My thoughts and headcannons about Dammon:
For starters, a pure headcannon is that one of his parents or grandparents is elven or human given the uncommon whites of his eyes. Also why his overall look seems almost more delicate compared to the other tieflings refugees we find in the Druid Grove.
I daydream about if and how he struggled to navigate in two worlds where perhaps he always felt a little out of place. Not quite fitting in with either, and so he turned to his craft with more zeal than most to find solace. Or maybe his clever mind alone made it hard to relate to most, too. So he often goes inward to a place where he feels he belongs, safe, and it helps shelter his creative soul.
It might be part of the reason why he stuck to his forge rather than joining the others in celebration. Large gatherings make him a little uneasy as he's not well-versed in small talk. His mind instead buzzes away to pick apart and resolve problems instead. He likes to keep moving and forgets to eat, sleep, and clean up sometimes.
Right now, he comes off confident yet humble and aware of his limitations when it comes to his art.
"He blames his tools."
No, he has a very thorough understanding of what he can do with what he has and yet he continues to always strive to push past those limits. He finds a way to make do in any circumstance, learn from it, and always seek solutions.
That is the most wonderfully appealing and relatable thing about him with other creative souls-or anyone for that matter. His work is everything to him as it drives away bad memories and has been his safe space for most if not all of his adult life or even longer.
As for those eyes of his to me, they look like solar eclipses in a summer's sky now. I think he knows how to wield them to advantage but only just a little.
He's not very practiced at seduction as his hammer. I get a sense that he's suffered a rejection in the past that cut so deep it makes him hesitant to this day. That and he kinda comes off as an overthinker, which can fuel doubts when it comes to matters of the heart. The way he moves, his head dipping comes off a little shy with only a vague idea of just how bewitching he can be. He's most confident and shines the brightest when speaking about his work. He's the most breathtaking in those moments.
On launch, at seeing how he had been changed, all I could whisper aloud in awe was, "Whoa... they sure gave him a glow up! Wow, his eyes are even more mesmerizing now..."
But even in early access, I fell for that dreamy look he had in them when they lacked an infernal glow and were but red and gold. We all fell for his wistful yearnings murrmered as he worked. How it plucked at our heartstrings and gave us a small, if not large, compulsion to bring him every hammer or other forge related item we found.
Even in the city of Baldur’s Gate, if I see a hammer or ingot, I snatch it up and think, "Dammon could sure use that!"
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I have a confession to make, so you know how cmi Jkay has so many secrets and we still don't know shit ri8? So whenever you'd talk about his secrets or whenever there'd be a reference to his secrets in the fic, I could not help but think, ' huh secrets? He must have a whole family with kids and oc is probably the sidechick' or ' yeah he has a daughter for sure, he was a f-boy so' or 'he must be married or divorced, yep definitely' or ' he's probably bi' lmao.. but then when you think about the character, cmi jk is not like that yk? He's so warm and soft and sentimental so at the end of the day all of my theories would not make sense lmao but could you really blame me for this? I'm a women and this is how women minds work its almost natural okay😭😭 or maybe i have trust issues idk😭 but yeah, not saying I've completely changed my mind over this, I'm still sus of him ( I love him sm tho🥺) but I'm trying to be a little less extreme for now, coz ik he's not the type 😭😭 but idk 😭 okay ya im done 😂
hahaha you know, the family/kids theory came in moooonths back, too. idk if it was you, but that's so funny to me 😭 but yeah, maybe you're right that he's not that kind of person. just a former college boy trying to deal with the hurdles life's been throwing at him.
and whatever the hell happened with him that we still don't know about ??? we shall find out hopefully soon, bc it'll definitely be an eye-opener, i think.. <3
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Okay.
As much as I love feral Satan, who lets his instincts run wild and growls, bites and everything else… his soft side is so fuckin’ cute.
The Satan that stares at you in confusion as you tend to a small cut on his hand he’d received on one of his rampages, unbothered by the mess around the two of you and concerned solely with him. How he doesn’t quite know why his chest feels so warm and tight as he looks at your gentle, concerned expression.
Satan, who doesn’t understand why he feels so weightless with you, why his heart flutters and why he wants to hold you so gently, as if cradling something precious.
Satan, whose anger fades just from your presence alone, overtaken with feelings he’s never experienced, that baffle him entirely but he can’t get enough.
Satan, who desperately throws himself into research just to understand you a little more, to put a name on how he feels about you— who’s just as afraid of his own feelings as he is elated by them.
Satan, who worries you’ll be frightened of him if his temper rises, but you never are, even when he tells you that you should be.
