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assortedseaglass · 11 months

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Steadfast & Forever

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

Thank you, Ilysm 💜

@arcielee

Osferth x Unnamed OFC

Warnings: Language, religion, adult themes

Word Count: 6.2K

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

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

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

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

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

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

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

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

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

“Lady Æthelflæd. Is she alright?”

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

“Osferth.”

“Osferth..?”

“Just Osferth. She will know.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Osferth,”

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

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

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

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

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

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

Her mistress’ last admission shocked her into the present.

“The monk?”

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

“A warrior monk,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, Sir. I did call,”

“I’m not a ‘Sir’, I am-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As long as Lord Uhtred pleases,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She took his hand in hers and faced him directly.

“You are Osferth.”

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

“Will you pray with me, my lady?”

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

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

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

“My mother.”

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

“I shall try, my Lady.”

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

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

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

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

“Psalm sixty-three.”

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

“I must away, my lady.”

“Yes, you must,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call him that,”

“It’s the truth,”

“I don’t care.”

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

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

“Careful, lady. That is treason-”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you scurrying off to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have been crying?”

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

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

The lady sighed. “He told you?”

“Only that-”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll kill Finan,”

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

“Or ‘fearsome’,” she added.

“Yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll see you tomorrow,”

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

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

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

#ewan mitchell #osferth #osferth x reader #osferth x oc #the last kingdom

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greenbeeeen · 1 year

Text

Sitting Still pt 1 (Konig x reader)

Thursday Thots...

Ok, but if Konig can’t sit still......😏🥵

Konig x reader (Did my best to keep the P.O.V. as gender neutral as possible so everyone can enjoy)

also, I’ve never posted this kind of thing before, so Idk how to do warnings very well. I’m blushing so bad typing these. and laughing my head off. but here we go...

Warnings: 18+, established relationship, implied unprotected sex, cockwarming, (kind words and fluffy, loving relationship goals, strong but gentle, because that’s all I want in life, dammit!)

Sitting Still pt 2 here

“Come on, Konig.” I pleaded, between halted breaths. “We both know neither of us can keep this up for long.”

“No, I said I wanted to try.” He grunted, but his hips thrusted, betraying him. My patience was already thin, but whether he’d give out first, or I would, was in question.

This was new for both of us. Less than ten minutes prior, he’d been working at his desk, and I’d decided to join just to snuggle into him. He’d had other plans, and now he was buried inside me to the hilt, both of us struggling to remain still. He still had reports to file, he’d insisted; but even though I couldn’t see the screen to my back, I knew nothing had changed and that he was simply staring blankly at it. All focus gone.

My arms, wrapped around his torso, loosened and made their way to snake around his neck, pulling his head down to mine. He slumped closer, and his own arms finally wrapped around my body, all work forgotten as I began kissing down his neck and shoulder.

The adjustment of his posture made me tense, jolting my body against his, and causing his breath to hitch. He let out a grunt and mumbled, “I can’t take much more.” A warning. We’d have to take this elsewhere. The bedroom was all the way down the hall. I nodded into his neck and wrapped my legs around his waist as he stood.

Barely two strides from the desk, however, Konig’s hips hitched. After having sat still, the sensation of sudden movement was too much, and his knees gave in, sending us both towards the floor.

“Verdamnt!” He gasped, bracing the fall with one hand, but soon collapsing to his elbows and doing his best to still his movements again.

He might have still tried making it to the bed, but I knew we’d never make it. Air hissed through his gritted teeth when I squeezed my legs tighter around him and shoved myself farther onto him, my own will power crumbling.

His reaction, a single instinctive thrust, was overwhelmingly sudden and caught even him off guard. Just that one movement, and he came completely undone, calling out, but not fully forming words. His fists balled up on either side of my head, and forehead drooping to touch mine.

And he didn’t stop. As soon as the first wave passed, he immediately began chasing the second. Spurred on by the adrenaline and desire to grant me my own release.

It didn’t take long for us to find. As my hands pulled his face closer to kiss, he pulled nearly all the way out, before crashing back, both of us coming undone, and hugging each other close as we rode out the waves of pleasure.

“Oh Gott.” he grunted with one final thrush, before his hips finally came to a halt. “I’m so sorry, Leibling.” He huffed, as he dropped nearly his entire weight onto my own body.

“Don’t be.” I panted, trying to process everything that had just happened. My brain was still fuzzy, but I figured he was referring to us not making it to our destination. “No carpet, it’s fine.”

There was a pause, as we caught our breaths, then he chuckled. “Yeah, no carpet is good.” He agreed.

As we lay there wrapped in each other and trying to regain control, I realized, that although we’d both just had the breath knocked out of us, I’d failed to notice that he had remained inside me and did not seem like he was done. In fact, he felt quite like he might last the rest of the evening.

I rolled my hips, and he lifted his head to meet my mischievous gaze. “Maybe sitting still for a bit was a good idea,” I said.

He grinned back, slyly and scooped me up as he began making his way to the bedroom, this time, intent on finding a more comfortable location. “Ready for another round?” He chuckled.

#konig x reader #könig x reader #cod konig x reader #konig mw2 #mw2 könig #konig smut

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slippinninque · 29 days

Text

✨📱Kiss me Through the Phone 📱✨

Fontaine x black!fem!reader

Warnings/content: fluff, cursing, mentions of smoking/weed, long fic. Black!Fem!Reader, ramblings

He treated his phone like the tool it was. There were few apps for entertainment, and the necessary apps to stay updated on what was going on in his streets.

Fontaine was never one for taking pictures until he met you. Now he has a nice collections of you on his phone.

Particularly, there is a folder of photos in his phone dedicated to your stuffed face. You turned full hamster when you were hungry and he thought it was adorable. This is top secret.

You have a folder of photos in your phone dedicated to catching him sleeping during movies. From cozy shots of him latched on to you like a giant octopus to the bent neck, open mouthed snooze. What started off as a cache of evidence became an absolute delight. This was also top secret.

Fontaine didn't save many numbers. Due to his business, the less information he made available the better. You swore his memory was his super power.

The first picture you ever sent Fontaine he'd swore he would get framed. It was purposely unflattering with an expression he didn't think your pretty face could make. It was sent to him by mistake but made him nearly choke on his '40 and he knew then he needed more of you.

------

A little bit of sun was all the Glen needed for it's parks to come alive with get-togethers and hang-outs. That was the whole reason you and your girls were out in the first place, looking to get some warmth before the heat vanished again,

You were sitting close to each other sharing whispers and smoke. It was a lovely day though the breeze was relentless. Fontaine was already unzipping his jacket when you shivered for the umpteenth time.

The sight of him was poetic. Leaning up a bit just to whip his jacket over your shoulder, the sun taking it's place immediately with delicacy. Fontaine's face was soft at least enough for his golds to glimmer between full lips.

He was gilded in the setting sun as he stepped a bit closer to zip you properly into the jacket. You felt like you were staring, but you couldn't look away.

"There we go," he grinned at you as he passed the blunt to you and resetting your brain, "Wear it better than me."

"Better stop before this hoodie come up missing." You took a puff and laughed a bit,

"Y'know how clothes just be adventuring off on their own..."

"Is that so? You wanna takin' down my number so you can let a nigga know if his thermals come knocking at your door?"

"Your-your weed is good, so I suppose I'll be neighborly."

