#cough besides the fact that its not canon cough cough

[talkativeanonymous]

Fine okay you can have more Mastermind Whit!! SIGH!! I guess!! /silly Transparents under the cut as usual <3

[set-phasers-to-whump]

not alone (anymore)

prompt: "who said you could rest?"

whumpee: river cartwright

fandom: slow horses, slough house

hi everyone here is another sh fic. it's show and book canon compliant but river does not have a car yet which is i believe a detail from the books. i hope you like it, i had fun with it!!! (title adapted from i don't want to be alone by billy joel which fun fact is my favorite song!)

River vaguely hears the telltale sound of Lamb entering Slough House, a slammed door and stomping footsteps, but can’t be bothered to lift his head from where he’s pillowed it atop folded arms on his desk. 

This proves to be a mistake. 

He hears Lamb’s elephantine footfalls stop in the doorway of his room, and then Lamb himself barks, “Cartwright! Who said you could rest? Christ, you’re not exhausted after a long morning of doing fuck-all, are you?”

River reluctantly raises his head, which spins, and wiggles his mouse. He doesn’t say anything, but Lamb, evidently satisfied by this suggestion of work to be done, leaves. 

River immediately puts his head back down. He feels bad. He’d woken up this morning with nothing but a sore throat, and now it’s not even midday and he feels like absolute dogshit. His head is pounding and he’s freezing and his throat hurts terribly and his nose won’t stop running and every so often harsh and painful coughs will tear their way out of his lungs. 

He’d leave, but he doesn’t have the energy to walk to the bus stop, to wait, to ride, perhaps standing, the considerable distance back to his flat. 

He rests for a while longer, and then hears the sound he’s been dreading all morning. A distinctive thump from directly above his head. 

He is not going up to Lamb’s office. The thought of going up the stairs is enough to make him want to cry, not to mention the suffocating feeling of the room, the unpleasant stench, the general vibe of despair. He’s got enough despair all on his own at the moment, thank you very much. 

He presses his head harder into his arms and wills everything to just go away. 

As if the universe would be that kind. 

Another loud thump resounds, and Lamb yells, “Cartwright! Are you deaf, or what?”

River groans, which grates on his throat. Fuck, he feels awful. 

Lamb continues thumping, and the noise is making his head absolutely throb. He can hear disgruntled muttering coming from the room beside him, and resigns himself to tackling the stairs. 

He stands very slowly. His head spins terribly anyway, and he has to brace himself against his desk for several seconds until the world more or less resumes its equilibrium. 

He trudges to the stairs and struggles upwards, gripping the dilapidated railing like a lifeline. 

When he at last arrives in Lamb’s office, the man in question is leaning back in his desk chair, scratching his chest. He definitely looks like he’d had good reason to call River up here. 

River doesn’t have the energy to say anything besides, “what,” his voice flat and scratchy and rather quiet. 

Lamb looks up at him as though he’s surprised to find him there. 

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

River says nothing. 

“How’s…whatever the hell your latest task is going?”

It’s another pointless task in a long list of pointless tasks, sorting through late rent payments in Brighton, and River hasn’t started. 

“It’s fine.”

“What’d you gargle with this morning, thumbtacks?”

River would scowl, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

“You really don’t look so good,” Lamb says, with an air of disinterest. “The job finally getting to you?” He sounds vaguely hopeful at the prospect. 

River shakes his head, which proves to be a terrible idea. His vision goes all blurry and his ears start to ring. He grabs blindly for the back of the chair in front of him and shuts his eyes against the dizziness. 

When he opens them again, Lamb is standing right beside him. River flinches. The man can be incredibly stealthy when he wants to be. 

Suddenly, Lamb’s palm is pressing against his forehead, and it’s weirdly textured but also very warm, and River is so cold. He leans into the warmth without thinking and nearly falls forwards when the hand is taken away. 

“Fuckin’ hell, kid, you’re burning up.”

River hums in vague acknowledgement, feeling ashamed, somehow, of having been found out. 

“Why the fuck are you here?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t feel like explaining that he’d felt fine, mostly, in the morning. Doesn’t want a deeper truth to be dragged out of him—that all he wants, in the whole world, is to go home, but there’s no one there anymore. 

He wants, and god, there’s part of him that’s ashamed of it, the comforts of the sick days of his childhood. He wants his Nan to comb her fingers through his sweaty hair, let him lie with his head on her lap, sneak him sweets when Grandad’s not looking. And he wants his Grandad to tell him stories, bring him tea with milk and honey, sit beside him with his reassuring steadiness. 

Of course, this is all long gone. River’s a grown adult, his Nan’s been gone for years, and his Grandad’s a shell of himself existing in a care home which feels about as far from an actual home as Lamb feels from an upstanding citizen. What he wants is deeply impossible in more ways than one, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting it anyway. 

He’s entirely zoned out, and it’s only when Lamb barks, “Cartwright!” that he returns to himself. He blinks rapidly, clearing away tears he hadn’t realized were forming. Everything feels so bad. 

“What?” he manages to ask. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. 

“I said, go home. Before you get everyone else sick. Not that I wouldn’t love a few days of blessed silence in this place.”

Having learned his lesson about rapid head movements, River makes an “mm” noise to indicate his acquiescence. There’s nothing else he can do. He feels the shadow of tears return as the thought of the bus ride once again manifests itself, followed by the image of his sad, empty flat. 

“Go on, then,” Lamb says. “Get out.” His voice doesn’t exactly match his words, strangely quiet and neutral. River doesn’t dwell on it. He just drags his achy, freezing body back down the stairs. 

He doesn’t make it to the front door. Louisa steps into the hallway and intercepts him. There’s nowhere for him to run, and he really doesn’t want to talk. Now that he’s resigned himself to going home, he just wants to get there. 

“I heard you’re sick,” she says, and River stops in his tracks. He doesn’t bother wondering why she knows this—Slough House is like that, everyone finding out everyone else’s business entirely too quickly. 

He shrugs. 

“I’m driving you home.”

There’s no question there, only assertion, so River doesn’t feel too bad for agreeing immediately. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and Louisa winces. 

“God, that sounds rough.”

He shrugs again. He’s not sure if he can handle sympathy right now. He feels far too fragile, even though he’s only sick, and it’s hardly anything actually terrible. 

They settle into Louisa’s car, and she cranks the heat. He’d thank her, but he really doesn’t want to have to talk again if he can avoid it. 

The drive to his apartment is quiet, save for the few coughs he’s unable to hold back and the sniffing he can’t avoid every few minutes. He hopes Louisa doesn’t get sick from him. That’d be awful. 

When they arrive, he climbs out of the car as slowly as he can, but his head starts spinning when he stands up fully all the same. Louisa is there immediately, tucking herself beside him and wrapping a supportive arm around his back. 

River leans against her gratefully, and she doesn’t move from his side even when he feels steady enough to walk. 

Inside his flat, he sinks down onto the couch immediately and lets his eyes close. He’s expecting Louisa to leave and is slightly startled when he feels her hands tugging at his shoes, which he hadn’t even bothered attempting to remove. 

He opens his eyes and looks at her curiously. “Why—?” he begins, but a sharp cough cuts him off, and he forgets what it is he’d been about to ask. 

“I’m hardly leaving you here on your own with your shoes on and all,” Louisa says, and River remembers his question. “I can feel your fever from here. Speaking of, have you got a thermometer?”

“Bathroom cabinet.”

Louisa disappears in search of the thermometer. River wills himself, once again, not to cry. He’d expected loneliness and an empty flat, the same as always. And now she’s here, and he still feels awful, but he’s not alone. 

It’s nice. It’s really nice. 

Louisa comes back, thermometer in one hand and bottle of paracetamol in the other. She sets the bottle onto the table and uncaps the thermometer, hands it over. 

River sticks it into his mouth and they both wait for it to beep. Louisa takes it from him before he can read the number himself. 

“39.2,” she reads out. “Shit.”

That’s not good, River thinks. How can his temperature be so high when he feels so cold?

“Hold on a sec, I’ll be back,” Louisa promises. River watches idly as she goes into the kitchen, listens as she searches his cabinets and then fills something with water. 

When Louisa returns, she has a glass of water in one hand and a damp towel in the other. River doesn’t like the look of it. 

She hands him the water first, opens the paracetamol, and hands him two tablets. He swallows them, and even with the water they make his throat sting. He winces and sets the glass down heavily. 

“Lie back,” Louisa instructs. River eyes the towel in her hand warily, but does as he’s told. 

Sure enough, Louisa drapes the thing over his forehead. He flinches back, but there’s nowhere to go. He reaches a clumsy hand up to remove it, but Louisa stops him. 

“I know it’s cold, but we need to get your fever down, alright? I’ll get you a blanket instead.”

She disappears and returns with the blanket that typically sits on the end of his bed. She tucks it around him, and it doesn’t exactly make the towel on his head feel less cold, but it does help. 

For a few seconds after this, Louisa just stands there, and River tries very hard not to fall asleep. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” Louisa asks, eventually. “I’m not that good at this sort of thing, actually.”

River doesn’t know. He’s not exactly good at it either. “S’okay,” he decides. “Thanks.”

He would like one other thing, which is for Louisa to stay a while longer, to just be there so that he’s not entirely alone, but he can hardly ask. She’s done enough as is, and he’s very grateful. 

Only she’s not leaving. “Are you sure? I mean, I could cook something, or, I dunno, search around and find some cough drops, or…look, I just don’t want to leave you here all alone, alright?”

God, he loves her. Which is perhaps a strange thing to be thinking at this particular moment, but he does. She gets him, in the same way that he gets her, and he’s really not sure how it happened that the two of them came to care about each other this much. 

But this is a tangent that he does not need to be going down. Louisa, he senses, is expecting a response. 

“Stay?” is all he can come up with. It proves to be enough.

“‘Course, yeah. Shove over a bit.”

He makes room for her on the couch, and she settles down comfortably beside him. 

River falls asleep almost immediately, feeling, for the first time since his childhood, that he is not completely alone in his illness. 

thanks for reading! i do not understand celsius temperatures so i did my best there lol. i hope you enjoyed!!!

[assortedseaglass]

Steadfast & Forever

Request: Could you pretty please do an Osferth one-shot of him just having sweet little moments with a lady-in-waiting of Aethelflaed? Where their paths cross occasionally when Uhtred and the gang roll through, so they cannot really be together, but just burn and pine for one another??

Thank you, Ilysm 💜

@arcielee

Osferth x Unnamed OFC

Warnings: Language, religion, adult themes

Word Count: 6.2K

Notes: Let’s just ignore the canon, shall we? For the sake of the story, I’m keeping everyone in Winchester.

The sun was high when she first met him. Soft fingers of it streaked through the courtyard window into her Lady’s room. She watched them stroke the stone and tapestries, noting that the dappled light against Æthelflæd’s face seemed to ease her, and she sent up a prayer of thanks.

Æthelflæd had returned with the King and her husband in the early hours, dress dirtied and eyes dark, mind polluted by the ways of men beyond court. For hours, her ladies-in-waiting hovered at her side, stroked her hair when her mother retired to bed and listened to her whimpered recounts of her imprisonment. Of the gentle Erik, his cruel brother Sigefrid, her escape with Uhtred and his men, and the ensuing fight. Æthelflæd and her ladies drifted into sleep terrorised by faceless men and their brutish abandon, and by daybreak, only one remained sentinel over her mistress. The youngest of Æthelflæd’s three ladies-in-waiting sat curled at the foot of her bed, a book of psalmsopen by her side. Between casting a watchful eye over the sleeping princess, her eyes drifted to the window where a mistle thrush sang its fluting midday song. Its speckled breast quivered as it lifted its joyful voice, and the lady felt her heart aglow. Despite the terror of recent weeks, she remembered that beauty was at every turn.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The sound at the door was quiet, as though the hand behind it were tremulous, but in the hush of the castle, still following Æthelflæd’s return, she heard it. She glanced to her mistress, and to Adburh and Sæflæd beside her, but they did not stir. With gentle feet she hurried to the oaken door and set it open a little. No-one. Wrapping her shawl tighter about her shoulders, she stepped into the empty hall, only to find it was not empty at all.

A man took a shuffled step backwards and she drew the door close to her side, obstructing the stranger’s view of her mistress. A cursory glance told her that he was a holy man, though man was stretching the fact; he looked no older than she, perhaps even a year or so younger. She suspected he was tall, were it not for the stoop of his shoulders and the bow of his head. Even from where she stood, she could see the tendons of his jaw pulsing with tension against the shorn sides of his head. He fumbled with the threadbare sleeves of his woollen cowl, watching his hands with fixed scrutiny and jostling the cross at his chest. A monk.

She smiled at his bashfulness, still wary of opening her lady’s chamber door. “May I help you?”  

At being addressed, his head shot up and, at seeing the lady before him, stood a little taller. “Isshealright?” The words were urgent, and once she had recovered from the urgent blue of his eyes, she saw that they were wide and red-rimmed as though he had spent a great many hour crying. No, not crying. Awake.

“Pardon?” she stepped out into the hall. The monk coughed and looked at his feet, and she crouched so that he might look at her. Pride swelled in her chest at the rosy hue blossoming on his cheeks. She found herself gazing at him in the bright light midday cast about the keep. All the holy men she knew were old, or dirty and pale from days at the altar. The oblates and novices never strayed into the keep. This man was regal, almost beautiful in his boyishness. She blanched. Who was this man that had this effect on her? A stranger lurking at the doorway of her mistress, with his kind eyes and gentle voice.

