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sleepyhead-poll · 1 year ago

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BONUS! MOD'S CHOICE POLL!

Mod's Propaganda Under the Cut:

Judai:

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Yu-Gi-Oh fan. For whatever reason, this series imprinted on me when I was a child and I just never let it go. I've watched the original series, season 0, GX, 5Ds, and Arc V, as well as read the original manga, the GX manga, and the Arc V manga, as well as watched all the movies. The point is: I like Yu-Gi-Oh. There are people who like it more than me, that have watched all the series and what not, but I think I still like it an absurd amount. And out of all the protagonists I know, Judai is my favorite. He's just so lovable, you can't help but like him! He's goofy, he's reliable, he's fun, he has a descent into madness, he's gay, what more could you want in a shounen protagonist? Though being sleepy isn't a major part of him, it's more of a gag of him slacking in class and always going to sleep, it's still super funny and I'm a little sad that he lost in Round 1, though I do like Sonic as well (who he lost to). Give the Slifer Slacker a chance!

Linhardt:

Considering Linhardt is my profile picture at the moment, I don't think I need to justify this too much. But I will anyway. Linhardt is the sleepy crest scholar. Although I will be the first to admit that I am not actually a Fire Emblem fan (and tbh I find the writing in Three Houses kind of bad) (sorry to those who enjoy it) I love Linhardt so much anyway. He's probably my favorite in that very large cost. I love that he's so unapologetically sleepy, like he doesn't care if you scold him to do work, he will do work on his own time. Not only that, but he's actually really smart and dedicated when he wants to be. Linny's friendship with Caspar is really nice, especially since I think someone needs to save Caspar from his awful dad & self-destructive tendencies. Plus, I really like his supports. Especially with Marianne, Hubert, and Edelgard. His supports with Dorothea in Three Hopes is also really nice.

Garfield:

It's Garfield. He's a classic comic. He's a classic meme. Little orange kitty. What more could you possibly want? I love Snoopy, but to be perfectly honest I think Garfield should have gotten as far as Snoopy.

Sleepytime Tea Bear:

Again. He's just a classic. What more would you want but a sleepy bear in pajamas on a chair?

Olruggio:

I'm a big Witch Hat Atelier fan and I love Olruggio. Like yes, I like Orufrey like everyone else, but I also just like Olruggio on his own. I like his scruffy little look and I love the fact that at first he is so intimating but almost immediately he's revealed to be a big softie. I love his light magic motif and I really think it's sweet that he made the thing to keep you warm when you sleep and gave it to the kids-- he's a FATHER. This man needs a nap fr though. Man I need to catch up with this manga.

Osaka:

IT'S OSAKA. Like!!! I don't even know how many clips and comics from Azumanga Daioh make the rounds around Tumblr, but specifically the ones about Osaka are amazing!!! She has the most autistic anime girl swag I love her so much. She's so sweet and earnest and silly... I always lose my mind at "OH MAH GOD!" and she has so many other classics. Like when she makes the Osaka stamp with her eraser or when she struggles to cross the street because she keeps zoning out when the light gets green or when she's distressed about Americans wearing shoes inside... I love her. And to her sleepyheadness, she's always falling asleep in class and whenever she's studying she just starts falling asleep. She's just like me fr...

Takane:

Back in the day I really liked Kagerou Project and so as tribute to my old obsession from middle/high school I have to give a spot to Takane. My favorite part of the series was when we saw flashbacks to the Yuukei quartet and Headphone Actor is still a bop.

Tanaka:

THE REASON WHY I STARTED THIS TOURNAMENT IN THE FIRST PLACE??? Last December during finals I decided to read something light and fun while working and I chose Tanaka-kun is Always Listless because I remember the title from a few years ago when the anime came out and like I loved it SOOOOOO much. He's the ultimate sleepyboy and he's just so funny and relatable. He needs to be carried around by his best friend Ohta and his ultimate goal in life is to minimize as much effort as possible and he's always nodding off and he dislikes being a main character, instead wishing he was a background character... my favorite guy for real.

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if-fe3h-was-good · 5 days ago

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FE3H Twins!Byleth AU ficlet

(this is part of a larger twins AU post) Title: do the heavens really stretch so far (from you to me) Words: 2,864 Characters: Jeralt Eisner and M! & F!Byleth, mentioned Sitri M!My Unit: Byleth F!My Unit: Blythe

They were not “on the run”, if only because Jeralt didn’t think anyone was chasing them.

