#fallen frontier | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

windfighter · 1 year

Text

Rock-hard fall

Prompt: Fracture | ”It’s just a scratch.”

------

There’s a yelp. Takuya turns around, worry gnaws in his stomach. Did someone get hurt? Would it be his fault? They are out here because of him after all. Kouichi and Izumi are already on the way down, Tomoki’s still clambering across the rocks. Junpei has stopped, the rock he’s standing on looks wobbly under his feet.

Kouji’s legs are visible between a couple of rocks. Takuya starts moving, jumping from rock to rock to get there as fast as possible. Izumi is faster.

”Are you okay?”

She leans down, offers Kouji a hand. Takuya slows his steps. Kouji groans.

”Yeah?” he says.

It sounds like a question. He’s still lying between the rocks. Takuya and Kouichi get there at the same time. Kouji’s right arm is bloody, he’s looking a little disoriented. He puts his left arm over his eyes.

”Just let me catch my breath”, he says.

Takuya sits down. Shit. They should probably head back.

”At least you missed the water”, he says and grins.

Kouji doesn’t even glare at him. The river splashes against the rocks. It’ll start rising in an hour. Not much, but enough that Kouji’s resting place will get wet. Kouichi sits down as well.

”Should I call dad?” he asks.

They’re not far from home, just half an hour on foot, but Kouichi must see the same thing Takuya is seeing. Kouji is not okay. He lifts his arm from his eyes, looks at Kouichi. Takuya notices the seconds it takes for Kouji’s eyes to find exactly where Kouichi is.

”It’s fine”, Kouji says.

He still doesn’t sit up. Kouichi gestures at Kouji’s bloody arm.

”Fine?” he asks and raises an eyebrow.

Kouji twists his head. Winces. Frowns when he sees the blood.

”It’s… just a scratch”, he says.

He doesn’t sound convinced. He lifts it from the rocks, closes his eyes and puts it down again. His breaths are loud despite the river. Kouichi pinches the bridge of his nose.

”I’m calling dad.”

Kouji finally sits up. Blood drains from his face, but he’s sitting. He puts his bleeding arm in his lap, leans his head onto his other hand. Junpei yelps as well. Takuya’s head snaps up, looks towards Junpei. He’s still standing, his hand gripping a tree that’s hanging out over the rocks.

”You good there?” Takuya asks.

”Yeah”, Junpei doesn’t look quite as good as he says, but Takuya’s sure it’s just fear. ”How’s Kouji?”

Takuya glances at Kouji again. Kouji hasn’t moved from his hunched-over position.

”He says he’s fine”, Takuya answers.

He tries to make it very clear how much he doesn’t believe that for one bit. Kouichi takes his phone out, starts dialing the twins’ dad. Kouji removes his hand from his face, grabs Kouichi’s arm. He’s going to say no, try to stop Kouichi. Takuya’s brain goes into overdrive to figure out how to stop Kouji from stopping Kouichi.

”...gonna throw up”, Kouji says instead.

And then he does. Kouichi and Izumi jumps backwards and Takuya quickly pulls his legs out of the way. When it stops Kouji tilts to the side. Takuya hurries to slide down next to him.

”...did you hit your head?” he asks.

”Hmm”, Kouji answers.

Izumi sits down, looks at them. Takuya gives her a one-shouldered shrug. Kouichi moves a few feet away as their dad picks up. Kouji leans heavier against Takuya and Takuya sighs. How does his ideas always end up with Kouji injured? Duskmon must have placed a curse on them or something. ...better not say that out loud when Kouichi is nearby. Izumi pulls off her backpack, grabs a bottle of water and a towel from it. Pours water over the towel and slides down into the hole as well. The hole is not big enough for three people.

Izumi starts washing the blood of Kouji’s arm. He winces, tries to pull away and groans. Curses and buries his face into Takuya’s shoulder. Grips his own shoulder.

”Just a scratch”, Izumi says and shakes her head.

Takuya watches. Kouji’s arm is swollen, bruises already forming between the scrapes. The scrapes start bleeding again and Izumi washes them clean.

”Might… have a slight concussion”, Kouji mumbles.

”We already figured that one out”, Takuya says. ”Your arm’s probably broken as well.”

”Bleh”, Kouji says.

”You’ll be okay”, Izumi says. ”We just need to get you out of here.”

The river is starting to rise, splashing harder against the rocks. Takuya looks around to see if he can spot Tomoki, but the rocks are in the way and he can’t move without disturbing Kouji.

”Tomoki?” he calls.

Kouji winces. Takuya puts a hand on Kouji’s thigh.

”He’s on the shore”, Junpei says, ”on his way.”

