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once--upon-a-blog · 3 years ago

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Isn't it hilarious that E/riels claim misogyny at gwynriels and go on to say that the only reason we dislike Elain is because she likes to garden.

WHICH ISN'T EVEN THE CASE

I personally grew a little indifferent towards Elain because of some of her actions in book 1.

The moving her fingers away from Feyre as if scared the dust would get on her.

The crooning sympathies and going behind Nesta when Nesta was being mean to Feyre.

The sharp voice she used with Feyre after Feyre came home.

Her love for gardening has little TO NOTHING TO DO WITH MY INDIFFERNCE TOWARDS HER.

Do I greatly admire the line-

"I don't belong to anyone...but my heart belongs to you"

Hell yes.

Do I admire her for stabbing the king of Hybern?

HECK YEAH.

But do I LOVE her character?-

I don't know.

I do, however, think that she has great potential.

OH -

And believe it or not. SOME OF US REALLY LIKE ELAIN.

In conclusion- Just because someone doesn't ship her with Az doesn't mean they dislike her.

Almost every argument E/riel anons make ( I do NOT have it in me to go through EVERY SINGLE ONE. My poor hands just aren't made for excessive typing)

1) 'If az is so toxic for Elain why do you ship him with Gwyn?'

...*sigh*

Just go back to the book and re-read it.

BUT,

If you really want to be spoon fed

--We (or at least the most of us) much rather have gwynriel happen AFTER Az navigates through his issues

-- He doesn't treat Gwyn like a prize to be won

-- He didn't go behind Gwyn and say- she shouldn't take part in the blood rite because it's too dangerous

--His thought process isn't strictly limited to screwing around her

--He actually seems to know something about her

2) 'Making her glow like the sun at dawn as opposed to ' A thing of secret lovely beauty'

Making her glow...reference to outward beauty.

A thing of....IS NOT ONLY A REFERENCE TO HER OUTWARD BEAUTY.

They are not the same thing.

Just go by the necklace description if you really want to argue.

3) Gwyn can't be in a relationship with Az because of her trauma

*sigh* I-

4) Gwyn is faking her SA

Yeah, I'm not even gonna bother with this.

5) Gwyn is a LiGhTsInGEr

No, just no.

6) He umm...thoughts, revolve around needs

Too many wants and needs.

I don't know about y'all- but this came RIGHT after he thought of how he was gonna win the snowball fight AND his shadows asked him to sleep.

I saw the 'wants and needs' as wanting and needing the relationship his brothers had.

7) He said- Give it to any priestess

IT'S RIGHT THERE FOR YOU TO READ.

READ.

8) He doesn't even consider her a friend-

but...

THERE'S A BUT

9)The reaction that should've happened with Elain if he truly DID love elain

10) THEY HAD 4 BOOKS OF DEVELOPMENT-

And yet

BONUS

----A LOT of people seem to forgot that

THIS SCENE COMES AFTER THE SNOWBALL FIGHT.

So the shitty mood got better after the Elain interaction.

The elain* Az* Gwyn interaction scene took place BEFORE the snowball fight.

Gwyn being the reason Az's mood takes a sudden change (PART 1- BEFORE SNOWBALL FIGHT)

Moody Az-

Moody Az, who?

Gwyn being the reason his mood is cured (AGAIN, after snowball fight)

Moody, grumbling Az-

To consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face-

#WHY IS THIS SO LONG??#gwynriel #It's a lot to take in #pro gwynriel #Can you actually believe I wrote that #cheers to the remaining braincells for working together #I should be making more productive use of my time

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secret-engima · 5 years ago

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Taking a brief break from watching FFXIV to throw out some HCs for my new WoL!

All three of them.

Because I have no self control.

(forgive whatever massive leaps in lore or logic I make in this I only just started watching Realm Reborn and I will fully go AU if I have to to keep my sib trio. I also apologize for the accidental poaching of any canon character names or created character names, I picked these out of a name gen because they sounded pretty and I don’t know enough of FFXIV to identify canon characters at this point).

