#I HAVE LEARNED WHAT TO DO HERE ARISEN

[quichecat]

hire this pawn for more fun facts

[jotarobutcat]

I'll just be honest and say that I hate it when people use neurodivergency as an excuse to be immature. And by that I don't mean things like liking shows with a younger target audience or getting overwhelmed by tasks. These have nothing to do with being emotionally mature.

I mean refusing to cooperate or make compromises, throwing tantrums in public and overall disregarding other people's needs and boundaries in order to make yourself comfortable.

The world doesn't revolve around you. We live in communities, and in order for the community to prosper, you need to take into account other people's needs and comfort as well, not just yours. If you have special needs, you're obviously allowed to ask that these needs are met as well as possible, but neurodivergency isn't a "do whatever you want without consequences" card.

You're allowed to have emotions, you're allowed to feel overwhelmed and you're allowed to have your own wants and needs, but you need to learn to communicate these in a mature way and to take other people into consideration as well. It's a part of growing up and maturing.

And before you come at me with the "we shouldn't have to abide by neurotypicals' rules", many of these rules also benefit many neurodivergent people. For example, I am extremely oversensitive to noise and have trauma from overbearing parents, if an adult man suddenly started screaming while I was bying new clothes I would likely have a panic attack. When somebody chews with their mouth open I feel like someone is trying to put a living spider in my ear. It's not just neurotypical people who the "don't be an obnoxious little shit" rule benefits.

/nbh

EDIT: Since this is getting way more attention than I thought it would, and some misunderstandings have arisen, I'll just add here what I explained in the comments as well. Before anything, this edit is merely to prevent further misunderstandings, not to put anyone on a pedestal of shame for misunderstanding what I meant. The original post leaves many things vague, and it is understandable that it might come off the wrong way.

This post is about using neurodivergency as an excuse for bad behaviour, not as an explanation for problems that actually come with neurodivergency. It is specifically aimed at people with autism and/or ADHD who use their neurodivergency as an excuse for behaviour that is usually *not even caused by their neurodivergency*, but rather bad parenting or other external factors.

The word "tantrum" is NOT used to describe meltdowns here. Tantrums and meltdowns are very different in nature, the former being usually caused by bad parenting and a lack of set boundaries in childhood, and the latter being caused by emotional or physical overwhelm. During tantrums a person is in control of their emotions, but chooses to release them as an angry outburst towards other people. During meltdowns a person is NOT in control of their emotions, and cannot choose how they present their overwhelm. If you need an example of what I mean by tantrums, you can look at your nearest neighbourhood "Karen" for that, and you will probably see that the kind of behaviour I mean is very different from an autistic meltdown.

EDIT2: Edited some wording. Also, I'd just like to clarify here too, like I did in the comments at one point, that people who don't have the capability to learn things like emotional regulation are obviously excluded here. This is specifically for those who are able to, but don't. Also, this is an old post so please keep that in mind.

[m1d-45]

⚠️THIS IS AN OUTDATED MASTERLIST !⚠️

please direct yourself here, to the new system!

as of may 31st, 2024, this list is officially outdated. i have hit the link limit, which means i can’t fit everything i’ve made on one post anymore! please note that this post will remain up for archival purposes, but will no longer be updated.

here’s my original take on the logistics of sagau, as well as an update after some more information, and here’s my thoughts on how nations worship.

1k event m. list!

warnings [⏵] : yandere / heavy cultish || obsessive

genre [title] : angst || fluff || hurt/comfort

traveller from afar — aether

‘I'm saying that I'm having a lot of fun traveling with you… It'd be nice if we could just go on like this forever.’

⏵ a new tomorrow

—⏵ my love, my god

the dark side of dawn — diluc

‘Diluc, of Mondstadt. Not interested in idle chit-chat. If you have things you want to get done, let me know.’

⏵ fallen through

⏵ a fault in the heart [red!]

⏵ tongue tied

windborne bard — venti

‘Perfect timing, Traveler! I was about to ask you — what is your greatest wish?’

⏵ unnamed poem, unnamed bard

⏵ in sickness and in health

⏵ (what about me?)

⏵ stella fortuna

beyond mortality — baizhu

‘Even though I'm the doctor, I've still had to trouble you with my health. How shameful... But don't worry. From this day on, I will take care of you.’

⏵ second chances

leonine vanguard — ga ming

‘If I can guard shipments, I can guard people. Since you seem to trust me, how 'bout I be your bodyguard from now on?‘

⏵ vanguard’s fortune

childe — tartaglia

‘Today was great. See you tomorrow, comrade!’

⏵ under duress

⏵ brainrot

⏵ duality of man

—⏵ inversion of fate

vigilant yaksha — xiao

‘I deal in death. If you cannot bring yourself to kill — speak my name.’

⏵ repentance

⏵ burden to bear

⏵ bird xiao things! (split links)

—⏵ and again, and fanart, and again, and again, and fanart, and fanart, and again

⏵ he who is without sin

—⏵ once more, and again, and again, and again, and again, and fanart, and again, and fanart, and fanart

⏵pari!reader tag (ft albedo)

vago mundo — zhongli

‘The market is closed and the port has settled. Go get some rest.’

⏵ sagau!zhongli

⏵ a dragon’s gems

⏵ to dream of the divine

⏵ adorned

pillar of fortitude — ayato

‘Good morning. A little sword practice while the day is young is good for the body and mind. I tend to avoid having anything scheduled during these hours... What do you say? Fancy crossing blades with me?’

⏵ words left unsaid

analytical harmony — heizou

‘Ooh, my goodness, life's really put you through the wringer recently, hasn't it? I can tell. Here, why don't you take a seat, tell me the whole story.’

⏵ the scars, the wound

—⏵ (old) first encounters

⏵ upon a hair-thin wire

scarlet leaves pursue wild waves — kazuha

‘Ah, you'd like to learn the art of the sword? Let me see... Alright — here, take this. It's a bamboo blade I just made. With these, we can practice sparring without having to worry about getting injured.’

⏵ remorse

⏵ in a flash

⏵ the wind knows

⏵ judas

protector from afar — thoma

‘I've figured out what I want to do now. My strength is your shield, and I will always be here to protect you.’

⏵ rain or shine

admonishing instruction — alhaitham

’Don't be offended if you try to greet me on the street and I don't respond. It's simply because I'm wearing my soundproof earpieces, that's all.’

⏵ divine permanence

verdant strider — tighnari

‘What, so this sort of thing needs official documentation now? Okay then... Well, hand over your "friendship certificate." I assume it'll need my signature.’

⏵ opportunities arisen

—⏵ prime fortune

eons adrift — wanderer

’Ask me anything if you want. If a question is interesting enough, I may give you an answer.’

⏵ wandering

⏵ rest

ordainer of inexorable judgement — neuvillette

‘Good evening. I hope you have not encountered any unpleasantness today.’

⏵ for all to see

emissary if solitary antiquity — wriothesley

'Want a tip on how to escape from the Gardes? Just give yourself a name that's really long and difficult to pronounce. They'll be stumbling over your name as soon as they try to announce that you are under arrest.'

pankration

pantalone — regrator

‘Her Royal Highness the Tsaritsa is actually a gentle soul. Too gentle, in fact…’

⏵ ink, ink, ink

miscellaneous / multiple

⏵ in excess (ft. zhongli + xiao)

⏵ new hopes (ft. the arataki gang)

⏵ emotions (ft. mondstat)

⏵ the young (ft. your main!)

—⏵ still too young (ft… a lot of ppl)

⏵ plagued (ft. diluc + kaeya)

⏵ reverse isekai drabble (ft. your main!)

⏵ slapfight (ft. a lot of people-)

⏵ mea maxima culpa (ft. zhongli + barbara)

⏵ in the stars (ft mona + your main!)

⏵ replacement (ft. kaeya + venti + albedo + xiao)

⏵ discretion advised (ft. mondstat)

⏵ warmth (ft. every pyro character as of 3.4)

⏵ a soft place to land (ft. zhongli + kaeya + diluc + alhaitham + tighnari)

⏵ constellations (ft. barbara + thoma + heizou + collei + kujou sara + sucrose + candace +ganyu)

⏵ connection (ft. diluc + kaeya + kazuha + albedo + kaveh)

⏵ your shield, a sword (ft. thoma + tighnari + zhongli + alhaitham + cyno + albedo)

⏵ divine favor (ft. yae miko + itto + kazuha + kaeya + chongyun + noelle)

⏵ dead leaves (ft. ..people)

—⏵ new sprouts (ft. chongyun)

⏵ the rule of threes (ft. albedo + his brother)

⏵ darling, my dear (ft. diluc + tighnari + childe + xiao + kazuha)

⏵ sandy refuge (ft. nahida + wanderer)

⏵ dancing soldiers (ft. aether)

series!

⏵ dearly beloved — complete trilogy

—⏵ on broken bones

—⏵ death, rebirth, new life

—⏵ the scottish play

⏵ abiogenesis — complete duology

—⏵ from soil…

—⏵ …was birthed chalk

⏵ secret contributions — complete trilogy

—⏵ small miracles

—⏵ hidden blessings

—⏵ silent conclusions

⏵ spoken across stars — episodic

—⏵ kaeya, diluc, thoma ft. noelle + candace

—⏵ kazuha, wanderer ft. tighnari + baizhu

—⏵ zhongli, ayato, heizou ft. xinqiu + chongyun

that’s all for now! i hope you’ve enjoyed your stay, and wish you the best. if there’s something here you particularly liked, consider letting me know with a reblog or comment; i read every single one and they mean the world. whatever the case: i bid you farewell!

(p.s.: if you spot an error like a link leading somewhere it shouldn’t, a missing post entirely, etc., please leave a reply/ send in an ask to let me know as chances are i will not notice it. thank you!)

— midas

[monster-fucker-on-main]

2003 Raphael x Reader Dating HCs

A/N: I have arisen from the dead!! Pt.2 of the Raphael dating headcanons. Enjoy!

Warning(s): None

I feel like most people assume this Raph would be more likely to fall for a biker badass lady who takes no one's shit, which has potential, but honestly I can totally see our boy falling for a sweet lil girly girl

And so I raise you: the sweet lil girly girl badass

Like I feel he would be instant heart eyes for a kind hearted soul who wears dresses and their makeup and hair n shit but can absolutely hold their own in a fight

He gets a lot of snark from his brothers, so it would literally be a dream come true for him if he landed someone who showers him with compliments and encouragement, and actually attempts to see his perspective for once

Tell him how strong he is when he's doing pushups or how passionate he is when he gets fired up about something, the man will be whipped

If you have a pitbull or any other kind of dog that's generally seen as aggressive or dangerous, he'll be whipped x2

If you have pets in general, they all just kind of flock over to him, he's an animal magnet

If you have the hair texture for it, he will absolutely learn how to braid it for you, in private of course, he has a reputation to uphold

Also knits you things, but you CANNOT tell anyone that he made them for you (everyone knows it has him lol)

Some people depict him as a bit of a flirt, and I might be inclined to agree if it was someone he didn't genuinely have a crush on he was flirting with

But with you?

Absolutely tongue-tied, and believe me he has tried

Very protective over you, whether you can fight or not

Absolutely gets jealous, Mikey has made a habit of flirting with you when he's around just to piss him off

Be prepared for angry kisses later that day ;)

Speaking of which, sucks at kissing at first but quickly gets the hang of it and once he does...(I can't find the side eye emoji)

Out of all the Raphs (excluding rise), he is the most likely to intentionally confess

Well, maybe confess is an overstatement

He will drop not so subtle hints that he wants to get with you

For example: "Yeah, ya know I've always had kind of a thing for *insert your type here* girls."

Que intense eye contact

Walks you home every time you leave the lair if you don't have a vehicle, you DO NOT have a choice

If you ever get in an argument with someone, he will support the hell out of you, like crossing his arms and nodding behind you with a "don't fuck with us" expression, yelling "what she said!" when you make a good point, etc.

I feel like the relationship has two sides: the "kick his ass babe I got yo flower" side, and the "she asked for no pickles" side

Overall, you're one of the few people of the few people that get to see Raph's softer side, he's your big over protective teddy bear and your his rational other half that he can always depend on

Very supportive relationship 10/10

[cyle]

I guess my question is “does it matter that nobody wants this site to be Twitter”? Because that’s what all the proposed/experimental changes to reblogs, hyperlinks, enhanced algorithmic dashboard use, logged-out view, etc. come down to - the design is pretty blatantly copying Twitter. What was the logic here, when your userbase has clung to everything that made this place nothing like Twitter?

i've gotten a few asks and replies and whatnot about how this change looks a lot like twitter, and while i agree it does look a lot like twitter, i want to challenge what that actually means. i think two websites can look a lot alike and yet be totally fundamentally different, because it's not about the functionality and the interface, it's about the people and the content on the platform. (some people have angrily yelled at me to "go back to twitter", and fwiw i do not like twitter, i don't use twitter, that's why i'm here on tumblr like you.)

for example, duckduckgo and google look a lot alike -- they're both a page with a search bar -- but they are definitely not the same. we all know that. they're two fundamentally opposed platforms, but they both have the same function and interface. similarly, while our new navigation layout does look a lot like twitter, that does not mean we're suddenly twitter!

it's worth noting that over the last ~15 years of social media's existence, each platform learns lessons that the other ones copy and apply and change in different ways. other platforms have copied us, and we've copied other platforms, that's just a part of the industry. yes, we at tumblr want to stay unique and different, but some things, like information architecture and navigation, tend to coalesce into a set of best practices. this layout change is our test of whether that actually makes sense for the millions of people using tumblr. the answer might be no! we're finding out.

again i'd question whether "the thing that makes twitter... twitter" is the layout of the navigation, or if it's the people and the content and the emergent behaviors that have arisen through many many years of use. because tumblr and twitter both started more or less the same way: as microblogging platforms, which both still are. are they really actually that different? if so, what makes them different? if the answer is that the navigation layout was the primary thing separating tumblr from twitter, then i think we have bigger problems.

[forhappysake]

What Lurks Within, Pt. 2

Author’s Note: I told myself if I got ten responses to Part 1 that I’d do a Part 2. Here it is!

Content: Upon arriving in Denver, Spencer and Y/N visit the latest crime scene. After meeting with the case detective, the BAU discovers they are working against an unsub who is much closer to the team than initially anticipated. 

Warnings: Typical BAU-level violence, hom!c!de, examining a crime scene, established relationship, very light fluff, a hostile work environment and brief arguments ensue

I slept dreamlessly on our flight, until I felt someone gently shaking me. Wincing at the sudden intrusion of light as I opened my eyes, Spencer’s voice greeted me, “Well hello, sleepyhead. Welcome to Denver.” I groaned, groggily rubbing my eyes. 

“That’s not possible, I just went to sleep,” I mumbled, exasperated. I pulled myself off his shoulder and leaned back in my seat, shutting my eyes again.