Junpei comes closer, sits down on a rock next to the hole. Watches them.

”Concussion?” he asks.

Kouji nods. Takuya pulls a hand across his face.

”Why do you still let me come up with ideas?” he asks.

”Well, it was fun until Kouji fell”, Izumi answers.

She wrings out the towel and throws it into the backpack again. Climbs out of the hole.

”I didn’t bring a first aid-kit”, she says.

She looks incredible guilty. Takuya doesn’t like it.

”I didn’t either”, he says.

”Me neither”, Junpei admits.

Kouichi ends the phonecall, turns around. Kouji nods towards him. Takuya’s stupid, but he’s smart enough to understand that. He looks at Kouichi as well.

”First aid-kit?” he asks.

Kouichi pulls his backpack off, pulls a first aid-kit out of it. Takuya stands up, climbs up from the hole to make room for Kouichi. Leans Kouji against the rocks instead. He can see water gathering at the edges of the hole.

Kouichi cleans the wounds with anticeptics, wraps Kouji’s arm with bandages and puts it in a sling. Kouji is pale when Kouichi leans back. Water’s splashing over their feet. Better get Kouji up before he gets wet and sick as well, Takuya decides. He wraps an arm around Kouji.

”Giddy up!” he says.

Pulls Kouji to his feet. Kouji’s whole body tenses up, his cheeks turn green. Takuya manages to lean him forwards just enough so the vomit misses his arm. It still splashes on both their shoes though.

”Absolutely disgusting”, Takuya says.

He sits Kouji down on the rocks. Stands in the hole himself and checks Kouji’s eyes. They still have trouble focusing. That’s a concussion. Kouichi sits down next to Kouji.

”Dad’s on his way, he’ll know what to do.”

”We should get to the shore”, Izumi says.

She’s watching the water. It’s rising. The rocks will get wet and slippery again soon. Takuya climbs out of the hole.

”Can you walk?” he asks Kouji.

Kouji looks at him. Towards him more than at.

”’s just my arm, legs are fine.”

He tries to stand up, but his legs doesn’t want to cooperate. Takuya and Kouichi grabs him, helps steady him. Kouji leans heavily against both of them. At least he’s standing. Now it’s just the dangerous part left – climbing over the rocks onto the shore.

They take it slowly. Takuya holds Kouji, supports him, and Kouichi helps guide Kouji’s feet when he doesn’t manage himself. Junpei clambers over the rocks instead of walking. Good choice, Takuya thinks, it would be bad if they got another injured person to help. Kouji is already one too many.

Grass under their shoes. Takuya lets out a sigh of relief. Kouichi does as well. Kouji starts sagging and Takuya wraps his arm around Kouji’s waist. Kouji’s dad is there, walks towards them with big steps. Puts his hands on Kouji’s shoulders. Kouji doesn’t look up, doesn’t move.

”Kouji? Are you…”

Kouji shakes his head. The movement is slow. Takuya changes his grip, makes sure it secure.

”He has a concussion”, Kouichi said. ”And probably a broken arm.”

Kousei winces. Puts his hand on Kouji’s back.

”Car’s nearby, come on.”

Kouji takes a few stumbling steps, then stops. His body shakes, tenses up. How does he still have more to throw up? Takuya puts an arm across Kouji’s chest, careful with his arm, and helps him lean forwards. It’s barely anything, but Kouji struggles with it for almost two minutes.

He’s crying, Takuya realizes. Kouji is crying. His body sags towards the ground and Takuya doesn’t know what to do. He lets him, follows him down onto the path. They just barely miss the vomit. Kouji hides his face in his hand, his shoulders shake. Takuya glances at Kousei, who looks just as lost as Takuya feels.

”Kouji…” Kousei starts.

Kouji shakes his head, presses his face into Takuya’s shoulder. Takuya wraps an arm around Kouji and Kouji grips Takuya’s shirt. It feels… nice? Not that Kouji’s hurt and tired and whatever else he’s feeling, but… that he trusts Takuya enough to seek comfort there. Takuya likes it. Or maybe it’s just the concussion. Takuya looks at Kouichi. Kouichi looks just as lost as the rest of them. Everyone is quiet. Even Tomoki. Junpei isn’t pulling any magic trick out of his pocket to lighten everyone up. Even Kouji’s sobs are quiet.

They sit there for a few minutes. Kouji’s sobs dies out. He sniffles, lets go of Takuya’s shirt.

”Okay”, he whispers. ”Okay, I’m…”

He’s not, Takuya can tell. Even before Kouji finishes the sentence. He wants to wrap Kouji up and let him rest until he’s feeling better.

