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sporeclan · 2 months ago

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🪲 for Puddle!

[Ask game]

🪲: What do they value most?

Definitely connections and reputation! This man thrives off of knowing everything about everyone at any moment, and he needs his good standings with everyone else to be privy to the newest drama on the block

@lilpepperspray

🌳: What are their life goals? Deputy, Leader, MedCat/Healer?

Puddle doesn't have any grand ambitions to be honest. He just wants to hang out and be a bit too nosy. In fact, he might already be living his dream just by virtue of being around a large group of people who have tons of interpersonal drama to angst about all the time lol

(I will do Fennelacorn later!)

😸: 3 fun facts!

- The reason he squints all the time is just that his eyes are really sensitive to light! He has a similar gene to that of the Topaz cat, which depigments the eyes specifically. That's also why they're such a pale blue and the pupils are all pink-ish! I imagine he probably has some level of visual impairment due to how intense the light sensitivity is, and his habit of squinting isn't helping that either

- He actually wasn't planning on staying in SporeClan long and really just came here to check the situation out. But after a while he decided he enjoyed it here so much that he settled down for the long haul!

- While, yes, he DOES enjoy himself some good ol people watching, a good amount of what his clanmates perceive as him staring at or watching them is honestly just him zoning out so unbelievably hard. Most of what he learns about others is by conversation, not actually by witnessing

💤: Are they a heavy or light sleeper? What are their dreams like?

Very, very light sleeper! In fact, so light of a sleeper that he can't fall asleep around loud sleepers. This leads to him being regularly found sleeping in hard to access and oddly out of the way places around camp by his clanmates

As for his dreams - I don't know! I feel like he'd probably be one of those people who just don't dream, or at least don't recall their dreams

(Thank you! :D His in game eye colour is blue!)

🐁: Favourite prey?

I think he'd really enjoy pheasant! It's kind of a rare treat and he gets to enjoy it with multiple clanmates

🕸: What does their family tree look like?

It's nothing really special :') He was born a single kit to town cats, either strays, kittypets or either or. He doesn't really talk with or about them. Good luck getting any information about them at all out of him though lol he's a man with a death grip on his secrets no matter how trivial they are!

🧹: Favourite and least favourite clan task/chore/patrol?

He would probably really enjoy changing out the bedding in the dens! He gets to eavesdrop and stay in dim, temperate conditions. What's not to love?

Now he isn't really one to complain, and he's generally happy so long as he has some form of company. So I think his least favourite activity would probably be something like hunting alone? Especially during winter where it's cold, it's bright and the prey is scarce.

#chitchat #ask #bonus #ask game #sc lore #sc:puddle #the idea of fennelacorn just being scared shitless of puddle just for being Like That is so funny to me #mr paranoia vs mr mysterious. we love to see it #rip puddle you wouldve loved keeping up with the kardashians </3 #hes still alive but its the thought that counts. ykno #also dont take any of these doodles too serious!! i was just in a silly funny mood <3 #long post

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merakilii · 3 days ago

Text

Utterly Yours

Knight Simon Riley // Masterlist

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

words: 2.2k

tags: AFAB reader who is also a princess. Knight Simon Riley. emotional constipation. he thinks you deserve better than him. A strong man kneeling before you. and would kill for you.

The feast was a quiet affair, the grand dining hall filled with the soft clinking of silverware and the occasional murmur of conversation. The long table, usually laden with the laughter and chatter of visiting nobles and dignitaries, felt hollow tonight. The suitors had been dismissed, their pride bruised and their hopes dashed. And so, it was just the three of you: your father at the head of the table, you to his right, and Simon across from you, his presence a silent, brooding force.

The meal was lavish, as always, with roasted pheasant, glazed vegetables, and warm bread served with honeyed butter, but you barely tasted it. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, your mind replaying the image of Simon in the ring. He had been breathtaking. And yet, as you sat there, picking at your food, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were drowning in your own thoughts, in the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

Simon was quiet, as he always was, his eyes fixed on his plate, his expression unreadable. Your father tried to fill the silence with light conversation, his voice warm and steady, but even he seemed to sense the tension between you and Simon. The air was thick with it, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You set your fork down with a soft clink, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “I need some air,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Your father nodded, a hum escaping him as he watched you with knitted brows.