“Lady Æthelflæd. Is she alright?”

“Er, yes,” she recovered herself. “But she is resting. I’ll tell her you wished her well -” Her eyebrows raised in question of his identity and, realising he had said nothing other than to enquire as to Æthelflæd’s health, he offered his name.

“Osferth.”

“Osferth..?”

“Just Osferth. She will know.”

The lady nodded with a chuckle. “Well, Just Osferth, I will tell her you were here.” The monk relaxed at the nickname and exhaled with a small smile. The lady in turn beamed at him and they watched each other a moment. The events surrounding Æthelflæd’s capture and return had upended life in the King’s keep. A princess of Wessex imprisoned by Danes and rescued by a pagan. People forgot their stations, and whether on the frontline of the terrible affair or listening to whispered tales of it on the wind, returning to normalcy was proving difficult for the people of Wintancæster.

Through sleep-starved eyes Osferth admired the woman before him. The remnants of braids creased her hair, and despite the hour of the day, she looked as though she had just woken. He supposed, being one of Æthelflæd’s ladies, she may have, or else not slept at all. The eyes hidden by the curtain of hair were dark with exhaustion but bright with kindness, and he found he didn’t care that his cheeks grew hotter under her gaze.

A maidservant turned into the corridor and Osferth jumped back. “Thank you, lady,” the nervous monk had returned and, with a quick bow, he made his leave. She watched him go, took the tray of bread and fruit from the maidservant and backed into her mistress’ chambers, the smile that tugged at the man’s lips ever-present in her mind.

“Who was it?” Æthelflæd’s voice was hoarse but in the stillness of her rooms, her lady-in-waiting still jumped. Æthelflæd stood in the centre of the room, barefoot and wrapped in blankets, pouring herself a tonic from the pitcher at her table. Adburh and Sæflæd slept soundly in the bed, and Æthelflæd approached her lady-in-waiting for the tray. Even after her ordeal, she was tender as she waited an answer.

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” her companion said. “It was a monk, asking after you.” She thought of his kind face and smiled. “Have you been spending much time with the young oblates, my Lady?” The gentle teasing of her voice made Æthelflæd laugh and she continued. “This young monk seemed very taken with you. He called himself-”

“Osferth,”

“Aha! I’ve caught you! Do not fear, I shall not tell you dear husband,” she said the words with sarcasm. “Or your darling mother-”

“He is my brother.” Words died, and silence hummed between the two women. Æthelflæd’s eyes darted to her two other companions, still snoring softly, and whispered once more. “He is my brother.”

“I don’t underst-”

Æthelflæd took her by the hand and led her to a bench covered with furs. “The rumours are true. My father sired a bastard. Many, who knows. When the boy’s mother died, my father sent him to a monastery. There, my father could keep a watchful, if distant, eye on him and pretend to the rest of us that he doesn’t exist.” The lady covered her mouth and urged her mistress to carry on. Adburh stirred on the bed and the two stilled. When she didn’t wake, Æthelflæd continued. “Osferth begged Lord Uhtred that he may join him, as a warrior-”

“What?” she whispered her shock, and Æthelflæd nodded.

“The only reason, so I’m told, that he let the monk join was to embarrass my father.”

A flash of memory whipped through her mind. Walking to the kitchens to prepare food for herself, Æthelflæd, Adburh and Sæflæd, she had passed the throne room and heard the anguished voice of the Queen. Something about “the bastard and the Dane-lord or whatever he is or isn’t.” Even after Æthelflæd’s wedding to Æthelred, petulant little Æthelwold could be heard crowing throughout the town. “The bandy-legged bastard hasn’t even held his own cock, let alone a sword.”

“-and he was the one that killed Sigefrid,”

Her mistress’ last admission shocked her into the present.

“The monk?”

“Yes! Struck him through the back with his sword.”

“A warrior monk,”

“And a King’s bastard,” She grimaced at Æthelflæd’s use of the word but said nothing, her mind reckoning the image of a feared Dane-lord being slain by the young monk.

The next time she saw him was in the chapel, only a day later. Members of the King’s household made up the small congregation, seated by rank from the farthest pew to the first. Everyone from servants to council members gathered in the chapel, waiting for mass to begin as the King and his family processed towards the altar.

She watched Æthelflæd, her arm draped over that of her husband, glide towards her seat, ever the image of regal duty despite her tired eyes. Members of the congregation bowed to her mistress, some with kindness and some with pity, and as the lady watched the royal family pass her by, her eyes fell to the man stood at the back of the chapel, eyes downcast but still standing a head above everyone else.

At first, she thought he was attempting to make himself smaller so as to avoid the King. It was when Father Beocca began the service by invoking the cross, however, that she saw he was already in prayer, for he was the first to kneel and the first to murmur under his breath. He was alone, the rest of Uhtred’s men notably absent, and she forgot her own prayers to watch him a peaceful moment. Sæflæd nudged her shoulder, and she turned back to the priest. She followed the service, bowing her head when Beocca instructed and kneeling when the others knelt, but her mind was not on the Lord. No, it was on the lonely warrior monk five pews behind.

“Mass has ended, go in peace.” Father Beocca had barely finished speaking before the King turned to leave the chapel. Naturally, his mood in the days following Æthelflæd’s return had been stony, and many an hour had been spent locked in discussion with his council, to which he was no doubt returning. The congregation waited for the family to leave, and Æthelflæd’s lady looked over her shoulder once more to watch the monk. He was gone. She cast her eyes desperately around but they fooled her; many holy men of the congregation sported that ridiculous hair, but not one was her monk. Her monk. She shook herself and, with Adburh and Sæflæd, followed her mistress from the chapel.

The day was bright yet the air was damp and dewy. Rain would come before nightfall. She bid farewell to her companions and mistress, curtsied before the King and Queen, and stepped into the morning. Like a fish through water, she moved amongst the crowd. Priests were gathered around Father Beocca, discussing his sermon. She had thought to find him there, but she was wrong. Onwards she went, past gossiping noble ladies, haggling merchants, and even Uhtred’s bonny-faced right hand man. Fingal? Was that his name? Still, she could not see the warrior monk and all hope of finding him faded. Jostled by commonfolk going about their daily business, she turned to make her solemn way to the keep but halted where she stood. There! Towards the town stables, hands raised to avoid bumping into the crowds, that was definitely him.

“Sir,” she called out, gathering her skirts in her hands. “Sir! Please wait!”  She hurried as fast as she could, for ladies-in-waiting did not run and it would not do for such gossip to reach the Queen. Whether he ignored her intentionally or could not hear her over the din of the crowd, she did not know but pressed on regardless, thanking the Lord for his height as she kept him in her sight. A few more strides and she could reach out and touch him…

“Sir!” Breathless with the effort of her hurried steps to catch up with his strides, she reached out and clasped the edge of his cowl. “Sir-”

The man jolted and looked to his sleeve, his gaze following the delicate hand there to the lady’s face. An emotion she didn’t recognise glazed his eyes, but all the same, with a blush he smiled timidly. She dropped his sleeve.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I did call,”

“I’m not a ‘Sir’, I am-“

“‘Just Osferth’, yes.” The lady smiled, then realised he may not recognise her, covered as she was by her Sunnandæg veil. “We met yesterday, when you came to my lady’s chamber?”

“Yes, yes,” the monk rasped and cleared his throat. After all he has done, she thought, and he is still shy. “Should you not be with her?”

“No, on the Lord’s Day we are left to do as we please.” She was desperate to speak with him. “My lady spends it with her mother.”

“I am glad to see she is well. Lady Æthelflæd, I mean,”

“Yes,” Neither said anything, and Just Osferth watched, torn between amusement and embarrassment, as the noble lady stood before him and directed her smile at him alone.

“Forgive me,” he said, his lips curving in one corner. “Was there some service you require of me, my Lady?”

It was her turn to blush, and Just Osferth liked the sight of it beneath her veil. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Um, I just wanted to say that she told me who are, Æthelflæd, and what you did.” She paused as the monk’s face fell. “That- that was very brave.” She finished with a whisper. The monk’s eyes fell to the ground and one hand brushed the cross at his chest.

“It didn’t feel very brave,” His voice was small and she found she wanted to see his smile again. She carried on in forceful tone.  

“To leave your life at the monastery, join the service of a famed warrior, despite the ridicule it may bring you, and then slay the brute Sigefrid? To me, that is brave.”

If Just Osferth had been pink before, at her words of praise he turned crimson. “Thank you, my Lady.” Again, they watched each other, this time in an awkward but pleasant silence. Something about this lady’s curiosity of him made the monk feel that emotion he #found most elusive; pride.

“How long do you plan to stay in Wintancæster?” The lady said, eyes alive and hopeful.

“As long as Lord Uhtred pleases,”

“Then I hope it pleases him to stay a while.” And without another word, the lady bowed to the monk and departed. He watched her go, her veil billowing against her tunic in the passing breeze and the people that parted with good-natured smiles as she passed. A hand slapped him on the back.

“What’s the matter?” Compared to the lady’s, the Irishman’s brogue was like a carnyx. “Never had a pretty girl talk to you before?”

The monk swallowed, his eyes still on the retreating form of his sister’s lady-in-waiting. “I’ve certainly never had one bow to me.”

Her fascination with the monk continued over the week, and she was provided with plenty of opportunity to see him, for wherever Æthelflæd went, Uhtred seemed to follow. And wherever Æthelflæd and Uhtred went, so too did her ladies and his band of warriors.

They followed their leaders like a gaggle of children. Sæflæd confided in her that she found the Irishman, Finan, greatly appealing. “His wit is as sharp as his sword!” “There’s something about his eyes,” “Do you think he is married? I haven’t heard mention of a wife…” The young lady, too, liked Finan for his bright humour, loyalty and, though he tried to hide it, kindness. Poor Adburh was quite taken by the silent Sihtric, but the discovery of his wife, Sidgeflæd, had left her quite bereft. Uhtred seemed equally bewitched by Æthelflæd, and her youngest companion was glad to see a man bestow her mistress some compassion. Æthelflæd had brought them to the chapel to share some secret with Uhtred under the guise of prayer. At the door, Sæflæd laughed at something Finan said while Adburh stood scandalously close to Sihtric. He said nothing. The monk and the young lady perched on pews at the back of the chapel in contended silence.

“What has you smiling, my Lady?” Osferth whispered in her ear as they sat side by side. His hands were clasped in his lap, his head bowed slightly to hear her answer. Wherever he went, he always looked in prayer, and she wondered if it was the same on the battlefield. If he fought with as much grace as he did everything else.

“Those two,” she indicated Uhtred and Æthelflæd with her eyes. “It is good to see her smile again.” From the corner of his eye, he watched her face glow with tenderness. It seemed her permanent state. He had often seen her about the keep with Æthelflæd and her other companions. Where Adburh and Sæflæd seemed suited to keeping the princess jovial, the lady beside him must have been picked as a companion for her quiet sincerity. When Æthelflæd fell into clouds of despair, it was she that she went to to lift her spirits. When he stumbled upon her in the town, or sat in the meadow beyond the keep, she moved with the same serenity, like river buttercup in a stream. It struck him that she was prayer incarnate; contemplative, curious, calm. When tending to the horses, he watched her in the meadow. She gathered flowers, read beneath the oak tree, or when not alone, talked spiritedly with her companions. Just as fascinated as she was with the monk, he too was with the lady-in-waiting.

“Though she doesn’t show it, not to Lord Uhtred, she is sad.” The monk titled his head towards her as she spoke. “You are away tomorrow, are you not?”

He nodded, eyes scanning hers. Would she be sad when he left? As Æthelflæd was for Uhtred?

“Take care, Just Osferth,” she smiled. His mouth twitched at the corners, and she knew he wanted to smile. “What?”

“My lady, do you think perhaps you could simply call me Osferth? The others have given me their own name, I should like to hear mine just plainly.”

The lady’s eyes lit with mirth. “What do the others call you?”

He sighed and looked at the cross atop the alter, as if pleading for help. “‘Baby monk.’” He whispered it in her ear like he was at confession, and she would have shuddered were it not for the ridiculousness of the name. She sniggered and the monk pinched his nose.

“Are you a monk anymore? She had turned to him slightly, though she still glanced at her mistress every now and again. “Now that you are in Uhtred’s company?”

He thought a moment and watched his hands. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

She took his hand in hers and faced him directly.

“You are Osferth.”

“That I am.” There it was again. Pride. Looking at her pretty face, open with kindness and judging of nothing as she watched him, Osferth felt that whatever he had been, or would be, was fine because she saw him. She. He watched her side, for she had turned to face Uhtred and Æthelflæd. Her lips parted delicately, before a full smile played across her face. Her eyes were hidden from him by a few strands of hair that had fallen loose from the braided knotted at her nape. He could see the pulse point on the elegant column of her neck and he was struck with the desire to run his finger along it. The britches beneath his tunic tightened and he shifted on the hard wood bench. Damn. Faintly, as though listening through water, he heard her say something similar to “we should leave them be.” He looked up to see Uhtred and Æthelflæd depart through the door behind the chancel.

“Will you pray with me, my lady?”