”I’m ready”, Kouji finishes.

He starts standing up. Slowly. Puts a hand on Takuya’s shoulder for leverage and support. Kousei steps closer, holds Kouji. Kouji’s eyes are closed. He stumbles forwards, Kousei’s hands guide him. Takuya gets up as well. Glances at everyone. They all look down. Worried. Takuya doesn’t have anything to say that can chase their worries away. Can’t even chase away his own worry. He puts his hands in his pockets.

”Well, this was a shit idea”, he says.

”It was fun”, Izumi said, ”until Kouji fell.”

”Yeah”, Tomoki agrees. ”I loved it, climbing the rocks was exciting.”

”I’m sure Kouji agrees”, Takuya says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Kouichi snorts.

”He wouldn’t have come along if he hated it. But we should probably do something less…” he gestures vaguely. ”next week.”

Takuya agrees with that. He’s sure the others are as well. Kouichi lifts a hand.

”I’m heading with them. See you later.”

”Keep us updated”, Izumi says.

Kouichi nods, turns his back towards them and hurries after Kouji and Kousei. Takuya kicks a rock. It rolls across Kouji’s vomit and Takuya grimaces. Not the best ending to the day. He’ll try to make it up to Kouji later. Bring him an icecream or something.

”Guess the fun’s over for today”, he says. ”Or are we going to my place for some games?”

”I promised mama to help her with dinner today”, Izumi says.

Takuya is pretty sure she just doesn’t want to play his games. He mostly owns fighting games and it’s not quite her style. Junpei scratches the back of his head.

”I have a lot of homework. Maybe next week.”

”Yeah”, Takuya says. It’s hard to hide the disappointment in his voice. Mostly he thinks he just really wants the company. ”Maybe next week.”

They wave goodbye. Go their separate ways. Takuya starts walking home, hands in his pockets. Kicks another rock. He’s never going to suggest another activity for them to do.

#windy writes #whumpril2023 #digimon frontier #takuya kanbara #kouji minamoto #hurt kouji #broken bones #blood and injury #whump #I have no idea why I wrote this in present tense #I felt like it I guess #gotta challenge myselves sometimes #Kouji wasn't supposed to break anything and then he did anyway #my brain is a terrible place for him to be in #anyway I've fallen a few days behind again argh #I got too invested in the choking-prompt a couple days ago #I'll try to catch up this weekend #see you later for the next installment of 'windy hurts their blorbos'

7 notes · View notes

unrestrainedbalderdash · 1 year

Text

#batman unburied #sonic and tails r #i'm so hyped for season 2 #for both of them #(before sonic frontiers came out and i haven't played it yet) they're both what kind of 'saved' the modern era #of franchises that had fallen from how good they were (no shade to sonic tho personally i still enjoyed forces #even though they kind of removed tails' character arc from the adventure games #but i played it before the adventure games and it has a banger soundtrack and i am biased towards anything with a character customiser #this isn't meant to be starting discourse i'm just in an autism mood i just found out sonic and tails r is getting season 2 #so i'm infodumping my sonic thoughts in the tags now

10 notes · View notes

hyruviandoctor · 1 year

Text

Uh oh I'm getting actually excited for Sonic Frontiers

#I have once again fallen into the Sonic Cycle #will this be the game that breaks it?#it sure seems like it!#*starts applying clown makeup*#Sonic Frontiers

6 notes · View notes

kneelingshadowsalome · 7 months

Text

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

3K notes · View notes

cerys-scribbles · 5 months

Text

sweet on the tongue

Halsin x f!Reader A bit of fluff and yearning Wordcount: 1.5k

You always looked over the abandoned wagons and backpacks.

It was an old habit, born of a time when coin was scarce. You’ve always had an eye for shiny things - the gleam of jewelry, the graceful curve of a gem, and the glitter of a bottle. You never knew when you might find a small treasure.

Some of the others mocked you for it. Astarion, in particular, seemed to enjoy the sight of you rummaging through crates. “Your pack is so full you’ll have to find a rothe to carry it,” he called, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“I can carry my own pack,” you replied, with a dismissive wave. “And what do you care?”

“Merely concerned for your posture, darling. If you become a hunched over crone in your thirties, it would be a tragedy.”

You snorted. “That’s rich, coming from the one with the outdated vocabulary and the white hair.”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock indignation. “It’s not white, it’s silver.”

“Children,” called Gale. “You’re going to get left behind if you dawdle.”

The others had continued on. The path wound through the mountains, toward the Githyanki creche. Lae’zel was far ahead, her long strides carrying her forward with a grim determination. It was no wonder she was eager; the prospect of ridding yourself of the tadpole was an intriguing one. But even so, you felt the pull to pick through every crate.