“Actually, you went to sleep about three and a half hours ago. We’re here, honey.” I felt his long fingers gently comb through my messy hair. 

“What time is it?” I asked, dreading his response. 

“About three in the morning, our time,” he answered. I audibly groaned. Opening my eyes once more, I saw Matt bent over Luke, trying to wake him from his slumber. Emily was shaking Rossi’s shoulder, to which he responded with some very colorful Italian phrases. JJ was the only member who stood ready to exit the jet. 

“Glad to know I’m not the only one struggling to get up,” I said matter-of-factly. I rolled my neck, trying to release the tension that had formed while leaning against Spencer for hours. “Has anyone ever told you that you don’t make a very good pillow?”

“Only you, honey,” he smiled. “Come on, let’s get off this jet and into the car. You can sleep for a couple more minutes on the way to the local precinct, if it makes you feel any better.” He rose from his seat, stretching his hand out to me. I reached for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. He gently pulled me up from my seat. “Don’t forget your go-bag.” 

“I’ve got it under control, my genius,” I said with a smile. Grabbing my bag from the seat, I turned one last time to see if Emily and Matt had made any progress with waking up Rossi or Luke. Thankfully, Luke had arisen. He slowly stood up and reached his arms for the ceiling, stretching out as I had done moments before. Rossi, on the other hand, was fighting Emily’s attempts with everything in him. 

“I run this ship. Hasn’t anyone told you not to poke the bear? Let this old man rest.” Rossi swatted at Emily’s hand on his shoulder. 

A playful smile tugged at the corner of Emily’s lips. She pulled back, placing her hands on her hips, “Need I remind you that I technically run this ship now, and that you’re batting at your superior?” Rossi bitterly opened one eye. Sighing, he rose from his seat with a grunt. 

“It’s unfortunate when they get so old that they can’t move without groaning,” Emily said, to which Rossi offered a deathly glare. I couldn’t help but giggle, as I turned back towards the door of the jet. JJ and Spencer stood on the stairs, watching the comical show unraveling in front of us. 

“You think that he’d eventually learn to wake up with some level of grace,” Spencer said while taking the final steps off the jet and on to the tarmac. 

Luke’s voice came from behind me, “Nah, he’s too old, too set in his ways.” I nodded in agreement. As the rest of the team filed off the jet, the cold Colorado air sent a chill down my spine. Rossi stumbled down the stairs with his go-bag in-hand as he covered his eyes with sunglasses, despite the total darkness surrounding us. 

“Tough night, Rossi?” Matt asked, teasingly. 

“You have no idea, kid,” Rossi retorted, making his way to the closest of the three black SUVs which awaited our arrival. Opening the back, driver’s side door, he threw his go-bag in the seat across from him, climbed inside, and slammed the door shut. The window tint prevented us from seeing him any longer. The team let out a collective giggle. 

“Alright,” Emily said, shaking her head, “time to get serious. JJ and Matt, I want you guys to work on victimology. Head to the Denver station. Get everything you can from Garcia and the local P.D. about the victims and their families.” JJ and Matt nodded. “Oh- and take Luke with you,” Emily shouted as an after-thought. 

Luke furrowed his brow. “She forgot I was here,” he said in a tone of faux offense. He placed a hand over his chest, as if nursing a broken heart. 

Emily rolled her eyes, “Cut me some slack, it’s three in the morning.” With that, Luke shrugged and followed JJ and Matt to the second black SUV. “As for you two,” Emily turned to Spencer and I, “You’re going to the latest dump site at Ashwood Park. It should still be an active crime scene. See if you can pick up anything that local law enforcement might have missed.” 

You and Spencer nodded in unison. “Where are you and Rossi going?” Spencer asked. Emily sighed, lips becoming a thin line in displeasure. She crossed her arms over her body. 

“David and I are also going to the local P.D. to meet with the police chief in private,” she shook her head in disappointment. “I have been very displeased with the way this case is being handled and the lack of communication from their department, and I intend on letting them know.” 

“Ah,” Spencer said. I nodded in understanding. It was only fitting that the police chief knew what an absolute disaster his team had created. 

Suddenly, a whirring noise signaled the rolling down of an SUV window and Rossi’s voice came bellowing from the back seat, “Emily, are we going or what?” Without turning her head, Emily raised her eyebrows. 

“I love dealing with him when he’s like this,” she mumbled. 

“Like what?” I asked, knitting my eyebrows together. 

“When he’s hungover and pissed because a case took him away from his poker night,” she said with a smile. “Emily,” Rossi’s voice came from the SUV again. “I’m cold, I have a headache. Let’s get moving.” 

“Good luck, you two… though I think I’ll need it more,” she turned and made her way to the SUV, hopping in the driver’s seat. Rossi, still in the back seat, slowly rolled up his window, disappearing behind the tinted glass. I looked up at Spencer, who tried to suppress his smile. It was all pretty hilarious, truly. 

“Well, enough of that,” Spencer said. “Time to get serious.” I nodded in agreement.

“Who's driving?” I asked. 

Spencer raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Are you kidding me? I am never letting you drive again after experiencing your behind-the-wheel ‘skills’ last week in Miami.” He accentuated the word ‘skills’ with air quotes. 

I let my jaw drop in fake disgust. “Whatever do you mean? You mean you don’t like going 115 in a 75?”

“That is exactly what I mean, as well as several other bad aspects of your driving we don’t have time to get into. Come on.” Making our way to the SUV, Spencer climbed into the driver’s seat and I into the passenger’s seat. 

Spencer started the vehicle, fumbling to turn the heat up. He opened the maps application on the SUV’s touch screen, “Emily should’ve sent directions to the park to your tablet. Can you pull them up on the screen, please?” You pulled your tablet out of your bag and shared the directions Emily provided to the SUV screen. “Alright,” Spencer said, “Off we go.”

Driving in silence for thirty minutes, you soaked up the new sights of Colorado. After only a year and a half with the team, you’d yet to work a case here. You were a bit disappointed you wouldn’t be able to experience the fun side of the state because of this case. As a result, you made a mental note to pay attention to possible vacation activities for you and Spencer to consider before your next trip.

Arriving at the park, Emily was correct about the location being an active crime scene. Photographers, policemen, and yellow tape surrounded the scene. Despite the large police presence, the number of media outlets set up around the park was doubly concerning. 

“The unsub getting all this media attention can’t be good,” I said to Spencer before climbing out of the SUV. He bobbed his head in agreement as he climbed out the driver’s side. 

“Agents,” a local detective approached us. His thick black mustache and shaggy hair made him look like a 70s porn star. I reached out my hand, offering a firm handshake as Spencer offered a small wave of his hand. “Welcome to Denver. I’m Detective Whittendon,” he said as he returned my handshake, offering Spencer a curt nod of acknowledgement. 

“Detective Whittendon, I’m Agent L/N. This is Dr. Spencer Reid.” I tried to recite the formal introductions Emily taught me as efficiently as possible, “The BAU is here to assist your team in any way we can.” 

“Thank God. We need all the help we can get on this one. If you’ll follow me this way…” He trailed off as he turned to face the taped-off scene behind him. Spencer and I followed him close behind, approaching the yellow crime scene tape, attached to a blue swing set which roped off the area.  

I saw the body before we’d crossed under the tape. With a slashed throat and heavy bruising covering his naked body, he had surely been in captivity before his death. We ducked under the tape and approached the body. Spencer crouched down, examining the ligature marks on the victim’s wrists and ankles. “Who’s the victim?” Spencer asked, looking up at Detective Whittendon. 

“Thirty-five year old bank teller, Jeff Olsen,” Whittendon said, not taking his eyes off the body. In a lot of ways, Olsen’s appearance reminded me of Spencer. Brown hair, stubbled face, thin frame and tall build. What if that was Spencer on the ground? I forced myself to look away, drawing a shaky breath. No time for what-ifs and unfounded fears, Y/N… Get it together… 

“These ligature marks suggest he was in captivity for days before his death,” I vocalized. Spencer and Whittendon nodded. 

“This means the unsub has a place he can hold these men. It’s private enough that he can get away with beating and torturing them before he kills them,” Spencer surmised. 

Whittendon looked at me. “We’ve got a team working on a geographical profile to try and narrow down possible locations of his hide-out,” he said. 

“Detective Whittendon,” I started, “with all due respect, your department has not been very forthcoming with correct information about the dump sites and manner of death in these cases.” The detective cocked his head to the side, furrowing his brow. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing over the stubble on his unshaved cheeks. 

“Agent L/N, that doesn’t make sense. I personally file those reports and hand them over to the tech team. I’m very thorough. There must be some mistake.” I tried to read his face for any sign that he may be lying, or that he might have some doubts about his own carelessness. If he had a tell, I didn’t notice. I turned my attention back to Spencer, who narrowed his eyes as he also tried to analyze Whittendon’s response. 

I nodded, believing his claim for the time-being. “We’ll ask our technical analyst about it when we return to the local office,” I said. “Until then, have your crime scene technicians found any clues throughout the area?” 

Whittendon shook his head, “Nothing… well, except for this.” He walked over to a small table set up by the crime scene investigators, gently picking up a bag. Whittendon held the bag out to me, and I took it gently from his hands. Inside the clear bag was a small red marble, with white swirls surrounding the fragile class it was made from. 

“And where was this found?” Spencer asked, rising from his crouched position next to the body and leaning over me to get a better look at the marble. 

“In the victim’s mouth,” Whittendon said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “I believe it was put there post-mortem.”

“Has this been a theme throughout all the crime scenes?” I asked, handing the bag back to Whittendon. 

He accepted the bag, turning to place it back on the CSI table. “Yes,” he said. “There’s been a marble found at each scene. However, this was the first time it’s been placed inside the victim rather than dropped next to the body.” His eyes scanned Spencer and I’s faces for our thoughts on the strange calling card. I made eye contact with my boyfriend, who returned my gaze. 

“This is something we didn’t know about until now,” I told Whittendon. His jaw dropped a bit, eyes bulging incredulously. 

“I’ve included this detail in all my final reports. You’re telling me none of this information got to D.C.?” He ran his hands over his face in frustration. I shook my head in response. “I’ll have a talk with my tech team when I get back to the office… I can’t believe this sh-” he turned away from Spencer and I once more, ducking back under the police tape and walking away from the scene. 

“What do you think, Spence?” I asked. He walked around the victim’s body once more, returning to stand by my side. He gently grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away from the photographers and crime scene analysts still examining the scene. “Where are we going?” Taking me in the opposite direction Whittendon had just gone, and ducking under the crime scene tape, he stopped us behind some of the park’s small trees. 

We were out of earshot from the locals, and a serious look crossed Spencer’s face as he looked around to make sure nobody was listening to us once more. “Spencer, what is going on?” I asked. 

“I think someone inside the local police department is disrupting the investigation by altering the files. You saw the way Whittendon looked when he found out we hadn’t gotten the information he set aside for us,” his tongue dashed out over his lower lip before he continued. “We should get back to the precinct and tell the rest of the team what’s going on.”

I nodded fervently. “You’re right. I’ll tell Whittendon that our unit chief wants us back at the office. You call JJ and tell her to gather everyone in the conference room. Let her know we’re on our way.” He slipped his phone out of his pocket, dialing numbers while I began looking for Whittendon. When I found him, he stood by himself, smoking a cigarette in the parking lot behind a patrol car, hiding from the local media. 

“These damned reporters. All they ever want is more gore and another quote for their headline,” he took another draw of his cigarette before dropping it on the parking lot and stamping it out with his boot. 

“I know how it is,” I responded, resting a kind hand on his shoulder. Gently pulling my hand away, I cleared my throat. “Detective, I came to tell you that our unit chief requested Dr. Reid and I head over to the precinct.” 

Whittendon looked down at me and nodded. “I’m sure I’ll see both of you there. I sent a message to my tech team. We’ve got a very serious conversation to have,” he said with a deep sigh. 

“Of course, we’ll see you there,” I responded. Despite his concern, I refused to tell Whittendon what Spencer suspected was happening within his department. You can never be too careful. You never know whose side someone might be on. 

I heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Spencer coming towards us. “The team knows we’re on the way,” he said. “Are you ready to go?” I turned back to Whittendon one more time, who offered me a small nod, as if to say he didn’t need any more from us at the moment. 

“Yes, let’s go.” I turned away from the detective and followed Spencer back to the black SUV he’d left in the parking lot. We climbed in our respective seats as Spencer started the vehicle, and I plugged the precinct’s address into the SUV’s digital map.

“I guess Emily was right,” Spencer said as he slowly pulled out of the park’s parking lot. “We do have our work cut out for us, here.” I took a deep breath in response, leaning my head back against the passenger’s seat headrest as I tried to replay the conversations we’d just had in our mind, wondering if I’d missed anything. “You alright?” Spencer asked, reaching a hand over to rest on my thigh. 

“Yeah, Spence,” I said, “just taking some mental notes and making sure I didn’t miss anything.” The rest of the trip was made in silence, as the twenty minute drive to the precinct felt like hours with the weight of Spencer’s suspicion resting on both of our shoulders. After we arrived, we walked inside. I scanned the room for familiar faces, and saw Matt standing in the conference room with Luke, JJ, Rossi, and Emily all gathered around the large table. 

“Lead the way,” I told Spencer, gesturing to the conference room. We walked through the desk-crowded office to the conference room, Spencer holding the door open for me as I slipped in behind him. I heard a small click as he pressed the door knob’s lock into place, as I got to work shutting the blinds so any local workers wouldn’t be able to see what was happening inside. 

“What is going on with you guys?” JJ asked. “You’re locking this place up like Fort Knox.” She raised an eyebrow as Matt placed his hands on his hips. Luke cocked his head to the side, silently questioning our actions. Rossi and Emily leaned back in their chairs, preparing for whatever bombshell we were about to drop.

Once I closed the last blind, I turned to face the group as Spencer made his way to the head of the table. “Sit here, Matt. We’ve got a lot to discuss,” I gestured to the seat next to me. Without saying a word, Matt sat down next to me, folding his arms in front of him as Spencer settled into his chair. 

“Okay,” I nodded, “go ahead, Spence.” 

“Okay.” He sat up straight, eyeing the team. “I think I know why the communication we’ve received from this office has been so awful.” 

Emily lifted her head in interest. “I wish you’d enlighten us, Spencer. Police Chief Graydon was no help on that front.” 

Spencer paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I believe someone in this department is the unsub… or working to protect him.” The room was silent as glances were exchanged between members. 

“That’s a heavy accusation. What are you basing this on, kid?” Rossi asked. Spencer looked down at the table, furrowing his brow. 

“Y/N and I just met with the detective on the case. He swears he sent us files that were accurate and entirely thorough. He was genuine about it, too.” I nodded to the group, showing my agreement with Spencer’s conclusion. 