You stood, your chair scraping against the stone floor, and made your way to the gardens. The night air was cool against your skin, the moon casting a pale silver light over the castle grounds. The gardens were quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirping of crickets. You walked aimlessly, your thoughts a tangled mess, your heart heavy.

And then you bumped into him.

His figure tall and imposing, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. You hadn’t heard him approach, but then again, you never did.

“What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, your arms crossing over your chest as if to shield yourself from his gaze. “Nothing,” you said, your voice tight.

Simon stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t lie to me,” he countered. “I can see it in your eyes. Something’s bothering you.”

You looked away, your jaw tightening. “You act like you know everything,” you said, your voice rising slightly. “Like you know what’s best for me. But I have a say in that too, Simon. Or do you think I need you to make all my decisions for me?”

Simon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “That’s not what I think.”

“Then what do you think?” you shot back, your frustration boiling over. “Because all I see is a man who hides behind a mask, who acts like he knows everything about me but won’t tell me a damn thing about himself. Don't think I did not realise these trials are your doing." The silence stretched between you, thick as fog, as your words hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Simon did not flinch, did not retreat. He only stared, his eyes dark, fathomless.

"Who are you, Simon? Who hides behind that mask like a coward?”

Then, he reached up and pulled down his scarf.

It laid slack around his neck, his face fully revealed, the scars no longer half-hidden. They carved across his cheek and jaw like the echoes of old wounds, the remnants of battles fought in the name of a crown that was never his to wear, of wars waged not for glory but because he had no choice. The world had tried to ruin him, to break him into something less than a man. But Simon did not break. He did not yield. He had stitched himself back together with iron and duty, had taken every shattered piece and reforged it into something lethal, written in ruin.

And still, he said nothing.

But you felt it. The shift in the air, ancient and aching pressing against you, curling into the spaces between your ribs. He was telling you, in the only way he knew how.

That he was no prince, no noble suitor with pretty words and hollow vows. That he was not meant for silk-lined halls and courtly graces, for whispered sonnets in moonlit gardens.

No, Simon was something else entirely.

A blade, sharpened and tempered in war. A creature born of steel and blood, of palls that clung to his heels like a curse. He was not gentle, would never be gentle. And if the world sought to take you from him, if fate itself dared to pull you from his grasp, he would tear it apart with his bare hands.

He would kill for you. Not out of duty. Not for honour. But because he was yours, as much as the night was to the moon, as much as the sea was to the tide.

His fingers twitched at his side as if resisting the urge to reach for you. His breathing was slow, measured, but his hands curled into fists, knuckles pale with restraint. You could see it now, the truth of him, the thing that lurked beneath the armour and duty and silence.

A wraith. A shadow. Your shadow.

“I am not a good man,” Simon said finally, his voice low, rasping, a thing raw and frayed at the edges.

You did not speak. You let him continue.

“I have never been noble. Never been righteous. I do not fight for honour, or glory, or anything so clean.” He exhaled sharply, as if the significance of his own words was something he despised. “You ask who I am?” His eyes found yours, dark and burning, and the answer was there, in the wreckage of him. “I am selfish. greedy. I would take you for myself if the world would let me. If you would let me.”

The confession burned through the air between you, a wildfire set to consume.

His hands clenched at his sides, his body taut with restraint, with the awful, unbearable need to close the distance between you. His fingers twitched. His breath was uneven. “I would tear the flesh from anyone who dared harm you. I would kill in cold blood if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you mine.”

Mine.

He turned his head slightly, just enough that the moonlight traced the sharp lines of his face. He was waiting, as if expecting disgust, as if bracing for rejection.

You did not give him either.

You stepped forward and reached for him. Your fingers skimmed over the rough ridge of a scar, tracing the jagged path it carved down his jaw. His breath hitched, sharp and barely there, that small touch was more than he had ever allowed himself to want.

You wondered how long he had waited. How long he had stood in the dark corners of your world, silent and unseen, wanting, but never daring to take.

And then he moved.

Not to pull away. Not to flinch from your touch. But to drop to one knee.