Your diligence was rewarded when you found a gleam of gold tucked within a sack. You pulled it free. It was a jar.

“Come on!” called Astarion, and you hastily shoved the jar into your own pack. You would look at it more closely later.

It was hours after, once camp had been set up, that you investigated your finds. You picked through the small trinkets, sorting through which ones could be sold and which ones discarded. You were so single-minded that you didn’t notice the smells of food or call to dinner. It was only when someone stood over you that you looked up.

Halsin towered over you. The sunset gave his hair a golden cast, and he was smiling. “You’ve been busy,” he said mildly.

You sat back, only now feeling the ache in your lower back. “Oh. I was distracted.” You gestured at the piles of trinkets, feeling mildly embarrassed. Would he think it was silly? “Did I miss dinner?”

“I set some aside for you.” Halsin put the plate down on a fallen log. It looked like a surprisingly tasty stew. “It’s a little cold.”

“I don’t mind,” you said. “Thanks for bringing it.” It shouldn’t have surprised you that Halsin was the one to notice you weren’t eating; he was observant in camp, quiet and watchful. His tent was pitched along the outskirts. Part of you wondered if it was because he wished to remain near nature or to make himself the first line of defense should anyone attack camp. It was likely both.

He squatted down, eyeing your finds. “May I ask what it is you’re doing?” He reached out, gently sifting through the knotted chains and one half of an earring.

You flushed. “I just… you might have noticed I tend to pick things up.”

“I had noticed, yes,” he said, a touch of dry humor in his voice. But there was no mockery to it. “Do you sell them?”

You shrugged. “It helps. I can buy a little food, maybe weapons or medicine for camp. We can hunt, of course, but we still need things. And it’s not as though we have a noble patron.” You snorted. “Well, we do have Wyll, but I know he’d protest that title.”

“He would,” agreed Halsin. “He seems far more happy being the Blade of Frontiers rather than a duke’s son.” He tilted his head, gaze flicking over the assortment of trinkets. “Can I help?”

“I mean,” you said, “you don’t have to.”

“I want to.” His gaze met yours and you felt another flush rise to your cheeks. “It’s better to have something to do with one’s hands.”

You both began to work, untangling chains of necklaces and sorting through your findings. There were coins from several cities, jewelry that was junk and one piece that might sell, along with forgotten letters. You set those aside. “I’ll give them to a messenger or the like if we reach Baldur’s Gate,” you said, when you caught Halsin’s eye. “Maybe those letters will reach their destination.”

“That’s kind of you, to carry them without any hope of reward.”

You gave him a little shrug. “It’s not as though they weigh very much.”

“Still,” he said. “You have a good heart.”

Your cheeks burned even hotter. Halsin disarmed you in a way that none of the other companions could. There were no deceptions, no games to played, no secrets to ferret out. Halsin was simply… Halsin. He was undemanding and kind.

And all right. He was gorgeous—you’d admit that to yourself. You’d had a few fantasies of him picking you up and kissing you, but you tried to tamp them down. You didn’t want your desires to leak into your conversations and make him uncomfortable. You were friends and that was more than enough.

Finally, you pulled out the jar. You had almost forgotten about it. “What is that?” asked Halsin.

You held it up to the fading sunlight. “Preserves, I think. Whether or not they’re edible… well, I’m not sure how we find out.”

Halsin chuckled. “Opening it would be the first step.”

It took a knife and a fair bit of prying to get the jar open, but the moment you did, your mouth watered.

Raspberries floated in a thick, golden liquid. They had been preserved in honey. The sweet scent floated out of the jar and you swallowed.

“Well, well,” said Halsin. “A pleasing find, if my opinion matters.”

You remembered what he had said when you tried to get to know him better: that he enjoyed sweet things. “You can have it,” you said, holding out the jar.

He shook his head, a smile on his lips. “We’ll share it.”

You didn’t have a spoon, but Halsin had a few carved ones in his pack. He unearthed it and you gasped. It was intricate and beautiful—a woven pattern made up the handle. “It’s gorgeous.” You knew he whittled, but this was a work of art.

He looked pleased but embarrassed. “I’ve had much practice. It’s yours, if you like it.”

You dipped the spoon into the honeyed raspberries. Then you popped the spoon into your mouth. Tart sweetness spilled across your tongue. You closed your eyes and moaned softly. Perhaps you should have found a loaf of bread or something else to cut the cloying sweetness, but you did not care. It had been weeks since you enjoyed anything so luxurious.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” you said, holding out the jar to Halsin. “Try some.”