Her hand was still in his and she squeezed it before clasping her own in prayer. “Of course.” She knelt before him and he swallowed, shifting his hands beneath his tunic before kneeling beside her. Osferth wasn’t sure how long they prayed. Or rather, how long she prayed and he tried to. Her devoted mutterings and deeps sighs of breath were distracting, and he settled on watching her pray instead. She leant her head on her hands, as though this would open a direct channel to help her commune with the divine. She glanced up on occasion, to gaze at the altar, before casting her eyes down. When she hastily wiped a tear from her cheek between devotions, he found he could take it no more and moved towards the offertory shrine next to the tabernacle. He hadn’t seen someone so moved by prayer since the monastery, and even then he believed the Abbott did it to scare the oblates into servitude.

He took a candle and, placing it next to its fellows, lit it with a taper. Closing his eyes with the flame in hand, a moment’s solace finally found him, and he prayed for that which he always could. When he opened them she was there beside him, having silently finished her prayers, placing her own candle upon the shrine. As if in slow motion, he watched as she covered his hand with hers and moved the taper he still held to the wick. The candle flickered into life, and she let go.

“Who did you light your candle for?” she whispered, watching the flames dance together.

“My mother.”

“I lit mine for you. I want to see you safely back in Wintancæster.”

“I shall try, my Lady.”

She nodded. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

His lips parted with barely supressed awe. “Psalm ninety-one.”

She nodded again. “The psalms are my favourites.”

“My lips praise you, because your faithful love is better than life itself.” Osferth whispered, his eyes intent on hers.

“Psalm sixty-three.”

“Yes,” Each time he was near her, his voice floundered. It seemed it was not just he who struggled. The light of the chapel cast Osferth in a soft glow and his eyes, pierced by the sun, looked aflame. She watched as his tongue ran slowly over his bottom lip and, mindful of their place in God’s house, pressed the back of her hand to his.

“I must away, my lady.”

“Yes, you must,”

Osferth swallowed, and with some urgency said, “But I will see you soon.” Her beautiful face became doleful as she looked at the bidding candles and he stepped closer to her. Her eyes, brimming with tears, took in his face and as he made to brush them away, she stood on her toes to place a chaste kiss against his cheek. Frozen before the shrine, Osferth listened as her steps carried her from the chapel, away from Adburh and Sæflæd, from Finan and Sihtric, and from him.

Their acquaintance continued thus for years. Each time the warrior monk left for battle or reconnaissance, apprehension grew to terror in her stomach, and she kept vigil over the smattering of gifts he left at her chamber before he departed; the book of psalms he was given when he entered the monastery, a carving of Saint Mary from a carpenter he met on his travels, even a piece of embroidered cloth inherited from his mother.  

Each time he returned, safe and bolder still than last she saw him, her apprehension grew to euphoric joy. When he arrived on horseback, arm in a sling and thinner than she had ever seen him, her heart rejoiced. Even when he burst through the castle gates, young Ælfwynn in his arms, and the heat between her legs and ache in her womb dissolved as the red-haired healer coaxed smiles from him, she could not help but rush to the chapel with prayerful thanks.

Finan burst into the cabinet with little regard for any inhabitants that may be within. He had searched the castle high and low; the ride to Wintancæster had been plagued by depraved images of her, so keen and inviting; he had been without a woman for months.

He glanced around. Books and papers were scattered across the table, and a godawful tapestry was hung opposite the window. Empty.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, turning for the door.

“She isn’t here,” the voice was calm and certain, and Finan near jumped from his skin, unsheathing his sword. “And Adburh is married.”

“Jesus, woman,” he hissed, free hand clutching at his heart.

“Sæflæd will be about town though, I am sure.” She looked at the weapon with vague amusement. The shadowed chair she sat in was surrounded by books, and one hung lazily from her hand as she watched the warrior. “How are you, Finan?”

“Alive, though your scaring almost ended me.” He looked at her closely. Her eyes still shone with kindness, though they were hollower than he remembered. Before, she looked like a girl reaching for womanhood by the hand. He saw now that she had grasped it. A quiet assurance had settled about her that she lacked before. He chuckled. The monk would love her. “Yourself? Has your mistress given you leave?”

“My Lady would allow me but with the others gone, her husband and her mother, the Queen, bid me stay.”

“Ah,” he beamed at her. “A woman of duty.” The lady before him hummed with non-committal and cast her book aside.

“What’s troubling you?” Finan sheathed his sword and sat against the table. The lady sighed.

“Duty.” Her voice was strong. “I love my mistress, and I am glad for my position, but sometimes I wish to be known as more than Æthelflæd’s lady. Don’t you? To come back from war and be more than Uhtred’s man? Wouldn’t you rather Finan the Agile? Sihtric the Noble? Osferth the Gentle? Not the Gæl, the heathen and-”

“King Alfred’s bastard?” The smile never left his face.

“Don’t call him that,”

“It’s the truth,”

“I don’t care.”

Her tone was sharp and Finan studied her. Perhaps he had misread her furtive glances at Osferth over the years, their awkward encounters. “Do bastards make you angry?”

“Not at all. But it angers me when people sully the good monk’s name with our King’s.”

“Careful, lady. That is treason-”

“Will you tell?” He smirked and she continued. “He is kind, courageous, everything our King pretends to be. The anger it causes me, to watch our King live in piety while the product of his so-called “sin” is ordered away to do his bidding! At the behest Uhtred at the behest of Alfred himself.”

“Finan,” The warrior startled at the voice, and the lady jumped to her feet in alarm.

“My lady,” she curtsied hastily, her voice edged with shame. Æthelflæd stood in the door to the cabinet. She ignored her lady and spoke instead to Finan.

“Uhtred is ready for you, we are to attend council with my father.” She directed her gaze at her lady-in-waiting. “You may take your leave for the day.”

“Yes, my Lady,” she looked to Finan, who merely nodded his head, and she dashed for the door. As she passed Æthelflæd, the King’s daughter took her by hand and smiled. She allowed Æthelflæd to hold her there a minute, expressing silently her sorrow as her mistress pressed understanding into her palm. When Æthelflæd let her go, she hurried along the keep’s corridors, head bowed and hands clasped together. Perhaps if people thought she was in prayer, they would leave her be. She bumped into Sæflæd at the courtyard gate, returning from town.

“Where are you scurrying off to?”

Head still cast downwards, she saw from their boots that Sæflæd was accompanied by two men. “Nowhere,” she said hastily.

“Wait! Don’t you want to say hello-” But Sæflæd’s plea fell on deaf ears, for her companion was already at the bottom of the castle steps and walking beyond the gate.

The walk to the meadow behind the blacksmith’s was a short one. Approaching midsummer, it was already full of flowers, from forget-me-nots to foxgloves, and the long grass swayed in the delicate breeze. She settled beneath the oak tree in the far corner of the meadow, brought her knees to her chest, and cried. Hidden amongst the flowers, she chastised herself for speaking so freely in the house of the King. What if it were not Finan and Æthelflæd that found her, but the Queen or one of the Abbotts? Surely she would have been locked away or brought before the King by now. She cried, because what she said was true; she detested the King and wished beyond all measure that she could have some semblance of a life for her own. Her tears came ever more willingly at the guilt she felt. A lady-in-waiting in the house of the King, crying over her envied position. And she cried because Finan and Uhtred were in the castle, and that surely meant that her warrior monk was there too. Safe. Finan would have told her otherwise.

Her hands ran through the grass at her side, yellowing in the heat of the sun. She ripped a few of the dry strands from the ground and began braiding them. She would see him later, in the chapel or about the keep. Perhaps at a feast. No, he and the King would avoid each other. They always did. She pondered how the years will have changed him. Whether that tenderness that soften the sharp lines of his face still lingered, or weather battle and hardened him. Would he be quiet as he was before, or loud and righteous like his leader? She sniffled, fear prickling at the boundaries of her mind at the thought of non-acquaintance his absence may have brought, and her nose on her sleeve.

“Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” She inhaled deeply and found comfort in the words. “Weeping may stay for the night, but-”

“-but rejoicing comes in the morning. Psalm thirty.”

She shot up from the ground, swaying a little where she stood. When had he snuck upon her? How long had he been there?

“Osferth,” her voice was a mixture of shock and pleasure.

“My lady,” he bowed his head and she felt her heart tighten. “I tried to say hello earlier, with Sæflæd, but you were otherwise busy.”

The years had changed him, it was true. Gone was the timid monk she had met at Æthelflæd’s door, with his careful eyes and quiet voice. Before her stood a warrior, lean and broad, self-assured and world-worn. She smirked a little at his hair, sandier and ruffled, but still shorn using a bowl. She supposed needs must while travelling. Beneath the long hair across his forehead, his eyes still shone. Blue and brilliant in the summer sun, she bit her lip as they watched her with gentle intensity. Osferth had seen this world before, she was certain, and had come back to love it just the same.

He was unafraid to look at her now, though a small smile still played at his lips and pink flushed his cheekbones. They were sharper than before, hollowed out by years of rigorous labour and little food, but she found she wasn’t averse to the hard visage it gave him. Still he blushed, but he was bold in showing his vulnerability and, when she smiled back at him, he looked to the ground only fleetingly before meeting her gaze. Self-efficacy, rather than outright embarrassment, seemed to have bloomed in his adulthood.

“How many years has it been? Two?” she murmured.

“Three, my lady.” Osferth corrected quickly. “You haven’t changed at all, much to my pleasure.” He was charming too. It was his boldness that did it, and in three long strides over the meadow, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tight against her.

“I’m so glad you’re back, my friend.” Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face to his shoulder, but Osferth caught every word. His hands rubbed her back and settled at the soft curve of her hips as she looked at him. Eyes drawn to the closeness of her face, the parted pink lips and wide eyes, he saw red mottling her cheeks and tears glistening on her eyelashes.

“You have been crying?”

The hands that had found his shoulders dropped in a flash, rubbing roughly over her face. “Yes. Well, I was, but I am fine now, please don’t worry yourself.” She sat back on the patch of scrub, flattened by her bottom, and busied her hands with the braided grass. Osferth sat beside her, facing out to the meadow and watching insects dancing in the hazy light.

“Has it something to do with Finan and Æthelflæd?”

The lady sighed. “He told you?”

“Only that-”

“Osferth, I’m sorry,” she cut across him. “I spoke out of turn. I only said those things about your father-”

“You have no need to apologise. Believe me, what ever you have spoken, I have thought worse.” She let out a blubbering laugh and wiped her nose once more.

“Thank you,” she whispered, following his eyes to watch the insects and birds go about their afternoon flutterings.

“May I ask, though? Why did I get ‘gentle’, when the others got ‘agile’ and ‘noble’?”

“I’ll kill Finan,”

“Now that I would like to see,” he nudged her leg and she laughed, real and hearty. “Why not ‘Osferth the daring?’”

“Or ‘fearsome’,” she added.

“Yes!”

“Because gentle is who you are, Just Osferth, to me.” She watched as he ran his thumb over the braided grass she had made earlier. There was a moment’s silence before either of them spoke again.

“I like that you see me that way, my lady.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Now enough of this hiding. You are missed at the keep.” She beamed up at him, illuminated by the sun as he had been when she first saw him, and took his hand. Through the meadow they walked, back towards the castle and their duties, neither speaking as they did. Their hands, brushing against the grass and cow parsley, remained entwined. When they reached the blacksmith’s, Osferth turned to her and grasped her hand with both of his.

“I am glad I saw you, my Lady, for we are away again. It will only be overnight,” he hurried on when he saw her open her mouth to protest. “To see a tradesman in Æwielltun about stocks of leather. When I come back,” he took a step closer. “Will you grant me an audience? There is something I wish to ask you.”

“Yes,” it came out as a whisper and she nodded furiously. “Yes,”

The monk laughed. “Good. Ok,” He laughed again and the lady found she could not help but join him. “Well,” he said through his bashful smiles, looking over his shoulder to the castle. “I must go. I’m sure Lord Uhtred will have something terribly important to tell me about the journey.” His jovial sarcasm was barely hidden and she laughed. His hand left hers as he began to step away. Before he could move beyond her reach, however, she grasped his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,”

“Yes, my lady. Tomorrow.” Walking backwards a few paces to keep her in his sight, he grinned and turned proudly towards the castle gate. She watched him go, and no sooner had he vanished from view was she dashing into the stables. The white mount he always rode stood between its darker companions and she hastened to it. From the pocket of her dress, she produced a cross, made from braided grass, and tucked it into the horse’s bridle. An hour later, when Uhtred and his men had departed, she retired to her chambers to find a posy of forget-me-not, foxglove and cow parsley resting on her bedstraw pillow.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

Note: I had Osferth kill Sigefrid, as it happens in the books. Adburh and Sæflæd, the other ladies-in-waiting, are names from Anglo-Saxon Royal Charters. I hope you enjoyed, I am thinking of maybe expanding this so feedback is welcome! Also! I was brought up a catholic, so it was nice to whip out some phrases, finally they feel useful. The title is from a psalm about love. Also! Cabinets were small room in castles used for studies etc. Finan and MC weren’t just chilling in a wardrobe.

[greenleaf777]

The fact that people ship Bryce and Azriel together SERIOUSLY is the fuckin funniest thing to me I swear to god…this is one of the weirdest fandoms I have ever been a part of. Has no one ever heard of crackships and just having fun?? You guys would’ve hated the OUAT fandom LMAO…we knew (for the most part*cough*sq*cough*) that our random ship was just that. Random.