“Whittendon wasn’t lying,” I said. “I think he’s a good cop. Somebody in this department is trying to throw us off the trail.” The tension in the room was high as I scanned the faces of our team members. Heavy as the accusation was, it seemed as though they were accepting it with some level of belief. 

“If that’s the case,” JJ began, “how should we proceed?” She looked at Emily for guidance. Emily rocked back in her chair, carefully calculating her next statement. 

“We should keep our cards close to our chest,” Emily answered slowly. “Be helpful to the locals, but don’t get too friendly. Any new developments that come out of this room are only to be shared between the seven of us.” We all nodded in unison, taking in the severity of the situation. Dealing with a difficult department was one thing, but trying to find a criminal within one was a different game altogether. 

“With that being said,” Rossi spoke up, “try not to make it too obvious that we’re keeping things under wraps. Just be casual about it, make it seem like FBI protocol.” Murmurs of agreement went up around the group. 

Spencer opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by a loud crashing sound coming from the main bullpen of the precinct. We all jumped out of our seats. Luke began making a dash for the door. “Wait!” I said, stopping him in his tracks. Being closest to the window, I peeked through the blinds to see what was happening in the office. Detective Whittendon stood over a young man, as the worker’s shattered computer monitor laid on the floor next to their feet. “Uh-oh,” I said. 

“What is it?” JJ asked with quiet urgency, hand resting on her holster. 

“I think Detective Whittendon and his tech team are having a little disagreement… I’ll go talk to him.” I turned away from the blind and reached for the door handle when Spencer’s voice cut me off. 

“Y/N,” Spencer said, “do you really think it's a good idea for you to go out there and try and talk to him while he’s clearly in a fit?” More yelling came from the bullpen, and I snuck a glance out the blinds to see Whittendon face to face with the tech worker. 

“He’s a good guy, I’ve got this,” I said, shrugging at Spencer. Opening the conference room door did nothing to tear Whittendon’s scathing look away from the worker, nor to lower the volume of his shouting. 

“You no-good son of a bitch!” Whittendon exclaimed. “I want to know what happened to my original files, and I want to know now!” He emphasized ‘now’ by slamming his open hand on the worker’s desk. The worker seemed to cower in fear. 

“Sir, all I did was send over the file I received. Honest. I never even opened-” Whittendon’s sharp look cut the worker off. 

I slowly made my way towards the pair. Stepping in between them, I spoke. “Detective, I think you should step out and cool off for a minute,” I said. Whittendon acknowledged my presence for the first time, eyes flickering down at me before glancing over my head at the worker. 

“I’ll be back, Richie,” Whittendon said. “By the time I am, I hope you’ve come up with a better explanation for what happened to my goddamn files.” With that, Whittendon turned sharply and headed for the precinct door, stepping out into the cold Colorado night. 

To be continued! :)

[lonelym00n]

The Red Means I Love You

Amber Freeman x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Ghostface is running around and you don't know who to trust. Amber reassures you that things will be okay.

Warnings: Typical canon violence with descriptions of blood. Please read with caution! Follows the events of Scream V. Also, Angst!

A/N: guysss... I did a thing... I'll just let you read and find out.

Title + fic inspired by Madds Buckley's song, The Red Means I Love You

If someone had told you a few days ago that you’d have to watch your close friend take a bullet to the head, you’d have slapped them across the face and added them to Mindy’s ever-growing list of potential future ghostface suspects. 

In retrospect, you suppose you were naive for thinking that you’d make it through Woodsboro High without falling victim to someone deciding to take up the infamous killer’s mantle. You should’ve suspected that it would happen eventually, especially considering that three of your best friends were related to survivors from the years prior. That fact alone painted a bright red target on your back and it was only a matter of time until an eight-inch hunting knife sunk into you because of it.

Did some higher deity sew the stars together to seal the fate of you and your friends? Were you destined to die at the hands of the ghost that haunted the little town you’d lived in all your life? Some part of you thinks that yes, this was meant to happen, because a tiny voice in your head always figured the friend group you’d become a part of was doomed from the day it began to form.

Everyone else in Woodsboro had it easy, their parents were present and the killings that plagued the town only existed for them in the form of the notorious Stab franchise. The same couldn’t be said for your friends.

Put a handful of Woodsboro High’s most traumatized students into one group and what do you get? The perfect cast for the next series of killings. Mindy tells you as much when you and the rest of your friends are clustered together in her living room, trying to identify who among you was responsible for brutally attacking the others left and right. 

As if being friends with people who are related to the survivors wasn’t bad enough, you learn from Tara’s older sister that she is connected to Billy Loomis, the original ghostface himself. More than being connected, Sam’s his daughter. You have half a mind to notify your parents to start picking out your tombstone now.

You barely listen as accusations fly around the room. How could it be possible that you were in the same room as the killer right now, when you’ve known everyone here your whole life? You were having a hard time processing the fact that one of the kids you’d played in the sandbox with in elementary school had grown up to become someone so sinister. 

Distantly, you hear Mindy conclude that Sam must be the killer, that it made the most sense because of who her father was. She storms out of the room and after a beat, you stand up on shaky legs and murmur a goodbye to the remaining occupants of the Meeks-Martin living room. Your head was reeling and you needed to get away or you’d break down and lose your last semblance of sanity. 

If there is a God that exists, they must hate you, because you break down anyways. Just outside the house, you’re hunched over, a hand clutched desperately at your rapidly rising chest. Despite your best efforts, you’re unable to chase away the dread and terror that have nestled in and made a home in your torso. 

Too wrapped up in trying to calm your irregular breathing, you don’t hear the familiar clunk of boots swiftly making their way towards you.

Though your vision is blurred, you’ve spent enough time around Amber to recognize her presence almost instantly. She’s bent over you concernedly, and you think she’s speaking to you but you can’t hear her over the accelerated pounding of your heart that has arisen from the lack of proper oxygen intake. 

Her body firmly encompasses your own and your senses are overtaken with everything Amber. If you were able to breathe, you would’ve sighed at the feeling of security that blanketed over you. 

Amber’s hands grasp yours and she presses your joined hands onto her chest, where her heart steadily thumps beneath. At the feeling of it, you will your own heart to match its rhythm. It takes a while for it to slow down but once it does, you faintly become aware of her sweet voice reminding you to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out. 

She looks relieved when you finally descend back to reality. “There you go, baby. You’re okay. I’m here.”

You throw your arms around her and sob into the embrace, struggling to ignore the burning in your chest. She rubs your back and shushes you quietly. 

“Amber, I can’t do this. I’m scared.”

She presses a chaste kiss to your forehead and pulls you in closer, resting her chin on the top of your head. “We’re gonna be okay.”

You mumble into her chest, “How can you be so sure?”

Practically smothered in her embrace, you remain completely unaware of the ominous look that has blossomed in the dark brown eyes that you love so much. 

“You trust me, don’t you?” 

You nod, albeit a bit hesitantly.

“Good. I’m going to protect you, I won’t let anything happen to us.”

It isn’t lost on you that just as there is with everyone else, there’s a slim possibility that Amber could be the killer. But out of everyone, you know her the best. Ever since she had asked you out, all shy and nervous and very un-Amber Freeman like, the two of you had been inseparable. She weaseled her way into your everyday thoughts and in turn, you became the center of warmth that thawed her previously cold heart. No one could deny that you and Amber balanced each other out perfectly. For the first time in your life, you found someone you could trust enough to fall deeply and irrevocably in love with. If you could trust Amber with such an intimate and fundamental piece of your soul, you could trust that she wouldn’t be silently plotting your death, right?

Wrong.

Just like Liv’s skull cavity, your heart shatters at the abrupt finality of Amber’s bullet. 

Chaos erupts at the spray of Liv’s blood and the crash of her still-warm body hitting the ground. Sam and Richie scatter as Tara knocks Amber’s next shot off course. 

The only thing you can think to do is run, so you do. You clamber up the stairs and dive into the hall closet. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the pitiful sounds desperately trying to slip past your lips. 

You feel utterly broken, like the piece of your soul that you’d given to Amber was cruelly snatched out of your body and crushed in her murderous grasp. You want nothing more than to scream and wail until you yell yourself hoarse, but you can’t give up your hiding spot. As much as you’re sure that the pain of betrayal outweighs any cut from the blood-stained knife, you don’t want to find out if there’s any truth to the comparison. 

You hear two sets of feet making their way up the stairs, one stomping heavily and the other flailing uselessly. You aren’t one-hundred percent sure, but you think the pained whimpers you’re hearing belong to Tara. Which means Amber was likely the one accompanying her.

At the thought of your girlfriend, you recoil further into the closet. You can feel your whole body shaking in fear. 

After a few more long minutes, you can hear the familiar creak of Amber’s boots on the hardwood floor. She’s calling out your name and you press your hand harder against your mouth to completely silence the sound of your breathing. 

Her search becomes more frantic and the clunking of her boots begins to pick up speed. You reach around blindly in search of anything you can use to fend her off.

Just as you tighten your grip around what you think might be an umbrella, the closet door flies open. You swing with all your might, but Amber moves quicker, grabbing the umbrella and disarming you.

She quirks an eyebrow and chuckles at your failed attempt to hit her. She motions for you to stand.

 “Come on, down to the kitchen we go.”

You make no move to get up, paralyzed at the sight of her donning the ghostface robes. 

She groans, “I can’t have you ruining the plan. Let’s go.”

Her commanding tone does nothing to move you. You’re rooted to the spot in fear, wondering what fate is waiting for you down in the kitchen. 

Amber growls and you flinch backwards as she steps into the closet, towering over your seated form. 

“You’re being such a pain in the ass.”

Her hands wrap tightly around your waist as hoists you up and tosses you over her shoulder. You struggle futility, but there’s no chance you can escape the strong arm wound snugly around your midsection. 

Amber carries you easily down the stairs and you wriggle around faster, knowing from your frequent visits to the house that you’re almost across the threshold that leads into the kitchen. 

You’re placed onto the ground and firmly shoved to the other side of the island. Before you can even think to move, the steel barrel of a gun is pressed into your forehead. It’s Richie on the other end of it, and only then do you realize that Sam is laid out on the ground, a hand pressed into her side, where blood is trickling out despite her efforts to stop it. She looks up at you with sorrow and terror and you’re sure that your expression reflects hers like a mirror. 

Amber takes the knife that Richie offers to her and makes her way to a different corner of the kitchen. She jumps gleefully, and if things weren’t so fucked up you might’ve found the sight endearing.

Though the gun blocks out most of your vision, you see two other women in the kitchen. 

Gale Weathers and Sidney Prescott. Shit, even they managed to get trapped in this nightmare. 

Richie, seemingly pissed that you aren’t giving him your full attention, grips your jaw with more than enough force to leave a bruise. Your resulting moan of pain is insignificant to him.

“Leave her alone!” Sidney yells out and Amber’s knife presses threateningly into her throat, swiftly silencing her.

Richie laughs menacingly, “Sid, when are you gonna finally realize you aren’t in control here?” 

He turns towards you and frowns angrily.

“You know if it were up to me, you’d have been dead at the start of this thing.” 

A glob of his spit lands on your cheek and the gun is pushed further into your forehead, the force practically moving you backwards.

You’re scared, the most afraid you’ve ever been in your life. Your hands are trembling and you stutter, completely unable to come up with the necessary words to plead helplessly for your life. 

“Pathetic,” Richie growls out. He looks in Amber’s direction, “I don’t know what you saw in her honey.”

“She usually has a lot more fire in her.” 

You meet her gaze for a second. Amber’s eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide with what must be psychotic pleasure. 

You open your mouth to finally say something, but the sudden smack of the gun across your face shuts you up. You cry out and lift your hands to your face instinctually. Your head is pulsing at the unexpected pain.

While Amber’s distracted with Richie’s assault on you, Sidney makes a grab for a knife sitting on the countertop.

Her actions don’t go unnoticed. Amber reacts with the speed of a demon and plunges her knife into Sidney’s gut. Gale yells out as Sidney crumples to the ground.

With both Sidney and Gale momentarily incapacitated, Richie knocks you backwards, sending you carelessly stumbling back and straight into Amber’s arms. He turns towards Sam, while Amber pins you against the counter.

“Get rid of her Amber, we need to start staging the bodies. Fast baby, we don’t have much time.”

She hums, not bothering to verbally acknowledge him. You shiver as your eyes lock together, hers still full of straight mania. 

Her arm lifts up and she moves slowly, tracing the blade against the smooth skin of your face. You try not to gag at the coppery smell of blood that is being carelessly smeared across your face.

She smiles softly at you, creating a confusing juxtaposition with the wild expression that fills her eyes. 

Amber leans in to whisper almost lovingly in your ear, “I always knew you’d look so pretty covered in blood, baby.” 

You can’t stop the tears from leaking out of your eyes. You’re so distraught, it’s nearly impossible to think straight with how overwhelmed you are. How could this Amber be the same Amber that had admitted to being nervous the first time she told you she loved you? 

“Amber, please.” You begged brokenly, hoping the girl you loved so dearly was still somewhere inside the maniac that stands in front of you.

Her gaze softens just a hair and you nearly cheer at the glimpse of your Amber. 

“I’m sorry. You know I’d keep you around if I could.”

The relief exits your body. Your heart drops deep into your chest at the words.

“You said you’d protect me.” You feel desperate, there had to be something you could say to snap Amber out of this state.

She pouts and brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I did. Richie wanted you to be the opening kill, but I stopped that from happening.” 

The special smile that she always saved just for you spread across her face, “I even convinced him to leave you to me tonight. I’ll be the last person you see, won’t that be nice?”

Your jaw trembles with the newfound knowledge. Amber spared you, but only to prolong your life so you’d die by her hand. Your resolve finally breaks, and you are fully encased in dread. 

In a strange mirroring of the day’s earlier events, you begin weeping loudly. Amber’s arms wrap around you in an attempt to comfort you. 

She deposits a kiss onto the top of your head.

“I know you don’t understand it, but I’m doing this because I love you.”

Her arms tighten around you and you’re suddenly blindsided by excruciating pain. Amber’s knife is slowly pushed deeper and deeper into your body, your insides twist around at the intrusion. 

As you yell out in pain, she shushes and gently praises you, repeatedly whispering how much she loves you. 

She rips the knife out of your gut, just to harshly plunge it back in once, twice, and a third time. You feel sick at the squelching that sounds out each time the knife enters your stomach. 

Blood dribbles out of your mouth as you groan in pain. 

Hazily, you notice that she’s covered in your blood. Your vision is darkening and you feel yourself begin to dwindle in and out of consciousness. 

Amber takes note of this and leans closer, her lips nearly touching yours. 

“You did so good for me, love. I’ll make sure they cast someone beautiful to play you in the movie.”

With a final whispered confession of love, Amber places a gentle series of kisses to your bloodied lips. She stabs you once more, and lowers your body carefully to the ground as she pulls the knife out one last time. 