Anyway meet the Troublesome Trio, they are siblings. Imply otherwise and you will be hurt. No, it doesn’t matter to them that they are each a different species, they ARE SIBLINGS. XD Anyway they got their start when an Au Ra dad who’d just lost two kiddos stumbled across first a Viera bby and then a Miqo’te bby and took them home to raise with his remaining Au Ra daughter. They’re all probably around the same age, but since they have no way of knowing who the REAL oldest is, they count it by who was adopted first. So the Au Ra bby, being the blood-relation of their dad, is the “oldest”, the Viera is the “middle child” and the Miqo’te is the “youngest”. All three of them have Au Ra style names even though only one of them is a dragon person because they were named by their Au Ra dad.

Names and brief bios!!

-Starting with the Au Ra, she is Temulun Kahkol. She is a Xaela Au Ra. Very sweet natured. Cheerful. Passionate. Something of a secret Shipper at heart. Touch her siblings and Die In Fire :). Black hair, gold eyes that glow red. Medium dark skin. 5′2″ tall. Despite being the dragon from a tribe of warlike dragons, she has arguably the most Chill of the three siblings. Despite supposedly being the eldest and using that status as leverage against her sibs, they very much treat her like the youngest. It’s probably her personality.

-“Sometimes the only way to help yourself is to help others …. And sometimes it’s to punch someone in the face and summon Bahamut on them.” Quote from Temulun.

-Isn’t she a sweet heart? :)

-Someone made the eternal mistake of letting this girl become a Summoner. She is REALLY GOOD AT IT. Will happily use overkill at every opportunity. She is also a Dancer, to good luck trying to catch her.

...

-Moving on to the Viera, she is Cotota Kakhol. Blunt, practical, aggressive, almost No Chill.

-Look you try being a bunny girl raised in a tribe of dragons and see how much Chill you have left by the time you reach adulthood.

-Wavy black-blue hair, long black ears, red eyes, dark blue-ish black skin. 6′4″, which was not something expected by her adoptive Au Ra family. Few of her “cousins” quite knew what to do with the fact she could look them in the eye or even be taller than a few of them. Tends to act like the Oldest Sibling, probably because of her height advantage.

-Will murder you for a corn chip. But only if one of her siblings wants a corn chip. Otherwise she doesn’t care about you.

-Who let this woman be a White Mage. A White Mage needs more Chill than this. She is also a Monk. Which is ... arguably way more in character for her than White Mage and yet White Mage is her main so there you go.

-“Hi. I’m the White Mage, I’m here to kill you all.” Quote from Cotota, showing off her in depth understanding of what it means to be the party healer.

-Probably wants to punch Thancred in the mouth. Or kiss him. It depends.

...

-Finally we have the Miqo’te, Arasen Kahkol. Keeper of the Moon Miqo’te. Only boy of the group. Cheerful, snarky, impulse control what impulse control. Likes to play the happy-go-lucky fool but is actually the Cunning One of the group. He’d be way scarier if his impulse control wasn’t as broken as it is. Blue-black hair color/fur, Fuzzy Ears, long tail with a lion’s bushy tip on the end. One gold eye one green eye. 4′5″ of pure whoop ass. Touch his sisters without their permission and he won’t kill you on the spot, but he will gleefully sell tickets to your beatdown and then follow you down a dark alley to murder your soul.

-Look, LOOK. If you think this tiny cat bby didn’t survive being raised in a tribe of Fite Me hormonal dragon teenagers that all tower over him by a good 2 ft by learning to take them out at the knee caps, or that he isn’t Fully Ready to do the same to you by any means necessary then you have another think coming. Probably while eating dirt. And mourning the loss of your kneecaps.

-How this boy wields a Warrior class axe that’s bigger than him as well as he does is an eternal mystery, but he pulls it off. When Hitting Things With His Axe does not work, he will switch over the being a Black Mage and set everything on fire. His strategy has yet to fail.

