biography | vanity | musings | desires
Stranger Things
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

if i look back, i am lost
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Product Placement

Janaina Medeiros
Misplaced Lens Cap
cherry valley forever
styofa doing anything

â
Aqua Utopiaď˝ćľˇăŽĺşă§č¨ćśăç´Ąă
hello vonnie
dirt enthusiast
h
NASA
trying on a metaphor
Jules of Nature

Kaledo Art
will byers stan first human second
seen from Denmark

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from TĂźrkiye

seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from France

seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from CĂ´te dâIvoire
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@atticusxgalen
biography | vanity | musings | desires

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Atticus preferred to run early.
Before the sun had fully clawed its way over the horizon. Before the camp stirred to life. Before people -- loud, intrusive, alive in ways he had long since stopped relating to -- started filling the space with noise.
The cold bit at the air, sharp and clean, settling into his lungs with every steady breath. The path was familiar by now -- packed dirt, scattered frost, the faint crunch beneath his boots the only sound accompanying him. He didnât think much while he ran. That was the point. Movement without memory. Breath without thought.
A flicker of movement off to the side caught his eye.
He slowed before he meant to.
Atticus exhaled slowly, already knowing what heâd find before he turned his head.
The dog stood just beyond the tree line.
A German shepherd, same one as always. Tall, broad through the shoulders, coat thick and dark against the pale morning light. It didnât approach him. Though, it never did. No, the dog only watched him with that same steady, unblinking patience -- like it was waiting for something.
ââŚYou again.â His voice was rough with disuse, barely more than a mutter.
The dogâs ears twitched.
Atticus scoffed under his breath, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. Heâd seen it enough times now -- same stretch of trail, same distance kept. Never closer. Never farther.
Persistent.
Annoying.
He should keep moving.
Instead, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling free a strip of jerky -- something he barely touched himself -- and crouched, slow and deliberate.
âDonât make this weird,â he muttered, more to himself than the animal.
He tossed it a short distance between them.
The dog didnât move at first.
Then -- careful. Measured. It stepped forward, nose lowering, eyes never leaving him as it took the offering. Atticus watched it chew, expression unreadable, something faintly tightening in his chest before he shoved it down just as quickly.
âCongratulations,â he said flatly. âYouâve officially got better persistence than most people.â
The shift in the air came first -- the faint disturbance of movement behind him, the quiet crunch of footsteps that didnât belong to him⌠or the dog.
Atticus' shoulders went rigid.
He didn't turn right away. His jaw tightened instead, gaze flicking once toward the shepherd before settling forward again, posture going still in that particular way that wasnât calm so much as coiled.
âYou can come out now,â he said, voice low, edged -- not raised, but carrying.
@olympianheirs
Location: Right outside the Apollo cabin, Caelum had a nightmare/vision
Fevered visions had pulled Caelum from his sleep again. Peeling the sweat soaked shirt from himself as he swung his legs out of the window of his room, hopping down on the ground instead of opting to go through the hall and see his brother's. Plagued by precognition, it always came with a fever, and always only tragedies when he was asleep. The visions that came in his waking hours tended to be more...peaceful. He had long ago stopped trying to decipher them. If his father wanted him to pursue them he would show him the visison more than once.
The cool night air helped soothe not just his heated skin but also his mind. Shaking the vision from his mind he leaned back against the outside of the cabin, clearing his throat, deciding to sing to clear his mind.
His voice as clear and beautiful as any angels, a hymn to the gods. Was it a bit too complimentary? Sure but it was taught to him by one of his older brothers when he was still young. Music had always soothed him.
Atticus didnât sleep much.
When he did, it wasnât dreams that came -- it was memory. Twisted metal. Blood in the snow. Silence where there shouldnât have been any. Heâd learned, quickly, that sleep was a liability.
So he was already awake when the noise started.
A soft thud. Movement outside the cabins. Then -- of all things -- singing.
Atticus went still, head tilting just slightly as the sound carried through the night air. Clear. Controlled. Too clean for this place. It didnât belong out here, not among the cold and the quiet and the things better left undisturbed.
He stepped out anyway.
Barefoot. Shirt half-buttoned. Expression already set into something sharp and unimpressed. He found him easily -- leaned up against the cabin like he owned the silence, like he hadnât just broken it. Atticus watched for a moment. Didnât interrupt. Let the sound finish bleeding into the dark before he spoke.
ââŚYou done?â His voice cut through the last note, flat and unamused.
He dragged a hand through his hair, gaze flicking over the other man -- sweat-soaked, flushed, like heâd just crawled out of something unpleasant.
âBecause if thatâs supposed to be soothing,â he added, lip curling faintly, âyou might wanna try something quieter. Some of us donât need a damn hymn in the middle of the night.â
A beat.
His eyes narrowed, just slightly.
âYou sick,â he muttered, more observation than concern, gaze lingering a second too long before he looked away. âOr is this just⌠your thing?â
001.
duke stepped back and admired the small poster heâd just pinned to the corkboard. it was the last of a handful heâd strewn across the island and he was eager to finally get the advertisement for his practice out there. duke had been on the island for almost five years, but remained very closed-off about his previous life. only his closest friends and family on the island knew more than superficial details about the man. before landing on olympus, duke was born and raised in new york city. he graduated as a hypnotherapist almost ten years ago. heâd been drawn to counselling well before learning the truth of his father; connecting with the god of sleep and developing his powers in his 20s made everything fall into place. he counselled his patients with traditional means, and only when necessary would start experimenting with hypnos' influence. a part of him was hoping to slip away before anyone noticed the advertisement and asked him about it. he was feeling anxious about putting himself out there, but excited to see if his methods worked on demigods. duke turned around, not realizing someone was standing behind him. "oh hey, sorry man. didn't see you there. let me know if you've got any questions" he awkwardly gestured to the poster, which was a brief advertisement of his services and pull tabs along the bottom with his contact info.
Atticus was not the therapy sort.
He didnât need to sit across from some stranger and be told what his feelings were or what they meant. He knew very well the bottomless well that was grief -- that was despair. What could someone who had never truly lost anything pretend to understand about that kind of emptiness? That aching, hollow nothingness?
It was all bullshit, as far as he was concerned.
So no, he hadnât stopped to read the practice advertised in neat, careful handwriting. If anything, heâd meant to scoff at it -- dismiss it outright -- and continue on his way back to his cabin.
Heâd had enough of training for the day. The cold might never touch him, but the warmth of the sun felt like a brand -- a welcome torment. Sometimes, he leaned into it. Let it burn. At least then, he could still feel something. At least then, he could pretend he was something like alive.
He grunted when the other man turned, running straight into him.
His scowl shifted -- just barely -- at the manâs words. Him? Asking questions about therapy? The idea was almost laughable.
Atticusâ lip curled.
âQuestions?â He let out a soft, derisive breath of a laugh. âIs this bullshit supposed to be helpful?â
Atticus preferred the silence of his own company⌠and, on occasion, the silence of Jackâs.
There werenât many people he tolerated on the isle. He wasnât exactly your average Ned Flanders. If anything, heâd learned that if he scowled long enough, people tended to get the message -- and fuck off.
He hadnât always been this way.
But these days⌠he preferred not to keep people too close. That only complicated things.
Jack, at least, was uncomplicated -- in the only way Atticus could tolerate.
It helped that the guy knew a hell of a lot more than Atticus did about how everything worked. Not that Atticus cared all that much. But since death didnât seem particularly interested in keeping him, he had nothing better to do with his time than⌠this.
Which was how he found himself dropping down beside Jack -- who had set himself up high in the amphitheater, where the view of the ocean was brightest, though he remained tucked into the shade.
Atticus stared out at the horizon, expression hard, distant.
âI could kill for a damn cigarette.â
He meant it.
@laurelwithered