He laughed and you couldn't even feel the full thrush of embarrassment at your fumbling. You could only shake your head at yourself as you handed over your phone.

Fontaine typed in his number and you traded the blunt for your phone. He didn't save it at first and you added him to your contacts with the quickness.

Just as you always did, first thing that came to mind--

Sunglow.

Quickly after that you keep you eyes to your keyboard as you sent Fontaine a wave with a smiley face.

-------

You jerked awake, hearing hard knocking and loud voices seeping in through your cracked window.

Heart pounding as you stared up at the ceiling, you scrambled for your phone to see it was well past midnight. The TV was still going from when you fell asleep on the couch, but it wasn't enough to drown out the slurring call of your name.

Clutching your throw blanket, you swallowed as much of your panic as possible. It was your neighbor, drunk again and "confused" despite it being the third time this month.

As much as you tried to be understanding, it made you more than uncomfortable. The man was all grins and half-apologetic in the daytime, insisting that their front doors were nearly twins despite there being 3 houses between them. His roommates thought it was funny and made a few comments about how you even resembled his ex.

He even asked what the issue was with letting him linger until he sobers up enough to go home.

The next knocks were thunderous and got you out of bed. You weren't keen on opening the door or even speaking to him, it would only make it worse...

Tearing up as you heard the stumbling and nonsense filter through your door, you chewed your lip as you slowly typed out a text.

[Are you up?]

You winced. It sounded so dirty to you at the moment but you were scared and tired--

The sound of your ringer startled you enough to answer.

"Um, hi, sorry." You crept to your room in the dark, afraid to turn on the lights, "Did-Did I wake you?"

Fontaine made a soft noise, "Ain't doin' shit but runnin' to the store. What's got you up so late?"

You struggled for words for a moment but hissed when the banging came again. This time it sounded like he was hitting the front room's window.

"What the fuck is that?"

Fontaine's tone broke you, a sob stuttering out as you told him everything. You curled up and tried to make sense but a headache was beginning to grow.

"I'm comin', sweet heart, I'm on my way." Fontaine's voice was soothing in his promise, "Stay on the phone with me."

"Okay, 'm so sorry."

"Don't be. Just keep listening to me, you hear me? 'M on my way."

Fontaine's voice flowing through that little speaker was your life raft. You did as you were told, listening to the sound of him getting into his car and driving.

Your neighbor went quiet and it knowing where he was was worse. Imagining him stalking around the perimeter of your home, looking for things to "accidentally" break, ways into your home, would he do something to your car? In the dark feeling small, you quietly hoped that there were no red lights to keep Fontaine long.

The call ended and before your panic to dwell to hysteria, there was commotion from outside your house.

There was hollering and another terrible clattering noise. Running back into the living room, you peeked through the blinds with shaky hands.

Fontaine had your neighbor on the ground, bent up and yelping next to your overturned trash can. You could only see the back of him as he wrangled your neighbor.

You felt rooted to the spot, watching from somewhere else as you watched the terror that's been stealing your peace get the ragdoll treatment. Fontaine tossed him here and there, his voice furious and low.

Fontaine hauled your neighbor up enough to walk him down the street and out of sight. Still shaking, you took a seat on the couch and tried to pull yourself together.

You aren't sure how long you say there with anxiety eating away at your stomach. When your phone rang again, you hurried to answer.

"Hello, hi..."

"C'mon to the door, it's okay now."

You peeled yourself off the couch and went to the door, flinging it open but still unable to look him in the face. He was wearing only sweats and a grey long sleeved shirt. Quietly letting him in, you couldn't stop the tears when they returned.

Fontaine told you that he made absolutely sure that your neighbor knew what his porch looked like. You could only imagine what he meant by that.

"Don't cry anymore, you're okay now," Fontaine came near you, hand hovering your shoulders in a mimic of touch. You leaned forward until you could feel the softness of his shirt.

"You did good, I'm glad you let me know. Promise he ain't gonna bother you anymore, trust thayt."

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you asked if he would mind staying until morning. Fontaine cupped your face and ran his thumbs along your stinging cheeks.

"Of course."

He went toward the couch but you pulled lightly, leading him to your bedroom. Fontaine was quiet and you still sniffled as you crawled into bed. You only had to look at him and Fontaine hurried to follow.

Cuddled close and worn out, your nerves cooled enough for exhaustion to wander in.

"You can always call me. Just know that, yeah? If you're scared....call me. Don't matter what it is, I'm gonna be there."

Grateful, you could only nod again. Fontaine's hand splayed along your back and to the sound of his steady heartbeat, sleep finally came back for you.

------

"It's probably somewhere in the car," you said to Fontaine as you searched your bag, "I think I left my lip chap anyway."

Fontaine paused in searching himself and pockets to give you a grateful nod.

" 'Preciate you."

You tossed a wink over your shoulder, turning to jog the short distance between the porch and Fontaine's car. He stayed behind, sorting the grocery bags more comfortably to key into the house.

The car was still unlocked and you whipped out your cell, dialing Fontaine's phone to hone in on its hiding spot.

I'll be your groupie, baby (oh whoa)

'Cause you are my superstar (ha, superstar, yeah)

No way. You nearly knocked your head trying to look beneath the driver's seat. Legs nearly hanging out the car as you laid as flat as you could. You were cheek to seat as you scrabbled beneath the seat, the song playing on.

I'm your number one fan, give me your autograph

Sign it right here on my heart (I'll be)

Pushing aside some loose change and grabbing Fontaine's phone, you went to decline your call when your eyes caught on the screen.

My Baby

The big softie, giving you butterflies and he isn't even near you. Wriggling and utterly smitten, you couldn't believe how much you liked this man.

Fontaine gave you such shit for having a crush, but then he goes and lets his homies hear your favorite song every time you call.

Grabbing carmex from the cupholder you could finally wriggle out of the car. Closing the door, you turned and saw Fontaine had been holding the door waiting for you the entire time.

----------

Fontaine texted and you sighed, wishing that you could see him in person. Sometimes the phone just wasn't enough.

Your phone vibrated again, the notification sound pinging through the earbud in your ear. Music definitely made the time spent pouring over technical details a bit more managable.

Fontaine's texts were little nuggets of gold you hoarded through the shift. An aimless sort of conversation that didn't make you feel pressured to answer so soon.

He sent you a picture of a stay cat you looked out for, hunched over what looked to be a half of sub sandwich. You sent him a picture of a goose sitting in one of the managerial parking spots at with all the attitude of a Cadillac.

Only you and a few other ladies jumped at the chance for a short shift the following day, but of course it mean sudden overtime. You glowered at the dwindling piles straight tab files and binders.

There were still records to edit and submit. Then a well deserved long-weekend after to look forward to.

Your phone vibrated in your lap, the only safe place for it since your desk turned into a disaster of binders, white-out, and sticky notes.

Sunglow: [come out side]

[I'm not at home remember?]

Sunglow: [never said you were]

You frowned at your phone. What the hell was he talking about?

You jumped when you heard the blare of a horn. It echoed in the empied parking lot and you were sure you aren't the only one who was leaving their desk to check.

Your cubicle had one of the best views of the parking lot and a few streets over, you put your face to the glass at the same time another horn sounded.

In all his glory, Fontaine leaned up against this car with his phone visibly in hand and the other tucked inside to rest on the steering wheel.