His gaze was not on the jar—but on you. “You have some,” he said quietly, holding out his hand. “May I?”

You didn’t know what you were agreeing to, but even so you nodded. You trusted him.

His thumb—warm and callused—slid across your chin. A small tendril of honey had stuck there. “Oh,” you said, laughing a little. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Not at all.” He licked the honey from his thumb—and you could have sworn his pupils dilated as he looked at you. “It tastes all the sweeter.”

Heat churned in your stomach. You knew you should break that gaze, look away before this became all too intimate, but you didn’t want to. Your breaths quickened, and you thought you saw his gaze fall to your mouth. Was he going to kiss you? At once, your lips ached for it. You needed his touch more than you needed air or warmth or even a cure.

His fingers brushed your cheek. But before he could utter a word, a voice rang out from across camp.

“I can see you eating something over there!” called Astarion. “If you get sick from fare you found along the road, I am not carrying your pack.”

The mood was broken in an instant. You looked down, half-wondering if you had imagined the moment.

“You won’t have to,” called Halsin sounding as good-natured as ever. “I’ll carry it for her.”

You swallowed. Perhaps you hadn’t imagined it, after all.

End

#halsin #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

450 notes · View notes

bg3-npc · 7 months

Text

No no no no thinking about how Wyll’s devil form did more than just change his appearance

Mizora altered the world’s perception of Wyll too. His name was already tarnished, but The Blade of The Frontiers was making progress. Seven years since his exile, he’s literally gone from a teen to an adult, it’s no effort to be unrecognizable. He could use his positive reputation as The Blade to help diminish negative associations with his title before he revealed himself. He could hide. Mizora has now made sure he’ll never be capable of hiding, in any form, ever again. He’s a devil. He’s The Duke’s exiled, demon-bound son. The Duke’s exiled, demon-bound son is now a devil. He could explain himself, but people would have to be willing to put their judgments aside first. He’s perceived as fallen before he’s even had a chance to make a stand. Yet another obstacle to in an effort to connect with those he’s sworn to protect.

Not to mention relearning his body! Aesthetically, anatomically, biologically, and physiologically Wyll has been changed. It’s not just his appearance that’s foreign, it’s his entire body. Skilled movements that worked in the past might not work now. He no longer desires common foods. Depending on his present company’s opinions on one’s diet, even meals will be difficult now. He even has a line where he says his genitals are different! Yeah it’s meant to be funny, but think about it for half a second. It’s one thing to have a weird dick cause you asked for it. It’s another for it to be altered entirely without your consent. One of the most physically intimate parts of himself, the most intimate body part to share with someone, is now foreign to him. God even a free resource of solo pleasure is different. He was already avoiding intimacy because of his sending stone eye. Wyll doesn’t even have privacy, he’s in a constant state of surveillance!

As soon as Wyll starts to figure out and establish who he is, something (usually someone) demolishes it and puts him even further back. How many more times will he have to start over? How many more times will he have a part of himself stripped away? How much more does he have left until he’s just a title, not an individual? How long before he surrenders any form of identity or autonomy? How can you pick yourself back up when there are no pieces of yourself left? How many more times can you break someone down before there’s nothing left to rebuild?

Why let people get close to you when you could be different in the blink of an eye? Why get close to people when you’d have to constantly prove who you are, that you’re still you? Why form any connections at all when identity can be taken from you in an instant? What’s the point of even having an identity? Every time Wyll sees his reflection, he doesn’t see himself anymore.

Hey Larian what the FUCK did you make this man out of, why is he doing this to me

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #astarion #mine #anyway i need to be sedated

521 notes · View notes

for-a-longlongtime · 7 months

Text

Triple Frontier photo shoots

In everyday's today's hyperfocus spiral, I've fallen into the Triple Frontier promo shots. Surprisingly found a whole bunch of Frankie shots I'd never seen before - how??

So I figured I'd post them here. Does anyone have any more group shots that I've missed? I'm also looking for the solo images of Oscar but haven't had much luck yet.

(Yes, Douchebag is cropped out of all of them and I did crop a few others to be Frankie x Santi because.. well, if you follow me then you know why, babe.)

And then there's this whole bunch of solo shots of which I'd only seen a few before...

Brace yourself.

Anyway... what was I saying? Oh, right. Let me know if you have any more photos of this shoot.

#pedro pascal #oscar isaac #triple frontier #francisco catfish morales #santiago garcia #frankie morales #santiago pope garcia #frankie catfish morales

403 notes · View notes

windfighter · 6 months

Text

Kitties and bumblebees

Part of me want to continue this one and part of me want to move on to the next shiny project so guess what we're doing!