You lay there, unable to move even if you wanted to. You stare up at the ceiling, it spins around and around and around. 

Your ears are ringing. If you could think clearly, you reckon you’d wonder what you did wrong to end up in this situation. You don’t think there’s any possibility for things to have ended differently. Fate was cruel and unforgiving, but at this point you have no choice but to lie in the bed that it has made for you.

The pain is gone, replaced with the silent weight of nothingness. You feel yourself drifting away, and you welcome the feeling. Maybe your next life would be kinder to you.

Unfortunately for you, your peace never comes. 

Instead, you find yourself opening your eyes disorientedly. You let out a sharp hiss at the blinding white lights that glare back at you. 

Once you’ve adjusted to the light, you finally make out that there are a couple figures crowding around you. 

“Wha-”

It hurts to talk, as a matter of fact, everything hurts. 

“Alright, alright you’re okay. My name’s Dr. Ford. You’re gonna be in a lot of pain for a while, so let’s take it easy.”

You stare back at the man in disbelief.

Somehow, despite all the odds, you survived.

A/N: ta da!! I'm actually planning a part 2 to this that follows our dear reader through the events of scream vi, so stay tuned! Heads up, it won't actively be about an Amber x R relationship cuz... well you know :'(

Fellow Amber stans plz forgive me for not feeding y'all more regularly.

[ghost-proofbaby]

It seems that he picks up on her internal battle before it’s even ended. He sees through all that self doubt, and with a heavy sigh, holds out his palms. “Hand them here.” She instinctively recoils, “I am not giving you my weapons.”  “I’d hardly consider those pieces of charcoal your weapons. More like enemies, after the beheading you served to the first one.”  He wants… the charcoal?

summary: aruna begins to doubt just how skilled she truly is with her daggers, and astarion proves himself useful his first night in camp by offering an act of selfless aid. but not before criticizing her map making skills, of course.

wc: 3.3k+

warnings: continued memory loss, use of daggers (but not for violence), astarion gets a little flirty, and more gameplay recounting (specifically one of the first camp scenes you can trigger with astarion)

a/n: take a shot every time i make astarion say "oh, dear" like a little shit in this fic. also, i promise at some point, this fic will stop being such a play by play of the game lol

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

“You’re Astarion?” 

Aruna swears she’s going to be sick as she stares at the elf with wide eyes. It’s all too much – the leftover adrenaline from having a blade held to her throat, those red eyes boring into her soul, the swirling pressure that squeezes down on her lungs tightly as the realization settles deep inside her bones. 

This is Astarion. 

“I- Yes?” he questions, entirely on guard as his eyes narrow. He’s quick to recover, and all his hesitation is masked behind a certain air of confidence she can see right through, “As I was saying, I was in Baldur’s Gate… when those… those awful beasts…” he loses his focus repeatedly before finally huffing out a sigh, “I’m sorry, just- Have we met before?”

She doesn’t even know how to explain herself or her outburst. She hadn’t confided in Gale or Shadowheart regarding her letter, and hadn't mentioned Astarion in the last two days. The entire spectacle looks odd to every single one of them; Shadowheart is watching her far more carefully than normal, Gale’s face is twisted up with all that awful curiosity, and Astarion is just… Well, he’s simply plain confused.

He doesn’t recognize her. 

She woke up without any memories, not even so much as her own name, with him being one of the only clues to her past self, and he doesn’t even know her. 

What sick game is the Universe playing on me?

“Do you two know each other?” Gale asks when Aruna doesn’t answer Astarion, but it only earns him a scoff from the pale one. 

“Thank you, for repeating the obvious question I just asked…” Astarion trails off, eyeing the wizard, waiting for proper introduction. 

It takes him a few moments to recognize that Astarion is waiting to learn his name before he jumps to life, “Oh! My apologies. I’m Gale, and this is Shadowheart. And that is Aruna – although, I do promise you, she’s usually far less mute.” 

He doesn’t fucking know me. I have a letter in my pack right now, heavier than any looted armor, instructing me to save him – and he doesn’t even know me.

“Ah, I see,” Astarion’s voice is surprisingly low, nearly musical in cadence as he hums and turns to look at her properly again. There’s still concern behind his eyes, still searching her for some sort of explanation. “Well, I certainly don’t believe we’ve met before, have we?” 

He’s asking something more than just all that he’s voicing. She can pick up on that much; she just doesn’t know what else he really wants from her. 

She can’t simply casually say, “Oh, I have no idea. I actually have no memory of my life before all of this. But, hey, fret not! I actually have a letter with your name on it – a letter telling me to save you, even. Small world, eh?”

Or maybe she could. Far more odd situations have arisen in the last forty eight hours. 

“I don’t think we have,” she says slowly, being sure to enunciate each word with cautious care. They feel wrong, heavy on her tongue as though she’s telling a dire lie. 

But was she the one lying, or was Astarion? If that letter of hers truly was referring to him, he must know her. 

Is it possible he held his blade to her throat because he knows her?

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” he flashes a charming smile, and she realizes just how disarming he is capable of being. If she weren’t so on guard at the moment, honed in entirely on him for every subtle change, she wouldn’t notice it was an act, “What do you know about these wretched things inside our heads?” 

The rest of the conversation, Aruna only has one goal in mind: Astarion will be joining them in her travels, no matter the cost. She matches his act with one of her own, flourishing with her own set of honeyed words in an effort to garner the barest hint of trust from him. And it proves to not be overly difficult; it’s as though they share the goal as something common between them, because the moment her offer of him joining the small group leaves her mouth, he’s eager to agree. Almost too eager. 

All strange circumstances aside regarding Aruna, it’s still a valid response. They have better chances of survival if they face it in numbers. 

And so Astarion joins them. Brimming with flamboyant movements and an extravagant smile that she notices stays half-closed, he offers to bring up the rear of the group just as Aruna announces the need to go back to camp. 

“Resting again? So soon?” Shadowheart’s face twists as if she doesn’t notice the quickly setting sun, “We haven’t even found a healer yet. Or at least found a lead for one in the area-”

“We can find one tomorrow,” Aruna interrupts, turning to face her small group of rag tags. She can’t stand it – the hope shining in each of their faces, the undeserving faith that lies behind their eyes after just two days. Astarion is the only one resembling something she can stomach, and mostly because he looks entirely bored with the current argument, “I need to update our map and we really should try and put more effort into the camp before we pick up any more…” she trails off, and Astarion finally looks at her, half-smirking as though daring her for an insult. Something fires up inside of her – as though it’s a game, as though they both know she doesn’t mean it when she finishes the thought with a sarcastic quip of, “Strays.”

“Oh, darling,” he puts a hand to his chest, taking a few steps around Shadowheart to be closer to her. When he leans forward, it’s as though he’s sharing a secret with just Aruna, “If you wanted me to purr for you, all you had to do was ask.” 

It’s not a secret, though. Everyone else hears. Gale takes a sharp breath in, and Shadowheart only huffs in disamusement. 

And Aruna has to bite back everything inside of her to not react, to not give him any satisfaction. It’s as though he sees right through her, as if the laugh she had swallowed down had escaped nonetheless, to grace only his ears. 

Neither of their shields are working very well against one another. Their souls already seem to know one another, staring across the vast caverns between them, a whisper of I know you echoing in both sets of ears. 

She doesn’t stand a chance, and she’s hardly known him for a few hours. 

—

Camp is quiet. 

Shadowheart is brooding, Gale is humming to himself as he lays out a rug that no doubt came from his damned bag of holding to claim his corner of the camp, and Astarion has taken to sitting near the fire pit. All lost in their own worlds, all completely silent as Aruna gathers what she needs to complete at least one of the tasks she’d insisted needed to be taken care of. 

The map. She needs to attempt to update it, add to the sad squiggles and lines to indicate that area they explored today. Even if they never return to that beach, she wants to know that it’s there. It exists. 

Charcoal pencils that they had looted from a chest amongst the wreckage days prior are lined up on the stone bench, the surface almost too high for her to comfortably utilize it as a table when she sits on the ground before it. But she’s stubborn, and it’s the best she can do in their current situation, so she makes it perform as a table. 

She’s just started to ponder if she should retrieve one of her daggers to sharpen the sticks of charcoal when Astarion notices. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding more accusatory than curious as she unsheathes a knife, already fisting a pencil. 

“Sharpening my pencils,” she murmurs, mentally pleading with her shaking hands to steady as she brings the edge of the blade a few centimeters from the tip of the art tool, angling it so that she can begin to shave it down to a precise point, “I’m updating the map.”

“You have a map?”

She sighs, finally lowering the dagger and charcoal. Her hands won’t stop shaking, and Astarion really isn’t helping. 

“Yes, we have a map,” she nods to the piece of paper on the stone before her. Astarion wastes no time in getting up from where he had sat on one of the bedrolls rounding a fallen tree log so that he could take a seat on what was meant to serve as her table tonight, not his bench. 

He looks down at her sorry excuse for a drawing of a forest, the center being camp.  

“Oh, dear. Well…” he leans in closer, squinting at a grouping of dots that were meant to symbolize the beach where she had woken up, “You certainly weren’t an artist before all of this, were you?” 

“Excuse me?” 

He glances up at her through his lashes, lifting a brow as if he was pointing out the obvious, “Don’t get me wrong. The idea of a map is an excellent one, I’ll give you that, but this…. This leaves something to be desired.”

She doesn’t know why she’s taking offense. She knows her art skills are shit. She knows the map is pitiful. 

“It’s not complete yet.”

“Clearly.”

“We just needed some way to keep track of our surroundings.”

“I agree.”

“It doesn’t have to look pretty.”

“Oh, but wouldn’t it be so much nicer to look at if it was more attractive?” he tsks at her.

She hates it. She hates that his criticism, his disapproval, gets under her skin so easily. 

She picks her dagger back up and brings it back to that piece of charcoal in her left hand, more determined than before, “If you hate my rendition so much, make one for yourself. I’m sure you could do a far superior job, right?”

Snap. 

Her hands were still shaking when she struck against the soft black chunk in her hands. The angle had been off, the amount of pressure she was applying was too much. She had been distracted by him and now, she was suddenly holding a broken piece of charcoal rather than a nicely sharpened one. 

They both stare down at the mess she’s created across her palms and weapon for a few seconds, deathly silent. She’s trying to not throw an absolute fit, quickly reaching her breaking point; he’s trying to bite down all his laughter, almost feeling sorry for her. 

“Oh, dear.” 

An echo of his earlier words, this time choked up behind his silent amusement. Slightly more exaggerated, far more taunting than they had originally been. 

“Don’t,” she quietly insists, eyes flickering up to already find mischief burning in his, “Don’t you dare. I-”

“You have wielded those daggers before, haven’t you?” 

She opens her mouth, prepared to bite back with an of course I have, when it hits her that she’s actually not entirely sure. 

Have I? 

She had wielded them in the fight against the brains, hadn’t she? And she’d been able to use them quite well, albeit the fight was against a couple of brains on legs, and she had a powerful wizard and strategic cleric on her side. 

It seems that he picks up on her internal battle before it’s even ended. He sees through all that self doubt, and with a heavy sigh, holds out his palms. “Hand them here.”

She instinctively recoils, “I am not giving you my weapons.” 

“I’d hardly consider those pieces of charcoal your weapons. More like enemies, after the beheading you served to the first one.” 

He wants… the charcoal? 

She doesn’t give herself any more time to question it, grabbing for the two remaining pencils and handing them over before she can even guess what his end goal here is. 

That thing inside of her is still whispering, pleading for her to trust him. She doesn’t understand why – she can’t comprehend how he’s the mysterious Astarion she’s meant to save, or how she could possibly know him without him knowing her. None of it makes a lick of sense, and yet, she’s still handing him the charcoal he requests and not even voicing a single concern outloud. 

He unsheathes his own dagger quickly. His hands don’t shake as hers had. The angle of his blade is precise and his stroke is quick as in mere seconds, he’s taken the chunky stick and shaved it down to a point.

He’s sharpening them. For her, presumably. 

“How did you…” she whispers in questioning as he holds out the newly sharpened charcoal, the one he had yet to turn into a point still resting beside his thigh. Curls of ashen black litter the ground around the two of them. 

“Skilled hands, darling,” the nickname strikes embers inside of her, kindling of flames ready to be fanned into a wildfire if he so pleased, “And some of us know how to use our daggers.” 

She plucks it from his fingers, holding it up to examine the delicate point in the dying light of the day. 

Perfect. She wasn’t about to admit it to him, but his handiship was perfect.

“This is the part where any one with common manners might say thank you,” he muses, condescending as ever as he picks up the second stick and begins to twirl it, marking his knuckles in the faintest grey. 

Against her better judgment, her eyes find his as she all but whispers, “Thank you.” 

It’s more sincere than she had meant. And she can’t understand it herself, but it feels like she’s thanking him for far more than just the charcoal. That quiet voice inside of her teems, preening as she continues to look him in his eyes. Those waves of deja vu are beckoning at her shore again, but this time, she’s almost fearful to dip her toes back in. It had hurt badly enough when their tadpoles connected – she doesn’t know what would happen if she succumbed to that feeling of knowing him, recognizing this scene from what feels like another life. 

What had he done for her in past lives that warranted thanking him so sincerely? What whispers of forgotten memories between them warranted the firm instruction of saving him? 

As she pulls herself away from the useless pondering, she takes note of Astarion’s reaction. He very clearly hadn’t expected her to actually thank him. The shock ripples across his features, he leans back as though she might have smacked him with her genuine words. For just a moment, hard garnet softens and she’s once more reminded of friendship. She could be friends with him; she could be friends with all of them, but especially him. 

Just as she’s leaning into the idea, he’s clearly running from it.

“So, we’re resting here for the night?” he asks in faux nonchalance, effectively changing the subject, “Officially turning in?” 

I could be your friend, but only if you let me in, it seems. 

She’s not blind. She knows pressing the topic any further would probably end badly for the two of them. “Yes. And if all goes to plan, this will be our permanent camp. For however long our journey requires, of course.” 

He’s quiet as he focuses his attention back on the charcoal pencil he had been fiddling with, and with quick movements, he takes to whittling it down just as he had the first one. This time, however, he’s slower. As though he’s begging for the action to fill the awkward silence so he won’t have to. 

“Why do you ask?” This, she decides, she can press on. She can push him on this topic, “Never slept in the woods before?” 

She doesn’t know why she expects him to keep up a callous act. Expects to be met with resistance and a snarky attitude. But no such thing is on display as he swipes at the charcoal one final time with his blade before he looks up at her, and he’s still softened. Churning ever so faintly, like the calmest of oceans. She knows there’s dangerous depths beyond, a certain darkness she only sees the shadow of behind the look he gives her, but the surface appears so inviting for the time being. Cool, refreshing, reflecting speckles of moonlight in his eyes. 