Surprised and fumbling back to your cubicle, you managed to dial Fontaine before he tried summoning you again.

"Romeo, Romeo, stop bein' so disruptive!" You hissed into your phone,"Stop honkin' that horn, you're going to wake up the guard!"

"I know you better bring yo' tail down that tower and give me what I came here fo', Juliet."

With only a sheepish grin to offer "mhmmm" and "okay, then, girl" looks you got, you hurried down the stairs while Fontaine grumbled about the integrity of your building's security through your ear.

Smoothing out your cardigan as you exited the building, you were wishing that you wore something a bit more flattering when Fontaine was already meeting you at the double doors.

You went when your hand was pulled and you were hugged by Fontaine as he rested up against the brick wall of your office. It was a little hiding spot that was mainly used by the night shift.

It was the perfect spot to hide away from supervisors and sudden rains.

"You got somethin' for making yo' man wait for so long?" Fontaine asked, keeping a hand at your waist while the other one steadied you by the chin. You chuckled before looking up at him and pursing your lips.

"Mhmm, don't mind if I do..." Fontaine purred and pressed his silky lips against yours.

Sweet and slow. Fontaine took hold of your hands, left them to massage your shoulders, used on hand to settle at the dip of your waist.

"I can't stay down here for too long," you breathed after parting, "Very tempting to hop into that passenger seat, though."

"Give the word, I'll peel out this bitch."

"Oh, I know you will," you laughed and kissed his cheek before pressing yours to his, " 'M happy you came to surprise me. I think I can make it to the end now."

"I aim to please."

The wind blew a bit tougher and you burrowed into him as best you could. He rested his chin on the top of your head, hands locking at the small of your back.

It felt like being set out in the sun to dry. A nice, long stretch after an afternoon nap. Just...good.

"How much longer do you have?" He asked voice quiet. You probably had another five or so minutes.

Shifting around so your phone could be brought up between you, "About this long."

Hitting play, you both listened to Ms. Hill remind you how nothing mattered more than where you wanted to be most.

-----

ending notes: this felt kinda long lol! thank you soo much for reading! I appreciate every pair of eyes that lands on my writing, it means so much to me! 🥹

taglist✨: @megamindsecretlair @thadelightfulone @mag1calenchantr3ss @cocoeffects @wide-nose-and-wonderful @8ttached @thadelightfulone @hobiesmain @thickeeparker @longpause-awkwardsmile @ms-angiealsina @educatorsareslutstoo @mysterychick93@mcondance@sageispunk@kindofaintrovert@hunnishive@notapradagurl7@blowmymbackout@educatorsareslutstoo@blackerthings@miyuhpapayuh@westside-rot

#Fontaine x black reader #fontaine x blackfemreader #fontaine x black!fem!reader #Fontaine x Black Reader #Fontaine x Black!Fem!Reader #They Cloned Tyrone Fic #they cloned tyrone fic

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fallenclan · 5 months

Note

"Okay, so I'm Bluefire and you can be my apprentice, Newtpaw. We're training to prepare for-"

"Apprentice? No. I want to be a warrior."

"Then what's your warrior name?"

"Newtscratch."

"Okay, Newtscratch. . . " Bluekit crouched, wriggling her haunches. "Then I'm an enemy warrior coming to attack you! Raaaah!"

Newtkit rolled out of the way just in time as Bluekit lunged for her, resulting in Bluekit pouncing face-first into the ground with a tiny oof! Newtkit snickered, swiping at Bluekit's tail. "Some warrior you are. Maybe you should be the apprentice."

Without warning, Bluekit sprang to her paws, slamming her head into Newtkit's chest and knocking her off balance. Before Newtkit could so much as open her mouth, Bluekit had pinned her to the ground. "Admit that I'm the better warrior, Newtscratch!"

"Never!" Newtkit squeaked indignantly. She swatted at Bluekit's face, jabbing her hind legs into Bluekit's belly at the same time.

"Ow!" Bluekit scrambled off of Newtkit, wincing. Newtkit stuck out her tongue, which only caused Bluekit to start giggling.

"Bluekit!" Rabbitkit, who had been haring around the camp with the other kits up until this point, scrambled to a halt in front of his littermate. "Can I play with you and Newtkit? Molekit's being mean to me again."

"No," Newtkit sniffed. "I only want to play with Bluekit."

"Bluefire," Bluekit corrected helpfully.

Rabbitkit turned a pleading gaze towards Bluekit. "Please?"

"I don't see why not. Playing warriors is more fun with three cats than two, anyway." Bluekit could have sworn she noticed a brief flash of hurt in Newtkit's gaze, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"Fine. Whatever."

"Don't be mad, Newtkit," Bluekit whispered. "You're still my best friend."

"Forever?"

"Forever."

...

Bluepaw padded into the medicine den and was immediately greeted with the soft smell of lilac. Silverbelly had taken to decorating the den with it in an attempt to block out the more unsavory herb scents, such as garlic.

"Bluepaw." Newtpaw's head immediately turned towards the other apprentice, ears perking. She had to fight to keep a smile off her muzzle.

"Hey, Newtpaw. I brought you a thrush. Caught it myself!" Bluepaw flopped down beside Newtpaw with a dull thump, shamelessly pressing her pelt against Newtpaw's in a way that made Newtpaw's heart flutter.

"Thanks." Newtpaw inspected the thrush instead of dissecting her feelings, picking feathers off its wings.

"Your wound has almost healed, right?"

"Yeah. Silverbelly says it'll probably scar, though."

"Cool!"

"I guess." Newtpaw took a bite from her thrush, chewing slowly.

"My ma says you were doing really well with your training. Your warrior ceremony will probably only be delayed one moon."

"One moon feels like an eternity," Newtpaw huffed, knocking her head into Bluepaw's shoulder. "And you'll be a warrior while I'm still an apprentice!"

"Only for a little bit. Maybe I should start flunking my assessments so we can be warriors at the same time?"

It took Newtpaw a few moments to realize Bluepaw was joking (she wasn't), and upon realizing she only rolled her eyes. "Just don't do anything stupid or exciting without me, okay?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Bluepaw promised solemnly.

"Mousebrain," Newtpaw scoffed, but she was grinning nonetheless.

...

"--and this is the honey spruce," Bluefern announced.

"Why's it called that?" Evie tilted his head, peering up at the great tree. It stood out starkly in the meadow, despite there being plenty of other spruce trees nearby.

"There's a bee's nest. Can't you see it?" Newtscar flicked her tail towards one of the tree's highest branches. "Unless you want a mouthful of bees, I'd suggest you keep your distance."

"Oh." Evie's eyes widened. "Have either of you ever tasted honeycomb?"

Bluefern and Newtscar exchanged glances. "No," Bluefern replied. "Have you?"

"No, but I've heard it tastes really good."

"Good to know," Newtscar mewed sarcastically. "We should move on, unless you want to spend all day gawking at one tree?"

"I think I could get us some honey," Evie stated, gaze never leaving the bee's nest. "I'll just wait until all the bees are out collecting pollen, and then I'll sneak up and swipe some of it. They'll never even notice."

"That's a stupid plan," Newtscar retorted at the same time Bluefern exclaimed, "You're brilliant!"

Later, Evie was confined to the medicine den after receiving many, many bee stings. (He didn't manage to obtain any honey.)

...

"You like-e-e-e-e him," Bluefern cackled, causing Newtscar to swipe at her ears.