-“Why wait for trouble when I can track it down, knock it out, and go through its pockets for Shiny Things?” - Quote from Arasen, displaying his sparkling sense of logic as per usual.

-Was adopted last and was the oldest when he was found by his Au Ra dad at 2 years old. Couldn’t remember his own name because he’d been living in an alley by himself for too long, so he got named Arasen.

...

Some combined HCs on the trio-

-ONE of these kiddos it the WoL. Everyone is sure of that. The question of the century is WHICH ONE. No one knows, the Trio isn’t telling.

-Honestly they seem to have the marvelous ability to pass the title of WoL and all the trouble that comes with it around like a glorified Hot Potato. This ability is a moot point because they always jump in feet first TOGETHER on anything troublesome so really all three of them might as well be a WoL at this point.

-Most people after getting to know them pray that Temulun is the WoL because Cotota is Terrifying and Arasen is a Problem. Temulun, they believe, is the one calm, reasonable one.

-This is a lie. She is the instigator, because unlike the other two she is ready to help out anyone for almost any reason.

-They would like you to believe that Temulun is the Braincell of the group.

-This is also a lie.

-The Braincell is Arasen. He just has no Impulse Control. The Impulse Control is actually Cotota, but she can’t be bothered half the time because denying Arasen is denying their Instigator, Temulun, and that means dealing with the Pouty Face and frankly nothing is worth the Pouty Face.

-Facing the Immortal Forces of Darkness? Better than the Pouty Face. Smackdown with the Primals themselves? As long as it will keeps the Pouty Face from making an appearance? Kissing Thancred? Sure- wait no, Temulun keep your shipping impulses under control we met him five minutes ago.

-Their Au Ra dad is Temuge btw. He is very proud of his kiddos.

#Secret Engima Rambles #SE OCs #ffxiv #warrior of light #Stars Fall (Tides Burn) verse #Cotota (OC)#Arasen (OC)#Temulun (OC)

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doomsteady · 8 years ago

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Look Again - ch2

WIP! bi!John/ace!Sherlock, Friends to Lovers. Explicit. Will be posted on AO3 when it’s done.

Ch 2

It was thanks to Sherlock’s encyclopedic knowledge of London that their pursuers quickly lost sight of them through the labyrinth of back-alleys and side streets. With one last check to make sure they weren’t still being followed, they slowed to a brisk stroll as they headed back in the direction of Baker Street.

It was late now. The streets were dark, empty save for the occasional drunkard wobbling his way home from a pub crawl. Still struggling to catch their breaths, John and Sherlock shared one glance before they broke into exhausted laughter, high on the thrill of the chase.

“I can’t believe they didn’t notice us double back on them,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. His earlier embarrassment had cooled to a low simmer in his gut, displaced as it was by the much more urgent matter of their escape.

“Idiots,” Sherlock agreed, a smug grin on his face as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “They really thought they had us. You’d think the criminal classes would have learnt to stop underestimating us by now, no?”

John huffed a laugh at his feet. “I think that’s giving them a little too much credit. And it’s you they’re underestimating. I’d say their estimation of me is pretty on-point.”

Sherlock stared ahead as they walked, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He looked every bit as perfectly Sherlock Holmes as he ever did, the unflappable git. For all that he’d been shoved into a cramped car boot and then spent the past ten minutes fleeing a gang of armed thugs through the streets, Sherlock seemed to have some magical ability to remain almost entirely unruffled. His clothes had straightened themselves, and his hair looked tousled, but no moreso than it did that morning when he’d purposefully styled it that way. Nor did he seem at all phased by what had happened between them in the boot.

But John was having far greater difficulty letting it go. The night air was cooling his sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps as he zipped up his denim jacket to ward off the chill. With his pulse calming back into something resembling its normal rhythm, he was just now noticing how badly he needed a shower. He felt like a mess, and not just in terms of the one he’d created in his pants.