He was quite thorough in the setup of the fire and there should be no suspicion that he, or the twins, survived the blaze. As it was, Rhea had kept the twins secreted away, so almost no one at the monastery even knew they had been born. To Alois, to the other Knights, it must have seemed as though Jeralt’s already mysterious wife had passed, Jeralt’s newborns with her. Hopefully the blaze had been enough to also send himself into smoke as far as they were concerned.

But they certainly lived as though they were running.

Long ago, too long ago for counting, Jeralt knew Faerghus as his home. He returned there now, hiking for days through the deepening snow. He carried one twin in his arms and the other strapped to his back. Neither of them fussed, just watched the world with wide eyes and were rocked into sleep with the gait of his walking. They took the milk he stole from farms along their route but did not cry for more even when he worried to not have enough.

Though neither of them seemed to have a preference, he tended to carry Byleth in his arms and Blythe on his back. Byleth more frequently would stare at Jeralt’s face, where Blythe was more likely to watch their surroundings, tracking the flight of birds or the path of the sun.

At night, Jeralt cradled both of them close and they slept on his chest, and the evenness of their breathing lulled him into his own slumber.

Jeralt felt as though someone had carved his nerve endings out and put them inside two tiny bodies. He could hold the remnants of everything good in the world, so small and fragile, within the circle of his arms. Pain and terror and wondrous joy consumed his lungs in turns.

The first few years passed in a blur of exhaustion and paranoia.

Jeralt settled for a while just south of Kleiman, in the in-between space between foothills and mountains. It was close enough that Jeralt could hike to the nearby townships for day jobs, or to hunt for what lean game weathered the winter. It was far enough that no one followed him back.

He found an old cabin and a half-blind woman who lived there alone. She agreed to help care for the twins, though she proclaimed them “demon children” by their unblinking, unemotional stares. The woman, Alba, considered herself “cursed enough” after a hard life and said they could hardly bring her any more misfortune.

Jeralt did not know how to deal with children. His own childhood had faded into the depths of misty memory, and his interactions with the Academy students had been rare. Alba showed him how to feed the twins and how to burp them after, how to guide them to roll over and crawl. She taught him how to transition them to solid food and how to change their never-ending diapers. He tried to copy her gentle caresses and steady way of holding them up. They did not belong in her wrinkled hands; they belonged almost less in his blistered and weapon-worn paws, but Sitri only got to hold them for a bare moment, so his would have to be enough.

When both of them could walk, toddling along on short, stocky legs at his heels, Jeralt moved on. Mateus was home to mostly goatherders and merchant caravans, and Jeralt was only one of many travellers that the natives crossed paths with. The twins’ reticence was taken for youthful shyness and it was easier to leave them in the care of merchants as Jeralt did odd jobs.

Though they expressed little care for much, the twins showed preference for exactly one thing: they wanted to be together. When possible, they preferred to have Jeralt in sight as well, but it was only on rare occasions when they drifted more than a few feet apart that they showed distress. Byleth would frown, and Blythe would mutter “By-By”, until their sibling was back in view.

They started talking later than other children, or so Jeralt surmised, going from almost no vocalizations to sparse babbling as they walked, to finally single words, many moons after they’d left Kleiman. He purposefully kept little stock in the calendar but he assumed they were about four before either of them called him “Dad”. (He almost teared up the first time but worried that overt emotions would scare them off from doing it again, so pretended to be unaffected.)

They were smart, and perceptive. Though they never seemed to care much for interacting with the people they met, both twins listened closely to Jeralt’s idle comments about the weather, the animals they hunted. About the way the world worked. How things they dropped would fall; how the knife would dull as he used it to cut their dinner. Jeralt had never been much of a talker, enjoyed silence maybe more than was common, but he had many quiet moments with his children where their bright eyes found his. Where he sought to give them something, anything, to reflect the love fueling him, the love that Sitri never got to express.

The twins grew up, distinct and similar, still the same in stature and features but slowly growing personalities even within their outward serenity. Blythe liked to follow the tracks of rabbits and bears, stepping along with quiet feet at Jeralt’s heels. Byleth brightened anytime he helped to sharpen arrowheads and keep their packs in order. Both of them were quick to obey anytime Jeralt asked them to do anything, from ducking out of sight of rogues to gathering berries in the spring.

Another year, or two, Jeralt was not sure. They didn’t stop.