Not every pairing you like has to be canon and endgame for you to enjoy it. I promise. And trust me they won’t be so stop getting your panties in a goddamn twist. Its like half this fandom has zero critical thinking skills and can’t interpret a dang thing. Is it mean to say I’d hate to run across some of you in the real world? You’d probably think I was flirting with you….you’d be shipping us together if I just said hi!.

Azriel is literally shipped with everyone he interacts with and shipped very seriously, hes not even flirting with them and the fandom sticks him with them. And hes only ever shown actual romantic interest in TWO people. Mor and Elain if that wasn’t obvious.

Besides elucien none of the others are even an option in canon(not that i think they’ll get together but at least their mates for godsakes).

Imagine me, shipping Nesta and Azriel, and non stop harassing Nessian shippers. Its the same thing. It COULD happen but it won’t happen because I can interpret what the author is trying to convey when Az and Nesta interact.

[naturenaruto]

nobut literaly i love a forced???

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

transed??????????? jiang cheng like hear me out lmao

-his parents only married bc forced obviously so they needed a Reward from the marriage to reinforce that they did the right thing what they had to blahblah

-what is this Reward oh right a child ofc

-so they first have yanli and ofc yzy is trying sthhoo hard to reasurre that they needed one of these too and that shell make a good bargaining chip in he future just gotta give it 10-16 years hehheh..

-then jfm is like k fine ill deal BUT we had better have a baby with a PENIS next OR ELSE

-BAD NEWS! they dont get a baby with a penis

-cue yzy scrambling to come up with a way to justify a girls existence (So Difficult) bc they already have the one (1) they didnt need TWO babies w vaginas goodness no so after evaluating her state and determining that no more will come out of her own vagvag she then comes up with a brilliant plan that will get everyone what they want: trans their infant

-so they decide that since they havent declared any name or whatever Theres Still Time so they just....start telling everyone they had a son (wiiiith a penis™️) and they had already told yanli she had a little sister but oops haha kids just tend to mishear misremeber things haha nope defintly a little b r o t h e r *yzy glare* yanli: haha o yes my younger BROther haha yes can i go now

-crisis averted

-so then they just decide to raise her ahem him as a son therefore heir Everythings Fine and besides yzy: oh it just doesnt even matter i mean girls can become *just* as good cultivators as boys cough im sure with myyyy training (and genes) he'll be the best in the sect anyways not like a u know what makes any difference amirite jfm: 😒 uhyeah sure honey whatever u say😓

-so anyways jc is raised as a boy and yanli does in fact know but defers to her mother at first and then jc and so

-GREAT NEWS! jc is Perfectly Fine being a boy™️! no worries here haha

-but as it turns out even when it looks like boy and walks like a boy and talks like a boy and fights like a boy if it doesnt have that penis™️

-well

-so this is why i [hc] that jfm resents and dislikes and invalidates jc because he doesnt......see him as his actual son

-like thats why hes always secondguessing and calling him out and pointing things out and commenting on him like......he doesnt do those things to yanli bc theres. o point yanli does whats required of her and also she doesnt Really Matter but jc unfortunaltely does matter and jfm resents that a vagina could be an heir and yzy knows it and knows her husband never respected her even though shes canonically lauded as a cultivator....and knows that the only reason he validated™️ csr is bc he was fluffing her up bc he wanted to marry her....not bc he wanted a cultivation partner but bc he wanted a Wife™️

-well yzy is no mans Wife™️ so she does her Absolute Best to ensure that jc is qualified (and he is!!!!!)

-except enter wwx and all that scheming goes out the window bc now jfm has found not only an actual (re: had penis) son but csr'ssss son and he now plots to put him in front of jc even going so far as to imply that they could somehow untrans him by ~revealing~~ that oopsies he was Actually A Girl the entire time hehe but now she'lllll be married to the successor Mr. Wei so its k now

-!!!!!!

-yzy: *~~~zidian~~~* -jfm: *muffled broken screams of a man being beaten by a woman* -so blah blah blah ppl dying etc blah

-after everyones dead and wwxs gone.....jc just......was never really asked by anyone not even yanli if he was ok with any of this he just kinda said well i still have long hair the clothes are more comfortable i still wanna cultivate does it matter whats in my pants???? its all baggy anyways whos business is it! *classic jc glare* -so besides the (now very dead) wen no one knows or at the very least they pretend like they dont so its realy never an issue

-jc feels fine it doesnt feel forced the only problem was that he knows it was never meant for him and that no matter how good he got........someone with a penis was always going to be better

[herboretum]

since i’m full of hatred and negativity i will be answering this

(to emphasize Like these are just nuances and inconsistencies i’ve found with myself and the fandom Like genuinely idrgaf i could care less about any of the points i will make in retrospect)

the anthropomorphization of unpleasant from this fandom has genuinely WRECKED its character and made it. not that unique compared to the other npcs. like i dont know it being this like fucking gooner-type character is so awful? and i really hate it? if anything that trope given to unpleasant should have stayed with scag and ended with her, since she’s a genuine npc with more writing and thoughts attached

i saw people bring up this point again and im glad but HELLO!!!!! LETS STOP JUST ASSOCIATING LAMPERT AS WALLTER AND MARK'S SON? EVEN WHEN IT HAS BEEN DISCREDITED /MULTIPLE/ TIMES? like DAMN this fandom only attributes characteristics if it is attached to literally anyone else besides that person. its horrible. people NEED to learn to find the balance between having fun with that headcanon while also acknowledging lampert as his own separate person that is (to be quite frank) not even associated with them that much in canon

(+ people saying that the headcanon of lampert being wallmark's son is canon and fucking REPLYING saying to people who ship wallter & lampert or mark & lampert that they shouldn't. you are fucking embarrassing)

more of a fandom thing but yall ship too much lmfaoo. like guys i promise, you can interpret some of these relationships as genuine friendships i promise you'll live. can we stop with the rhetoric that just because two characters have good dynamics with each other that means that theyre in love (heavily side-eyeing protoscag and lampfected and milby dare i say)

the regretevator fandom is EXACTLY like the phighting fandom with how shipping is handled. i mean this in not a positive way

people gotta stop relying on the wiki for information man. so much lore from yeucc's tumblr has been retconned and at this point, when there's now WRITERS for the game that are actually keeping tabs, all if not the good majority of what is said on the wiki should be taken with a grain of salt. nowadays the lore is unpredictable, and only a select few (by few i mean like. 4 out of the 17 npcs) has had their lore expanded on significantly

general facts i think is fine so long as theres an annotation backing it but my point still stands . moreso with lore generally

also saw this point being brought up in the qrts but the demonization and infantilization of certain characterss (cough spud pilby pest and poob) is like. wild. i dunno i can't say much since i'm very fortunate enough to not have seen that much but my god is it prevalent from what people are saying

with pest especially since he has npd and aspd i do think that. people generally associating him as evil has NOT been the greatest thing, especially since it reduces him to a stigma of people with personality disorders which is horrific and terrifying. idk what goes on in the background but i feel like the fandom + yeucc & the people working on regretevator should have done more research on the disorders and consulted people who do have these issues better instead of using those labels haphazardly

another thing i will and always will be vocal (dog on) about the axosun team is them keeping gnarpy. like there was no reason to keep xem in other than for revenue gain let's be honest and True to ourselves. the philosophy "ohh but you can separate the art from the artist!!!!" i feel does not really apply to this scenario cause xe got a whole ass revamp despite the obvious fact that it STILL is gnarpy, a character created by a bad person regardless of the ownership change and discredited history. its the underlying thought that they were essentially built off a bad origin if this makes any sense. idk i think it wouldve been better for everyone if xe were just removed ENTIRELY from the game but. you do you i guess

lastly in this essay: i think more people should Be Kinder to each other in this fandom <3 peace and love

[silentstaresfanficandfanart]

Ask for Acciane; what's your favorite thing about Ciero/what do you like about him?

"Choosing just one thing is kind of impossible isn't it? he's my favorite person in the world..." "I can trust him and i feel safe with him" "I love his smile and he makes me smile too" "He takes good care of me when I'm struggling to take care of myself" "its fun to make things with him and play pretend" "he has a great sense of humor" "he's warm and cozy and perfect for snuggles"

"he's earned my trust, and i didn't know anyone besides my family could do that really... even I didn't know how much I trusted him until that trust was tested."

*cough* this may read as ship art as despite the fact I don't want their relationship to be CANNON i kinda ship them because uh- well turns out i was projecting a bit about my *BELOVED BOYFRIEND WHO SENT ME THIS ASK MY BELOVED-* the whole time i was writing this book- though its far from a one to one recreation of our relationship at all dear goodness we are so much healthier but-

like dont be like OHHH this means its canon but feel FREE to ship them too and consider them cute- but do consider it free fanservice to those of you who also ship it-

thank you for the ask my prince~ I hope you like the art :3c is extra special just for you~

[adrianainthesnow]

hello! just popping to say I decided to read making your own worst enemy on a whim last night, and after finally finishing it 24 hours later (cough its 2am cough) I really, really loved it. i do find it really funny that I was just thinking abt how short the chapters were for an 88k word fic, and then i got to The Chapter and ah. it made sense.

the fucking. "fun" fact at the end of the clementine part definitely made me want to bawl my eyes out although this sentence definitely gave me an amazing feeling of satisfaction And it made me giggle:

also i just really fucking love the reoccurring use of blue in this fic, with how techno reads tommy's happiness as blue to tommy's transmogrification powers showing up as blue (and how he only got it back when he felt REALLY happy AND the noticeable lack of those powers when in dream's home) and then it all just ties back with how wil uses blue to find his way home (also just a GREAT reference to ghostbur's blue in canon which. sobs)

ALSO ALSO I LOVE KRISTIN IN THIS im not usually a huge fan of when kristin isnt physically present in fics (i was looking through her tag when i came across your story) but how you wrote her was so fucking funny and cool and a great subversion of the usual "dead/death goddess kristin who only gets mentioned in One sentence and is otherwise not relevant to the plot besides backstory purposes"

anywayssssssss i really REALLY loved your fic and can't wait to read the rest of it! (in your own time, of course)

So glad you like it! Yeah... yeah chapter 14... uh, got away from me?

The color theory is a lot of fun in "Making Your Own Worst Enemy." I went ham on the blue references lol.

Kristin in Making Your Own Worst Enemy is such a fun character. She's out here being chaotic and adopting freaking out supervillains. I especially love her in the Tommy chapters. She's so fun. XD

[meowza315]

hi I'm anon who loved your au mike! whoopsie my memory must be bad i thought they were like 21 (maybe I mixed it up as 19-21 not 16-19) and because in the movies they're adults going in so i assumed lol! and im 17 anyway so i forgot as anon that could seem weird. byler being attractive or in love physically isn't weird though i think it's healthy to just say it's not what you like, as a teen it's nice to figure out what i like and be comfortable navigating it not grossed out. but not to worry as the artist it's fair not to want that and not what I meant for this au with what I said anyway! he's just a good looking silly guy 😎 like that little doodle of will sizzling on the floor on my last ask shows his love for sure LOL so so cute. their love language being touch is also very sweet and comes across in your art and suits the au, it's a nice thought! thnks for this au!

hello again!!

no worries, things happen 😭 they are in fact 16 when the story starts and by the time it ends three years passed (it’s 2.5 I did the math wrong) due to Mike’s extensive training period and the time between their confession and Mike transferring his consciousness to his avatar permanently. Together it’s 3 years but broken down his training took 18 months, the time from the end of training to tsaheylu was a year, and another month or two between that and the end of the story with a few days or weeks sprinkled in between in certain areas I can’t remember but. yeah 3 years? 2.5? Something like that.

With how they’re aged, they’re both essentially 16 1/2 which is why they’re 19, cause after the year and a half of struggle before their confession they both had turned 18 at that point and then the year after that blah blah blah you get the point. anyways.

I myself am 16 (birthday was a little under a week ago writing this) !!! I don’t think it’s weird that they’re attractive or love each other physically (I’ve said on insta a few times how they’re pretty or handsome etc etc), however it’s still not in the sexual sense. I probably took something and interpreted it wrong or something idk, I’m a very anxious person especially when it comes to the gayliens cause of all the aspects mashed together with how they don’t wear a lot and are 18 by the time they confess to one another. theres a lot of people in the byler fandom that are a bit.. wacky.. I guess I could say. so. yeah ❤️

and yeah as the creator of the AU and more than 75% of the artwork from it (as well as still being a minor) I don’t want anything weird coming from it or any people that are gonna take stuff from it and run, if you get what I mean by that. like not trying to see basic information I’ve come up with because I’ve shoved so much lore and story and detail into it. For the love of god I give their accessories and songcord beads meaning. Literally nobody cares about that but I DO!! I CARE!! I care about the little details!

and back to love language !! them having that love language of touch is going to end up stemming from having at least some attraction to each other physically. its a small detail but anxiety still makes me worry about it sometimes, especially in some parts of the storyline like tsaheylu. But even before then, in their confession, after they tell each other, it’s an intimate moment between them. they kiss, they hold each other close. Mike literally ends up on the ground at one point from pulling Will so close (doodles below). They finally both got what they want, each other. it’s still evident then. but even as the story continues and gets to the point of tsaheylu it’s more noticeable? I guess?