He was already sensing the change in his mind, even as he tried desperately to deny it. Before today, he’d always been able to compartmentalise his feelings for Sherlock. The man was his best friend. Platonic or not, this was the most important relationship in his life. They had killed for each other, and both knew the other was willing to die for them, and none of it hinged on some vague hope or the promises of a deeper, more intimate connection waiting somewhere on the distant horizon. They didn’t need it; they were already soulmates.

There had been a time, right back in the beginning, when John had dared to have those hopes. Perhaps because at that time, he had no idea how important Sherlock would become to him. Sherlock was his closest and most treasured friend, too important to lose, and now it was unthinkable that he would risk what they had in the pursuit of something more.

Fantasies be damned: Real life wasn’t always perfect, but it was at least real. There was no point in pining after the unattainable.

John had never been a selfish man; he was grateful for whatever life deemed fit to gift his way. And anyway, Sherlock managed to be an endlessly fascinating friend. He was everything John could ever ask for in a companion that would, in all likelihood, be with him for life anyway. John found he could live with that quite easily, in the end— just being near to him, caught in the orbit of his celestial gravity. Always up close. Always from afar.

Even though he never really did stop finding Sherlock attractive in that way, he kept such thoughts under careful guard, ever considerate of his friend’s feelings. Never once did he let them dictate their interactions, no matter how enticing those ideas had occasionally been. That’s how it always was, and how it always was meant to be.

But now, he was struggling to remember how that had ever been possible. Glancing up at Sherlock’s moon-struck profile, his heart twisted beneath his ribs; the man was beautiful. A figure cut from marble, all sharp angles and long, smooth surfaces. John looked at him now and saw him in all the ways that screamed this is not how people look at their platonic friends, and he could no longer help it. One sultry glance from Sherlock right then would have brought John fully hard again in seconds.

That tamped down flame of desire burned brighter than ever now, and it troubled him. They walked together in silence, John’s mind turning over and over with increasingly dire conclusions about his rekindled attraction, and it wasn’t until Sherlock stopped short and caught John’s arm that his focus snapped back to the present.

“John. Stop.” John turned to look at him, and that was a mistake. Sherlock’s uncharacteristically open expression told John everything he didn’t want to know about the conversation they were about to have.

“Leave it. It’s fine,” John said, looking away. “Let’s just go home. Alright?”

Sherlock pressed his lips thin, a crease deepening between his brows. “You’re worrying about what happened. In the boot.” It wasn’t a question, but John shook his head anyway. “You think I’ll think differently of you. Judge you badly for it? I can assure you, John, that there is absolutely nothing to be—”

“That’s not.” John stepped away from him, turned his face away. He couldn’t do this right now. “That’s not what… I’m just. It was embarrassing. Okay? That’s all. I don’t want to talk about it. Please can we not talk about it?”

John could feel those piercing eyes boring into his back, and it only agitated him further. The last thing he wanted in that vulnerable moment was to be flayed open by Sherlock’s merciless observations. But after a moment, he heard Sherlock release a quiet breath.

“Alright,” he said, as if soothing a frightened colt, “Alright. I won’t mention it again.”

He resumed along their path, allowing John to fall into step beside him, grateful for the opportunity to regroup himself. The next time Sherlock spoke, he sounded almost genuinely spirited. “Shall we pick up some chips on the way home? That little place down Audley should still be open this time of night, I think.”

The automatic ‘no thanks’ was on the tip of his tongue, but John swallowed it, his throat suddenly tight. He knew Sherlock was just trying to cheer him up. An offer of chips should not be so endearing, but the idea of Sherlock willingly dropping a loose thread and attending to John’s needs spoke volumes about how much the man cared for him. His curiosity over the subject hadn’t abated, John knew, but he was making an effort to move them past it. That, at least, deserved some sort of a reward.

