forgot him sorry

anonymous asked:

long haired yurio.

there he is!

punsbulletsandpointythings  asked:

Your myth retellings are gorgeous. Would you tell another please? Maybe something with Hermes?

Pandora is made from earth, shaped by the hands of Hephaestus and made in the image of his beloved wife. Aphrodite gifts her with grace and charisma. Athena teaches her to weave and bestows cleverness upon her.

She stands in front of Hermes, and the god frowns and touches her with a single fingertip on her chin, moving her head one way than the other. “They’ll eat you alive,” he says, and she doesn’t understand.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles a vacant smile. All of the cleverness in the world will do her no good without any context. “We are the same,” she says, pressing a hand to Hermes’s chest. She is made from earth and has the skin to mach. He is a celestial god, and his skin is the same rich shade of brown.

He did not ask to be born any more than his mother asked to bare him. His creation, just like hers, is at the whims of Zeus. All for some little lost fire, all because Prometheus wanted his people to be warm, and, well, he is the god of the thieves after all –

So he gifts her with deceit, with selfishness, with cunning. Her smile leaves her face all at once as she’s filled with self-awareness. “He’ll be angry with you,” she says, “I am not what you were supposed to make.”

“Gods have short memories,” he says, and doesn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice. “Do not worry about me, gifted child. You have larger problems than my fate.”

He has turned her from something pure into – something more like him. Her face darkens even further as her perfectly crafted mind slots all the pieces together, and he can’t help but find her lovely. It’s how she was made, after all. “I can’t stop it, can I? Whatever they’re planning for me to do?”

“No,” Hermes says, “but now you might be able to survive it.”

“Will I want to?” she asks, and he doesn’t answer. She doesn’t expect him too.

~

She hides from everyone, lives in a cave at the edge of the city. The gods had called her the first woman, but that’s not true, she can see.

There are women. They smile and laugh have work roughened hands. She aches to join them, but she has the beauty of a goddess. They will know. If she joins them, they will know she is not of them, and it will set into motion whatever trap Zeus has planned.

She is not human, not in the same way, molded from clay by a god’s hands. But she is of humans, and not eager to bestow upon them the harm she’s destined to bring them. She bathes in streams where only nymphs reside, steals into the city in the cloak of night and pilfers from the baker’s trash.

“When they said they sent my brother a wife,” a low, amused voice says too close behind her one night, “I had not expected a begger.”

She whirls around, hard bread clenched tight in front of her, an incredibly inefficient shield. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees him, dark and tall and eyes like the night sky. He looks like Hermes. Like her. “Who are you?” she demands. They’re in an alley corner, and of her gifts flight is not among them. She’ll have to fight him to get away.

She’s not afraid of him. Maybe another mortal would be, cornered in the middle of the night by a man she doesn’t know. But she’s no normal mortal woman, and besides – he has something comforting about him, like the hearthfire attended by Hestia. Something warm.

“I am Prometheus,” says the man, and no wonder he reminds her of fire. “What do they call you?”

“You are meant to be in the deepest pits of Hades’s realm,” she snaps, and shifts her grip on the stale bread so that she can throw it at him. He’s the whole reason she’s here to begin with, him and his thievery.

He shrugs and walks closer to her, watching her like one would watch a wild animal. Good. Here, in this dark alley where no one would find a cooling body until morning, it is he that should be afraid. “Gods forget,” he says, “and Hades had grown cold in his place beneath the earth.”

She pauses, considers. “You stole fire for Hades?”

“No,” he corrects, “I stole fire for the people. But Hades benefited as well. Enough that he was willing to forget the terms of my punishment.”

“What do you want?” she asks for the second time. “Why are you here?”

He stops, too close to her, “The question is why are you here?”

She steps into his space now, following him as he backs away from her, “I am here because of you, fire-stealer, because gods may forget but they do not forgive, and I am the punishment they have unleashed upon the world.”

“What a punishment you are,” he says, looking at her lips, and she forgets to hate him only long enough to kiss him.

~

Hermes watches her, watches them. He doesn’t know Zeus’s plan, if this is part of it or not, but he watches her, and he worries. He thinks it is, he can see Aphrodite’s magic clinging to Pandora, but he doesn’t know why.