The twins remained practically identical in looks, sprouting up seemingly in between blinks. Their fine, thin hair thickened and lengthened, and for ease of upkeep, Jeralt kept both their haircuts the same length, with messy bangs across both their foreheads. More than once, new people they met confused one for the other, assumed they’re both the same gender. Byleth and Blythe seemed to not care. They did not correct anyone who called them by the wrong name.

They looked like Sitri. It was unavoidable: slightly wavy hair, bright, curious eyes. Both their faces had her rounded edges, not his sharp jawline.

On bad days, he couldn’t see anything of himself in his children–on worse ones, he could. He saw himself in their familiarity with violence, their brutal efficiency in movement and interaction. The twins did not greet every morning with her wide-eyed wonder. They did not meet new people with her kind smiles, just Jeralt’s own brusque attitude. They assumed anyone they met wanted something from them, something they seemed to not understand and did not use words to ask about.

Jeralt ached with it, most evenings. The knowledge of what they should have had from Sitri, what he could not emulate.

He gave them whatever else remained of himself, anyway. He taught them to cook, to forage, to hunt. There were not many soft things that he knew how to share, but he tried. Fresh fruits from the market, watching their big eyes blink happily at his afterward, with berry-stained fingers and chins. New cloaks made of leather he tanned himself in the summer, to match his, so when they walked they knew they belonged next to him. Picking flowers to tuck behind their ears, and letting them place petals, crushed by clumsy little fingers, on his head in return.

Along the Rhodos coast, Jeralt found himself transitioning from grunt labor back into fighting. The instincts of battle never left him, and there was always need for men to ward off pirates. Blythe and Byleth learned to hold daggers, and though he never let them accompany him on jobs, they copied his training regimen in the morning anyway.

They left Faerghus when the twins were taller than his hip, when the townships along the coast started to recognize Jeralt and his silent shadows. Some well-meaning sailor had tried to tell him he should work for the local noble house, that he had far more talent than some other Faerghus knights, and something deep in Jeralt’s soul heard the word knight and blacked out. He and the twins were gone by morning.

Leicester was bustling with merchants and trade. Jeralt wasn’t quite old enough to remember before it was “the Alliance” but he distinctly remembered more Adrestian influence the last time he’d spent any significant time here. If anything, the unfamiliarity of the culture and people helped to keep him grounded.

Blythe and Byleth were old enough to go to school, but they weren’t about to settle down anywhere with a consistent teaching schedule. He bartered with some merchants for a set of children’s stories and read with his children over the campfire at night. He taught them the only numbers he knew, those used in battle tactics and haggling for a good price at a market stall. His kids were smart, and learned quickly. Sometimes, when he found a day job in a village, he could trust them to look after each other at the local school.

One day, he went to pick them up from a schoolhouse and found Blythe nursing a bruised wrist and Byleth hiding a black eye. Neither of them would tell him what happened and the schoolteacher hadn’t seen a thing, but after Jeralt hurried them away from the city in the opposite direction, he finally caved and started teaching them combat.

Their personalities came through most distinctly in sparring, or maybe Jeralt was just only fluent in fighting now and the twins didn’t speak in more traditional ways.

Blythe was a tad swifter, impulsive. She zeroed in with hawklike focus onto any perceived threat and didn’t wait long enough to need to defend: Blythe would pounce before her opponent could make a move. She could make do with any weapon but defaulted to those that let her be quick and efficient, thin swords or daggers or just her fists. Byleth was comparably sturdier, a little more measured, and ensured he got a good handle on his opponent before smoothly striking their weak spot. He preferred longer distance weapons, and handled hefty spears with as much precision as a kitchen knife.

Their nightly sparring sessions were what started the mercenaries, oddly enough.

Jeralt eventually worked enough protection jobs for merchants as they bounced around the Alliance that he started to recognize some faces, worked with other travelling muscle enough that he began to be recognized in turn. After a particularly rough journey where he had had to take charge and somehow managed to keep both himself and all the merchants alive against a targeted ambush, a few of the men were so star-struck by his basic grasp of tactics and leadership that they tagged along to his next job.

One of them, Paskal, had a booming laugh that reminded Jeralt of young Alois, his squire left behind at the monastery. Perhaps the familiarity was what indulged him when Paskal asked to join the twins’ nightly sparring lessons. But then Paskal was so thrilled by his tutelage that he dragged Grassl and Nour along the next night. In the next town, they picked up Dina, who had been looking for an excuse to leave her abusive husband and utilize her archery skills. The one after that, a youth named Taye followed them out, who spoke even less than Jeralt’s children but in turn taught them a comprehensive sign language. The twins had always liked to communicate with the basic signs Jeralt had taught them from the Knights, but communication had been a bit limited until Taye introduced them to Leicester’s sign alphabet and blossomed from there.