There’s literally a reference to the original scene in Avatar (tree of voices scene w/ Jake and Neytiri) that of course, inspired me to make the AU in the first place. However, they’re only small aspects from the scene that I pulled from it instead of it being exactly the same. we all know what happens there. besides them bonding. cough. yeah no that’s not canon in this AU thank god. but anyways, they bond and sigh contentedly and have this moment together. it’s a new experience and probably weird for both of them because they aren’t bonding with an Ikran or direhorse this time, it’s each other now (also I know my avatar lore and how bonding is technically erotic and done during mating but no. not today). They bond, kiss a few times before Mike picks up Will like Jake does to Neytiri, and after a bit they go to bed. literally nothing else (another unfinished visual below).

they’re silly guys and I’m glad people enjoy the AU as much as I do!! instances like this allow me to infodump about stuff and honestly I’m here for it. I just hope no one comes into my asks and says something really weird. I don’t want those weird ass “spicy bylers” on my page. but other than that i love when people ask stuff about the au, it makes me happy!! :) im welcome to explain more stuff for fun or if you’re interested cause it gives me more opportunities to rant haha

[bonefall]

Reply Roundup: All Over The Place Edition

Had a couple of questions piling up over time, so I’m gonna get to them all in one place! No theme to this Reply Roundup because there’s a lot of different scraps today

@halogenwarrior for Bonefall TNP: “How long will Frostfur and Wildfur live?”

For Frostfur, she can survive up to early OotS without a problem. I’m keeping her in mind as a body to toss into a major epidemic, she will probably die in one of the Color Cough outbreaks at the beginning and end of Po3. That said, I’m keeping her in mind as a possible kill for TNP, too. In any case, she won’t be left behind at the Forest Territory.

For Wildfur, he will no longer die of chest complications! There’s no need to kill him as a warning for Briarlight in the future. He’s getting a simple mobility device and he will be making the journey as a respected ShadowClan elder. He’s not getting a BIG role, it’s just nice to just have some disabled characters in the background. He’ll either die peacefully just before Briar’s injury, or shortly after giving her some practical advice.

@halogenwarrior for Bonefall TPB: “Since Cloudtail is now Firestar’s adopted son, does Cloudpaw have a new mentor?“

This is a special case where a father figure mentors their son. It’s not forbidden under the code, just usually counterproductive to the social purpose of Mentor/Apprentice relationships.

But here, the reason this taboo is being broken is because Bluestar is trying to make Firestar eligible for deputyship as quickly as possible. It’s not that she expects Tigerstar to betray her the way he does... but she also isn’t stupid. There’s a prophecy about Fire Alone saving the Clan, there’s at least suspicion about this deputy, and there’s constant war, disease, famine...

Things can change fast. Best to be prepared, and make sure that there’s no way to dispute Fireheart’s legitimacy under the Law of the Deputy (AND THEN SHE JUST WAITS A WHOLE DAY AFTER TIGER’S BETRAYAL, CASTING DOUBT ON HIS LEGITIMACY ANYWAY)

And besides, Fireheart brought this extra kittypet to ThunderClan. Bluestar also expects him to make it into a warrior as well.

TL;DR outstanding circumstance, mentor remains Fireheart.

@hehhdhejdudues “Why are Runningnose, Frecklewish, and Ravenwing in the Dark Forest?“

Runningnose is a Bad Boy in this rewrite, Frecklewish and Ravenwing are sent to the Dark Forest because of StarClan’s clouded judgement due to their mob-like fury about the Mapleshade situation.

There are lots of reasons to end up in the Dark Forest in this rewrite, but it’s also not as bad as canon. There’s even cats who go there in protest of StarClan.

@halogenwarrior “Is Hawkfrost and Reedwhisker’s age gap too steep?”

No, don’t worry, I went and charted it out. Reedwhisker is noted as a toothless kitten when Fireheart saves him from the river, meaning he’s less than 3 weeks old in Forest of Secrets (leopardstar’s humdrum made him older but we dont respect that book or its retcons). So, he’s a few weeks older than Bramble and Tawny.

Even if we went by the official wiki estimate, at most, Reed and Hawk are 1 year apart in age. Going by the toothless-kitten evidence, it’s somewhere near 9 months. That’s well below my 4-year-cutoff.

If Reedwhisker was a warrior, the small age gap WOULD still be an issue because of the power dynamic. However, add in the fact that Reed is forced to stay as an apprentice for an entire year because of Skyheart, there’s no problematic power dynamic at play here. It all checks out.

Aaaand for this last one, I’m going to talk a bit about ex-TigerClan supporters and Thistle Law in a serious discussion about fascism so this one’s going under a cut. TW for Fascism and all the racism, sexism, and xenophobia that comes with that, with a real-world example.

What exactly do RiverClan cats besides Hawkfrost (who wants an ally in his bids for power) get out of the WindClan rebellion? I would think their aggression and xenophobia would make them unhappy to get a leader who is also aggressive and xenophobic, but against THEM. Xenophobes won't be allies of other xenophobes from the very groups they are prejudiced against.

@halogenwarrior

Much like real-world fascism, Thistle Law looks different between its incarnations. Supporters of Tigerstar’s brand of Thistle Law are committed to annexing other Clans into one unit, to enforce a standard of purity into itself. Blackclaw, Reedtail, Heavystep, and the rest of Hawkfrost’s RiverClan reinforcements want a second TigerClan.

In its simplest explanation, I could leave it there. Anything that gets them closer to TigerClan 2 is their goal.

In addition though, I think it’s very important to remember that bigotry is not logical, consistent, or principled. Prejudice is irrational. Fascists only understand power and will work with groups they're actively bigoted against, until the exact moment they don’t have to anymore.

So, I flatly disagree with the idea that xenophobes don’t ally with other xenophobes of the groups they are prejudiced against. That’s actually one of the things Fascists are known for, worming their way into other movements by breaking off prejudiced subgroups. Terfs are the well-known example, antisemitic minorities are another. If fascists take power, they will turn against the JK Rowlings and Kanye Wests who were previously useful. They don’t reject the help before that point.

I could get into deeper historical examples about this, this tactic is as old as the term Fascism itself. But I’ll leave it there for now because it’s already gotten heavy.

Just know this is a topic I care immensely about. I put more effort into this aspect of my rewrite than anything else, because I think it is the most important thing I’m doing with it.

Back to Funnie Battle Cat though,

Mudclaw thinks the RiverClan cats are united in helping to get rid of Onewhisker, and fight the encroach of Firestar’s influence. Accepting all these outsiders (thinking about this part i should definitely give windclan an ex-bloodclan member), giving away land peacefully, all this inter-clan mingling... He was willing to give Hawkfrost deputyship to get his supporters on his side for that push. I do really like Winds of Change, but one thing I reject about canon is the idea that Mudclaw was just... completely Bamboozled by Hawkfrost and really had the interests of his Clan at heart.

Like, no lol. You were going to make a total stranger your deputy so you could have more claws to kill Onestar’s supporters with. The inciting incident for the assassination was finding out StarClan was going to speak to him-- totally abandoning the idea that StarClan would sort this out if One, Fire, and Bramble were all lying about Tallstar’s switch. “Best interests of his clan” yeah right.

Hawkfrost’s plan was to get deputyship in WindClan, and then present this to Leopardstar as evidence of his capability. He is actually right that this would impress Bonefall Leopardstar, and set the stage to start merging the two Clans.

[happyandticklish]

A Schooling in Humanity

Notes: Vaguely based off an ask I was sent in by an anon, and inspired by my latest re-reading of Dracula several months ago. Once again, I am here to write about classics no one cares about for my own personal gain, because I care about these characters more than I should. Also, Johnathan mentions something once in the book that vaguely alludes to the fact that he’s canonically ticklish, and I’m fucking running with that.

Summary: Johnathan reminisces on how Mina used to help him when his insomnia took a turn for the worse, and Dracula offers to rekindle the tradition.

The lightning cracked against the window once more, sending shock waves humming through his bones. It was dark in the spacious room, but every arc of electricity lit up the walls in shadows that ran the imagination wild. Normally, something as simple as a storm wouldn’t have bothered Johnathan, but there was something about this house, loud and creaky and full of secrets that taunted him in the dark, that put him on edge. He gripped the covers tightly, pulling them up to his chest and determining to go back to bed if only to prove to himself that this was all in his head.

Until a particularly large burst of wind slammed into the window, throwing it open with a dramatic crash. Heart seizing in his chest, Johnathan jerked awake once more, body stiff with fear. 

Logically speaking, he knew the real monster dwelled inside this very home and so there was no need to worry about outside intruders. Unfortunately, logic rarely won out in most internal debates of Johnathan’s.

Tea. Tea was the solution for most problems, at least in his experience, so there was no reason to believe the same rule wouldn’t apply now. Something warm to soothe his stomach and mind. 

Carefully, he slipped out of bed, shoving on his slippers and resisting the urge to wrap a blanket around himself for protection—a silly notion, but tempting nonetheless. He wasn’t a little boy anymore, and he wasn’t going to behave like one.

The kitchen was dark and abandoned, setting a crueler air than the bright mornings that usually occupied it. He lit a candle, placing it squarely in the center of the table. His hand trembled slightly as thunder rumbled insistently in the distance. A small blot of wax fell on the table, cooling immediately as it landed. Johnathan watched another sloping line follow its brethren, its crimson hue illuminated in the light as it struggled against gravity. He could only imagine how easily his own blood would fall, stricken by some invisible beast in the night, trickling pitifully down his skin.

“Johnathan?”

The rest of the wax came crashing on the table as Johnathan knocked it over in his haste to turn around. The Count—Dracula, he reminded himself, as they had long since moved past formalities such as titles—stood at the front of the dining table, gazing questioningly at Johnathan. For someone who had long since moved on from the realm of the mortal life, his eyes were filled with a very human concern.

A monster by all accounts, and yet, his presence was inexplicably comforting in the way a wolf can be nice when it’s defending you against the mountain lion. 

Dracula was different than just a protector though. This was something else, almost akin to friendship, but more. Friends hadn’t done the sorts of things they had done, but lovers felt too heavy a term, and wrong somehow. It was too simple, the label constraining any thought of abnormality within the relationship.

Johnathan coughed, clumsily attempting to right the candle, though it did him little good now. “Oh. I didn’t see you there. I apologize if I woke you.”

Dracula smiled, the gesture amused and fond all at once. “It’s alright, I was already awake. I don’t require as much rest as a normal human would. Besides, my night was restless, what with the storm. I presume that’s why you’re awake?”

“Yes. Well. Yes and no.”

Dracula wrinkled a brow. Confusion was a unique expression for the vampire as it occurred rarely, and Johnathan always felt a strange delight go through him whenever he was the cause of it. There was something satisfying about knowing something that an immortal didn’t. “I… see. So not the storm then?”

“Not entirely, no,” Johnathan confessed. It was useless to lie to him, he always managed to see through him anyway. Might as well get the truth out now and endure the judgement that came with it. “The storm merely awoke the unease already festering inside of me. Now, you must understand, this place is lovely and its host are… well.” There was a slight flush that rose to his cheeks, one that he was sure Dracula wouldn’t fail to miss, even in the dim candle light. “You’ve been very hospitable. So, I truly don’t mean to offend, it’s just that this whole situation puts me in a very stressful position, and there’s no guarantee that the ladies from before won’t return, not to mention how worried Mina must be at home. And this house is just so creaky, and—” he broke off, laughing at himself for how he surely sounded like a child, worrying about the dark. “I suppose my imagination must have gotten to me.”

Dracula was silent for a moment, all the time required for a thousand worries to flit through Johnathan’s mind of what he must think of him, and worse yet, if he had accidentally offended him with his implication.

“Is this a common occurrence, then?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The insomnia. I couldn’t help overhearing you rummaging about in your room these past several nights—past several weeks, rather. I wasn’t sure whether it was my place to impose or not.”

Ah. Johnathan had hoped he hadn’t noticed, though of course he would have. It was one of the downsides of living with a being whose senses were so finely tuned. He sighed, pulling out a chair to sit, defeated. He toyed with the candle as he talked, moving it in minute inches across the table. It was a nervous gesture that he wished he could stop, but he was afraid of clamming up if he did so.

“At times,” he admitted. “Mina always called it a restless disposition. Sleep tends to evade me most nights, each visit few and far in-between. Normally, it’s manageable, but that was with Mina. She had ways of calming it. Not entirely, but enough to put my mind at rest for the evening. With her gone and everything that’s happened, I’m afraid it’s gotten worse.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I must be boring you with all this mundane talk. I’m sure insomnia is a child’s joke to a vampire.”

Dracula chuckled, and that alone eased the tension off of Johnathan’s shoulders a bit. “It is a special skill you possess my friend. Somehow, everything you say turns into an apology.”

Johnathan opened his mouth, only to hesitate as a sorry fluttered and died on his tongue.

“You are my dear guest, and above that, my friend. I would never turn away your suffering. Perhaps I can even help.” He strolled casually across the kitchen floor as he grasped the back of Johnathan’s chair—even that simple action seemed unbearably elegant when performed by him. “You said your Mina usually helps you, correct? Maybe I can use her same methods. What would she do at times like these?”

Your Mina. No jealousy, simply stating a fact. He never seemed bothered by how Johnathan still cared for her, still longed for her touch and her company. He wasn’t sure if it had to do with his vampiric state—the nature of an immortal—or if Dracula had always been that way, but either way it caused a comforting warmth to bloom in Johnathan’s chest.