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
[ henry cavill, bisexual, cis-male & he/him] â a new age of heroes approaches, among those is ATTICUS GALEN, child of BOREAS. they have walked this earth for 40 years, living in ANCHORAGE, ALASKA, as a SURVIVALIST, until they came to the isle of olympus 1 years ago. they will carve their name in myth with their STEADFAST, ADAPTABLE, RESILENT but the fates know of their CURT, SARDONIC, DOMINEERING that may immortalize them forever.
Atticus had always loved the cold -- the bitter bite of it, the soft caress of the north wind, harsh and unyielding. Where others hid beneath coats, scarves, and gloves, he stood outside unshielded and basked.
It was an odd thing for a child to love. And yet, oddly enough, his mother didnât seem surprised at all. If anything, it only seemed to warm her to him, to deepen the bond between mother and child.
Jane Galen was a good mother. She was soft, gentle, and skilled at shielding his young mind from the harshness of the world. They were poor in wealth and status, but rich in warmth and love. He wanted for nothing in his childhood.
She even gave him the greatest gift of all, one snowy January morning: a younger sister, bright red and disgruntled, but the cutest thing Atticus had ever laid eyes on.
He loved her, he knew, even more than he loved the cold.
His mother named her Freya, after the Norse goddess of love and beauty, and with each passing year, she grew to resemble her namesake more and more. She was a clever child, with sky-colored eyes and hair that glinted like gold in the sun.
As Atticus grew older, he saw himself less as a son or a brother, and more as a protector of his family. His mother never spoke of his father -- nor Freyaâs-- only that they were different, and she didn't wish to reminisce.
He didn't understand why. And he wouldn't. Not until much, much later.
HENRY CAVILL as WILL SHAW
The Cold Light of Day
(2012)