That's right, we're moving to another project and y'all can enjoy (said sarcastically) this one in the meantime ;P

Future AU: In which Kouji is having a bad day, Takuya tries to take care of him and their kids change their names again.

--------

It was a bad day. Kouji stared at the ceiling, listened to Takuya’s snoring. His own breathing was strained, the air felt thick, like he was breathing through jelly. Filling his lungs was a chore and it made pain cut through his chest. If it was anyone else he’d be worried. Instead he just put a hand on Takuya’s arm, listened as Takuya slowly woke up.

”Hey”, Takuya yawned.

Kouji turned his head towards Takuya, closed his eyes. Takuya put his hand on Kouji’s cheek, caressed it. Kissed Kouji’s nose.

”Bad day”, Kouji mumbled.

His voice felt tense. Takuya sat up.

”Ambulance or pillows?” he asked.

Kouji took a shaky breath. Coughed. It didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like he was drowning so…

”Pillows.”

Takuya stood up, rummaged around in the closet before dumping a bunch of pillows on the bed. He put a hand under Kouji’s back and Kouji sat up. His body protested. Really bad day. Takuya lowered him onto the pillows. Breathing was easier and Kouji took a deep breath.

”Anything else I can do?” Takuya asked.

He sounded tired. If Kouji hadn’t woken him up he would have slept another two hours. He probably wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now.

”Painkiller?”

”Alright.”

Takuya pulled his fingers through Kouji’s hair before leaving. Kouji could hear the kids in the other bedroom. They were not as sneaky as they thought and he’d have to give them a lesson later. When his body wasn’t pure agony.

”Papa’s having a bad day”, Takuya said. Probably to the kids. ”He won’t be able to take you to the park today.” Yeah, that was to the kids. Kouji closed his eyes. Yawned. He would have fallen back asleep if breathing didn’t sent stabs of pain through his body. He heard steps, felt the mattress sway.

”’kuya said you’re sick.”

Kouji opened his eyes. Smiled at their daughter, but didn’t try to move.

”Hey, Kitty.”

”Not a kitty today”, she answered.

”Oh?” Kouji moved his arm and she curled up next to him. ”So what do I call you today?”

”I’m a snek!”

”Inzoka”, Kouji said.

Gave her a weak hug. His muscles protested. He wanted to say more, but the ache was too much for words. He closed his eyes again.

”Seika.” Takuya’s voice. ”Papa needs rest, you should let him.”

”I’m fine”, Kouji protested. ”Our little inzoka just wanted a hug.”

”Mhm.”

Takuya put a hand on Kouji’s shoulder and Kouji opened his eyes again. There was a glass of water infront of him.

”Drink up.”

”I could have just taken a pill”, Kouji said.

He grabbed the glass, his hand trembled as it held it. He ignored it, swallowed the water. It tasted dry, bitter, and he stuck his tongue out. Takuya leaned down and placed a kiss on Kouji’s forehead.

”You always say that, and then you throw up because your stomach can’t handle solids on bad days.”

Kouji grimaced.

”I hate that you know me so well.”

He gave Seika another hug.

”Sorry about the park, I’ll take you there when I feel better.”

”I can call uncle Kouichi, ask him to take you there”, Takuya suggested.

”Kou is boring”, Seika answered. ”Doesn’t want to climb trees.”

Takuya raised an eyebrow and looked at Kouji. Kouji pointedly looked in another direction. He was already starting to feel the effect of the medicine, the pain easing up. Or maybe it was just placebo because it shouldn’t start working that quickly. Whichever it was, tiredness started creeping over him again and he yawned. Takuya pulled the blanket up higher over him.

”...we’ll talk about that later. Go back to sleep.”

”But I want to do something”, Seika said.

Takuya sighed. Kouji wished he could get out of bed and entertain the kids, but… yeah.

”Are we doing something?”

The mattress moved again. Kouji groaned. The medicine hadn’t done that much work yet.

”Sorry Bumblebee”, Kouji mumbled.

”Papa, Bumblebee was last week.”

Bumblebee flopped down on top of Kouji and Kouji winced, held his breath.

”Whosit today?” he wheezed out when he could breathe again.

”Naruto!”

Takuya lifted him from Kouji, put him back on the floor. Kouji let out a sigh of relief. He put a hand on Naruto’s head.

”Sorry Naruto”, he said.

”Stop enabling them”, Takuya laughed. ”They have names.”

”If my kid wants to be called Naruto, he gets called Naruto”, Kouji argued.

It left him winded. He massaged his chest. Takuya patted his shoulder.

”Alright kids, to the kitchen with you. We’re making breakfast and letting papa rest while we decide what to do today.”