“It’s all a little... New to me, I admit,” his voice is something softer than usual. Soft, soft, soft. Why does she recognize that softness inside of him so easily? She picks up the brief shrug of his shoulders before he continues, offering her more than she could have asked for, “The night usually means bustling streets, bursting taverns. Curling up in the dirt and resting is, uh…. A little novel.” 

She’s completely bewitched through the explanation. Drinking in every movement, the way he speaks with his hands, the fluctuations in his tone. He dives back into that usual charming voice when he mentions the taverns – his tone brims with youth as his face softens and he says his final three words. The lift of his brows, the nerves of the small smile he pushes forward; she clings to every bit of it, in a damning effort to piece together who exactly the man in front of her was. 

He’s pretty. If she’s learned nothing else, it’s that he’s pretty. The kind of pretty that would ruin her if she wasn’t more careful. 

The kind of pretty that might have already ruined her, if that mysterious letter was any sort of clue. 

“You should try,” she doesn’t know why she’s whispering, but she is. Mostly everyone has retreated to their own spaces, their own bedrolls. They’re the only two left within the vicinity of the fire dying out in the middle of the camp, “Rest, I mean. We’ll need it for whatever tomorrow may bring.” 

He’s quick to shake his head, holding out that second pencil to her finally. It’s as well carved as the first one, perfect for the purpose she had for them, “Oh, no. I’m in no place to rest yet. Today has been a lot. I need some time to think things through, to process this.”

As she takes the pencil, adding it beside the first on the stone, she knows there's a catch yet to be revealed in his words. “Are you sure? I don’t mind taking the first watch.” 

It had been an unspoken agreement – there would always be someone awake, keeping safe eyes on the camp as others rested. 

“I’m positive. Actually, I insist that you rest. I’ll keep watch instead.” 

She shouldn’t trust him. She shouldn’t so willingly put her faith in some random pale elf to keep her safe in her sleep. 

And yet, she does. 

Her logical thinking and her instinctive reactions don’t align. They never seem to do so thus far in her journey, especially with him. It’s more than just the letter reminding her to save him; there’s a twisting in his gut, a burning in the back of her mind, as if she’s known him far longer than the day has been. As if their time together transgresses far beyond the mere hours they’ve been acquainted. She trusts him ardently – to a dangerous level. She can recognize it, but she can do nothing about it. The feeling surely can’t be mutual. Her gut is surely leading her wrong. 

“Thank you. I’ll sleep better for it.” 

There are those two little words again, slipping off her tongue with an earnesty that rattles them both to their cores. At least this time, she hardly looks him in his eyes as she says it. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” he covers up any shock with theatrics, offering a small bow to her, “Sweet dreams.” 

Her dreams are anything but sweet that night. But they do distract her just enough that she never notices the shadow strangely similar to his stature, sneaking out the edges of camp, slinking off into the woods without a sound.

[thatgirl4815]

Sand & Ep11

I keep remembering this ask I got a while back, and I think it's important now more than ever.

If I was Sand, I personally would not give Boeing the time of day for what he did to me. I would be livid. I would never speak to him again.

But Sand is not me. Sand is more forgiving than is probably healthy for him. Even though it is something I hope he works on for his own benefit, it doesn't change the fact that for the moment, that is who he is. That's his flaw just as much as it his strength.

Caring for people is generally regarded as a positive trait because it is, but there's a such thing as caring too much for people who do not show that same care back to you. That is the position Sand seems to find himself in continuously. I believe Ray does care about Sand, but it took so long for that to be communicated to Sand in the way he deserves. The reason their relationship has lasted is because Sand does not demand that reassurance the way many people would, even though he might want it. Words of affirmation are not at the top of Sand's love language list.

Abandonment

I don't want to prescribe any definitive long-term childhood response to Sand from what little information we have, but given the emphasis on Sand's absent father, I think it's safe to say that Sand faces some abandonment issues. Growing up, he only ever had his mom; of course he was bound to cling to her very tightly. That is where I imagine his caring behavior has stemmed from most. Additionally, having so few people on his life that he could rely on, he learned to be a support system for others and learn not to complain for what he has.

I think Sand is in a position where he objectively understands that he is mistreated. He admits as much to both Ray and Nick. But he can’t break out of this cycle because there’s a deep-seated fear in him. A fear of being alone? A fear of being abandoned? A fear of not being good enough or “special” to anyone?

I have been wrestling with myself over the past day about Sand’s behavior in Ep11. And I’ve realized that a reason why I feel so ambivalent about it—a reason I don’t like to admit—is because it’s related to Boeing, not Ray.

Sand has received the same criticism he’s facing in Ep11 in past episodes: i.e., “He needs to know his worth and tell off Ray for what he’s doing to him.” A very similar situation has now arisen with Boeing. Sand is once again trapped in the cycle. He is nice to Boeing because even after what Boeing does to him, he cannot handle the thought of banishing him from his life for good—not when Boeing is still here and willing to engage with him. Again, we see the conflict between what he knows he should do and what he defaults to.

I empathize with Sand’s plight here, and I understand that it is difficult for him to react to Boeing and Ray. Where my frustrations arise are in the way he reacts to Ray’s reaction.

Ray is insanely passive aggressive at the end of Ep11. Sand has seen this all before; Ray lingers at the bar after being told to go home, he invites Boeing over without really wanting to invite him over, and he invites Sand to get naked in the pool with them. Each time, Boeing eggs him on by agreeing, playing up the guise of “we’re all friends here!” while simultaneously making both pointed and subtle jabs at his previous relationship with Sand (the most obvious being the “we’ve already seen every part of each other” line).

I’m of the belief that Sand is very aware of how Ray feels, especially in that ending shot when he looks between Ray and Boeing. But he does not ever confront Boeing or disengage from the situation. He’s playing into Boeing’s guise, and both he and Ray know it.

In virtually every part of Part 4, we see Sand caught in this same perpetual cycle where he lets people walk all over him. While I empathize with his struggles, as I said, there's a part of me that believes his boyfriend’s discomfort with the situation should supersede that. He committed to Ray, not Boeing, and this situation with Boeing is posing a threat to that.

This is not me saying that Sand needs to scream at Boeing and cuss him out for what he did to him. But I do think Sand needs to acknowledge much more firmly that he is Ray’s boyfriend. Sand can be nice to Boeing and offer him friendship, but he cannot allow Boeing to make advances on him and hang around with them when Boeing so clearly has other intentions. (There’s an argument that maybe Boeing does genuinely want a friendship with Sand, but after the way he talks with Sand and how he handled the TopMew situation, I don’t believe that for a second).

This isn’t easy for Sand, but when Ray is right there, he has to be more direct. Boeing was his past but Ray is his present. Much like how Sand encouraged Ray to go to rehab, I think Ray will encourage Sand to stand up for himself against Boeing.

[timeofjuly]

Soulmates in Wishbone, or how I think the soulmate trope would shape the culture of a Swapfell Underground.

Disclaimer: worldbuilding is not one of my strengths lol, so take this more as rambly what-if speculation than anything concrete. If I end up contradicting any of this in the fic, shhh no I didn't.

@blurry-palmetto wanted to hear more about soulmates in my swapfell soulmate au fic Wishbone, so instead of replying to their comment like a normal person, here’s a whole long ass post below the cut!

Here’s a recap of what we know about how soulmates work in the fic:

The soulmate bond is solidified by physical touch.

Soulmates share HP, LV, and EXP.

Soulmates can share physical sensation.

Soulmates can access each other’s thoughts, feelings, and Intent.

They can share their own of all of the above with their soulmate.

They can also prevent their soulmate from accessing these things.

Both of the above are learned skills that require effort to execute. Without knowing how to be intentional with the bond, you just kinda end up transmitting everything to your soulmate all day long.

Soulmates are unable to FIGHT each other.

The death of one soulmate results in the death of the other(s).

Extended time away from your soulmate(s) results in soulmate sickness. For Papyrus, this manifested as feelings of itchiness, restlessness, insomnia, palpable anxiety. Increased physical distance between him and the reader worsened these symptoms.

Soulmates are a strictly monster thing: all monsters have a soulmate, and those soulmates can be other monsters, or they can be humans. There are no human/human soulmate bonds. Two humans can be soulmates with the same monster, though.

Any number of people can be soulmates in many different configurations. In Wishbone, the reader is in a wishbone, V-shaped bond with Sans and Papyrus, where they’re the middle bit and the brothers branch off from them.

Before the events of the first chapter of Wishbone, there were no mage/monster soulmate bonds.

Nobody has ever survived an attempt to break a soulmate bond.

For Wishbone, it was important to have two differing cultural views on soulmates because I wanted there to be a huge disparity between how Sans and Papyrus approach the bond compared to the reader. This choice was made for a few reasons, but mostly for maximum angst potential lmao (the driving force behind most Wishbone related decisions). I wanted the soulmate phenomenon to be deeply respected and revered by the monsters, a cultural tenet akin to children wearing stripes and respect for the monarch. A Big Deal, basically. This is juxtaposed with the reader’s disdain and ignorance - they have no idea how any of this works because soulmates weren't a Thing before the barrier broke, and they don’t really care to know, because the bond is nothing but a Big Problem they plan on rectifying. Yay to miscommunication and misunderstanding!

Now, for the monsters to feel that reverence, there has to be some advantage to having a soulmate Underground, right? Particularly in the cut-throat environment of Swapfell (or any Fellverse in general) - if this was just another glaring weakness ready to be exploited, everyone would do their best to avoid meeting their soulmate.

This brings us to:

Soulmates in a Fell Underground; what’s so good about having a soulmate, anyway?

First off, let’s talk about the downsides.

The biggest one is if your soulmate dies, that’s it for you too. You share HP and if you’re both drained, you’re dust. No second chances. This is obviously a massive, easily exploited weakness, and one that I think would’ve shaped the way soulmates cohabitate and interact with each other. I mention in the second chapter of Wishbone that typically the weaker monster(s) will move in with the stronger; this is one of those things that would’ve arisen to protect against this weakness. I think collars would exist for a similar reason in this universe.

Soulmate sickness. An issue if you’re separated from your soulmate, but it would’ve been much rarer Underground. In terms of sheer physical space available, it’d be pretty hard to get physically far enough to cause major issues, and like Papyrus says in Wishbone, soulmates don’t try to avoid each other. The situation in the fic is practically unprecedented.

For the stronger monster, you’re now responsible to ensure the survival of someone(s) weaker than you. Kinda hard to just look out for number one now. You’ve got a whole other person/group of people to keep safe and happy. That's a lot of pressure!

For the weaker monster, you might now find yourself the target of someone seeking to hurt your stronger soulmate(s).

All of that really sucks. There’s gotta be some pretty good benefits to offset all of those downsides.

And there are!

You get to share HP, EXP, LV. We’ve touched on the negatives, but there’s a huge advantage to this too. Not everyone’s bound to a soulmate. In a fight with an unbound person vs a bound one, the bound one theoretically has access to double the power.

Having a soulmate gives you a built-in ally, someone you can trust to have your back. They’ll always have your best interests at heart, because their interests are yours. Underground, this would’ve been an advantage to have over your unbound counterparts who can’t really trust their allies fully.

There’s also all the stuff Papyrus said when he was telling the Second Mage about the origin/purpose of soulmates. Monster souls are composed of love, hope, and compassion, and they inherently seek connection with others. He explains that soulmates have existed for as long as monsters can remember, as a way for souls to find individuals who can fulfill their need for hope, trust, love, and compassion. In an Underground where finding this with others was scarce, this is a big bonus. (As a side note, I think this adds a new layer to Sans’ glove wearing. The gloves actively prevent him from touching others and finding a soulmate. For a tactically minded person who is very aware of the strategic bonus of a soulmate, it says a lot that he's purposely passing up on all of those benefits.)

And that’s just all the purely practical stuff. Finding your soulmate(s) is highly romanticised. A bright spot in the otherwise bleak Underground. The stuff of fairytales - literally, Sans talks about telling those stories to Papyrus in chapter 2. There’s a reason Papyrus is so excited to be a soulmate (note that he’s not fussed about who that soulmate actually is).

Okay, but now the barrier’s broken and everyone’s above ground. Now what?

Great question, hypothetical person!

Firstly: a whole lotta monsters find their soulmates in humans. Remember how monsters can have soulmates in monsters and/or humans? This means that lots of monsters Underground were unable to meet their human, above ground soulmates. Now that they're free, this changes. This is a mostly good thing for the monsters, but I'm sure that a lot of humans in pre-existing relationships now had to grapple with the fact that they're now telepathically bound to their literal soulmate after accidentally brushing hands at the grocery store.

In the wider context of human society, I think there’d be mixed reactions, but what’s more shocking, monsters having soulmates or the mere existence of monsters in the first place? I think by the time everyone gets over the monster thing, the whole monster soulmate thing would be a lot less crazy in comparison.

In the context of mage society - before Wishbone, this just wasn’t an issue, because everyone thought that monsters can’t have mage soulmates. We’re now dealing with the fallout from realising that isn’t the case in the fic.

Where does this leave us?

A fun angsty playground to play around in, full of pits and spikes and traps, in my opinion! There’s so much cultural stuff that the reader insert in Wishbone just doesn’t get. Rules and norms and expectations that they know nothing about and can't really learn on their own, because so much of this knowledge is passed down through oral storytelling.

This is just another issue the characters need to contend with - they aren’t on equal footing for a million reasons, and one of those reasons is that they all know and believe different things about the bond and nobody is communicating about any of it. Well, Papyrus tried, but was shut down immediately. Which makes sense - he tried because he wants to have a proper, close bond with the reader, the kind he's wanted his whole life, and the reader shut it down because they have no interest in any of that. Not to mention round-the-clock glove wearing Sans, who has some pre-existing Issues with the idea of having a soulmate altogether.

But like Papyrus said, the supposed purpose of the bond is to help people get their fix of love, hope, and compassion, things that all three of them need if they ever want to be truly happy. In particular; Papyrus is desperate to be loved, and also doesn’t love himself; Sans has put so much space between himself and compassion as a protective measure over the years that it’s almost completely foreign to him, both feeling it for others (note that the Second Mage invokes reluctant compassion in him almost immediately, despite how much he hates them) and accepting it from those who care about him; and the reader, someone so focussed on building a better future for others, is completely without hope on a personal level because they see no future for themselves in the wake of the loss of their twin.

So, in theory, this whole soulmate thing could be good for all of them. I guess we'll just have to see if that's the case in practice.

