tiki love


endless list of otps → say’ri and tiki (fire emblem: awakening)

↳ “i fear my lifetime is but a few short days compared to yours. would you still have me, knowing that i cannot stay for long?” // “without a moment’s hesitation.”

my favorite scenes in all of fire emblem, unranked:
  • Clarine reading Narcian to filth
  • “Marth is a weak, pathetic child.” – Elice, New Mystery of the Emblem
  • Sumia punching Chrom in the face
  • Ike being utterly disgusted beyond words
  • People being legitimately surprised Naesala betrayed them
  • Volug considering eating everybody
  • Leo having no skill in magical restraint so when he mines up some ores he destroys an entire mountain
  • Xane pretends to be Tiki and declares his love for Marth as Tiki before revealing he’s Xane. This isn’t resolved and he keeps calling Marth “Princey” and he says that Marth made him rethink his stance on humans so it could be assumed th
  • By exploiting the Staff of Aum in Shadow Dragon, you can get TWO Falchions and TWO Divine Dragons
  • “If I were not a holy woman, I would beat you senseless.” – L'Arachel, Sacred Stones
  • Both of Heather’s recruitment conversations revolve around Nephenee, the one with Brom accounting to “I’m not going to even bother with you, but that cute girl needs help!” and the one with Nephenee literally including the line “I’m the type that likes to help nice country girls like you.”

draceempressa  asked:

Grima, possessing Robin: The best ship is the angsty one, that you possessed one of them, kill the other, but don't sank it. Make it clear that they used to love each other, and your vessel still loved his lover that you make him kill with his own hands. Anankos, possessing Takumi: Oh, I know that feel! That's how I worked with my ship too! Tiki: That's not how you ship your OTP! Naga: I think once a guy named Formotiis shipped his OTP this way too...

BREAKING NEWS, EVERYONE! The FE games are just one giant sitcom directed by Grima and Anankos. 

We were Gods - Chapter 2

Golden; the lament of Patroclus

There’s a light in him. A molten skyline with soft edges and lazy thrown half-shades, that reflects like the blaze of fire on water. Pure, unbridled gasoline that pumps through his veins and pushes him - pushes pushes pushes - towards a larger goal, to something glorious, magnificent, real.

Sometimes he wakes in darkness that threatens to swallow him whole.

Sometimes he wakes in golden sunlight that catches in the little droplets of sweat on his front.

He’s not entirely sure which one is better.

He sorts his life in cycles and ages, and not in days or years like all the other do.

Patroclus is ten when Hector teases him about his olive skin and throws his gym clothes in a puddle of mud and rainwater.

Patroclus is thirteen when Apollo thinks he can beat the crap out of him.

(But Patroclus is fast, you see, and he runs and runs and runs until Apollo bends over and gasps for air like a fish on land.)

Patroclus is fourteen when he realizes he’s not like the other boys, because girls with bare legs and creamy skin or full, luscious lips do nothing for him.

Patroclus is seventeen when the sun blinds him and golden rays catch in the thick mess of curls of a young man; he meets Achilles.

It’s not until then, that his life finally starts.

Achilles runs.

Achilles always does.

Achilles runs if he’s angry. Achilles runs if he’s happy. And Achilles runs if he’s nearly collapsing from the weight on his shoulders.

So, Achilles runs.

And Patroclus watches him.

He watches him, because he loves the way the sun plays with Achilles‘ hair, or the way his face lightens up in the gold.


Always gold.

He loves him.

Tomorrow, Patroclus thinks and rests silent. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

Would you -

the boy breathes against his lips.

Legs intertwined, heat rising between them, fingers pressing in the hollows under his chin -

Yes, he answers, I would.

One day, he steals Hector’s aviators.

The boy can deal.

They look better on Patroclus anyway.

Demeter’s Diner is green and warm, with a ton of tropical flowers standing all around; a palm in the corner, golden Musas on the table, Hibiscus hanging in gaudy pink on the wooden counter. The wood and straw remind him often enough of a Haitian tiki bar. Patroclus loves it - three days a week he works Persephone’s shift so the girl can have some time off.

Achilles visits him every shift. He drinks a soda and talks when no customers are around. Sometimes he eats a Blueberry muffin and Patroclus observes, fascinated by how little crumbs of pastry stick to the corner of his mouth. The moment goes on, Patroclus eyes transfixed on Achilles‘ mouth - Achilles licks his lips.

Tomorrow, Patroclus thinks again and rips his eyes away, busies himself cleaning the counter with an old blue rag. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

He wants Achilles like he wants a punch in the mouth.

Like blood sweeping between his teeth and lips.

He wants to watch Achilles unravel, like a mess of guts churned together and being pulled apart one by one.

He wants Achilles.

But the risk asking Achilles if he wants him too is simply too high.

I would, Patroclus says.

You would what? -

Confusion. Hope. Fingertips painful around his throat.

I’d do anything, Patroclus answers again.


Hector corners him after his last history period.

Patroclus’ back hits the cold surface of the old school building and the rough masonry scratches through the thin cotton shirt he wears. The sun radiates its unyielding shine from the sky and dips the schoolyard in a sea of rich gold.

Achilles, he thinks and closes his eyes against the warm breeze.

Achilles, he thinks again when Hector’s fist meets his jaw.