”I want to fight ninjas!”

”Fine, go check the kitchen for ninjas.”

The kids left. Takuya pulled his fingers through Kouji’s hair.

”Are you okay?”

Kouji shook his head. He grabbed Takuya’s hand and squeezed it.

”I’m glad you’re admitting it”, Takuya squeezed Kouji’s hand back. ”I’ll take the kids to the park and call Kouichi over. Is that okay?”

”Yeah…”

Kouji yawned, leaned heavier against the pillows.

”Might need to take his kid as well.”

”Probably”, Takuya laughed. ”It’ll be fine.”

He rubbed his nose against Kouji’s, stood up again.

”I’ll bring a protein shake for you. Drink it when you can.”

”Mmm… thanks…”

Kouji yawned again. He could tell he was already drifting off. It was harder to stay awake when he didn’t need to be energetic for the kids. Takuya put another blanket over him, left the room and Kouji fell asleep listening to them rummaging around in the kitchen.

#windy writes #digimon frontier #kouji minamoto #takuya kanbara #and their kids!#it's still whumptober so I have an excuse to hurt my blorbo #not that I need an excuse but still #I love Seika she refuses to call them dad and papa and just calls them by their names #maybe she was a bit older when they adopted her #Ryousuke (aka Naruto) has fallen for Takuya's propaganda and says dad and papa #I need to figure these kids out honestly anyway Takuya and Kouji adopts two kids change my mind #jk this is my future au and I get to make the rules

3 notes · View notes

madwomansapologist · 4 months

Text

gift exchange with baldur's gate 3 companions

Navigation | More Weirdos | AO3

synopsis: As the end of the year approaches, the group united by worms decides over starting a tradition: exchanging gifts!

warnings: i don't think there is any...? this can be seen as tavrem or just platonic. ASTARION FLIRTS. i use tav as a nickname for reader, so... i made the sortition on a site so this is really random. i swear. like y'all wont't believe me, but it's random. also, i love those weirdos. just thought i should said that. happy rest of 2023 for all of us!

After losing a bet, Gale was responsible for starting what soon will be a tradition among the almost honorable group.

Gale stood up from his place near the fire, an unopened package floating beside his body, making a little flourish. "When I found out who companion I would gift, an immense honor took over my chest. My virtuosic―"

"Chk," Lae'zel crossed her arms. The look on her face was clear: she was daring Gale to dare her. "Humanoid, use fewer words."

Gale breathe in, so close to losing it. One things is to be disrespected, an that he can bear, but to be interrupted? He prepared jokes, and it would even rhyme. Decided not to be the one that would ruin the night, he ignored her.

"To sum up," he smiled at Lae'zel. "What a honor to put a face to the name, Blade of Frontiers."

Wyll hugged Gale, patting his shoulder affectionately. "The honor is all mine to meet such a renowned wizarding prodig."

Gale handed over the package, and then sat back down by the fire. The wine goblet returned to the wizard's hand.

Wyll's smile gradually died. From the packaging, he took out a book. "General Theory of Contracts and Unilateral Acts?" He glared at Gale. "What should this mean?"

"I'm just helping my friend," Gale took a sip. "So in the future you won't sign any appealing contract."

Facing the book that soon will be burned, Wyll regret getting into debt with Tav just so he could buy the perfect gift.

Wyll picked up the bag left on the log, and ignored Shadowheart's giggles.

"In this year full of surprises, good ones and horrible ones, but meeting this person..." Wyll breathed. "Gale, you worthless cunt. Astarion, I hope you like this."

Astarion took the gift with his fingertips, excited to have guessed who had drawn him. He told Karlach that Wyll was acting strange lately. He didn't thanked Wyll, that is something he'll only do if his gift is good.

When he touched what was inside the bag, he knew that the fabric was of quality. And upon seeing the details of the black ensemble, Astarion's smile became real.

"Oh, darling," he purred. "You spoil me."

With a smug smile and a hesitation to provoke his companions, Astarion continued.

"To show that I am capable of doing the right thing from time to time," Astarion licked his fangs. "I spent arduous weeks collecting what I would need for tonight's best gift."

Everyone booed him.

Rolling his eyes, Astarion took the chest from his tent. "I smell the scent of jealousy coming from all of you," said Astarion. He stopped talking, just to play with everyone's feelings. "That one is to my sweet leader."

You cheered as you stood up. If there's one thing no one can say about Astarion, it's that he doesn't have good taste. After all, there is a reason for why he chose to bite you.

"Thank you, darling," you mirrored the way he talks to you. "That won't make me mad, will it?"