"You like him too!" Newtscar hissed.

"Well, yeah, but it's more embarassing that you like him."

"Shut up, Bluefern."

Bluefern did not shut up.

...

"Oh." Bluefern had only found herself speechless a rare few times in her life. This was one of them. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! I wouldn't have asked you to be my mate if I didn't like you." Newtscar was beginning to feel the telltale signs of panic. Does she not like me back? Why won't she stop staring at me with that stupid, dumbstruck expression?

"Uh," Bluefern replied intelligently.

"Do you not feel the same way?"

"No, no! I do. I want to be mates." Bluefern shoved her face so close to Newtscar's that their noses were practically touching. "You just caught me off guard."

"Why?" Newtscar flattened her ears but didn't move, secretly enjoying Bluefern's proximity.

"I thought you had a thing for Evie."

"I thought you had a thing for Evie," Newtscar fired back, suddenly defensive.

"I mean, I do." Bluefern leaned back. "I like you both."

"Can cats have more than one mate?"

"I think so. I mean, why not?" Bluefern shrugged. "As long as we're all honest with each other. You like Evie too, right?"

"Unfortunately." Newtscar sighed.

"Then maybe the three of us can be mates."

"Maybe," Newtscar assented, thinking for the first time that perhaps it didn't need to be two against the world. Perhaps it could be three.

...

"I like you both a lot. . ."

"We know."

"Shhh, Newtscar! He's confessing." Bluefern shoved Newtscar. "Please continue."

A playful smirk was beginning to tug at Evie's features, and the tom felt himself emboldened by Bluefern's encouragement. "So I was wondering if you two-"

"Yes," Newtscar interrupted. "But if you snore I'll change my mind."

"Okay. That's fair." Evie and Bluefern were both purring while Newtscar was doing her best to look indifferent.

She failed. (The three proceded to have a long discussion about what the future would look like, with all three of them as mates.)

...

Mistyfish's fever wasn't going down. She had been sick for moons, her symptoms only getting worse and worse. Surely, surely, she would recover. Bluefern couldn't let herself think any differently.

Outside, Newtscar and Evie were engaged in a hushed conversation with Stormsight and Silverbelly.

Mistyfish was gazing vacantly at Bluefern. "Ma? Don't come too close. I could get you sick."

"I don't care, sweetling." Bluefern wrapped herself around Mistyfish, around her precious kit. "It's going to be okay."

"Sweetling . . . ?"

"Your grandma used to call my littermates and I that, sometimes."

"Oh." Mistyfish snuggled closer to Bluefern. "I like it. It's nice." The smell of sickness wafted about the den in a thick, permeating cloud. Bluefern did her best to ignore it.

"It'll be okay, Mistykit," she repeated, not even noticing her slip-up.

"Okay, Ma. I believe you." Mistyfish closed her eyes, letting out a soft breath as she drifted off to sleep.

Mistyfish never woke up.

...

"His name is Sunnykit. He's sleeping right now, but I'll introduce you in the morning." Willowsplash's gaze was brimming with love, as if she had already spent a thousand lifetimes being this kit's mother.

"Looks like we're grandparents. . . again," Evie grinned, placing emphasis on again.

"Newtscar is going to be so excited!" Bluefern exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement herself.

"I don't think Mom's ever been excited about anything," Willowsplash chimed in, causing Evie to snort in amusement.

"Well, she'll be excited about this," Bluefern decided firmly.

"We'll see," Evie replied, giving Willowsplash's shoulder a reassuring lick. "I'm proud of you, kiddo."

"Thanks, Dad."

...

"We have matching scars now." Sleepycloud chuckled. In truth, his face still stung where the ShallowClan warrior had raked her claws. She had missed his eyes by less than a spider-leg. Likely, she had been attempting to blind him. The thought was disconcerting.

"I wouldn't call them matching." Newtscar was inspecting her son's new scars, triple checking that they had healed right and weren't going to start gushing blood at any moment. "I still don't see why you won't at least describe the cat who did this to you."

"Mom."

"What? I just want to give them a 'matching' scar of their own," Newtscar sniffed, expression never changing.

"I don't even remember what she looked like," Sleepycloud lied, trying to get Newtscar to let it go, though he knew it was a futile effort. She was like a bloodhound when she caught scent of something she felt was important.

"She? So it was a she-cat?"

"Mom!"

...

"What mischief are you two plotting?" Newtscar narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking skeptically between Pebblefreeze and Evie.

"Us? Mischief? How could you accuse your loving mate and darling daughter of anything treacherous?" Evie gasped dramatically, feigning hurt. Newtscar was unimpressed.

"You both have your 'scheming' faces on. I know because you got it from your father," Newtscar grumbled at Pebblefreeze, shooting a pointed glance at Evie.

"Did she?" Evie drawled.

"She did."

"I did not," Pebblefreeze pouted, nose scrunching up in the same way that Newtscar's did when she was annoyed. "We haven't done anything. Yet."

"StarClan help me," Newtscar muttered. Evie shot Pebblefreeze a conspiratorial wink.

...

"I still think about them." Bluefern didn't want to cry. She couldn't. Yet she could feel her gaze watering as she stared up at the pelt of stars spanning the sky.

Newtscar pressed herself against Bluefern's side, and Evie wrapped his tail around both of them.

"What would their names have been?" Bluefern continued. "Would they have been warriors? Medicine cats? Mediators? Why couldn't we save them?"

"There wasn't anything we could have done, Bluefern," Evie murmured.

"Wasn't there? Why did we let Curly defend the nursery?" Bluefern's voice wobbled. "One of us should have stayed behind."

"Then maybe one of us could have died," Newtscar replied gently. "Who knows what would have happened? The past is past, Bluefern. It's too late."

"I know." Bluefern squeezed her eyes shut. "I know."

The three stayed there for half of the night, pressed together in their silent grief over the three that were lost too young.

Ravenkit. Icekit. Smokekit.

Three stars shining down upon three parents.

...

"So, you and Cherrydust, huh?"

"Dad!" Ripplefade hissed, mortified. "Lower your voice. Someone could hear you."

"What? I'm just saying. Being mates with the deputy is no small thing," Evie chuckled.

"She isn't my mate, Dad."

"You like her though, right?"

"Pebblefreeze likes her too! Why don't you go harass her?" Ripplefade kicked a pebble across camp. Where were his mothers when he needed them?

"Eh. Pebblefreeze doesn't fluster so easily. You're fun to tease." Evie nudged Ripplefade affectionately. "I could go talk to her for you, if you're too nervous. . ."

"No!"

. . .

"You drooled on my fur last night," Newtscar complained, running her tongue over her matted shoulder fur.

"Probable. I woke up with a mouthful of your fur, anyhow."

"Ugh."

"Guys, look. Cherrydust is calling patrols," Bluefern chirped. "Think she knows to put us together?"

"Of course. It'll always be the three of us. We're iconic," Evie grinned.

"Hm. Maybe she'll let us hunt near the Sky Pine. I hear prey's good down there lately," Newtscar spoke, finishing her pelt cleaning with a few final licks.

"As long as you don't get stuck up there," Bluefern purred.

"That was one time, Bluefern," Newtscar grumbled.

"Don't worry, Newtscar. If you get stuck, Bluefern and I will rescue you."

"Both of you stop talking."