He forced a nod and a smile. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go get chips.”

Sherlock watched as John speared a chip with his plastic fork and blew a cooling stream of air onto the steaming morsel. Gripping it cautiously between his teeth before drawing it back onto his tongue, John’s stormcloud expression brightened minutely at the burst of flavour. It was a gratifying sign. Sherlock’s stomach did a little flip at the improvement.

For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had never concerned himself with trying to appease the people who attempted to call themselves his ‘friends’. Most, he observed, hung around him only for the simple convenience his deductive abilities provided. It certainly wasn’t for his charming personality.

In university, his classmates made sure to include him only up to a point where they could copy his notes and borrow his brain for their assignments. He was more human calculator than social equal, but he allowed it, because as shallow and self-serving as it was, some sad part of him had always thrived on the praise of others. Even now, the Yarders kept on tenuously amiable terms with him, only because they had too many murders to solve and not enough braincells between them to accomplish it.

John was different.

It was hard to pin down the reason John accepted him so readily, but it was nothing like the kind of selfishness others so frequently used him for. John hadn’t anything he would consider ‘valuable’ to gain by staying by Sherlock’s side— on the contrary, sometimes merely the fact of their acquaintance put John in considerable danger.

On the surface, John was an unremarkable man. In the months before meeting Sherlock, his life had been following the time-old script of the soldier returned home from war, injured and struggling to rediscover his place in common society. Had it not been for his limp, it would have been so easy to overlook him, to dismiss him off-hand as not worthy of a second glance.

But, that limp told a different story, a story spoken only in the subtext of his age-worn features. Psychosomatic. A traumatic injury, something laden with guilt. A friend had died, perhaps while John was still working to staunch the flow of blood, to keep him conscious just a few minutes more until help could arrive.

His friend had died. John had blamed himself for it, and Sherlock could tell, just by the look in his eyes, that he would have given anything to take his place on the sand.

When Sherlock looked again, he saw not just a lonely, suicidal Army medic with a shoulder injury and a deathwish, but a man brimming with untold secrets and endless, fascinating potential. John Watson was a man whose outward appearances belied a secret myriad of inner qualities.

What was it, then, that drew them together so inexorably?

From the first day they had met, Sherlock had dedicated a not-insubstantial corner of his Mind Palace to the collection and aggregation of every bit of data he could glean about his new friend John. From the exact fabric composition of his fluffy jumpers, to how often brand new crow’s feet would etch themselves into the lines of his eyes— it seemed the subject of John could never bore him, and more often than not, the man regularly found new ways to surprise him.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself grasping for excuses to keep someone in his life, rather than push them away. Luckily for him, it had taken very little persuasion to have John pack up his meagre belongings, leave his dour little bedsit and move into Baker Street with him.

Nowadays, Sherlock couldn’t picture him living anywhere else.

That same man sat across from him now in the tiny chip shop, staring thoughtfully into his plate of chips as he chewed. Inside his brain, Sherlock knew, troublesome thoughts were swirling, grating, distracting him. He knew it was something about what happened in the boot of that car. But it couldn’t be such a simple thing as embarrassment, could it? That simply didn’t make any sense.

John was a soldier. He was also a doctor. He’d been to war, had men die in his arms. He was not a squeamish man. Natural bodily functions didn’t phase him, not usually. Not in the time Sherlock had known him, and he had shown John a great many mutilated corpses during their time together.

So then why was this bothering him? His body had responded as any normal human male would. Surely John knew that, so why was he suddenly behaving as if he’d crossed some uncrossable line, or revealed too much about himself?

Was there any truth in those observations? It was merely intuition, but Sherlock found himself at a loss, bereft of further data to expand upon any theory that presented itself. His friend, always such an open book to him, had suddenly closed himself off, as if Sherlock’s gaze could accidentally spark at some brittle part of him and set his entire, fragile inner world ablaze.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach over and open his skull, peer inside and discover the cause of his uncharacteristic quiescence. But whatever it was, John didn’t want to discuss it. He’d said it, to Sherlock’s annoyance, in no uncertain terms.