[ass-deep-in-demons]

never the same river

Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire Pairing: Ned Stark x Catelyn Tully Stark Tropes: developing relationship, arranged marriage, fluff and spice, mutual pining, idiots in love, dirty talk Rating: T+ Words: 2k Summary: Ned learns Catelyn used to be fond of swimming. He has no idea what he's doing.

for @nedcatweek day 6 prompt: "I want you to feel at home" [AO3]

“It is beautiful here,” Catelyn said, looking around. Ned observed her as she dismounted and gave the reins away to one of their host, before they were left alone. The weather had reached this sweet spot on the cusp of high season, when it was warm, but not hot enough to become unbearable. Late though and tentative, summer had indeed come to the North. The ice floe on the river had long melted, the flowers were yet in bloom, but the trees had for some weeks now been clad in the most verdant foliage, making one forget that the Winter was, indeed, coming. (Because Winter was coming. Tomorrow, or in twenty years, it was always coming, Ned knew.)

The idea to come here had arisen in Ned’s mind during the cold months. He had to bear Catelyn’s nostalgic looks on Harvest Day, then her barely visible flinches and chills in response to the cold drafts in the castle during winter. Though she might hide it well, Catelyn did not feel at home.

“What are we to do now, my Lord?” Catelyn asked and looked at him. Would that he could find his words easily. Alas, he’d never been skillful in conveying his meaning. Why had he brought her here? What were they going to do now? He wasn’t sure himself.

He wanted her to feel more at home. The Sept that he’d commissioned for her two winters prior hadn’t been enough, if her wistful sighing and withering glances were anything to judge by. Ned blamed himself. If only he’d made her feel more welcome. He had tried to keep her company whenever he could, but he wasn’t sure if his quiet, brooding presence had been any help, or if it had only made things worse. (Because he’d been brooding, Gods help him. He knew he’d been.)

With the first vestiges of spring, Ser Brynden Tully had come to Winterfell, bearing greetings and letters from Lord Hoster. The Blackfish had stayed in their Castle a fortnight and spent most of those mornings observing little Robb at play, and most of the evenings trying to get Ned to drink with him. Ned had very good reasons to not over indulge (what with the secrets he carried), but he would indulge a little, on occasion. And so he had played the gracious host, indulged a little in the cups with his guest, and had used the opportunity to pry subtly about Catelyn’s life back in Riverrun. One of the memories shared by Brynden had struck him as a particularly happy one. It was that of young Catelyn and Lysa going swimming in the Red Fork River in the summer. So, Catelyn liked river swimming… This seemed to Ned an extravagant passtime, but what did he know? He was from the North; he did not understand southern customs, and therein lay the whole problem.

“I thought we could go swimming in the river,” he said simply. 

“... Swimming, my Lord?” she asked. Had he announced he was going to re-paint the walls of Castle Black bright crimson, her eyes could not have gotten any rounder. Taking her swimming had been his plan, ridiculous though it might now seem. The swift currents of White Knife, sure to be carrying the chill of northern glaciers even now, did not seem particularly enticing, he had to admit.

He regarded his Lady. She looked beautiful when surprised. To be precise, she looked beautiful at all times and all moods, to Ned at least. He would admire her quietly when she would glide through Winterfell, swishing about in her gowns, which she took to tailoring according to Northern fashion, but which retained the elegance and lightness of the worldly South. She would brighten his dour abode with her mere presence, but here, among nature, with the warm sun glinting in her teal eyes and setting her hair aflame? Catelyn Tully took his breath away.

“Perhaps the hot springs near your castle would serve better for that purpose, my Lord?” Catelyn asked, when he prolonged his silence. Her surprise had turned into visible amusement. “You know you can call for me whenever you want for company in the pools…”

Ned felt his ears turn red at the memory of their last time at the hot springs. He had noticed the cold did not serve his Lady well, and proposed they visit the caverns in the Godswoods, where the temperature in the pools was particularly high, so that she could warm herself and forget about the snowstorms that had been plaguing Winterfell. Catelyn had accepted this offer, but, instead of an endeavor towards the betterment of her health, she thought it primarily an effort to introduce some variety to their marital duties. And so their hot spring experience quickly turned… steamy. 

Not that their bedroom needed any more steam. Ned would visit Catelyn’s chambers regularly, although never without her prior invitation. And she would invite him often. Every other night, in fact, whenever she was not through her menses. Ned knew this was what Maester Luwin advised her in order to quicken again, as Catelyn was bent on giving him another son.

Thing was, Catelyn had already given him one perfect son. Whenever Ned even looked at little Robb, he could not help but wonder. He had never thought he would ever get to be this happy. Not after… After… More still, she had given him another child, a sweet little babe, a daughter. Sansa favored her mother, and that made her beautiful to Ned’s eyes. Still, his Lady wanted to bear him another son, and it didn’t seem likely she’d give up before achieving that goal.

He could not help but feel guilty. Was it because of Jon? Was it that because Jon existed, she felt like one legitimate son wasn’t enough? Oh, he did feel guilty, after Jon, unworthy of those constant invitations to her bedchamber of wonders. For all his guilt, he’d never suggested that one heir was enough, though. He wondered if he maybe should, for her peace of mind, but then their nighttime activities would likely cease, and he just couldn't give her up. Wretched as he was, he came to rely completely on the reprieve that her touch offered. He would not show it, but most days he lusted after her, he awaited her signal impatiently like a man starved. It took a lot of effort on his part to not lose himself utterly with her, to not bite her soft, creamy skin, to not yank her lush red hair, not to take her a little too eagerly. She seemed so delicate, so refined. Ladylike.

He had earned the nickname the Quiet Wolf, because in his boyhood he’d been perceived as calm, in contrast to Brandon. Ah, Brandon… How his brother would now mock him, if he could see him so… lovesick. Ned had always been the sensible one. The reserved one. But not with Catelyn, he wasn’t. Not after having tasted her. Sometimes he thought one look of her eyes alone could make the wolfblood in him awaken. The wolfblood that he had used to doubt he had a drop of, but that he could now feel cursing through his veins whenever she lay under him. He restrained himself, fearful of offending her and losing her good graces, losing the privilege of sharing her bed, that he had nearly forfeited when he had brought Jon in. So he tried to remain calm during their couplings. Calm, gentle. Attentive to her whims and needs. He made sure she had her pleasure too, because Gods knew he had his aplenty with her.

“What is the true purpose of this outing, my Lord?” Catelyn asked, snapping him out of his musings. She was getting impatient, Ned knew. No wonder - they had spent the entire morning on horseback to get here, on his urging, and he’d kept her in the dark as to their destination. “Why have you brought me here?”

Ned sighed.

“Ser Brynden has told me you were fond of the river as a child,” he said. He could not bear to look her in the eye, so he instead looked at the murmuring crystalline waters. “I wanted you to feel more at home…”

Catelyn’s expression darkened visibly, at that. This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, though for the love of the Old Gods, Ned could not figure out why.

“You do not get it, do you?” she grumbled, and he could tell she was bitter. He said nothing, as was his way, and let her speak. “I’ve lived here for four summers already! Winterfell is my home! Would that you saw it. Would that my welcome here was warmer.”

“What do you mean?” Ned was alarmed by her outburst. “Have I not seen to your comforts, my Lady? Has anyone in the Castle mistreated you?” Whoever had wronged her, Ned would not let them get away with it.

Catelyn sighed and shook her head, dejected.

“The truth is, I do find the North so very… cold,” she said quietly. “And not for all the snow and winter winds… I know I am unlike the women around here. Not as… hardy. The glances I sometimes get... I am a foreigner in everyone’s eyes. And, worse still, in your eyes…” She looked so sad that Ned’s very heart clenched painfully. “Sometimes I feel like I shall never belong.”

“No,” Ned rushed to appease her. He took her hand in his, hoping she’d turn around, hoping she’d look at him. “Of course your place is here! You are my Lady. My wife!”

“That I am…” She uttered a mirthless chuckle. “And you are ever so dutiful a husband. So stern, so focused, when you come to my chambers.”

“Have I been amiss with my attentions towards you?” Her comment, offhand as it was, stung deeply. He prided himself on doing his very best whenever they lay together.

“I do not deny that you are.. attentive,” she whispered. “Yet I always wonder if you even want to be there. With me.” The vulnerability in her voice rendered him near speechless. He hated himself for making her feel this way, for letting it come to this. 

“Wherever else would I be?” he asked, genuinely bewildered by the very concept.

“You tell me,” said Catelyn and finally regaled him with a look. Though her words were quiet and her face ablush, thunder and lightning danced in her eyes.

Ned was frustrated. He was well aware of his many social shortcomings, and of how much Jon’s presence had soured things between them, but he had been trying his very best to be a good husband to her. He’d made many attempts at conveying how much she meant to him, but all of his efforts had failed, it seemed. He felt his temper rise, for the first time perhaps where she was involved.

“Then what would you have me do, my Lady?” he asked, not trying overly hard to smooth his speech this time. “Would you want me to grab you by your beautiful, downright sinful hair and take you roughly against the wall? Would that convince you of my commitment?”

This was, shockingly, somehow the right thing to say. Catelyn’s entire face brightened momentarily and it made something in Ned’s stomach stir in anticipation.

“You would want me like that?” she asked, breathless. Contrary to Ned’s every prediction, she did not look appalled nor frightened by the idea of them coupling roughly.

“I have… thought about it,” he admitted carefully. Her expression softened further, so he allowed himself to reveal even more. “In truth, I have been thinking of little else for many months now…”

“And you like my hair?” she asked.

Ned did like her hair, Gods help him, and he liked how her voice vibrated with excitement. He’d suddenly got many more ideas on how to make his wife feel more at home…

This is my contribution to NedCat Week 2024. Thrilled to be part of it and in awe of all the awesome writers making it happen <3

[my fanfiction masterpost]

[lifeofpriya]

from the youre blushing list ““You’re blushing.” “So are you.”” For jannik weekend. pls! Ur writing is so good and im so excited for a jan weekend bc i am lacking in content 😭

i had an itch to write a cute fic that involved a bookstore and i gave in 😩 ughhh, when can this happen to me too 😭

A Fumbling Confession

wc: 3.4k

You're standing in line at the local coffee shop, the aroma of freshly ground beans wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The barista calls out a name you don't recognize. You check your watch. Five minutes until your shift starts at the nearby bookstore. You're about to leave when the door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air and a familiar figure—Jannik Sinner.

Jannik is a regular, always ordering the same drink: a double shot of espresso with a splash of almond milk. His curly ginger hair is tucked under a blue beanie, and he's wearing a vintage sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal lean but muscular forearms.

You feel a jolt of excitement and nerves in your stomach. You've had a crush on him for months, but the opportunity to talk beyond exchanging pleasantries has never arisen. You consider saying hello, but the words stick to the roof of your mouth like sugar to a toddler's fingers.

As Jannik approaches the counter, his eyes scan the room, landing on you for a brief moment. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a gesture so subtle it's almost imperceptible. Is it possible he recognizes you? The thought sends a wave of heat up your neck. You quickly look down, pretending to rummage through your bag for something to avoid eye contact, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The barista calls out your order, snapping you out of your trance. You step forward, reaching for your wallet, when you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder. You turn to find Jannik holding out a steaming cup of coffee. "I got this," he says, his voice deep and comforting, the Italian accent rolling off his tongue like a melody.

Surprise lights up your eyes as you take the cup from him. "Thank you," you murmur, feeling the warmth of the ceramic mug seep into your palms. He nods, his smile widening. "It's the least I could do. You always seem to be in a rush when I come in here."

The barista glances between you both, a knowing look in their eyes. "You two are adorable," they say, winking before turning to prepare Jannik's drink.

You blush furiously, heat prickling across your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I just… I've never had anyone buy me anything before," you admit, taking a tentative sip of your preferred hot beverage.

Jannik chuckles, the sound resonating through the small space. "Well, I figured you could use a little pick-me-up before work." He leans against the counter, his gaze lingering on you. "So, what do you do?"

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I work at the bookstore down the street. I've seen you there a few times," you reply, hoping he doesn't notice the tremor in your voice.

Jannik's eyes widen slightly. "Really? I guess I should pay more attention to the people around me." He takes a sip of his espresso, the sound of the liquid hitting the porcelain cup echoing in the otherwise quiet shop. "I usually just get lost in the sports section."

The conversation flows naturally from there, a tapestry of shared interests and laughter. You learn that Jannik's love for books is just as intense as his passion for tennis. He talks about his favorite authors and the way specific stories have inspired him on and off the court. You share your favorite genres and the feeling of escaping into a good book after a long day.

As you both sip your drinks, you notice the time slipping away. The nerves in your stomach have transformed into a comforting buzz of excitement. You glance at the clock, realizing you're about to be late for your shift. "Thank you so much for the drink, but I really need to go," you say, the regret clear in your tone.

Jannik nods, his expression understanding. "No problem. Maybe we can do this again sometime?" His question hangs in the air, hopeful.

You feel your heart skip a beat. "Yeah, I'd like that," you reply, trying to sound casual despite the rush of emotions. He nods again, and you take a deep breath, mustering the courage to ask. "Do you want to come by the bookstore later? Maybe we can talk more?"

Jannik's smile reaches his eyes. "I'd love to," he says. "How about after my training session?" He glances at the clock behind the counter. "That's in a few hours. Does that work for you?"

You nod, trying to keep your cool. "Yeah, that's perfect."

The barista sets Jannik's drink on the counter, and he takes it with a grateful nod. "See you later," he says, and with a wave, he's out the door, leaving you with a coffee and a racing heart.

You down the rest of your drink, the warmth of the drink jolting you into action. You arrive at the bookstore just in time, the bell chiming as you enter. Your manager, Mrs. Higgins, gives you a knowing look. She's seen you like this before—flustered and a bit love-struck. She winks at you before turning her attention to a customer.

The hours tick by as you organize the shelves, your thoughts a whirlwind of anticipation. The bookstore is a second home to you, filled with the quiet whispers of pages turning and the occasional chime of the door. But today, it feels like a stage, every book a silent audience to the drama of your unspoken love.

As the clock approaches the time Jannik said he'd come by, you straighten your shirt, smoothing out any wrinkles. You pretend to be busy, but you can't help glancing at the door every few minutes. The bell jingles, and your heart skips a beat. But it's just a regular customer looking for the latest mystery novel.

Finally, the moment arrives. The door swings open, and there he is, his ginger curls peeking out from under the same blue beanie, his sweatshirt replaced with a fitted polo shirt that accentuates his athletic build. He looks around, and when his eyes meet yours, they light up with the same warmth as earlier. You feel a smile spread across your face, unbidden.

"Hey," Jannik says, approaching the counter. His cheeks are flushed from the cold outside, and his hands are slightly trembling from the chill. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

You shake your head, the books you were pretending to organize momentarily forgotten. "No, not at all. What can I help you with?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jannik steps closer, his gaze dropping to the name tag pinned to your shirt. "Just looking for some company," he says, a hint of mischief in his voice. "But I do need a book recommendation. Something to read on my off days, when I'm not breaking a sweat on the court."

You feel your cheeks warm at his words, and you try to play it cool. "Ah, I've got just the thing." You lead him through the aisles, discussing different authors and their works as you go. His eyes light up with every new title you suggest, and you can't help but feel a sense of pride in sharing your literary world with him.