Neither of them stopped talking.

Newtscar didn't mind.

-🐉

(whoop whoop, the polycule! last of the three requests. hope i did these guys justice in a collection of moments w/ them and their kits teehee

they're so silly i love them)

DRAGON YOU DID THEM JUSTICE AND SO MUCH MORE OH MY GOD MY HEART,,, THIS IS SO UNBELIEVABLY PERFECT HOLY FUCK.

"you like him too!" "yeah but its more embarrassing that you like him" ITS SO THEMMM ITS SO THEM IM ON THE FLOOR SCREAMING CRYING. google how to get a fic tattooed onto the insides of your eyelids

#fallenasks #fallenfic #dragon anon

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thepaperpanda · 1 year

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A Herbal Soup || Thorin Oakenshield x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: the talent you possess in the kitchen gets complimented by Thorin during a stopover in Rivendell.

Warnings: none

Word count: 575

Author: Rouge

A/N: today’s prompt: Dinner Cooking

The journey to the Lonely Mountain was far from easy - you had to face trolls, orcs, spiders, and other foul creatures you never knew existed.

During the quest, you questioned your motives and the fact you agreed to help Gandalf - you were only a human and could add only the skill of wielding a sword; you even hacked heads of a few orcs.

The company was fortunate to have made it to Rivendell where you all could have rested upright for the first time since several days ago. On the night when Gandalf sought Elrond's assistance, you joined the Dwarves at their small campfire while Elrond was translating the Moon-letters on Thrór's Map.

“Have you seen Thorin?” You asked Kíli after taking place by his side.

He nodded while biting into food he held in his hand. "Yes. In fact, he went with Elrond and Gandalf."

Nodding, you immersed yourself in one of Balin's tales. After feeling a little hungry, and since the food the Dwarves had acquired a taste for was not something you longed for, you got up and went to ask the Elves for a cauldron and some herbs. The Elves agreed to let you use their kitchen after hearing your request; it was a blessing and you felt honored. You chopped carrots, celery, and some parsley and its leaves, and added a few potatoes, herbs, and spices to a pot over the fire. You smiled at yourself as you inhaled the herbal smell of the soup you were making.

A sudden question asked in a deep tone echoed from the walls of the kitchen, "What are you doing, Y/N?"

Looking over your shoulder, you smiled at Thorin as he entered the chamber. "I'm cooking soup. Would you like to try it?"

As Thorin got closer, he simply nodded.

A spoon was passed to him and you shifted aside so he could get closer to the pot.

He gathered some liquid on the spoon, then he blew at it a few times and slipped the spoon past his lips. Seconds later, he smiled, "It's really tasty, Y/N. I never thought soup without meat could taste so good. Perhaps I'd add something spicy to it."

"Can you peel a big onion and a few peppers for me?" You asked. "Is everything okay?"

Thorin nodded, doing what you've asked him to. “In some way, yes. Elrond read the Moon-letters, which said: ‘Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole’, so we are running out of time since Durin's Day is just around the corner,” Thorin said as he passed you the onion and started to chop the peppers.

Over the fire, you fried the onion until it turned golden, then added it to the soup, followed by the peppers. “I’m sure we’ll get to the right place on time, Thorin. Be of good cheer.”

Thorin only listened to you, his expression remained unchanged as he grabbed some peppercorns and threw them into the pot.

Thorin helped you clean the kitchen and threw away the peeling while remaining quiet.

As soon as the soup was ready, you let him try it.

Thorin looked at you after tasting the broth. "It's very tasty, and I take it as a huge compliment from a carnivore," he said. "Who would have thought humans are capable of cooking so well?"

#Thorin Oakenshield #thorin imagine #thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin oakenshield imagine #thorin fluff #thorin oakenshield fluff #the hobbit #the hobbit imagine #thorin x you #thorin x y/n #thorin fic #the hobbit thorin fluffember 2022 #paperpanda fluffember #fluffember #fluff #human!reader

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fantasyinallforms · 1 year

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I was thinking about the few times you see Bilbo's book in LOTR when he shows it to Frodo. You can actually read some of what he wrote if you pause fast enough. Here are those pictures and I transcribed it in plain text so it's easier to read.

“By the gray stone when the thrush knocks” read Elrond “And the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.”

Thorin explained that Durin was the father of fathers of the eldest race of dwarves and that Durin’s day is the first day of the dwarves' new year. First day of the last moon of autumn on the threshold of winter.

The next morning was a midsummer's morning as fair and as fresh as could be dreamed: blue sky and never a cloud, and the sun dancing on the water.

~left page~

And of course the serious voice which mimicked the __ and kept them arguing all night belong to Gandalf!

After freeing all the dwarves it was time to search for the trolls' cave. Where Gandalf thought would be far away. We followed the marks of the troll boots and found a huge stone door on the side of the hill but it couldn't be moved.

Then I remembered the I had found on the ground when the trolls had first started fighting, Gandalf took the key and he-

~Right page~

Put it in the keyhole, turned it, and the door swung open! We all went inside where we discovered the trolls plunder- gold, silvers, weapons, cloths,- even bones (of victims I surmise) as well as food and even some ale! We had a fine breakfast (Just what a hobbit needs), and I cheered immensely!

Orcrist the Elvish sword chosen by Thorin

__then four, and more and more and more until there were twelve, then at last Gandalf arrived with Thorin chief of the dwarves. They all wanted copious amounts of food (The pantry started to look very bare) and drink (my finest ale seemed to be the favorite) -it turned into quite the unexpected party!

Thorin’s Harp

Then the dwarves sang, and made music, and Thorin and Gandalf blew smoke rings, and then they all talked, late into the night. Distant far off lands, and gold, and treasure, and adventures. The dwarves were preparing to set off on a great journey to reclaim their treasure under the mountain from Smaug the evil dragon who stole-

(Down the side are the names of all 13 dwarves)

Balin, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Nori, Ori, Dori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Thorin

#the hobbit #lord of the rings #lotr #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #thorin and company

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balanceoflightanddark · 12 days

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"Nonetheless, ease and peace had left this people still curiously tough. They were, if it came to it, difficult to daunt or to kill; and they were, perhaps, so unwearyingly fond of good things not least because they could, when put to it, do without them, and could survive rough handling by grief, foe, or weather in a way that astonished those who did not know them well and looked no further than their bellies and their well-fed faces. Though slow to quarrel, and for sport killing nothing that lived, they were doughty at bay, and at need could still handle arms. They shot well with the bow, for they were keen-eyed and sure at the mark. Not only with bows and arrows. If any Hobbit stooped for a stone, it was well to get quickly under cover, as all trespassing beasts knew well."

-J.R.R Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, Prologue 1. Concerning Hobbits pgs. 5-6

This paragraph fascinates me for a few reasons. Often in fiction, a long period of peace is often used for explaining why people are so slow to react to a rising threat. That prolonged prosperity dulled the senses and breeds complacency. Indeed, Frodo himself does express some exasperation and almost wishes for a dragon or some evil force to invade the Shire to shake the Hobbits out of their complacency.

Which to some level is true here. It's a known fact that Hobbits like to keep out of the affairs of the "big people". Yet at the same time, even if they want to keep themselves isolated, it doesn't mean the world won't march into the Farthings regardless of what they want. After all, there wasn't a whole lot stopping the Nazgul or Saruman from entering their borders.

