't cream their panties when I showed up?"

You shoot him a wry brow raise. Do you have to remind him how you two met? Being tied to a chair with zip ties comes to mind.

But then, something else occurs to you. The first time you and Ben actually met was in a smokey club in Medellin, Colombia. You'd been "undercover" then, and though you hadn't danced with him, it makes you think...

"Okay, let's say we're at the club," you pose, with a sly smile. "It's 1983..."

You find the song "Too Shy" on your phone; quintessential 80s pop. The smooth riffs start playing. You get up to start vibing near him in the comfort of your living room. You're just swaying side to side with a little sensuous, playful bounce to your step, your hand movements simple.

Ben doesn't want to smile, but you're making it difficult as he lounges half across the couch.

"Come on. How would you slide up on me?" you taunt.

He arches a brow. "Slide?"

"You know what I mean. What was your move, huh?" you ask, teasing him with the curve of your ass and the sway of your hips in your yoga pants.

You saunter closer to him, beckoning him over to you. All the while you sing to yourself, "Too shy, shyyyy. Hush, hush, eye to eye..."

Ben rolls his eyes, reluctant to rise to your bait. But eventually, your teasing is too much for him to ignore. He pulls himself off the couch and comes up behind you.

He takes your hand while you're purposefully facing away from him, and smoothly turns you around, guiding you back into his arms like he's Fred Astaire. You utter a little gasp and grab onto his shoulders. Your gaze flicks up to his with a smile.

His lips curve as he looks down at you. He matches the vibe of the song as he moves along with you, but then he turns you around, holding you from behind with steady hands sliding down the curve of your waist. His strength is tempered just enough for you to feel it.

He gradually moves closer with every bounce of the beat, and soon every part of his body is molded to yours. Your hands fall over his as you subtly lean back against his chest.

He bows his head near your cheek, smiling, because he can hear your heart beating a little faster. His lips brush the shell of your ear.

"Gotcha."

AN: Once again, this turned into a little headcanon/imagine that I wasn't expecting. 🤣 Last post before I'm off on a trip all weekend! 💚

Join Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Break Me Down Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

BMD Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26

@nancymcl @emily-winchester @sl33pylilbunny @chernayawidow @spnfamily-j2

@lacilou @mimaria420 @yvonneeeee @my-stories-vault @iprobablyshipit91

@jacklesbrainworms @adoringanakin @deanwanddamons @globetrotter28 @mrsjenniferwinchester

@deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70

@rizlowwritessortof @chevroletdean @spnwoman @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303

@123passwort @lyarr24 @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @iamsapphine @sanscas

@jessjad @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2 @chriszgirl92 @kazsrm67

@deansbbyx @midnightmadwoman @ladysparkles78 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @tmb510

@sarahgracej @foxyjwls007 @just-levyy @roseblue373 @charmed-asylum

@mrlonelycat @kmc1989 @siampie @kaleldobrev @pieandmonsters

@alwaystiredandconfused @mostlymarvelgirl @twinkleinadiamondsky @winchestergirl2 @a-lil-pr1ncess

@winchester-whiskey @spnbabe67 @cheynovak @megara0224 @yoongi-holland

@illicithallways @perpetualabsurdity @deansimpala @impala-dreamer @k4marina

@atenea585 @kayleighwinchester @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @star-yawnznn

@number1whorehome @g0ldfishd00dles @10ava01 @sixxteenbullets @tayl0rfanatic

@everything-is-all-clear @suckitands33 @cookiechipdough @trashmoutth @riteofpassage77

@jc-winchester @mxltifxnd0m @bleuatlas @luci-in-trenchcoats

[vowspurned]

He  doesn't  expect  the  truth  to  sound  like  comfort  from  her  lips.  His  gaze  shifts  slowly  to  look  beside  him  at  the  woman,  as  she  tells  him  what  they'd  be  doing  is  not  what  Maric  had  done  to  him.  What  his  father  had  done  was  in  fact,  cowardice.  And  what  he'd  be  doing—is  saving  the  lives  of  more  than  just  himself  but  of  a  dear  friend.  And  giving  Morrigan  what  she  needs.

Or  at  least,  what  she  seems  to  believe  she  does.