Satan, who lays beside you, watching your sleeping face and utterly baffled that you trust him so completely to allow him to see you in such a vulnerable state… who knows deep down he’ll protect you forever.
Satan, who fumbles each time he tries to explain any of this to you, whose face becomes adorably reddened with each failed attempt.
Satan, who realizes that you’ve accepted him entirely, his every fault, his everything, before he had even come close to accepting himself. Who loves you more than he could ever put to words, or that he could ever really comprehend.
Just him. You know? Ahh, just helping him come to terms with everything he doesn’t know, to grow and understand. Helping him, in the end, to love.
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We haven’t touched on Cowboy!Ghost’s, well, ghosts before, and I literally couldn’t get this out of my head last night. I’m going to treat this like actual fic, I feel so fancy...
Warnings:
Hurt/Comfort, Graphic depictions of animal death, PTSD, Ghost going through it
Pairing:
Ghost x OC (Goose) [can be read as x reader]
Summary:
Early days of Ghost and Goose’s relationship. Ghost has always prided himself on his ability to handle any situation, no matter how bleak. So why does he find himself so ill equipped to handle something as small as a couple chickens death?
A coyote got into the henhouse last night.
You can hear its yips and snarls, the aggressive barks of your cattle dog as it darts at the chicken wire, the starling lack of clucking. You whistle for the dog, and it races to go check on the other animals. The last thing you need is for the coyote to get into it with Mav when you pull its sorry ass from the chicken pen. You yawn, trying to hold onto the hope that at least some of your ladies got somewhere safe before the carnage started. You’ll stop by the tractor supply later and grab some chicks to bolster your flock again.
You stop. Watching Ghost stand frozen in front of the pen, shoulders tight, barely breathing. His eyes a million miles away.
The pen is littered with half shredded chickens. Feather and muscle strewn about. The wild frenzy of a half starved predator laid out in front of you. The loose organs and scent of death turns your stomach, you can’t imagine what it does to a fresh soldier. Ghost’s finger twitches, beating a rapid tattoo against his thigh, his gun is still neatly holstered. You suppose that’s for the best, or maybe a signal of the worst.
You think about your first fourth of July after your Daddy’s second tour. The way he’d disappeared into the house like a ghost. The way your momma handed you off to your granny and followed after him. How your granny had told you: sometimes you see something so bad it never leaves you.
"Go wait in the house," you tell him as soft as you can, pulling at his arm to try and pull his attention. Ghost nods mutely, eyes still glued to the blood soaked earth and torn limp bodies. "Go on," you press a little more firmly, you lead him away from the henhouse, out of sight of it, "I'll be in shortly."
Ghost follows your direction, ears ringing, head stuffed with cotton. Everything feels far away and yet so brightly present. He can smell gunpowder and burnt flesh, can feel the wet warmth of blood on his clothes where he knows there isn't any. Can hear the shouting. He pushes the front door to the house open and holds the brass handle tight in his fingers for a long moment, just standing, waiting. As if he'll hear the pang of gunfire over the infinitely patient silence.
He goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Stares at the black iron as it sits on the burner and waits for the yip of the coyote, the last gunshot. It doesn’t come. You take his hand in the silence and turn the burner off. Lead him to the table and sit him heavily in one of the wooden chairs. Ghost keeps his eyes forward, his shoulders rigid. He waits. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. For the memories to stop.
His hat is removed, set carefully on the table. A warm cloth touches his face, wiping gently at the crease in his forehead, at the stern set of his brow. Your fingers reach for the edge of his mask and he grabs your wrist, eyes finally darting to yours in a panic. He can't. It's too much, too hard. He can't.
Somehow you seem to understand, fingers sliding instead to cup his jaw, to rub your thumb against his cheek over the soft cotton. The washcloth wipes his brow again, still warm and soothing.
"You're safe," you murmur, "Safe and sound right here with me. And Daddy.” You tack Price on, as if you might not be enough to convince him. As if it isn’t your touch that’s bringing him back, your eyes that hold his with such kind patience it makes his heart hurt. “We won't let anything hurt you."
Ghost doesn’t say anything, can’t make his lips move or conjure a thought as to what he might say. If there is anything to say. Is there anything to say?
You tip his head forward, press the lightly damp cloth against the back of his neck. He lets his hand drop from your wrist as you move your hand from his cheek to scratch your fingers through his hair. Gentle, calming touches. Never asking more from him than his comfort.
He settles his hands on your hips, and for a moment he can pretend you’re his.
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