Yet at the same time, the paragraph does illustrate that just because Hobbits have grown accustomed to peace, doesn't mean they're pushovers. Consider Bandobras "Bullroarer" Took and the Battle of the Green Fields. When a goblin warband led by Golfimbel descended from the Misty Mountains and broke through the Dunedain's encirclement to invade the Shire, Bullroarer charged straight at the goblin ranks. He then proceeded to knock Golfimbel's head off and shatter the morale of the warband.

The story was repeated in the Battle of Bywater when Saruman decided to set up a criminal ring in the Shire after his defeat at the hands of the Ents. Long story short, once Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin returned, the Hobbits proceeded to raise up a sizeable force and effectively kicked Saruman out of the Shire. Mind you, Saruman used to be the greatest wizard in Middle-Earth, and the Hobbits led to his final defeat. That's two accounts of invasions of the Shire going badly for the invaders.

And that's not even getting into the adventures that Bilbo, Frodo, and his friends got into during the events of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings respectively. Bilbo was able to save the asses of Thorin's Company multiple times, discovered Smaug's weakpoint and indirectly relayed that to Bard via the Thrush, and risked life and limb to forestall a battle between the Dwarves, Men, and Elves till Bolg showed up. Frodo and Sam were ultimately able to destroy the One Ring, while Merry and Pippin were able to rouse the Ents into attacking Isengard. That's not even counting Merry being partially responsible for the death of the infamous Witch King.

So even though the Hobbits were accustomed to peace, they weren't complacent enough to be pushovers when presented with a threat. Personally, I think part of the reason this is so is because the Hobbits never forgot the basic necessities of a good life: a comfortable home, friends, family, and basically everything needed to live simply. They never indulged too much in luxury to become lax like Smaug, nor constantly scheming to take more power like Sauron or Saruman. They were happy with living simple on the farm.

It turns out, that's what gave them their edge. They were down to earth, so they had a good sense of morality thanks to living humble lives. Safeguarding their farms from wild animals meant that some Hobbits could recognize a threat when they realized it. And their sense of community and friendship got them through some of their hardest trials, like when Frodo almost succumbed to the Ring and Sam never gave up on him. Their sense of community and toughing it out through the hardest times such as during the Long Winter when Gandalf began to really warm up to the Hobbits, seeing the value and courage in them.

So while they're not the flashiest or most "badass" of Middle-Earth's free peoples, the Hobbits are some of the hardiest and "purest" races. And how ironically, peace never dulled their senses but served to toughen them up for the dark times ahead.

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penny-anna · 1 year

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dragged myself out of bed around lunchtime & went to the pharmacy to see if they might be able to offer any advice. they ask me to fill out a little slip with my symptoms. wait a while.

get called over & am met by the same pharmacy tech i saw on saturday. 'oh it's you' yeah. 'the pharmacist was going to suggest you get a diabetes test. i'll uh go tell her we did that already'. wait a while more.

pharmacist says it could well just be a virus & to wait a couple of weeks to see if it goes away. asks me if i've tested for covid (i have). also gave me some thrush medicine in case that's whats messing my mouth up.

im having a lot of trouble eating solid food & basically only want to eat ice cream which is for sure not helping me get better. go to the shop and buy some of the low-sugar high-protein 'healthy' ice cream cause i figure it might be at least marginally better.

come home. remember i have a mostly-full bag of porridge oats. make some porridge. im ALSO having a lot of trouble eating anything overly sweet or salty so add honey very very slowly till it stops tasting like cardboard.

eating porridge. someone knocks on the door. remember that i have a flat inspection today. sit around slightly dazed while my flat gets inspected. she tries the switch in the living room that doesn't do anything. i tell her it doesn't do anything. 'oh we should get that fixed'. nooo it's not broken, it just does nothing.

anyway!!

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imjusthereforironwood · 7 months

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Team CRDL's Semblances

Here's a short little note about the Semblances of Team CRDL. Because the show never gave the four of them Semblances, I will be creating my own. Most of them will be original to me, except for Sky Lark's semblance. His was made by rainstorm4 in the great fanfic, Redemption. Give it a read if you have the chance.

Also, a side note. I like to give my semblances two things: visual cues and realistic drawbacks. I personally feel it gives the semblances more impact, and it avoids the problem of "well, why don't they keep their abilities active all the time?", respectively.

Second side note, I try to make semblances represent something about the character. Once upon a time, semblances used to be a representation of the soul. Although that idea has been totally scrapped, I'm going to kinda incorporate it.

Starting off with Cardin Winchester, his semblance is called "Dreadnought". It increases his speed, strength and durability fivefold. It is an active semblance, and while active it allows Cardin to pull off incredible feats of strength and fighting prowess. Downside, it takes a lot of aura out of him to activate, and when he shuts it down, either of his own accord or by being knocked out, he is left pretty exhausted. Visually, you can tell his semblance is active when his breath has the appearance of hot steam. This ability represents his stubborn determination, to win at all costs.

Next up, we have Russel Thrush, and the semblance I personally love the most, "Roulette". Tell me, do you like gambling with your life? Roulette can be an absolute boon or bane. In short, Roulette can cause a number of different effects when it is activated, some good, some bad. Sometimes, it will supercharge his Aura, sometimes it will give him a boost of adrenaline, sometimes it will damage his aura, cause immense pain, and everything inbetween. He doesn't use it unless he is completely desperate, or if he's just testing his own limits. Every day, he is still finding new effects. Visually, you can tell he has activated Roulette because his pupils will shift different colors from his usual deep blue. It represents the more risky side of Russel's personality, the daredevil in him, but it's also emblematic of his outlook on life. Sure, he's been dealt a pretty crummy hand in life (in this AU, he ran away from an abusive situation, shifted hands a lot in the foster system, lost his leg in the Fall of Beacon) but despite his bad luck, he still considers himself a pretty lucky person for meeting the friends he did, despite what his cynical and grumpy nature may tell you.

Dove Bronzewing, in this AU, will be the younger brother of the group, the more innocent one of the team, has probably the most benign ability, Angel's Touch. It gives healing, at the cost of his Aura. His abilities may not be on par with Jaune, but it is more versatile than Jaune's Aura Amp, being able to heal people regardless of whether or not he has a crush on them. (Oh snap, shots fired, Jaune could've totally saved Penny. Jokes aside, my problems with Jaune have least to do with his character, and more to do with his writers.) Angel's Touch can be used to heal external wounds, but he struggles to heal internal injuries. The deeper the wound, the more impossible it gets, and the larger the wound, the more aura it will take for Dove to heal. Visually, you can tell that he's using it by a crackling white energy around his hands. This ability represents Dove's desire to help people, to protect the ones he cares about. Also, here's a little tidbit, he unlocked it during the Fall of Beacon, and he couldn't use it on a lot of people because they had already died. I love angst.

Lastly, we have Sky Lark, the blunette axe wielder of CRDL. His Semblance is called Keensense. It is a passive Semblance that increases his sense of smell, sight, hearing, touch and taste to better than a human. While there is seemingly no downside, the problem comes that he is extra sensitive to everything. An explosion goes off beside your ear, it may ring for a bit. You smell something bad, he smells it even worse. An explosion goes off beside Lark's ear, and he'll go deaf for a few moments. That being said, Keensense can come in handy when it comes to tracking Grimm, listening for danger, and gives him a general quality of life ability. Because it is passive, there is no visual cue. I believe it represents his calmer, more logical and pragmatic way of thinking.