He  doesn't  deign  to  understand  much  of  anything,  really.  She  herself  has  remarked  on  his  willingness  to  follow  even  if  it  was  to  their  certain  deaths  had  their  friend  not  be  as  forthcoming  and  good-hearted.  Yet,  the  implications  of  this  coupling  have  far  more  complicated  futures  than  they  both  have  been  willing  to  say  out  loud.  But  Alistair  is  beginning  to  think  that  regardless,  what  she  speaks  will  have  to  be  enough.  And  he  does  not  have  the  luxury  of  time  to  make  a  thought  out  decision.

It  is  tonight—or  the  Maker  may  take  him  come  tomorrow.

When  she  drives  home  the  point  of  his  lack  of  involvement,  one  that  she  will  not  deviate,  he  can't  help  the  twinge  of  loss  that  he  feels  all  the  same.  He  is  young,  the  thought  of  marriage  and  family  not  a  concern  for  him—or  a  real  possibility  given  his  station  in  this  life.  Grey  Wardens  don't  often  have  the  luxury  of  finding  love,  and  starting  families  was  impossible.

She  is  offering  him  what  could  be  his  only  chance  of  being  a  father—and  telling  him  he  can't  have  it.  It's  a  fact  that  he  must  bear,  a  loss  he  must  accept.  For  he  can  see  no  other  way,  that  does  not  end  with  him  or  their  friend  dead.

And  he  is  not  ready.

The  ache  remains  but  he  slowly  looks  up  at  the  ceiling,  swallowing  the  thick  lump  in  his  throat  as  his  eyes  grow  glassy.  Acceptance  seems  to  weave  into  his  features,  aging  him  a  bit  as  he  sits  with  it.  And  then—

"  I  will  do  this.  "  He  finally  accepts  as  amber  eyes,  wet  with  tears  he  will  not  shed,  he  does  not  need  to  give  her  ammunition  against  his  sentimentality,  even  if  for  some  reason,  he  thinks  this  one  time  she  may  yet  have  mercy  in  her  heart.

His  chest  caves  in  with  the  shallow  inhale  of  air,  eyes  taking  in  the  view  of  her  before  he  can  speak  again.  Up  close  he  can  see  the  gold  of  her  eyes,  the  beauty  marks  just  to  the  side  of  her  mouth  and  upon  the  height  of  her  cheek—and  the  deep  curve  of  the  cupid's  bow  of  her  lips.  He  is  not  blind,  even  in  her  cruel  mockery  and  his  bitter  defensive  strategy,  he  can  see  how  beautiful  she  is.  But  that  has  never  been  what  mattered  to  him,  he'd  always  wanted  to  share  himself  with  someone  he  loved,  someone  who  would  understand  why  he'd  waited  until  now.  It  doesn't  matter.

It  had  to  be  done.

"  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  not  treat  this  like  a  joke,  because  what  I'm  about  to  do  is  something  I've—  "  He  looks  away,  nearly  embarrassed  as  he  needs  to  get  the  hold  of  himself.  His  head  shakes,  his  hands  rub  together  nervously  between  parted  knees  as  he  slowly  finds  the  courage  to  look  back  at  her.  What  looks  upon  her  now  isn't  the  oafish  grey  warden  she's  come  to  enjoy  prodding  and  dragging  through  the  mud  when  it  is  convenient.  But  a  young  man  who  had  convictions  that  he  now  must  sacrifice.  "  I've  never  lain  with  a  woman  before.  And  I  don't  take  this  lightly—I  am  giving  a  part  of  myself  to  you  that  I  care  for.  Please  do  not  mock  it.  "

Please.

Where he is restless movement, she is stillness; hands neatly placed upon her lap, closed fists that nevertheless do not strain. Stiff, not casual. Her gaze accompanies Alistair, nonetheless, observant of the hand that messes his hair, the steps that bring him closer. Morrigan crosses her arms, a flimsy barrier naturally held up. It doesn't protect her from the quiet, sharp ache at his vulnerable look and more vulnerable words.

Truth be told, she had not known to expect resistance on that specific point. Her expectation had been that Alistair would want as little to do with the child as possible; it would be her child also, after all. Hindsight makes it seem an obvious mistake. With how he struggled with his parentage — the impact bastardy had on his life — how could he wish to inflict the same on another?