“Johnathan?”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Damn. He said it again. “It’s just that it’s a tad embarrassing. I don’t know if someone like you would be up for it—it’s more of a human thing anyway.”

“Intimate, I take it?” Dracula guessed, his brow arching up once more. Crimson spread across Johnathan’s countenance, and rolled his shoulders forward defensively, physically preparing for the verbal assault he was sure to receive.

“No. I mean. Perhaps a little.” He ran a hand through his hair once, twice, a third time, tangling his fingers in the collected knots at the nape of his neck. He couldn’t tell if the action was calming or not, but at the very least it provided a distraction, something new for him to focus on as opposed to the words falling haphazardly from his mouth. “Sometimes she would sing to me. Other times she read, classics, poems, originals she had constructed that spanned epic tales of romance and intrigue. Usually, it was enough to calm me down. But at other times, when words alone weren’t enough, she would… ah. Well. Try more physical means.”

The words stuck in his throat and he struggled to get them out; it wasn’t a terribly large secret, but it was a special kind of mortifying that would only serve to make him seem weaker in the immortal’s eyes.

In his silence, Dracula garnered at a guess. “Intercourse?”

“What? No! Goodness no! I mean, not at a time like that anyway, obviously we, ah, that is…” he broke off at the amused smile Dracula directed at him—teasing again, in that dreadful deadpan of his that Johnathan always failed to interpret. He coughed again, trying once more. “I mean, no. Not that.”

“Then what?”

“Well, sometimes, to calm my restlessness, she would run her hands through my hair, or…” He coughed, his hand making another yet another round about his scalp. “Tickle me. Relax the nerves and all that.”

There was that adorable confused brow again. “Tickle you?”

“It sounds silly I know,” Johnathan agreed, a small smile tugging at his lips in a self-conscious gesture. “But it really did help. Demons seem so small with laughter at your tongue.”

His thoughts drifted, memories floating through his mind of late nights spent with Mina, fingers drifting softly over his shirt, sensation bubbling beneath the skin and prompting quick bursts of desperate flailing and laughter. His skin tingled, goosebumps rising as he remembered how it felt. Unconsciously, he let his fingers dip down his hairline, brushing against the back of his neck. His nerves registered his touch with a shiver, but it felt more relaxing than anything—not at all the same as when she had done it all those times before.

And then there was a different finger, longer than his, ended in a sharp, elegant nail that brushed against the back of his neck, a cold lump that he recognized as a ring pressing into his skin in its passage.

“So… this tickling helps, hmm?” His voice seemed to both comfort and unease Johnathan all at once. That singular nail played idly with his neck, drifting over the skin in soft swirls and swoops, his other hand coming to rest on his shoulder. The hair on his neck rose with each touch of Dracula’s finger, and Johnathan resisted the urge to shudder.

“Yes,” Johnathan managed after a moment, finding concentration difficult under the circumstances. “Most of the time, anyways.”

“Mm. And would now count as one of those times?”

Johnathan swallowed, feeling too hot and too cold all at once. “Perhaps. I really couldn’t say for certain. I suppose it would have to be tested for me to… well. Know for sure.”

A featherlight touch brushed behind his ear and Johnathan couldn’t help the way his shoulders jerked up helplessly, his body reacting before his mind could stop it. “If you don’t want me to, I’d more than understand. I know that I cannot replace Mina, and I have no desire to, either. However, in this area, I think I could be of assistance if you’d allow it. Though I have to admit that my skills might be a tad rusty. I have not thought of tickling in ages—I apologize if I end up preforming it incorrectly.”

Johnathan swallowed again, more as a way to stall than anything else. In truth, he hadn’t really thought about that particular tradition since coming here. There were so many other more important things to focus on—more life-threatening things—that it hadn’t once had an opportunity to come up. But now that he was here, the offer his to claim with only a nod of his head, he realized how much he had missed it.

He squirmed a bit in his seat, suddenly finding it difficult to remain still, as he nodded once. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind it. If you were willing, of course. I would never want to obligate you to…”

All at once his words trailed off as Dracula set in motion, the nail from before joined by others, all of which teasingly curled about his neck and ears; gentle, dragging touches that sent ripples of sensation coursing throughout him wherever they went. Without his conscious decision, his shoulders jerked up in a rather useless protection. It didn’t tickle quite yet, not in that real way that you felt more in your gut then across your skin. It was an itchy, pleasant thing now and Johnathan fought between the conflicting urge to bolt from his chair immediately and the building desire to lean further into Dracula’s touch.

“Is this working?” Dracula asked, hesitancy dripping from his words. A spiraling loop caught behind his ear, repeating until Johnathan was sure his facial muscles would sprain from scrunching up. “I’m sorry to say I’m a tad rusty; I haven’t had the opportunity to indulge in tickling in quite some time, and I can’t remember if this is right.”

It was a strange thought, Johnathan would later muse when he had the coherency to do so, to think that one could be so alone that something as simple and reflexive as tickling could become difficult. It caused a slight twinge of empathy and bafflement in Johnathan, a sentiment he did not share in the moment. Instead, he merely shifted his shoulder, pretending to be readjusting if only to disrupt those nails for a brief moment. “Not exactly, my friend. You’re close. You can’t be too light or it becomes annoying, and being too rough can become painful.”

Dracula’s hands stopped as he listened, and Johnathan tried not to miss even that not-enough-touch. “I don’t recall there being so many rules to the practice.”

Johnathan chuckled, hiding his smile quickly behind his hand; the vampire could become sullen if he thought Johnathan was making fun of him. “Well, they’re not rules so much as strategies. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached behind the chair, beckoning with his fingers. “Give me your hands.”

Dracula stared at him doubtfully for a moment, but eventually obliged, offering them over to Johnathan who slipped his own under Dracula’s—allowing the immortal to track his movements.

“It’s more like this.”

Making sure Dracula was still holding on, Johnathan moved his own hands down, self-consciously skittering fingers over his own sides. It was odd tickling oneself; his body twitched in vague alarm, before quickly relaxing as it realized the hands’ owner. He felt a bit silly doing it, but he had made a promise to teach, and so he expertly wiggled his fingers over his nightshirt, being careful to dig into his sides as he did.

Dracula watched avidly as Johnathan pointed out different areas that were more effective and just how to attack them, demonstrating the scraping pinch to his sides, the squeeze of his hips, the gentle spider over his stomach. It was a vulnerable process, like showing his hand in a game of cards and trusting that his opponent would be merciful with the information. The only difference here was that Johnathan was aiming for that specific lack of mercy that made this so addicting.

When he was finished, he released Dracula’s hands, a decision he nearly regretted when they came to rest on Johnathan’s sides instead. “So, there you have it,” Johnathan said, unable to hide the nerves creeping into his voice. “A complete guide on how to ruin Johnathan Harker. I don’t think even Mina knows about half the spots I just showed you, so consider it a privilege.”

“A privilege,” Dracula repeated softly, tapping his fingers in a gentle tune against his sides. Johnathan wasn’t sure whether the gesture was on purpose or not, but he couldn’t help the way he curled in slightly at the touch. “I have to admit, I’m honored. You must really be craving this if you’re willing to reveal so much.”

Though he knew they were honest words not meant to be teasing, Johnathan couldn’t help the way a blush spread rapidly across his face. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice didn’t sound as raspy as it did in his own ears. “Yes, well, I suppose it has been a minute.”

“Am I allowed to try, then?” The fingers curled in slightly in excitement, and Johnathan failed to stifle a gasp. “I’m eager to see what this tickling does to the distinguished professor.”

It was possible that Johnathan should have instated some kind of ‘no talking allowed’ rule before they had started, to prevent the wildfire of embarrassment roaring through him now. “I don’t see why not.”

Based on the earlier attempt, Johnathan had thought himself well-prepared. Evidently, however, Dracula had been listening well to Johnathan’s instructions, and the latter jumped in his chair as fingers set in all at once.

It was much different when someone else was doing it; he had nearly forgotten that in his time here. It was still a hesitant endeavor, but skilled now as it cautiously curled into fabric that brushed against Johnathan’s skin in unfairly distracting ways. He was doing it too slow which Johnathan suspected was out of uncertainty, but if anything it was only making things worse as the nails dragged in devastatingly light manners over his ribs.

He let out a strangled wheezing sound, slipping down in his chair as he flailed for some kind of handhold. Mercifully, Dracula ignored the embarrassing reaction, far too focused on trying to copy Johnathan’s early movements. Laughter was building in Johnathan’s throat, that helpless appeal that was so different from the polite chuckles most offer in day to day encounters. Sensation prickled at his sides irritably and he wanted to swat Dracula away, to call this whole idea off, to insist that he move down damn him, because he was getting far too close to that bundle of nerves under his arms.

“I’d forgotten how fun this could be,” Dracula mused, smiling at the stuttery laughs slipping out at a rather rapid rate now from the squirming man. “You look half insane already and I’ve hardly done anything. Is it really as intense as you’re making it out to be?”

“Y-Yes!” Johnathan squawked out, nearly hitting him in the face when he dragged all ten nails up his sides suddenly. He was repeating himself, making a careful examination of all the areas on his lower torso that made Johnathan want to hastily step out of his own skin, rising perilously high before stopping at his top most rib. Goosebumps broke out with every touch of his hands, and Johnathan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather control of himself. He didn’t want this to end immediately but it was growing harder and harder not to bolt out of Dracula’s arms immediately.

He had forgotten just how ticklish tickling could be.

A gasp was ripped out of him as he felt the presence of hot breath at his neck, and along with it, the knowledge of the sharp press of teeth that was sure to follow. It was exhilarating and dangerous and somehow still ticklish all at once, and Johnathan squirmed in his chair, wishing Dracula would stop pinching at his hips so he could concentrate on the pressing presence at his neck.

“This tickling is reminding me of something I’ve been wondering about for quite a while now.” Dracula’s breath hit the shell of his ear as he talked, and Johnathan positively giggled in some kind of mad anticipation that was making him far too giddy for his own liking. “The last several nights when we’ve laid together, you’ve always become nervous whenever I grew too close to this area. At first I had merely assumed you were worried I’d bite you.”

Johnathan’s grin was practically breaking out of his own face, his shoulders trembling with the urge to jerk up in protection.

“But upon seeing you like this, I’m starting to suspect there might have been another reason for your evasiveness.”

Carefully, Dracula removed one of his hands from his hips to tilt Johnathan’s chin upwards, gripping it to hold it in place. Teeth scraped carefully over his neck, a perilous game to play. It was a testament to Dracula’s will power that he did not simply bite Johnathan then and there, the allure of blood all too present as Johnathan’s heart thumped wildly with nerves and laughter. Instead of piercing flesh, however, he kept up this vague biting game, like when a dog gnaws on your hand in play or a kitten attacks your finger. Johnathan’s grin soon turned to tumbling laughter, his face upheld in a grimace of desperation. He couldn’t tilt his neck down, Dracula had made sure of that, and so he was forced to take the unbearably light assault that was quickly becoming too much to handle.

“D-Drahahac—!”

“Hold still, Johnathan, I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Johnathan wanted to point out that one, that was an unfair tactic to play, and two, that Dracula was fully capable of restraining himself if he wanted to. Unfortunately, it was difficult to focus under the circumstances and he was unable to make either protest when an errant snort or yelp would interrupt him every five seconds. He gripped at Dracula’s arm, trying to ease his hold for some vague hope at freedom, but he had as much luck with that as if Dracula had been made of iron. Which was unfortunate, as Johnathan was sure he would die if Dracula didn’t stop soon. 

And yet, when Dracula paused and asked if he wanted a break (it was approaching morning after all, and Johnathan hadn’t had a very restful night due to a variety of circumstances both pleasant or otherwise) Johnathan found himself answering with a steadfast No. There was something so addicting about that specific brand of torture—an intimacy he hadn’t experienced since leaving home. He found himself craving it more and more as Dracula continued, and he wasn’t ready to have that all end now, sleep be damned.

He fell back into his chair with a choking shriek as Dracula began his process once more, this time with added fingers curling into his sides, and allowed himself to sink into the blissful euphoria taking him over once more.  

[auradoniandreams]

What are your honest thoughts on Lonnie and her family in Descendants?

Personally, I've always liked Lonnie, but I have to admit that at this point in time I feel like I'm more attached to the fanon version of her (who has actual motivations and a backstory), than the canon version whose personality changes every 5 seconds. I feel like she had real potential as an AK who likes the VK's, and who's also not afraid to challenge Auradon's status quo, but something got lost along the way.

I don't really have any thoughts about her family, tho (outside of the og Mulan movie, anyway - but we're talking Descendants now). They're barely mentioned, and when they are, we're reminded that Disney doesn't know what to do with ethnic characters (*cough* Lil' Shang *cough*). I'm not Asian/Chinese myself, so I can't rly speak on the representation aspect (if you're Asian, and would like to, feel free to share your opinion in the replies/reblogs! I'd love to hear them), but it's obvious that Lonnie is not a Chinese name, and from what I understand, naming a kid after their parents is a big no-no in Chinese culture.

So...yeah. I have a lot of thoughts on her characterization tho, so if you wanna hear me ramble about her character arc, click on the read more link.