Anyway, there they are! Feel free to drop an ask if you have any questions!

#rwby #team crdl #au: reforming bullies #cardin winchester #sky lark #dove bronzewing #russel thrush

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anolis3 · 1 month

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"The Hobbit", by J.R.R. Tolkien.

"Child of the kindly West, I have come to know, if more of us valued your ways - food and cheer above hoarded gold - it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell.", from The Hobbit.

"Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole.", from The Hobbit.

#the hobbit #jrr tolkien #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #smaug #an unexpected journey #the desolation of smaug #the battle of the five armies #goodreads #booklr #reading #moodboard #aesthetic

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banemmanan · 6 months

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GFU Stats #2

Some fun statistics from the TV show The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.

This is a revised, updated, more accurate version of this post.

This post is based on a series of posts by @commander-kiranerys where they compiled similar data for the series The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (e.g. Season 3). All but one of the data categories that I collected can be found in those original posts along with some more that I didn't count.

Explanation #1: why the recount?

As mentioned in my original post, I counted that first set of statistics in just three days. How do you fit roughly ten epispdes into a day? Well, truth be told, I watched them at double speed. I had a whole bunch of assignments due at the time, but this idea had lodged itself into my brain and I had no self-control, so I did it as quickly as I could in order that I could focus on my uni work again. This time, everything was watched at regular speed and I will admit that there was a lot that I missed the first time around. After I watched it through the first time and recorded data, I then watched it through a second time, this time with my sister as an impartial second opinion, and we both recorded separate data. The results are an average of these three data sets and thus I feel that they are much more reliable this time around.

Explanation #2: what's 'S' and 'F'?

For the categories 'Escape' and 'Rescue' the S in brackets stands for Successful and the F for Failed. Escaping entails getting free under their own power and if someone not in the 'captured' scenario got them out then it was a rescue.

Disclaimer #1: objectivity of results

If comparing these results to the muncle stats, bear in mind that they have been compiled by two different people. We might have different ideas as to what qualifies as 'being captured' or 'an escape attempt', etc.

Disclaimer #2: additional data

Due to Mark Slate not appearing in the third episode (instead appearing in the Man from U.N.C.L.E. episode of that week), data was gathered for him from that episode (the Galatea Affair) instead. Thus, all results could still be divided by 29 in order to establish the average per episode. I do not know if commander-kiranerys did the same for Napoleon with regards to season 3. I did not record any data from the MFU episode, the Moonglow Affair.

Observations:

Captured: April seems to be a bit of a damsel in distress here when you look at the numbers, but in fairness to her, she manages to escape on her own slightly more often than she needs rescuing. Considering also that Mark gets himself captured 20 times over the season; he's not exactly got a stellar track record either. Though more than once per episode for April is pretty disappointing and I think probably reflects the attitudes of the time. You may notice that the escape/rescue number for together is higher than the capture together number. This is due to instances where they have been captured individually, but then brought together in captivity and thus are together when they escape.

Arrested: I included this one only because I find it very funny when they get arrested by the regular law enforcement rather than by THRUSH and then have to sheepishly call Mr. Waverly and ask to be bailed out... I did not count these instances as them being 'captured' though, as I feel that requires malicious intent rather than a will to uphold the law.

Knocked out: bashed on the head, tranquilized, and one instance of fainting (surprisingly that wasn't April). Mark alone surpasses even the highest of Napoleon and Illya's combined totals! Suffice it to say, these two probably have near constant concussions (and that honestly explains a lot).

Restrained/chained/tied up: again, April features here significantly more than Mark does. The ratio is pretty consistent with being captured, though. 'Restrained' is just a combination of the chained/tied up categories as that is how I had initially understood commander-kiranerys to have comiled it (I'm less sure about that now though). Retrospectively I think I should have used it as an 'other' category to mean anything not done using rope or chains e.g. leather straps or being physically held (or in one instance a plant). Either way, what I find interesting in these results is that April and Mark were never tied together at any point (though there is a promotional photo that features this).

Tortured: interestingly very even here, despite the writers' clear reluctance to let April get roughed up (unless by another woman). But then again, I think deciding what is and isn't torture might be quite subjective (which is why I left it out the first time around). There were actually a number of instances that were a grey area for me and I wonder now if I should have included them; I erred on the side of caution and actually these figures might be higher if I'm fully honest. It's too late for doubting now though I guess. Feel free to debate!

Drugged: the vast majority of these are knock-out gas/chloroform/sleep darts/etc. so these results overlap a lot with the 'knocked out' category, though there are a couple of instances of drugs with other effects on the body.

Shot: April was never shot in the entire series (very lucky! but also maybe very indicative of the show writing of the time - she can be in peril, but heaven forbid that she's roughed up!) Mark on the other hand was either shot 3 or 4 times. The uncertainty comes when after seemingly being shot during a scene, he is perfectly fine mere seconds later and doesn't comment on the fact at all. So I'm not sure if he was definitely shot. I included a gif in the original post to illustrate the initial incident, so if you want to make your mind up for yourself, you can go and take a look at that. Personally I think 4.

Wet: surpassed only by season 4 in terms of average, but in raw numbers they reign supreme. It's a good thing they can both swim... I guess they are the blorbos that come in 'soggy wet' variety...

The disclaimers and stuff became way longer than I'd expected, but I wanted to be transparent about everything (can you tell I'm on another university degree) anyway, I hope you find these useful or at least interesting! I would love to have any sort of discussion regarding these!

#the girl from uncle #april dancer #mark slate #gfu stats #gfu #the girl from u.n.c.l.e.#the man from uncle #stefanie powers #noel harrison #my post #statistics #1960s tv #spies

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thefakepolyglot · 8 months

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French Vocab from Hergé's L'Ile Noire

Recently visited Paris and picked up a French copy of one of my favorite series. Even though some of this language might be a bit outdated, I still enjoyed picking up on certain French sayings and specific vocab having to do with crime.

As always let me know in the notes if anything is incorrect or if you have anything to add!

Sayings/Idioms:

sois sans crainte = have no fear

tant pis pour lui = too bad for him

faire la besogne à moitié = to do the job halfway

sapristi = holy shit

pour faire croire = to make it look like

bigre = damn

amas de ferraille = heap of junk

en avoir le coeur net = to get to the bottom of it / to be certain

faute de grives, on mange des merles = literally translates as “in the absence of thrushes, we eat blackbirds” used as a statement to substitute a commonly used thing for something else (can’t think of an English equivalent so put it in the notes if you can!)

hélas = alas

un brin de toilette = freshen up

sous les verrous = behind bars

beau coup de filet = nice haul

Verbs:

trahir = to betray

tenter = to attempt

défaire = to undo/loosen

ronger = to gnaw

égarer = to be lost/mislead

saisir = to seize

parvenir = to reach

aboutir = to culminate

déterrér = to dig up

guetter = to watch

ramasser = to pick up

ficeler = to tie up

cramponner = to cling

assommer = to knock out

parier = to bet

songer = to think

cerner = to surround

butter = to stumble

gémir = to groan/moan

Nouns:

une matraque = a baton

un témoignage = a testimony

des menottes (f.) = handcuffs

un gredin/coquin = a rascal

un sentier = a path

un asile d'aliénés = an insane asylum

des cartouches (f.) = cartridges (for a gun)

des indices (m.) = clues

des canailles (f.) = scoundrels

le brouillard = the fog

le vent du large = the sea breeze

un canot = a canoe

un donjon = a dungeon

un froussard = a coward

une longueur d'onde = a wavelength

la marée basse = the low tide

Adjectives:

saoul = drunk

épais = thick

étroite = narrow

épatant = amazing

louche = suspicious

#langblr #learning languages #language learning #polyglot #frenchblr #french #vocab list #studyblr #studying #tintin #the adventures of tintin #original #reading #vocab

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sophswritingthings · 9 months

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Longstar AU — Chapter Nine

“I’ve seen you hanging out with that new cat a lot,” Mousefur shrugged. “I couldn’t help but wonder if you're interested in her. I know you’ve been wanting to take a mate.”