The child is a means to an end, yet he worries about his role regarding them. Foolish; exceedingly good-hearted, as well. Morrigan supposes both are equally part of why she had oft found him so vexing. " Your father chose to indulge in dalliances and to ignore the consequences of it later. 'Twas immature and quite cowardly at that, and altogether not the same as this. "

" There is a purpose to what is to be done, " A pause, lingering, and she wets her lips — a moment to find what to say next. There is naught of simple in this; naught of easy in navigating a course she is only half certain of. The aching sympathy felt aids not. If Morrigan asks him to be as Maric, is it not in the same breath she commits to Flemeth's path?

The parallels are easy to draw. A man who abandons his child and life moves on, a witch to raise said child alone. She has no wish to dwell on what it means, to keep to the path charted for her while longing desperately for freedom. 

She will not linger on what it means to take even one step closer to what Flemeth is and meant for her to be.

" And it would never make you the same as he. 'Tis by my request that you would keep your distance — a request I will not withdraw. " Steely, unmovable; Morrigan will not be persuaded otherwise. " I believe it best for all that no further commitment be expected of you. We shall go on our way and, much like myself, the child will grow not knowing of their father nor feeling his absence. The shadow Maric cast over your own life needs not be cast by you in turn. "

[blade-liger-4ever]

#That said Ares has an interesting dynamic with the twins#In a lot of ways there's a sense of guilt/wariness surrounding him for Apollo and Artemis#because he knows how much they stress his mother out and he also knows how much Hera doesn't like Leto#But there's also a bit of fascination because Artemis is extremely strong#(in a way that's markedly different from Athena's strength)#while Apollo has all of these crazy stories attached to him from killing Python + his work while exiled#but when he returns he's very placid and calm and almost?? too nice? Definitely nothing like Artemis#in terms of personality#Ares doesn't really trust it until he learns that straight up that's just What Apollo Is Like#That too will change eventually but for now Ares just doesn't want to approach Artemis the way he'd approach Apollo#because he'd get his head caved in with the curved side of a bow#There are precious few encounters Ares has had with Artemis where he hasn't walked away with#at least a few arrow wounds LMAO#He'll eventually be forced to accept that it's Artemis' love language

@vitamaeternum I gotta remember this; it'll help with Ares' dynamics in my head.

There are many things people expect from one called 'God of Blood'. Always, the first thought is the blood of war, the blood of violence, the blood of the weak shed for the goals of the strong. Ares doesn't think of the blood of battle at all. When he thinks of blood, he envisions the many tied knots of blood bonds and bonds forged in the blood of battle. Blood sons and blood daughters, blood brothers and battle sisters, blood oaths and blood vengeance - he watches over them all and keeps close each one of these bonds.

One cannot begrudge his displeasure then when he realises he cannot tell Leto's offspring apart just by looking at them.

It was easier when it was just Artemis. Dark hair curled about her shoulders, a fierce mien whenever Father summons her to the mountain, a scattering of bones and blood shed whenever she was disturbed; the eldest child of Leto was a wild thing, sharp toothed with sharper claws always at the ready. There's whispers of her being a twin, of her other half being made to crawl on their belly as penance for their sin of god-slaying but Ares pays it little mind. What twins look alike among their number? Even dog litters are born distinct with all their unique markings inlaid in their fur. Artemis' twin too would be much more than their sister's mirror image.

Pouring over his list now, he wishes anything about Phoebus Apollo was that simple.

Mirror image did not begin to describe it. The twins were the same height, the same build, had the same colour and texture hair, ate the same raw food and drank the same amount of nectar. There was no difference in how they dressed, no difference in the company they kept, no variance in the weapons they used. There are some days Ares still cannot believe Phoebus will grow into a man and not some nymph with the way his ears have that slender point. He watches them now, sitting together beneath a shady palm and stringing their bows in an uncanny unison and curses because he still cannot tell them apart. What use is his skill in knowing blood when they both have the same damn blood running through their veins? What bond is there to sense when they are tied so tightly together, Ares can scarcely tell brother from sister?

He sighs. Unadorned and completely alone, the only way to know who is who is to speak to them. He'll have to find more ways to tell them apart from a distance. Surely they cannot stay this similar all the rest of their immortal lives.