Before D1: The first time we see her, in the School of Secrets webseries that was released before D1 as promo, she's spying on the other AK's, trying to expose the shady things that happen behind closed doors, and to challenge the idea that the upcoming arrival of the VK's signals an imminent doom for Auradonian society. Granted, they never confirmed the fact that it was her behind the shorts, but she was voiced by the same actress that played her in the movies and if I remember correctly she also had the same bracelets.

Based on this appearance, she sounds like an incredibly interesting character, as the only other AK besides Ben and Doug who wants to give the VK's a chance. Additionally, she's standing up for what she believes in like her mother did, without turning into a carbon copy of Mulan.

D1: Her attitude towards the VK's is kind of confusing; one minute, she's asking the girls for a haircut and showing the c4 sympathy for their shitty childhoods, having little to no problem with them. The next, she's screaming and running along with Audrey and her princesses. Peer pressure? Personality shift? Fear of Mal's dark magic? Go figure.

D2: She sneaks out to the Isle of the Lost, helps the c4 fight Uma's crew, and she uses a loophole to enter the R.O.A.R. team as its first female captain. I loved seeing them develop her character more and give her a plotline, but I also kind of wished they hadn't turned her into a full carbon copy of her mother. I think this is when the writers also started getting confused abt her character, because in the first movie she was a lot more girly, and not necessarily athletic. Obviously she can be both at the same time but it felt like a sudden change.

Wicked World: Her personality (??) mostly stays the same, but for reasons that I can't figure out, she forgets she likes fencing, and is suddenly into...music??? She has a side gig as a DJ??? Uhh ok

School of Secrets: Lonnie's Warrior Sword: We're reverting back to her D2 characterization: she's athletic, headstrong, and anxious about her mother's legacy, or whether she can fulfill it. The plot also borrows a lot of elements from the og Mulan movie. It's an enjoyable read, but it's pretty much what you'd expect from a daughter of Mulan, and I wish they'd done more with her.

I liked her relationship with Jay, tho. Their dynamic (esp in the books ) is fun and they make a good team. That was a highlight for sure.

All in all, I like her, but she suffers from the same problem that every side character in this franchise does: inconsistency.

[katyspersonal]

002. Eileen. Now

My ask box is all crows now, huh? x)

(Asks from this ( x ) meme)

002 I Give me a character & I will tell you

• How I feel about this character

I like her, but for some reason I do not think all that often about her? She is just one of those characters who is so crucial for the story itself and for the lore that I kinda... stop noticing them and take them for granted? It is hard to explain. I feel like she could certainly use way more exploration with her backstory and depths of her personality and relationships - that includes me too! Basically I think I am not being fair on her myself because she is just as important as Maria, Adeline, Valtr, Fauxsefka, Gascoigne... you know, THE core cast.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Hmmm... I don't find Eileen very shippable, since her occupation suggests a great dose of emotional isolation. For all she knows, anyone she loves could go blood-drunk and she'd have to hunt them! I entertained the idea of the post-game scenario where she and Henriett raise the daughters of Gascoigne and Viola together now, but even in that case it'd probably work better as grandma + aunt taking care of them as a ship. I do think she used to see some women back in her youth, when she was just a student/doctor, even before the plague took her own place. Crack ship idea though - Eileen x Arianna! Thumbs up, thumbs down?

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

Not going to call ANY NAMES *cough coooooough*, but I think the mother-son reminiscent bond between her and the Crow of Cainhurst is the top tier of the headcanons! I remember ancient times when I thought that Eileen and Crow were not even that familiar, and instead he simply mimicked appearance of Hunter of Hunters to not get questioned when he kills a hunter (important for his goals), but I've changed my mind since then! Doomed mother-son bond for life!!

My unpopular opinion about this character:

Not really an opinion, but rather a pet-peeve. We know from the lore that there WERE other Hunters of Hunters before Eileen, and only one was appointed at the given time. Presumably, Crow of Cainhurst is an apprentice and that's it!

But at times I see takes that have Eileen as the one and ONLY Hunter of Hunters that ever was, who appeared long ago and was the one since Old Hunters prime...? Example off the top of my head - that one manga centering around Maria (that I never properly read...). You know, with gingerhead white-garb Adeline (just like miiiiiine!!), super sigma male asshole Laurence, Willem recognizing as the pope of the Healing Church before he yeeted... all that. Of course I am not saying to go and write several OCs, but... Eileen was not the only one, clearly... come onnnnn.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon:

I want to see where Eileen's shack is at, so we know in what house to visualize her in the after-game events in which she totally doesn't die but simply retires because of health issues... She DEFINITELY just retires and simply stops fighting, right...? That's canon, you know? Of course you know that haha.,..

my OTP:

Again, I personally do not really have one that is romantic... I remember I used to be a big Eileen x Valtr stan, but that one indeed became platonic since then, especially since I shifted towards headcanoning her as a lesbian. However, as far as fan-stuff goes in general, I do support Eileen x Djura shippers! Very cool and based ship, definitely deserves its popularity! ...if 'popular content' and 'Eileen' are even compatible things fdanhfhds HELPPPP

my cross over ship:

Hmmm... None yet, however, I think in the crossover verse she'd be more likely to find love than in BB canon! I have a feeling that I'll find a great match for her somewhere in ER or DS, actually! .....yes, it has been far too long since I've touched any other universe besides Soulsborne...

a headcanon fact:

Like I mentioned in some other post, I think she was a student, learning to be a doctor! ...and then just a doctor. She wanted to stay in the university as a teacher, but could not stand aside when her place was plagued, and became a doctor! I do think her beak mask is the only thing remaining from the clothes in which she originally appeared in Yharnam!

Thank you for the ask!!!!

[shimmerbeasts]

Her continued intrusion was bound to cause Caitlyn and Vi to react sooner or later. Her sister might have absorbed the life of a Piltie and completely breathed the city of marble and gold, but Vastayan genes were not easily turned off. While the other Pilties had been more concerned with their precious buildings falling apart or, Janna forbid, blood on their streets, Vi and Caitlyn had read Jinx's trespassing as exactly what she had wanted it to be read: A challenge for territory. Not just any territory. A challenge for their den.

As far as Jinx was concerned, the fact that she had been able to get into the Kiramman's mansion to the point she had had free access to Caitlyn's bath and bedroom proved that she had lain claim to the heart of the Kiramman territory. Sure, the place was missing her signatures so far and as long as Caitlyn lived in it, it would never be truly hers. But what had not happened, might yet come to pass.

Besides, wouldn't it send a wonderful message? The Kirammans were not just any rich family. They were members of the Council of Piltover and if reports were to be believed, they were founding members of the upper city. To lay claim to their mansion, to cover it in her beautiful artwork or maybe even blow it up would send a clear message to Piltover. We are not afraid to shake up your very foundation.

The air was thick with the smell of chalk and paint. Cool rock zapped Jinx's body warmth from her thighs. She sat on a column and surveyed her masterpiece. The old temple of Janna had made for a comfortable liar, however, now, it would serve as a death trap. Not for Vi, of course. Vi had to be kept safe after all. Even with her sister donning that godawful uniform and badge, Jinx refused to believe this was Vi. This was an imposter. Her real sister would never side with those brutes!

This was Caitlyn Kiramman's work without a doubt. Like a foul plant, she kept taking root in Vi's subconscious and convinced her to do things, any Zaunite would never do. Certainly not Vi, who had been ready to jump at the idea of ripping Enforcers apart. That Sheriff Charlatan's manipulation sat deep. Too deep for it to be pruned out safely. No, the only way, Jinx could salvage her sister's identity, was by burning away any influence of Caitlyn and then slowly nursing her sister back to help. She could do that though, right? She had Singed! The crazy doctor could bring anything back to life!

The place was littered with tripwires, each as fine as a cat's whisker. They were connected to beautiful contraptions and figures, that Jinx had remodified into deadly artillery. The complex combination of wheels, plated steel, blue gemstones and golden lines marked the foxes, cats and panther sculptures out as having been from Piltover. The Loose Canon had removed each figure during one of her trips topside, including during the times, when she had escaped from the Kiramman's mansion. Her reconfiguration had installed a complex piping system with steam and liquid in the figures. If the respective tripwire broke, they breathed fire!

All Caitlyn had to do now that she was in her liar was stumble over one of the tripwires and she would be toast! Jinx had never had a smouldering hot carcass before, but she was willing to try everything at least once. Thus her purple eyes followed Caitlyn's wandering around, shimmering with feverish excitement, which turned into crestfallen disappointment whenever Caitlyn missed a wire by a mere inch! How could someone dodge a good five or so tripwires? Had Jinx misjudged her layout? Had she placed the traps in the wrong spots?

Grrrrr, I have to do everything myself!

A guttural growl escaped Jinx's lips like a heinous cough fighting its way up her throat. No longer bothering with attempting to stay concealed, she tightened her hold on the leather strap of Pow-Pow and leapt off the column. Immediately upon touching the ground, her hand slammed the trigger down and the barrels of her trusted Gatling gun sprung to vivid life.

Bullets whisked between both women. Caitlyn - the coward! - inched backwards in an attempt to find cover and even then, she managed to somehow miraculously avoid the trip wires! A shrill scream tore through Jinx's lips, spit flying from her fangs. That blasted Sherrif Charlatan! How could she keep getting so lucky?! Maybe she should just cut her tendon apart!

"You made Pow-Pow mad!", Jinx shouted, "She got no kissies from you! How dare you?!"

Dumping the Gatling gun on the ground to be not weighted down by it, Jinx pulled out a small, rough-looking knife with a slightly serrated blade and a leather wrapping around the handle before she darted forward with fangs bared and claws twitching. She barrelled into Caitlyn with all the ferocity and flexibility of an angry cat. The two women clung to one another, too close for each other's personal comfort. Hisses and snarls filled the air.

Finally, Jinx swung Silco's knife and gave her father's fang the chance to drink blood himself. She stabbed Caitlyn just above the hips and delighted in the brief, high-pitched shriek that coaxed out of her detested enemy. Feeling Caitlyn wrap her hand around her wrist, Jinx snarled and cackled all at once, daring her to pull the knife away. Because she assumed this was what would happen next, she had not paid attention to the rifle at all.

Her eyes widened as out of the barrel unfurled like a twisted flower, the biggest net Jinx had ever seen. It slammed against her and threw her backwards. Jinx yowled in pain and shock as electricity sparked around the thin netting, burning her skin. Her limbs wrapped around her body, she staggered over her feet and fell on the floor twisting and coiling like a catch on dry land.

"SEVIKA, NOW!", shouted Jinx.

Under a whisking sound, something like a small, sharp boomerang came flying through the air. It flew around Caitlyn and sniped one of the tripwires. Immediately, under a loud whooshing sound, the nearest statue breathed a jet of flames at Caitlyn.

"Step away from the girl unless you want things to get very ugly."

Sevika stepped out of the shadows of the nearest column. The former deputy of Silco was sporting a new prosthetic arm, which was littered with graffiti and images in Jinx's drawing style. Instead of merely being another hand, its end had a strange casing making it almost look like a piranha head. Inside the casing seemed to be at least two more of those boomerangs.

"I know where every tripwire is hidden and I can hit them faster than you can run, Kiramman. You'll be burned alive before you manage to move Jinx anywhere."

◈　 ⇢  @shimmerbeasts　 ⋯　 blood, blood, gallons of the stuff! ♡ 　　⸻　sender shoots / stabs receiver non - fatally as a warning (Jinx to Caitlyn)

Going toe to toe with Jinx was never a good plan, but Caitlyn was tired of running. In fact, both Caitlyn and Vi had decided enough was enough. She had invaded her personal space one-to-many times, and the two predators had decided they would no longer be the prey of the monster. Even Vi had shown a new side, a more monstrous side that she was willing to use against Zaun if they continue their actions. For how else do you beat a monster then by not being one as well?

And Caitlyn had developed the same mind thought. To stop a predator, she had to become a predator herself. No more running, no more hiding or cowering; she was going to stop Jinx; or at least prove to her she was not some simple-minded prey Piltie she could toy around with anymore. The cat would learn that she was not a mouse; she was another feral cat.

Traveling into Zaun with Vi, they moved and twist, following the tracks and clues that would lead to Jinx; her lair, an alley. It didn’t matter where, only that they found her and put a stop to this. Caitlyn didn’t know how Vi would react in the end. This was her sister, of course, and Caitlyn would have to keep control over her anger. Every time she faced Jinx, she saw red and wanted to put a bullet through her head. Her rifle had some additional parts to it that she could use, so hopefully that would ease her raging revenge; she would not let Jinx turn her into a monster even if it lingered underneath the skin. The desire to end her, so that no one else got hurt, and no one else died. Complex emotions weaved in her thoughts, but she shook them away; she would not become the monster, she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

Her feet moved silently against the ground, as pictures painted all over the walls, stuffed animals, puppets. There was so much in this space as Caitlyn tightened her grip on her rifle. Jinx no doubt could see her. Her intuition told her she was here; that same sinking feeling against her gut.

Bait. But the Bait would bite back.

It didn’t take long for the clash, gun to gun, Caitlyn having to keep some kind of cover around her as Jinx was far faster and more lethal; but even her weapons could not pierce through the heavy cover of rock and stone. That would force Jinx to move closer, just where Caitlyn wanted her. Would Jinx figure it out? Possibly, but Caitlyn was vying on Jinx’s hatred for Caitlyn that it would draw her in close; forgoing her typical MO because she always did. Whenever they met, Jinx consistently kept Caitlyn on her toes by doing something different from her usual routine.