"Oh, Tav, you know me" your nickname flowed from his lips like honey. "I only play with your feelings when we have privacy."

When he handed you the trunk, you even stumbled under its weight. You placed it on one of the fallen trees. Opening it, a smile appeared on your face.

Potions. Lots of potions. Of all kinds. Speed, invisibility, healing. Poisons, coatings. From the most basic to the rarest.

Looking at Astarion, you pouted. "Thank you," you whispered.

Excited, you runned to your tent to take the hidden gift. Something on you told you the problems you got yourself into just to able to get that would be worth it.

"Oh gods," Gale murmured. Sarcams dripped from his tongue. "What is that? Can anyone tell?"

"On my defense," you pointed at him. No words made to your brain, so you breathed in. "How else would I pack an trident?"

"Not like that," said Shadowheart.

You chose not to discuss with them only because you knew that just wrapping it with red silk and a pink knot was a bad idea, but it still hurted to know that it was the best you could do. How can wrapping things be so difficult? Why no one told you that it would be so difficult?

"The person I gonna gift deserve the whole world, and one day I will sure that they get's it," you started. Surprised that Lae'zel didn't stopped you already, you continued. "I really wasn't expecting to like that person, but she won my heart so easily."

"Heart," Lae'zel murmured. "Is it Karlach?"

Karlach jumped from her place. "IS IT ME?!"

You showed your tongue to Lae'zel, then turned to Karlach. "Yes, it is!"

In a matter of seconds you were too far from the ground. Only when your breathing had already become a problem did Karlach carefully place you on the ground again.

Karlach tore open the wrapping, the trident glinting in her hands. She was already thanking you so happily. The only reason why she didn't hugged you again was because she didn't want to hurt you.

"This pretty girl in your hands is Nyrulna," you started. "Because of an spell, it'll return to your hand when thrown. Plus, no one can force you to drop it. It also creates an explosion. But the best part is that I found a way to make it red!"

Wyll sighed, and threw his book on the fire.

"Hey!" Gale yelled.

After a little dance to celebrate, Karlach tried to control her beaming smile. She didn't knew most of her companions felt their hearts getting warmer, but if she did it would have just worried her.

Karlach held onto the box she protected with her life to ensure no one would tamper with the gift. "This person deserves a fucking break and I―"

"Shadowheart," you yelled. "Is it Shadowheart?"

"You're fucking right!" Karlach pointed at the cleric. "Is it you, my girl! You're the one that deserve a break!"

"Well," Shadowheart forced a little smile. "Thank you. I guess."

Karlach handed over the small package, and without delay she pulled Shadowheart into a hug. The brunette had no option but to accept it. Carefully, Shadowheart opened the package and found a book with leather cover.

She threw the package on the floor to open it. "What is it about?" Shadowheart asked, flipping through the book.

"It's a collection of erotic stories," said Karlach.

Halsin took a sip from his goblet. Finally someone with taste.

Shadowheart ignored whatever wit comment Astarion made and took a deep breath. "Of course it is."

Shadowheart wasn't recovered from her gift, but the tiredness that overtook her members was also caused by the irony of what was about to happen.

"Lady of Sorrow guides us," Shadowheart whispered to herself. Instead of trying to make people guess who she's about to gift, Shadowheart just threw the box onto Lae'zel's lap. "There is no reason for me to delay this torture even more."

"Chk. Oh. This seems like it's you fate to deal with me." Lae'zel opened the box with one of her daggers. "Let's see if I will thank you, follower of Shar."

Inside the box, Lae'zel found several instruments for improving weapons. How she hated liking the gift. Lae'zel would like to do like Wyll and burn everything just to embarrass Shadowheart, but she couldn't damage such well-made instruments.

"Well done, cleric," Lae'zel hissed.

Lae'zel knew that her gift was the best, but there was a possibility that she did not thought about: maybe she had got the gift she would like to receive. Either way, it would be worth it.

"I share the cleric's interest for no unecessary fuss," Lae'zel was quickly to say. "Bear, I hope you enjoy this."

She handed over the box and walked away before Halsin could think about hugging her. Halsin undid the knot that kept the box closed, and everyone gasped at the sight of his gift.

You looked at Lae'zel. "How did you... Did you keep it all this time? How did you preserve it?"

In the glass above Halsin's hands was Minthara's head.

"You truly are..." Halsin sighed. He didn't knew what to say. "Civilized."

Before Halsin could recover, Gale approached the druid.

Unable to say anything, Halsin handed him the package. Gale didn't care, he just wanted to know what he had won. His smile didn't last a lot.

"Boots, Halsin?" He yelled. "Very mature of you. Very mature."

Wyll laughed at last.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.