His head bowed, his broad shoulders folding inward, his entire body sinking down before you as though gravity itself had given way. It was not submission, not in the way the knights of the court would kneel before their king.

This was devotion.

A knight kneeling at the altar, swearing himself not to god, nor country, nor crown, but to you.

Your breath was shallow, unsteady, as you reached for the blade at your waist. The weight of it was familiar, solid in your grip, a symbol of the power that rested in your hands alone. You lifted it, the metal catching the pale glow of the moon, and pressed the flat of the blade to his bowed head.

Simon did not move.

He would have stayed like this forever, knelt in the quiet sanctuary of the garden, in the cathedral of ivy and crumbling stone, if you had asked him to. If it meant being yours.

And as the night stretched on, as the stars burned above you, you realized with startling, terrifying certainty—

He already was.

You held your blade to his head, the cold steel pressing against his hair, and Simon remained kneeling, utterly still, as though he had been carved from the stone beneath him. He had given himself over to you completely, the same way knights swore fealty before kings, the same way the devout knelt in prayer before silent gods.

Except you were no king.

And Simon had never been a knight.

Your hand trembled slightly on the hilt, but not from fear. No, this was something else. Something darker. Something that stirred in the deepest parts of you.

This was no mere oath.

He had never been noble, had never sought the path of righteous men. But for you?

For you, he would be a sword.

A ghost.

A terror.

His eyes lifted slowly, dark as a storm, as fathomless as the abyss that had carved him into the man before you. He did not ask for permission. Did not beg for acceptance. Simon was not that kind of man. But he let you look at him, let you see him, all of him, without the mask, without the silence, without the barriers he had built over a lifetime of bloodshed and war.

The blade in your hand felt heavier than it should have.

You could end it here. You could cut him down, sever whatever bound him to you before it consumed you both. A part of you knew that would be the wiser choice. That taking him as yours, keeping him at your side, would not lead to salvation.

But you did not want salvation.

You lowered the blade from his head, drawing the sharp edge down until the tip rested just beneath his chin. You lifted it slightly, forcing him to tilt his head back, forcing him to meet your gaze fully.

“You would have killed him.” Your voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. “Prince Florian...Cedric...any other suitor.”

Simon didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it.

“I would have,” he said, his voice steady. “If you had asked it of me.”

The certainty in his words sent something sharp and electric down your spine.

If you had asked it of him.

Not because they had deserved it. Not because it would have served some greater purpose. But simply because it was you who would have spoken the words.

“And if I asked you to leave?” you murmured, tilting the blade just slightly, watching the way his breath hitched as the steel traced the line of his throat.

Simon’s lips parted slightly, his jaw tightening beneath the press of metal. For the first time, there was hesitation in his eyes. Not because he feared you, never that. But because leaving? That, above all else, was the one thing he could not do.

“If that is what you wish.” The words came hoarse, almost forced from him. A lie, because Simon did not know how to live without you. He never had.

You should have let him go.

But you didn’t.

You stepped closer instead, until the warmth of his body was just a breath away, until you could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, could hear the quiet restraint in every breath he took. Your grip on the blade tightened.

“I do not want a noble man at my side.” The words were slower this time. You wanted him to feel them, to understand them fully. “I do not want a man bound by duty, by chivalry or law.”

The wind stirred through the garden, rustling the plants curling over the stone walls, whispering secrets that only the night could hear.

“I want you.”

The admission tasted like sin, dark and aching on your tongue, and the moment it left your lips, you saw the change in him.

The sharp inhale, the way his hands clenched against his thighs, the way his eyes darkened with something that went beyond want, beyond devotion.

You lifted the blade from his throat.

And then, with slow, deliberate finality, you turned the hilt and offered it to him.

His fingers brushed yours as he took it. And then, in one swift movement, he reversed the grip and pressed the blade flat to his own heart.

A vow.

His voice, when it came, was lower than a whisper, rough as the edge of a well-worn dagger.

“I am yours.”

It settled deep in your marrow, you knew that he would never leave. That no force in this world or the next could sever what bound him to you.

And he would follow you into the dark without hesitation.

#Who needs a prince when you can have a ghost who’ll commit murder for you?#cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod #knight au #knight simon riley #simon riley x reader #this is tender romance to me

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