What she hadn’t anticipated was Jinx literally swiping in close, claws flex and her teeth bared. Caitlyn hissed back at her being too close, but that’s when she let out a gasp. At first, Caitlyn thought it was one of her knives that Jinx had used, she never carried a knife. Her hand reached down to grab Jinx’s wrist and briefly noticed the smaller knife, something she had never seen before. Sentimental? It was a fairly common design; the hilt wrapped in leather, and the knife looked to have some broken notches from overuse. A brief glance, but enough to note that this was not one of Jinx’s typical weapons. It had to have sentimental value; Caitlyn could easily deduce that.

But Jinx had gotten in close, and that gave Caitlyn an advantage. Her nose scrunched up, and she growled threatening, and lifted her rifle up. She didn’t think, she only reacted and released the electric netting to shove Jinx backwards. It was the first time she had ever used it, watching it coil around Jinx. Heavy claws at the end twisted around, trying the shimmer monster within its grasp and hopefully cause Jinx to surrender; or at least chase her off. Caitlyn stumbled backwards on her feet, the knife forcefully ripped out as Jinx was thrown backwards with the net and gave Caitlyn time to move backwards.

While blood pooled from the wound, she pointed her rifle at the net, wondering if Jinx had escaped or was still entangled in it.

[cutekittenlady]

My sudden surge of shipping Elesa/Emmet has evolved into its own whole thing related to legends arceus and ingos disappearance and if my mind has to be constantly assaulted with these ideas then all of yours have to be too.

So, like, Elesa is acquainted with Emmet and Ingo. The battle subway is IN Nimbasa City where Elesa is the gym leader after all, so it makes sense they'd be at least acquaintances if not colleagues or even friends. I'm not sure there's a real canon example of what the extent of their relationship actually is but settling on at least "friends" seems to be pretty safe bet. Co-Workers on big city projects at bare minimum.

And thats really where their whole relationship sits up until Ingo's disappearance.

Ingo, one of the Nimbasa Cities subway bosses disappearing without a trace, is bound to have attracted a lot of attention, and efforts to find him were likely very public. Which was probably hard for Emmet who struggles to express himself verbally under the best of conditions, let alone while dealing with the stress of losing his brother and trying to keep the subway running in his absence. He doesn't really crack under the pressure, but he struggles to answer reporters' questions and doesn't exactly react with grace with people suddenly crowding the subways in a ghoulish, tho somewhat well-intentioned, attempt to find Ingo down there.

Enter Elesa. As a supermodel, Elesa is used to the spotlight. Used to standing center stage. Used to having to deal with sudden unexpected, sometimes even invasive, questions from the paparazzi. Whether at her own behest, at the request of the city, or even Emmet requesting aid, she ends up hanging around the subway a lot to help run interference between Emmet, the media, and the public image the city wants to keep up.

Officially, she's there in her official capacity as gym leader to ensure the safe running of one of Nimbasa's most popular attractions, and to help with the initial investigation of what happened to Ingo. Which unfortunately doesn't get very far. As far as ANY evidence can tell Ingo quite literally vanished into thin air and the search gets called off probably about a year after he disappeared.

Course, things don't get easier for Emmet just because the official media outlets drop the story. Rumors abound about why Ingo disappeared, ranging from conspiracy theories about secret societies and wormholes (cough), to the benign. Merely suggesting, Ingo managed to get lost in the tunnels of the subway and fell down some deep shaft or something. (Emmet finds that ridiculous. Ingo knew the subway tunnels like the back of his hand and NEVER got lost. Even if he did, they have safety protocols in place that both he and Ingo followed like they were gospel.)

What hurts the most tho is probably the not-so-nice suspicions that Ingo ran away for some dishonest reason. Embezzlement, stealing, etc if there are an embarrassing white-collar crime (or even darker) corners of the internet accuse him of it.

Elesa has a helluva time keeping Emmet from commenting on the rumors on any public platform, since she knows by experience that that would only pour more oil on the fire, and cause it to spread faster. Thankfully, Emmet listens to her and even those rumors die down eventually.

Two years after Ingo's disappearance the whole city more or less moves on, much to Emmets initial frustration. Officially Elesa doesn't have to keep going to the subway since the media crisis is basically over, but she does so anyway. Both because the battle subway is a good way to train and as a gym leader she has to stay sharp, but also because spending all that time with Emmet ended up making them fast friends, and she'd grown to enjoy Emmets quirks and direct way of talking. Besides, someone has to make sure Emmet didn't overwork himself.

There's also the fact that Emmet is 100% certain Ingo is still alive. He has little to no evidence, and doesn't even have any leads on how his brother could have disappeared (he discounts that Ingo would have made a mistake in the subway tunnels, and he doesn't even consider any suggestion that his brother would just leave. Especially not without telling him). Elesa wants to be supportive since the whole situation is just as inexplicable to her, but she has no way to fully support Emmet on this because there doesn't seem to be an explanation that makes sense. The only thing she can do is keep visiting Emmet and trying to get him to take his mind off things by convincing him to go places with her, help her with photo shoots, or the gym, find trainers for him to battle since, etc.

It's difficult since Emmet is reluctant to leave the subway he and his brother worked so hard to create and maintain or do anything in his free time other than look for Ingo, but as time goes on Elesa's efforts bear fruit and Emmet is way less down in the dumps. He still gets uncharacteristically quiet and distant whenever Ingo is mentioned and he doesn't ever let go of looking for him completely but he learns to manage both his search, his duties with the trains, and his own well-being with Elesa's help.

Which, of course, involves spending a lot of one on one time together. Emmet quickly becomes one of the people Elesa spends most of her time with along with Skyla (who is VERY quick to tease Elesa about all the time they spend together), and over time Elesa comes to learn and understand Emmets passion for trains and battling to the point she starts trying to make a lot of train puns based on what Emmet has told her.

Emmet, for his part, groans internally at the puns and isn't afraid to tell Elesa when she made some mistake with the terminology. However, he never discourages her punning and his corrections are more of a way of actively encouraging her. Time just keeps going on and on and eventually, well... they end up being verrrry close.

So they start dating, right?

Well... no.

This is where we get into the dramaz.

Emmet and Elesa both independently, on some level, develop feelings for each other. However, neither of them ever act on or even hint at said feelings, though clever questioning from people in the know may cause a crack in the facade that reveals the truth. If anyone ever does find out, they both, independently, dismiss the idea of ever being in a relationship.

Emmet feels that he can't really burden Elesa with a relationship. For one thing, she's easily the most famous and popular supermodel in Unova and even beyond. She has a carefully maintained image that he doesn't want to complicate with a relationship. Especially since, after the whole incident after Ingo's disappearance, Emmet has grown wary of too much media attention. He fears if they were ever in a relationship, Elesa might feel pressured to compromise her career for his sake, and he doesn't want that. Beyond that, he fears his feelings are a result of Elesa's well-meant kindness after the disappearance of his brother and doesn't want to cause her undue emotional distress by 'misreading' her intentions.

Elesa for her part feels complicated about it too. Emmet can still be hard to read on a good day, and running the entire battle subway alone keeps him incredibly busy. He still has time to spend with her, but Elesa frets adding more to his plate with any flirting or romantic intentions. Though there are times when she gives in to temptation and tries to get... closer to Emmet it never seems to bear fruit (from her perspective at least. Emmet, for her part, does notice the attention but mistakes it for just well-intended kindness). Then of course there's his emotional state. Elesa can tell Emmet is still very much grieving and missing his brother, and a part of her feels the new closeness in their relationship is a subconscious attempt on his part to fill the Ingo-shaped hole in his life. Basically, she's scared that acting on her feelings would be exploiting his emotional vulnerability for her own self-interest.

And finally, on a deep subconscious level, both Elesa and Emmet feel secretly guilty about the whole thing for one big reason.

Ingo.

This whole one-on-one relationship they have largely developed in the wake of Ingo's disappearance, and both of them feel like being together would almost feel like they're taking advantage of his absence. Emmet, especially, feels wrong about 'abandoning' Ingo to start a relationship with Elesa. And, if we go with the idea that Ingo, Emmet, and Elesa have been friends for a long time, Elesa might feel similarly.

So the two of them are just left in a perpetual state of soft affectionate pining that drives the people around them who notice it absolutely insane and wishing Ingo would come back just to break the ice.

Of course...

In the games Elesa is one of the trainers who appears in Caitlins villa in Undella Town along with Cynthia of all people. It is not at all impossible that the two know each other and likely converse. Cynthia, at least to me, always came off as someone easy to talk to so its plausible Elesa would have told her about the missing Ingo, and Cynthia, being a history nut, might one day come across some interesting artifact or picture which, of course, Elesa would pass on to Emmet.

After that... well... who knows.

[damedamedame]

akane aoi + reader - drabble

- “ethereal”

warnings : akane’s smirk has an appearance, please steady your hearts

notes : i forgot how to write and format things bec i got distracted by akane’s smirk please send help oh and we also forget aoiaoi’s canon in this house yesyes

thank you so much for 400 followers!! here you go, you deserve it uwu

( unedited + g/n ! reader )

You were way too cute to actually exist in his arms right now.

Akane didn’t know if you were blessed by some random god or apparition out there to be this beautiful, but it’s not as if he was going to complain anytime soon. In fact, he’s not ever going to complain. What could he possibly be salty about when you were just... the prettiest he’s ever laid eyes upon?

And... you chose him.

You chose to be the one who would eat with him in lunch everyday.

You chose to be the one who would lay their head on his lap on a particularly lazy day.

You chose him, of all people, to protect you from any harm that could come your way as you fell asleep for your nap. 

He was definitely grateful for the all the faith you put in him. A small smile makes its way onto his lips as he strokes your hair, his eyes gazing fondly at your sleeping face. It was ethereal, how much you manage to calm him down. There’s a distinct memory of a stressful morning lingering on his mind, but it all but seemed to fade away once you had wrapped your fingers in his. 

You had dragged him to the school’s rooftop for lunch, ignoring the amount of ranting and vengeful remarks (about the president, no less) going off from your own boyfriend’s mouth. Eventually, he was silenced as soon as you stuck a whole pork cutlet into his mouth. He had glared at you in annoyance, only to snort when you smiled goofily at him. 

“Was it good, Akane? I made it myself.”

Once swallowing the entire cutlet in one go, he responds without missing a beat.

“Obviously, it’s good, you made it after all.”

Seeing the goofy smile on your face grow even bigger makes him ecstatic. He would gladly compliment your cooking everyday if it made you happy like this, and he wouldn’t even stop at food. If there was ever a chance, he would tell you every single detail he adored about you. 

Although, for now, he could settle with staring at your face as you slept soundly in his lap. 

Setting his glasses beside him on the ledge, he looked at you more clearly. His fingers move on their own, tracing shapes on your face with wild abandon. He made sure to do so subtly, as to not wake you up from your nap. You just looked so comfortable right now, and he didn’t want to disturb you anytime soon.

“(Y/N)...” he whispers tenderly. He didn’t have any intentions for when he whispered your name, he merely had the sudden urge to say it. But to his surprise, your eyes fluttered open to meet his. 

You look up at him, wincing from the light that shined right from the sun above. Akane realizes this and shields you, hovering his head to stop your eyes from being blinded. “Did I wake you?” He asks, but you shake your head in disagreement. 

“Have you been staring at me this whole time?” The fluster on his cheeks answer your question, and it makes your smile beam. “You’re funny.”

“Not as funny as you mumbling things in your sleep...” He retorts, relishing at how you had become flustered over him this time. 

“What did I say then?” 

“Mm, it was something about how much you love me. Oh, and how much you daydream about me during class, which is probably why I take your notes for you--,”

Unable to take any more embarrassment, you grabbed the sides of his face and forced him to lean down, pressing a quick peck on his lips. It lasts for only a second, before you swiftly pushed his face away. You can see how badly he’s blushing as of this moment, and you could tell that you were so much worse. 

All of a sudden, his hands grip your shoulders and force you to sit down properly beside him. “(Y/N), can we... try that again?” He coughs, obviously still affected by your sudden action. You nod, a bit too quickly and eager, and he presses another kiss on to your lips. It’s slower, and both of you take your time before pulling apart. 

His hair is really, really messy (you briefly wonder if you caused that and came to the conclusion that ‘of course you did, you idiot’) but his lips are forming into a cute, very un-Akane like smirk and it makes you want to kiss him again. 

“Ah, there you are, Aoi-kun!”

“President Minamoto!” You yelp, and while you were looking at Teru’s entrance, you could practically see Akane’s smirk turn into a deep frown. 

“Why are you here...?” He glares at Teru, annoyed.

“This particular scene is giving me some sort of.. deja vu, was it?” You didn’t understand what exactly he meant by this, but Akane sure did. Considering that he stood up, and told him to go away. Teru chuckles, but does not move an inch. “Don’t be so sour, Aoi-kun, I was just here to tell you about some.. urgent matters.”

To your disbelief, Teru steps forward, grabbing the collar of Akane’s uniform and dragging him away with an unchanging smile. You simply waved at Akane, silently praying for his safety.

Once they were farther away and in a more private place, Teru drops him, and walks over to lean on the wall. There’s a disappointed look on his face, and Akane can’t help but look away from it.

“To think...” Teru crosses his arms, staring at Akane, “You would fall for someone connected to an apparition.”