As you reach the back of the store, you notice Mrs. Higgins watching you from the corner, a knowing smile on her face. She's always had a knack for spotting budding romances. You roll your eyes playfully and turn your attention back to Jannik, who's now engrossed in a novel you've been meaning to read.

"What's this one about?" he asks, holding up a book with a mysterious cover.

You lean over the counter, your hands resting on the cool surface. "It's a psychological thriller," you explain, "about a woman who discovers her entire life is a lie."

Jannik nods thoughtfully, his thumb tracing the spine of the book. "Sounds intense." He looks up, his eyes meeting yours. "But I like a good challenge."

You smile, feeling your heart race as you hand him the book. "I think you'll love it," you say, your voice slightly breathless. You can't help but wonder if he's referring to the book or the connection between you.

Jannik takes the book, his fingertips brushing against yours for a brief moment, sending an electric current up your arm. "Thank you," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll have to read it and let you know what I think."

The tension in the air is palpable, and you're acutely aware of every inch that separates you. You both stand there, unsure of what to say next, when a loud thud echoes through the store. You jump, startled, and Jannik laughs. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he says, holding up the book that slipped from his grasp.

You look down to see the book lying open on the floor, pages fluttering as if trying to tell a secret. You both lean down to pick it up, your hands colliding in a clumsy dance. You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep within you, a sound you haven't heard in a while.

As you stand, the book still between your fingers, your eyes meet Jannik's. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

"You're blushing." Jannik's voice is soft, teasing. You can feel the heat in your cheeks, and you know you're blushing harder than ever before. You look down, avoiding his gaze, your eyes catching the title of the book you're both holding.

"So are you." You reply, trying to sound nonchalant as you realize the truth in his words. You look up to find him studying you, his gaze intense. The silence stretches out between you, filled with the unspoken words you both want to say.

"I have to admit," Jannik says, his voice barely above a whisper, "I've had a bit of a crush on you for a while." The confession sends a rush of excitement through you, like a wildfire spreading from your chest to your fingertips. You look up at him, your eyes searching for any sign of insincerity. But all you find is honesty and vulnerability.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you just nod, unable to form coherent sentences. The book, now forgotten, lies between your palms, a silent witness to the moment unfolding.

Jannik's hand covers yours, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin. "I know this is probably a bad time and place, but I couldn't hold it in anymore," he says, his voice earnest. "I see the way you look at me, and I just had to tell you."

You nod again, your throat tight with a mix of emotions. "I…I've had a crush on you too," you finally manage to say. The words hang in the air, weightless yet heavy with meaning. Jannik's smile widens, and you feel your heart soar.

He gently takes the book from your grasp and sets it aside. "I've been hoping you felt the same way," he admits, his eyes searching yours. You can see the hope in them, the anticipation. "Every time I come into this store, I think about talking to you, getting to know you better."

You bite your bottom lip, trying to contain the smile threatening to split your face in two. "Really?"

Jannik nods, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. "Really."

The silence between you is now filled with the sweet anticipation of confessions long held back. You take a deep breath, feeling as though you're about to dive into the deep end of a pool. "Well, now that we've got that out of the way," you begin, "what do we do now?"

Jannik's smile turns into a grin. "How about dinner?" he suggests, his thumb still lightly caressing your hand. "I know a great place nearby that serves the best lasagna you've ever had."

The idea of dinner with Jannik sends a thrill through your body. "I'd love that," you say, trying to keep the excitement from overwhelming you.

He squeezes your hand gently, his eyes filled with relief and excitement. "Great," he says, the warmth of his palm sending shivers up your spine. "How about tomorrow night?"

You nod eagerly, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement. "Tomorrow night is perfect," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jannik's grip on your hand tightens slightly. "It's a date, then," he says, his eyes sparkling. "I'll pick you up after your shift. Does that work for you?"

You nod, your stomach flipping at the thought of an actual date with the person you've been secretly pining for. "Yes, that's perfect." The rest of the afternoon at the bookstore feels like it's moving in slow motion as you both try to contain your excitement. The customers come and go, but your eyes keep straying back to Jannik, who's lost in a book a few aisles over, occasionally glancing up to catch your gaze.

Mrs. Higgins clears her throat, breaking the spell. "You know, you two could just go on your date now if you want," she says with a knowing smile. "I can manage the store for the last hour."

You glance at the clock. It's already closing time. The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You've been so lost in your conversation with Jannik that you didn't even notice. "Really?" you ask, hopeful.

Mrs. Higgins nods, her eyes twinkling. "Go on. Have fun. I'll handle the closing."

Jannik looks up from his book, his expression a mix of surprise and delight. "Are you sure?" he asks, his gaze flicking between you and Mrs. Higgins.

"Yes, go," she insists, waving you off with a laugh. "You've earned it, and I'd love to see that smile on your face more often."

You exchange a look with Jannik, and in that moment, the unspoken tension between you snaps like a tightly drawn bow. Without another word, you both grab your coats and step out into the crisp evening air, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the cobblestone street.

Walking side by side, you feel a buzz of excitement that's been missing for so long. You can't help but steal glances at him, his profile sharp and defined in the fading light. You've imagined this moment countless times, but the reality is so much more than you ever dared to hope for.

Jannik notices your gaze and looks over at you, his cheeks flushing slightly. "What is it?" he asks, a smile playing on his lips.

You look away, feeling your own cheeks warm. "Nothing," you reply, a little too quickly. "I just… I'm happy, I guess."

Jannik laughs, a sound that sends your heart into a delightful flutter. "Me too," he says, his eyes shining. "I've been thinking about asking you out for ages, but I was afraid you wouldn't feel the same way."

You look up at him, feeling a rush of affection. "I've had the same fear," you admit. "But I'm so glad you did."

Jannik slides his hand into yours, and the simple gesture feels like the most natural thing in the world. Your heart skips a beat as your fingers interlock, his hand warm and strong. The cool evening air is a stark contrast to the warmth that spreads through you.

You walk down the cobblestone street, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the ancient buildings that line the way. The town is quiet, almost as if it's holding its breath, giving you two the space to share this moment in peace. You feel a giddiness bubbling up inside you, a feeling you thought was reserved for characters in the romance novels you secretly devour.

As you turn the corner, Jannik points out a small Italian restaurant, its windows steaming with the scent of garlic and tomato sauce. "This is the place," he says, his voice filled with excitement. The anticipation of the evening ahead has made you both hungry, and the thought of sharing a meal with him fills you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the food.

Inside, the restaurant is cozy, the walls adorned with family photos and vintage tennis memorabilia. The owner, a plump man with a thick mustache, greets Jannik like an old friend. "Jannik! Bene, bene!" he exclaims, enveloping him in a bear hug.

You stand aside, watching the interaction with a smile, feeling a swell of affection for this place that clearly holds a special place in Jannik's heart. The owner releases him and turns to you, his eyes twinkling. "And who is this lucky person you've brought with you?" he asks, his Italian accent thick and welcoming.

Jannik slides his hand around your waist, pulling you closer. "This is…" He pauses, looking at you for permission to reveal your relationship status. You nod, your cheeks still flushed from the confession at the bookstore. "This is my date," he says, pride and happiness resonating in his voice.

The owner's eyes widen in surprise before a broad smile stretches across his face. "Ah, a date!" He winks at you. "I'll give you the best table in the house." He leads you to a cozy corner booth, the candlelight flickering across the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. You sit down, your hands shaking slightly as you try to process the reality of what's happening.

The menu is a delightful assault on your senses, filled with dishes that sound like poetry and smell like home. You look up to find Jannik watching you, his gaze warm and affectionate. "I know it's a lot to choose from, but I promise, everything here is amazing," he says, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand.

You can't help but feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. "How do you decide?" you ask, your voice a little too high.

Jannik chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "It's easy," he says, leaning in closer. "You just have to trust your gut." He pauses, his eyes searching yours.

Your stomach flips, and you nod, trying to focus on the menu instead of the heat of his hand on yours. You decide on the lasagna, unable to resist the allure of the homemade pasta and the promise of a secret family recipe. Jannik orders the same, and the owner nods approvingly before disappearing into the kitchen.

The restaurant is a whirlwind of activity around you, but you're in a bubble; the only things that matter are the flicker of the candle between you and the sound of Jannik's voice. You talk about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine he ordered. You learn about his love for the mountains, where he grew up, and how he finds peace there when the world of professional tennis gets too hectic.

As the plates of lasagna are set before you, you realize how much you've missed this: the simple act of sharing a meal with someone who gets you, who makes you feel seen. You take a bite, the cheese stretching like a warm embrace, the sauce a symphony of flavors that dance on your tongue. "This is incredible," you murmur, your eyes meeting Jannik's.

He smiles, pleased. "It's his nonna's recipe," he says, nodding to the owner. "A family secret."

You laugh, the sound light and airy. "It's definitely worth keeping," you say, taking another bite. The conversation ebbs and flows, the silence between you now a comfortable one filled with the promise of more to come.

As you both clean your plates, Jannik reaches across the table, taking your hand again. "There's something I need to tell you," he says, his voice serious. You look up, your heart racing. "I've never felt this way about someone before. It's like…like I've been playing on easy mode, and now the game has changed."

You swallow the last bite, the warmth of the lasagna forgotten. "What do you mean?"

Jannik takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I mean, you're…you're different. You make me feel things I've never felt before, and it's a bit overwhelming." He squeezes your hand gently. "But in the best way possible."

You smile, feeling your cheeks warm. "I know what you mean," you admit. "It's like I've been reading the same book over and over, and suddenly there's this new one that's got me hooked, you know?"

Jannik's eyes light up, understanding dawning on his face. "Exactly," he says, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "It's like finding a new author whose words just…resonate."

You nod, feeling a thrill run through you at his metaphor. "Yeah, like their words are just for you."

Jannik's smile turns into a grin. "Exactly." He takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "So, what do you say we write our own story together?"

[thorin-is-a-cuddler]

Seperation

A/N: When Athos leaves for a dangerous mission to protect Aramis and you, his sister, Aramis worries a lot about his friend. You feel guilty for his suffering, being the main reason Athos went away in the first place. I've been meaning to include Athos in these stories for a while now. I hope you enjoy. :)

Your brother had fallen asleep on a chair.

His hat was half-covering his face, his arms crossed over his chest. It couldn't be very comfortable, the way the back of the chair was digging into his spine. But he couldn't help it - he was exhausted.

From time to time, you were looking up from the tissue you were embroidering, sending him a long look to make sure he wasn't about to slip off the wood and slam on the ground. You'd told him multiple times, you'd stay awake in his place and wait for Athos to return, you'd even promised to go wake him up and tell him, when he'd arrived. But Aramis wouldn't hear a word of it. With a tired smile he'd insisted that he would stay up and wait and after a while he'd stopped responding altogether, simply guarding that tired smile and looking out of the window into the cold night.

Three weeks before, Athos had left for a dangerous mission, Treville had originally intended to give to your brother. You'd been present, when a fight had arisen between the different parties. After Treville had ordered Aramis to travel to Spain to escort a French nobelman, Athos had gone pale and demanded the mission for himself. You'd given him a funny look, quickly followed by your brother who was not at all amused by this turn of events. Treville had established that it was a one-man-job and that Athos, being the senior to Aramis, had the right to take over the mission if he so wished. Athos had insisted to do exactly that and Aramis had responded with an expression of hurt, confusion and concern that had made Treville fumble around uncomfortably.

You knew that France and Spain were at war, but you did not immediately understand what had driven both, your brother and Athos, to act the way they had. Until you'd overheard a conversation, the night before Athos' departure.

"Do you really believe, I will allow you to go into a war zone all alone, while (Y/N) worries herself sick here?" You'd come to a halt in the courtyard of the garison, the hairs on your neck standing up. Looking up, you'd seen your brother watch Athos pack his travel bag from the dark corner of his friend's room, his face in shadows.

"That is not fair. Do you believe that I will worry less?" Your brother had lowered his head as if in pain, his voice rough and quiet.

"Aramis," Athos had taken him firmly by the shoulders and your brother had never looked smaller nor younger in your eyes, "you are my sworn brother, you know that, but more importantly you are the brother of (Y/N), you have a responsibility towards her, she needs you! And as long as I can provide you stay alive for her, I will do my best to keep it that way."

Athos had gently squeezed your brother's shoulders, before returning to his backpack to finish packing. Your brother had remained silent for a while, gazing at the floor with empty eyes. Then he'd quietly left the room. He'd closed the door so gently behind himself, that it had broken your heart.

Athos and Porthos were the brothers Aramis had never had. Upon meeting them, he'd learned what it meant to be protected and supported by someone like himself - while also getting to know the stubbornness of that protection and the frustration that could come with it. Athos had decided to protect him (and you) and there was nothing your brother could do about it.

Throughout the three weeks of Athos' absence, Aramis hadn't really been himself. He'd been quiet and distant, working hard and sleeping little to not at all. You and Porthos had tried everything to get him out of this haze, but not even the idea of a night out in the tavern had lured him out into the bright side of day.

You'd started to feel incredibly guilty for the state he was in. In the end, you had been the reason for Athos' decision to leave in the place of your brother. You'd heard them talk about it after all. And while you couldn't be more grateful to him for having spared you weeks of worry and fear, you were feeling terrible due to your brother now having to go through these exact emotions. You watched your brother suffer and died of shame.

------------------

One night during the three weeks of Athos' absence, you got up to get a glass of water, only to find Aramis sitting by the window, the moon in his face. The guilt immediately surged in you, like a wave washing over you on the shore. You sat down beside him and looked at his sleep-deprived face. He tried to smile at you, but that only made your heart hurt more. You took his hand and asked a serious question. "Do you want me to go?"

He quirked an eyebrow, allowing a hint of the normal Aramis to trace his features. "Go where?"

You swallowed and looked at his hand in yours, turning it around in your own to tickle his palm. "Go away. Go back home or something. Just away from here."

He closed his hand firmly, halting your fingers, and pulled rather harshly, making you gasp. The quirked-brow Aramis made room for another Aramis that you knew very well: the angry one. Furious brown eyes bore into your own. Slightly penched forward, he looked for an answer in your expression.

"Why would you say something like that?" Before the two of you had whispered, feeling it appropriate for night time. Now, he spoke with a voice loud enough to cut through the darkness.

You tried to pull your hand back, but he only closed his own tighter around yours, informing you without a trace of doubt that he did not like your suggestion in the slightest. Tears sprang to your eyes.

"I'm sorry, but look at you!!" You had not expected to grow angry yourself - neither had he, judging by the way his eyes grew in size. "This is my fault!! If I weren't here, if you didn't have to take care of me, your friends wouldn't opt in to take on missions you could easily manage yourself. You wouldn't have to worry about Athos, you'd be free to do whatever you like, but I am... holding you back."