It was tempting to ignore his wishes, to pick and pry at it, pull at the thread until the whole problem unravelled. Sherlock could get to the bottom of it, he knew. He could help, somehow. There would be something he could do, something he could say to make the whole thing go away. But John would probably appreciate that even less.

So he simply watched.

John lifted another chip to his mouth, his eyes flicking up to catch Sherlock’s across the table. Paused. Looked away, lowering his fork again. Shifted in his seat.

A moment later, Sherlock’s patience was rewarded.

“I’m about done with these. Sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“’Kay.” He cleared his throat. Stalling for time, or perhaps searching for the right words? “Sex always gives me an appetite.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to fidget, caught out by the unexpected admission. John seemed to hear the echo of his own words a moment later. His head flew up, eyes wide as he fumbled to correct himself. “Not that— That wasn’t— I just mean—”

“For God’s sakes, John. I knew what you meant.” Sherlock fought a losing battle against the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. John could be so adorable at times. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t,” John said, pushing his plate away.

It was nearing midnight when they exited the chip shop. The night chill had properly set in. Fortunately, home was just a few minutes walk from here. “I ‘spose it just seems… unfair,” John continued, apropos of nothing.

“What does?”

“That I ended up in that state, while you… I mean. You didn’t even.”

He waited. A minute later, it seemed John had given up his train of thought. Sherlock couldn’t bear to leave it. “Didn’t even what?”

“You didn’t even get hard!”

John’s voice rang out loud in the street. On the opposite pavement, a lone passer-by glanced their way, giving them an odd look. Sherlock glared at her until she had passed.

Frustrated and upset by his own outburst, John’s pace picked up considerably. Sherlock, with his long legs, easily kept pace with him. Now that John was opening up a little, he was not about to let this go easily. “That’s what’s bothering you?” he asked, not trying to hide the bewilderment in his voice. “That I didn’t get an erection?”

“No!” John cried. “No, just… Alright, yes. Yes. But not for the reason you’re probably thinking.”

“I can’t think of any reason.”

John huffed a tired, defeated laugh. They were at their front door. He fished the keys out of his jacket pocket, making quick work of the lock. Sherlock quietly followed him inside.

John shucked his jacket in the hallway as Sherlock hovered, enrapt by the unfolding drama, at his elbow. Could he really be blamed? He got excited at the sight of corpses, and this, whatever it was, was no more pleasant but equally as fascinating to him. It was something new about John, something unexpected, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to understand it inside and out.

Upstairs, stepping into their flat, John was still quiet. Sherlock decided to try prompting him.

“You realise there’s a height difference between us,” he said, matter-of-factly. “There was little friction being applied on my end of the equation. And even if there were, you weren’t in the correct position to feel any evidence of it.”

John settled on the couch and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “Yeah. Of course, that makes sense.”

Quiet again. Sherlock pursed his lips. In for a penny…

“Not that there would have been such evidence, either way.”

A flicker of confusion crossed John’s face. He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eye. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed once. Twice. Sherlock could see multiple conclusions being drawn and discarded behind his eyes from the simple statement. Eventually he said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock lifted one laconic shoulder and dropped into his leather chair by the hearth. It seemed the only way he would be able to tease out John’s secrets would be by revealing some of his own. It was a fair trade, he supposed, for a topic so personal.

“It means that I don’t feel things that way,” he said. “It would take a lot more than a few minutes of frotting, if it ever happened. Mostly, I just find that sort of contact… uncomfortable.”

He wasn’t prepared for the creeping horror that spread across John’s face as the words sank in.

Oh, he thought, a cold panic rising up his spine like a wave of frost. Was that… Not Good?

#sherlock #asexual #bisexual #friends to lovers #fanfic #ao3 #look again #johnlock #doom's projects

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