“What? No,” Longtail flicked his tail, gazing at the she-cat across the camp, speaking with Ferncloud. “She’s basically my apprentice.”

“But she’s not,” Mousefur gazed at him. “She's a warrior. You're just giving her a bit of training, so she knows how to hunt and fight.”

“Okay, but, I—“

“If you like her that’s okay!” Mousefur nudged his side, “She’s quite the pretty cat. Sweet, too. And she can hold her own against you tom's.”

“Alright, alright,” Longtail rolled his eyes. “I’m not, though, Mousefur.”

The dusky brown she-cat flicked her tail. “If you say so,” She shrugged. “Now, I’ve got a border patrol. See you later, Longtail.” She padded off with a smile, joining up with Runningwind.

“Hey, Longtail!” Blizzardspots signaled to him with her bushy tail. He slowly rose to his paws, trotting over. “Hunting sound good?”

“Er, sounds great,” He meowed.

“Firestar's about to be back, though,” Ferncloud meowed, folding her paws under her chest. “He might call a meeting, and you may want to be here for that. It could be important, regarding the last gathering.”

“That’s true,” Blizzardspots let out a soft sigh. “Wanna just hang out in camp, hm?” Her pretty yellow gaze rested back on him, making his claws sink into the sand.

“.. Yes, sure,” He mumbled.

“C'mon then!” She bid goodbye to Ferncloud with a smile, trotting toward the prey pile. Longtail turned tail with a bit of a loopy smile, following the she-cat to the prey pile. “What’s your favorite, hm? Mines Thrush, probably. Or squirrel.”

“Thrush,” He meowed, flicking his tail to a less feathery tan bird.

“Twinning, then.” She turned with a smile, the thrush and red squirrel hanging from her jaw. “So, I haven’t really gotten to know you very well.” Blizzardspots gazed at him, “Like, what do you like to do? Do you have a mate, kits? Friends, family? Dreams?”

“Well,” He pulled the feathers off the tan bird, digging his teeth into the skin. “I don’t have a mate, no kits. I have a few half siblings.. Dustpelt, Ravenpaw. He left the clan a while ago,” He shrugged. “And I’d like to be a good deputy one day, assist my clan til I pass to StarClan.”

“Do you want a mate and kits?” Blizzardspots cocked her head questioningly.

“I mean, uh, maybe,” Longtail murmured. “So, what about you?”

“Well, I’ve lived with the same Twoleg all my life,” Blizzardspots meowed. “A little girl.. she was sweet, but I wanted something more than being cooped up all day. I wanted a life, a family,” She gave a little smile. “And the patrols out here are really fun.”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” He gave a gentle twitch of his whiskers.

“Think it’s funny pretty boy?” Blizzardspots hopped to her paws, standing muzzle to muzzle with him. He blinked, staring at the she-cat.

“Well, I—“

Before he could finish his sentence, the fluffy she-cat barreled him over, pressing her nose to his. She gave a laugh, “Now that’s funny.” She hopped off of him, flicking her tail.

Longtail narrowed his eyes, a playful smile creeping across his muzzle. He dropped into a hunters crouch, leaping at the she-cat and knocking her onto her side.

Blizzardspots kicked up with her hind legs, tossing the tom off of her.

“Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather beneath the High Rock for a clan meeting!”

The two cats paused, turning to face the High Rock. They skipped to their paws, settling beneath the rock, shaded away from the sun as much as possible. Blizzardspots nestled next to Longtail, her long white fur brushing his.

“Cats of ThunderClan, Tigerstar is growing more powerful, and more dangerous,” Firestar gazed down at his clan. “He has combined both RiverClan and ShadowClan to make TigerClan. He is destroying what it simply means to be a clan,” His green eyes narrowed. “In fact, these three cats were almost killed by Tigerstar for simply their blood. They will be cared for a sheltered here until it is safe to return.”

“What will we do, than, Firestar?” Whitestorm meowed, pinning his ears back.

“We will have to fight,” He replied. “Tigerstar asked to meet us and WindClan at the last gathering, to ask if we want to join. Obviously, we are going to say no. I hope WindClan will do the same,” Firestar sighed. “We must be prepared for battle.”

“.. Of course,” Whitestorm murmured, turning back to face the clan in silence.

“Clan dismissed—“

But before Firestar could properly end the meeting, a cat came whirling into camp like a flailing mouse, covered in blood and wounds.

Darkears?

Longtail skidded towards the tom, as did Whitestorm. This was still his friend in the end, even if he had left for Tigerstar. Longtail understood why he did it, he had multiple reasons.

“Darkears?” Longtail lapped at the dripping blood from his wounds, “What happened?”

“T-Tigerstar,” Darkears murmured, his voice shaking. “He.. h-he attacked me.”

“I thought you two were close? Even become mates?” Whitestorm murmured, leaning down to stand muzzle to muzzle with his son.

“I-I thought so, too,” Darkears quivered, tears beginning to drip down his fur. “I-I loved him.. but I was foolish to do so. So.. s-so foolish..”

“Mistakes happen,” Whitestorm rasped his tongue over his sons cheek. “You'll be welcome back in ThunderClan,” He than turned to Firestar. “.. Right?”

The leader flattened his ears, than took a deep breath. “Yes,” He mewed finally. “Though he must understand it will take time to rebuild trust.”

“Of course it will, I’m not mouse-brained,” He hissed. “But.. thank you, Firestar.”

“You realized your wrongdoings,” Firestar mewed, flicking his tail. “You will be welcome here once more as a warrior of ThunderClan.”

He slowly rose to his paws, “And I’m sorry, Firestar,” Darkears mumbled, flattening his ears. “For everything.”

“Hm.” A small smile crossed Firestar's face, “Apology accepted,” He meowed, pressing his nose to Darkears forehead. “Now, come and get fixed up and get something to eat.”

Darkears padded off with Whitestorm at his side, Firestar leading the way.

“Is.. that really what we’re facing out here?” Blizzardspots flattened her ears, gazing up at Longtail. “That’s.. terrifying. It’s sick.”

“I agree,” Longtail sighed.

“I-I’m scared, Longtail,” She adverted eye contact. “I really am. It’s not safe out here.”

“It’s okay, Blizzardspots,” Longtail stretched out his neck, pressing his nose to her forehead. “We'll be okay. We all have each other.. the clan will take care of and protect each other til the end.”

“Thank you,” Her voice was small, padding closer to him. She nestled his head into his chest, her tail curled around his side.

“Your welcome.” He mumbled, resting his chin on her forehead.

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