The lot of them were small enough that Jeralt did not lose sleep, worrying that they were attracting unwanted attention. They were tight-knit enough that Jeralt trusted each of them not to make stupid mistakes or ask stupid questions.

The mercenaries–who began calling themselves “Jeralt’s mercenaries” before he could stop them–adopted the twins under their wing. When villagers looked askance at the youths with their blank stares, the mercenaries glared back. When one of them would get a bruise or a scrape in sparring, every one of them dropped what they were doing to offer bandages and distraction. For their part, Byleth and Blythe watched their troupe with curiosity, so unfamiliar with anyone other than Jeralt. But they adapted, learning to travel and fight alongside the others. They indulged the mercenaries’ doting; until they started sparring together, and when the fully grown adults were unable to best either of his children, the mercenaries stopped babying them so much.

The first time they arrived at a new town and someone independently said, “Oh, Jeralt’s mercenaries? I’ve heard of you!” should have caused Jeralt’s blood to ice over and panic to seize him, but somehow it didn’t. He let his mercenaries crowd into the bar and regale the patrons with their prowess, secure them their next job. He retreated to their camp to process, and almost didn’t notice that his kids followed him.

They were closer to his height, now. Teenagers, probably, though years slipped by without either Jeralt or his kids paying much mind. Byleth was starting to overtake Blythe in height, but only barely. Their faces were starting to grow distinct; Byleth had his mother’s longer nose, and Blythe had ears that slightly poked out from her hair, the same way Jeralt’s did. Byleth’s jaw a little more angular, where Blythe’s eyes softened into mirrors of Sitri’s. Jeralt’s heart ached a little when he let himself think about them.

He should have been panicked that they were gaining a reputation. That people could recognize and know them. But the Church felt distant here in Leicester, most people’s religion rote or nonexistent. The people here preferred to work for their successes, and wealth seemed tied less and less to Crests and bloodlines. They still turned to the local nobility for help, still relied on them for governance, but the day-to-day lives of the Alliance folk weren’t subjugated to it.

It had been so long since Jeralt had had anything approaching stability, outside the Knights. His unnatural life had been bound to the Church for so long that it seemed impossible to find solid footing elsewhere. He’d been running this whole time, expecting the world to fall out beneath his feet, but somewhere along the way his frantic pacing had trodden their own path, found real dirt beneath his boots.

He reminded himself that no one was chasing them. He would have heard something if the Knights were looking for them. Rhea would have sent someone if she thought they had survived.

They made camp that evening, just the three of them, a familiar routine. Blythe caught them some dinner, Jeralt made a low campfire, and Byleth prepared potatoes.

Jeralt had never told them about the Church. About why they lived the way they did, fleeing imagined pursuers, rootless besides from each other. He had never so much as told them Sitri’s name. He had no idea where to begin, and the facts were too thorny to make it out of his throat intact. The depth of his love for Sitri ached to share it, but grief had made the path to it unnavigable.

And they were happy.

Few would have recognized it, but Blythe’s shoulders were held loosely as she returned with a few freshly caught grayfish. Byleth inclined his head to her and signed, That was quick, with enough of a tilt in his eyebrow to indicate he was impressed. She nodded back, and replied, Busy stream. Saw a big one, but missed. Let’s try again tomorrow?

And Byleth tapped his fist against his chest twice: the old Knight signal for acknowledged. It was their own sign for yes, for certainly, for count on me. The two of them had started using it among their first words–picked up from when Jeralt would leave them for day jobs, and he subconsciously would tap that signal when he looked them in the eyes and promised he would be back by sundown.

There was no point in telling them.

There was no boogeyman chasing them, no reason to fear shadows that already held day-to-day enemies. He had taught them to fight whatever might chase them, anyhow. That was all he’d been able to give them: skill enough to live, to endure, to fight in a world that was rarely welcoming.

In the morning, they would take whatever jobs had been offered to his mercenaries. His young twins would follow, lending their dedicated brilliance to whatever task was asked of them. In the evening, they would branch off to fish together, and return with more than enough to feed their band, and the mercenaries would cheer.

Jeralt would raise his own cup to toast their prowess, pride stronger than any fear that started him down this path.

#various AUs fixing fe3h #byleth twins au content #fic #byleth twins #fe3h #fire embem three houses #jeralt eisner

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