He would go to his mother, but she’s always difficult to find, Gaea preferring to live in streams and rivers rather than face the man she bore a son for. But his mother’s father, on the other hand, is always in the same place.

“Grandfather,” Hermes greets, touching lightly down onto the earth, “How are you?”

“How am I always, boy?” Atlas grunts out, legs and arms straining as he holds up the sky above the earth. “Tired.”

Hermes lips quirk up the corners. Some days, he thinks he’s more Atlas’s grandson than he’s Zeus’s son. “I need some advice, Grandfather.”

Atlas raises an eyebrow, “I’m listening.”

So Hermes tells him everything, from beginning to end, because he can’t figure out what his father’s plan is, but Atlas might. He’s known the man for longer, at least.

Atlas nods, slow, and says, “A bride of gods, a gifted child. I can think of only one reason to create such a child.” Hermes waits. Atlas sighs and says, “There is a jar, within Olympus, that becomes sealed when it leaves the realm of the gods. After that, only a being neither mortal nor celestial may open it.”

“What are they planning to put inside?” Hermes demands, heart spiking. What are they planning to unleash upon the unsuspecting earth?

His grandfather smirks, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is this – what are you going to put inside?”

Keep reading

10

so you want to stan the meme team?
         ↳ a serious primer for the serious future rangers stans

I really like the image of Vader rolling Luke’s name around in his head, saying it out loud to himself, testing it, hearing it. 

Luke. Luke Skywalker. My son’s name is Luke. 

Practicing different ways to say it. Maybe he tries it out in all of his different, typical Vader tones. You know, in the way he addresses Imperial Officers or Rebel Prisoners or even the Emporer. None of them probably sound right. 

Saying it quietly, in a gentle voice. It’s unfamiliar and maybe uncomfortable because he hasn’t been gentle in years but it’d sound right and good. 

I like the idea that there’s a build-up for Vader to that first moment. That the moment when he is looking at his son and calls him by his name for the first time, that it would be this important moment for him. One that he has thought a lot about and prepared for. 

And that every time he says it is precious. That he just keeps trying to get it right because this is his son and his name is Luke. 

4

I did the sketch for this in-game dialogue like a year ago. The DM definitely didn’t know this at the time, but the way to Bruno’s heart is to be impressed by how big he is (and also give him potions).

2

@songsaboutsalad  BRO! Here he is! Probably on a little study break at the breakfast counter
✧・゚: *✧・゚:*  spacing out  *:・゚✧*:・゚✧   ;^)

2

pls forgive me i know it’s not what he said… (but it’s what he thought)

2

*leaves this here and runs away*

Just imagine how differently things would have gone for the companions without Hawke there, though?

Aveline dies beside Wesley, fighting the darkspawn while protecting the tainted corpse of her husband to the last breath.

Varric goes down to the Deep Roads with Bartrand. If they aren’t all killed by darkspawn without Hawke there to defend them, then Varric faces his brother’s betrayal alone, locked behind the stone walls of an old, silent thaig.

Fenris continues running from Danarius, always looking over his shoulder, always living as prey to the tiger at his back. Eventually, his master catches up with him, and he returns to slavery as a memory-less wraith once again.

Anders goes to the Chantry alone. He fights the Templars there, and doesn’t care, doesn’t bother with healing this time when they put a sword through his heart, because all he can see is that fucking sunburst where it should never be.

Isabela goes to the Chantry alone, too. But instead of Templars, there are pirates, and no one’s at her back to keep the knife from sliding into it.

Merrill is sent away from her clan to Kirkwall, where there are no friends to keep her naivete with city-living from leading her to the Templars’ doorstep. Even if she does manage to avoid them, manages to rebuild her Eluvian - her demon-possessed mentor ends up killing her, in the end.

Sebastian hunts down his family’s murderers. But he is alone, and he is only one man, and he is cut down as he grasps for one more arrow in his empty quiver.

I just. I have a lot of feels about the Kirkwall crew and Hawke.

8

The White Prince & the Maiden of Prayers

Please like or reblog if you’re using!
↳ Imgur link in case Tumblr messes up