Speechless, Aramis stared at you, too disbelieving to really understand the reality of your words. A tear started its journey down your cheek and you violently ripped your hand out of Aramis' grasp to brush it off. His features softened, sadness dripping from his every pore. He reached for your arm again, but you pulled it out of his reach, sniffing against your will.

When he spoke again, you could hear a small smile tainting his words, your antics quite getting to him. "You silly little goose, what are you talking about? You're not holding me back in the least. You keep me sane."

Surprised, you turned your head to look at him again, tears blurring your view.

Despite the rings under his eyes, he lifted his eyebrows, nodding with a meaningful smile on his features. "Duh. Does that really surprise you? Imagine me having to deal with things on my own! Yes, you need me, but the feeling is mutual! Who would I be without you, (Y/N)? We're a full package. A package of two!" His shoulder pushed against yours and you couldn't help but let out a huff.

"And Athos?" You asked, looking up at your brother's tired face.

Aramis hummed slightly and lowered his chin. "Don't worry about that. It's my problem. I am always concerned about him. Sometimes I get the feeling that he puts himself in dangerous situations on purpose, as if he wished... but that has nothing to do with you being here, (Y/N). I'm sorry if I made you feel that way, I just..."

He sighed and you looked on, nodding. "I get it. This is exactly how I feel, when you are gone."

Soft eyes landed on you again and when he reached for your hand this time, you took it and put your head on his shoulder. You stayed like this for a while, before he got up, pulling you with him and not hesitating for a second, before grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder. You squeaked, before reprimanding him for disturbing the peace of night which he did not take very seriously - possibly your giggles weren't very convincing.

He threw you on your bed and wished you a good night, apparently believing he could just go back to his seat on the window sill to keep staring at the moon. As if he would ever let you get away with something like that!

When he leaned down to kiss your forehead, you threw your arms around him and wrestled him down on the bed, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around him to give him no means to shake you off, before tickling him wherever you could reach.

At first he tried to stay all stoic - as he often did - hurrumping and twitching, but allowing no other reaction to escape him. When you managed to weasle your hand under his arm, though, he collapsed and for the first time since Athos had left for Spain you'd heard him let out real, deep, whole-hearted laughter that did both of you some good.

---------------------------

So now he was asleep and Athos was supposed to arrive at the garison soon.

You thought back to all the times, you had been in a similar situation, walking up and down in your apartment to pass the time until your brother would come home. And when he'd finally entered, all the times your brother had tried to remain standing upright when you had thrown yourself at him, almost suffocating him with your hugs.

You startled when a feather tickled behind your ear. Turning around in lightspeed, you were met with a very tired but relieved looking Athos, the feathered hat in his hand. He opened his arms as if to say: here I am.

A great joy took over you and you quickly threw your arms around his neck and buried your face at his shoulder, the smell of leather, alcohol and earth crawling into your nose. He cradled and weighed you gently, sweet as ever he was to you.

If you had to describe the way you felt about Athos, you would never say that he was like a brother to you - Aramis would grow terribly jealous. Aside from that, he simply didn't feel like a brother. Athos was more like a godfather. He was wise and calm and sometimes you felt like his apprentice, someone he could guide and influence a little in life.

He gently removed himself from your hug and put a hand on your shoulder, moving his chin in the direction of your brother. "How is he doing?"

You winced, putting on an unhappy expression. "He's barely been sleeping."

Athos huffed softly at that and put down his backpack. "I see. He's always been a little dramatic."

You watched with a smile as Athos approached the sleeping Aramis carefully. He crouched down next to him and looked at his half-hidden face, before looking back at you and nodding as if he understood better now what you'd meant with 'he's barely been sleeping'.

In order to wake him, Athos started squeezing one of his knees. It didn't take a full minute, before your brother startled awake and moved to hold onto Athos' hand with both of his. Athos raised one brow in greeting, while Aramis, judging by the way he was looking at Athos, was torn between amusement, relief and anger.

"Stop that." He said between gritted teeth.

"Hello to you, too." Athos replied with a calm smile on his lips.

"I'm serious."

"Sometimes a bit too much, even."

"Athos!"

Smiling to himself, Athos did remove his hand from Aramis' knee and, barely having stood up again, was met with a full on hug from his part. Aramis was clinging to him just the littlest bit, with his eyes closed and his nose buried at Athos' shoulder.

It always moved you to see your brother get emotional and a little vulnerable and Athos was no different from you. He held him close and weighed him just the way he had done with you. They didn't say a word and you had to swallow, trying to keep your cool as much as possible. After a while though, Athos lifted his brow again.

"If you are falling asleep on me, I will not hesitate to drop you."

"I'm not."

Athos sent you a meaningful look.

"Let's get you to bed, shall we?"

Aramis agreed slurredly and let go off his friend, only to almost stumble over the chair he'd been sitting on. You had to stifle a laugh. Athos shrugged. "I suppose, we need a hand here, (Y/N)."

Somehow you both managed to get one of Aramis' sleep-heavy arms over your shoulders and to drag him to your apartment and to tug him in, without dropping him more than once.

Proudly, you put your hands on your hips. "Finally, he will get some sleep again."

Athos looked at you in the half-dark room and remained silent before quietly saying: "I think Spain would have been hard on him without you."

You tried to meet Athos' gaze in the darkness, but he only squeezed your shoulder one last time, before turning to leave the room.

And Aramis was the dramatic one? You shook your head slightly, before pulling Aramis' blanket up some more and placing a kiss on his forehead.

When you went to bed, you started to ponder the ever same idea again. To prevent further painful seperations and sleepless nights, there was only one thing you had to do: become a musketeer.

[wokestone]

for the ask game: arisen #3, pawn #3, arisen and pawn #10 and #11, and world #4!

Question List

Arisen #3: Do they ever get their memory back; if they do, does that change how they interact with the narrative, and if they don’t how do they feel about that loss?

Answered here

Pawn #3: If they were infected with the Dragonsplague, are there any specific ways they would act differently?

Answered here

Arisen & Pawn #10: What is their preferred vocation and what drew them to it?

Rhea - Thief, but with the heart of a Warrior/barbarian. She is vicious and brutal, without the grace of a nimble thief. She feels like she has more control of her daggers, can be sneaky/crafty when she has to. And there's something a little more close and personal about a dagger. Beckett - Fighter. He's a simple man. A shield to protect his Arisen and follow her into the thick of the fight.

Arisen & Pawn #11: Are there any specific or unique items they carry with them?

Rhea - Despite being a former bandit, she did gain some preference for the finer things with Phaesus. She is fond of the scent of lilac, so she would probably bring scented lilac soaps or light perfume she probably just stole. The soft scent contrasts unexpectedly to her rough, abrasive edges. Beckett - Rhea challenged him enough to try and find interest in things outside of being her loyal pawn, so he got in the hobby of whittling. He carries around a lot of half-finished carvings and a whittling knife. His fingers have a lot of little nicks as a result.

World #4: Whether they’d still be together or separate - What kind of life would they be living if they were not Arisen and Pawn, but NPCs?

Rhea - If not Generic Bandit #232 that the Arisen slays, I imagine her working as surviving guard of Melve, and would follow Ulrika's questline moving until Harve. If she had a questline, i picture it starting with her being attacked at night by Battahli bandits. If you save her, she will tell you how her past has come back to haunt her by old colleagues that want revenge. And she will task you to kill her old bandit gang for dirt on Phaesus. Beckett - Life of a simple laborer; I think he would work as a lumberer. You could probably find him with a big piece of lumber resting on his shoulder as he works in Vernworth. If he had a questline, I picture him having idealistic dreams of wanting to be a guard to learn how to protect people. You could convince him to join the Vermund guard. A follow-up quest could have the two meeting, where Beckett is wanting to be stationed somewhere he can make a difference (Harve). And you, Rhea, and Beckett go on a slay quest to protect the town, which gives time for Rhea and Beckett to banter and become friends. :)

[umbracirrus]

WIP Whenever 💛

I was thinking that I would most likely have a WIP out on Sunday because I wasn't mentally in the place to do anything on Wednesday and I'm busy tomorrow... But I've been able to get something pulled together!

My beloved idiots Balgruuf and Elyse are finally talking after their argument! But don't worry, there's some ✨drama✨ too hehe :)

I said that I wasn't gonna post The Perfect Storm WIPs for a while but oops. My hand slipped.

Thanks for the tags @pitiable-arisen and @bostoniangirl21!!

-------

The cold air actually felt nice against Elyse's skin for once as she stepped through the doors onto the balcony, and found herself surprised when she realised that laid out before her was the entirety of the city of Whiterun, almost like a tapestry spread across the ground below. Her feet carried her forward towards the wooden railings, and snow crunched beneath her gloved fingers as she took hold of it and gazed below.

"This is one of the few quiet places in Dragonsreach where people will not disturb me… usually because I do not allow anyone out here," Balgruuf stated from where he remained by the doors. "It is peaceful."

Her eyes fell shut as she exhaled quietly. "I can see why…" She then lowered her head, and released her hold of the railing so that she could turn back to face him. "Balgruuf, I-" Her voice caught as she began to feel tears building up in the corners of her eyes, her hands shaking as she wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for causing all of this trouble-!"

"What? Elyse, why are you-?" She never noticed that he had closed the distance between them until he had taken hold of the top of her arms, his breathing shaking and voice almost wavering as he spoke. "No… No, none of this is your fault," he whispered, one of his hands moving to wipe away some of the tears falling down her face as she quietly wept. "I overstepped, that has been made abundantly clear to me whilst you were gone. You had every right to get angry at me. Please… don't cry, you did nothing wrong."

Slowly, she moved closer to him, and it didn't take long for her head to be resting against him as his arms wrapped around her. His heart ached for her – after what he had done, and her belief that she had to apologise when he knew that it was he who needed to do so… It would take more than words to compensate. He had hurt her badly. Perhaps things would never return to how they were… but perhaps it was an opportunity to learn from his own idiocy and rebuild their relationship – dare he say friendship? – stronger than before.

"I am the one who should be saying that they are sorry," he whispered, taking a deep breath and a step back. "I know that it will not change anything now, and is long overdue… but may I explain why I did what I did? I am in no way justifying what I did… but I want you to know that none of this – absolutely none – is your fault."

Wiping away some of the tears which were still slowly slipping down her face, she gave him a slight nod. "That… That's why I came here. I wanted to know… wanted to know why you paid off that fine. I left it be because I knew… because… Ulfric was the one who instigated it. He grabbed my arm! Was I not meant to fight back against somebody who tried to keep me as a prisoner?" Her tone of voice grew louder and more panicked as she spoke, before taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself down. "I was told that you likely only paid it off to help, but if I wanted to know for sure about why, I needed to talk to you… That it would give me peace of mind."

Balgruuf glanced back towards the doors leading out onto the balcony, and pursed his lips together. "I believe that you had best sit down for what I need to tell you then. We could return indoors, or I can bring some seats outside… it's your choice."

"… I wouldn't mind staying out for a while longer. Maybe if it gets any colder we can go indoors, but for now…"

He nodded at her response, then went over to the doors and quickly slipped inside. She remembered that there had been a long table surrounded by chairs just by the door, so it wouldn't take long for him to return. When he did though, she had to go to hold the door open for him as he pulled the two seats outside.

When they eventually sat down, the wind thankfully remaining little more than a gentle breeze, she couldn't help but notice the conflict across his face as he looked towards the floor with his arms folded over. But he soon began to speak. "In his usual correspondence with me, Ulfric began accusing Whiterun of harbouring a criminal, and he made it clear that he was talking about you," he stated, his fists starting to clench. "He made an ultimatum - pay off the fine, or Whiterun gets attacked."

Her blood ran cold – colder than the snow and ice and wind which surrounded them on that balcony. "B-But I'm not…"

"I know."

[raycatz]

I feel like I would like to know what is going on here for your ask game

"Is it a fish?" is a riddle game I learned at camp and I think it would drive Legend crazy. It's one of those riddles which relies on misdirection. The campers get really invested! Once a few discover the trick to it they'll start to direct the game themselves which is great fun to watch. I know a couple but throwing Legend off with fish seems the most fun. He'd get too caught up on the red herrings, as it were.

"It's a fish" is an examination of the constellations between the eras and how they change over time. It takes place after the "is it a fish?" interaction just to keep giving Legend a hard time.

--- Is it a fish? ---

Wind: If Hyrule is a fish, and you’re a fish, is Sky a fish?

Legend: Yes?

Wind: Nope, incorrect. Okay, pay attention, if the Wind Waker is a fish, and Four's boots are a fish, is the Tempered Sword a fish?

Legend: Yes.

Wind: Right.

Legend: WHY

Hyrule, coming up: I get it.

Wind: If Twi’s pelt is a fish, and War’s scarf is a fish, is my necklace a fish?

Legend: YES

Wind and Hyrule: Nope.

Legend: WHAT

Wind: You have to be paying attention, Vet.

Legend: I AM PAYING ATTENTION

Hyrule: Okay okay, c’mere. Pay attention. If the Sheikah Slate is a fish, and that bush is a fish, is your bracelet a fish?

Legend: No?

Hyrule, shaking his head: Wrong, it’s a fish.

Wind: It’s a fish.

Legend: I’m gonna fucking cry

//(They're all covered in fish 😔 the fish are everywhere) do you get it, though? Were you paying attention? hehe I think the chain would let this go on for as long as possible. Having the riddle written out helps give the trick away.

--- It's a fish ---

The chain are sharing star stories. Contention has arisen as to whether or not a constellation is the rupee constellation or the rupoor constellation. So far Time has stayed out of the argument but the boys are split 50-50.

Sky insists it’s the rupoor constellation and Four backs him because it’s attached to the tail of the rupee-like.

Wars thinks it’s the rupoor as well.

Legend says it’s the rupee but is otherwise uninterested and thinks everyone else is being daft.

Wind knows,, he knows that it’s the rupee constellation, the six points are for the sages and the seventh star in the middle is for the princess and he knows where they’re supposed to be this time of year the rupoor constellation isn’t visible WHY is no one LISTENING TO HIM???

Wild is like, well, haven’t you noticed the constellations have changed slightly between our eras? Some stars have died off and there are some new ones. What was the rupoor could be the rupee now. What if they’re the same. Anyways, Wild thinks it’s the rupee.

Wars: Time, we need to put an end to this. Which constellation do you think it is?

Time: It’s a fish.

Legend’s been trying not to show he’s too invested but this is too far. What does Time mean it’s a Fish???

Time: It’s a fish.

He will not elaborate.

Everyone, over time, is so confused that they concede. Maybe they were wrong? Maybe it was a fish all along.

//I really enjoy reading about this kind of world building in fics so I tried my hand at it and made it silly. I get to compact a bunch of familiar (dare I say beloved?) LU tropes and some game trivia into a discussion about stars as well! I think if I were to flesh it out that this would work well as a fic.