#it was like playing pretend it was so effortless when i was young and then one day i woke up so self aware i couldn't tap into it anymore!!

[normiematsu]

chara ai being The Thing now instead of rp is intriguing to me but also really scary like what if somehow it is another person on the other side. i want to try it out to brainstorm character interaction but the entire time id be so worried this thing breaks character to be like btw girl you're cringe and fuck and i was actually some guy the whole time. which is funny bc Some Guy would be playing the role of cringefail neetwife

[prythianpages]

Just A Girl | Eris x Rhysand's Sister

series masterlist | summary: Your father throws a ball in your honor. When Beron belittles you, you decide to show him what you're capable of, catching the attention of his firstborn.

word count: 2K

a/n: Hi guys! It's been a hot minute since I've written anything and I feel rusty lol (kinda like when you stop riding your bike and have to relearn type of feel.) Anyway, this is entirely based off no doubt's just a girl bc I felt like it gave off Rhys's sister vibes and then I thought why not incorporate this into an au I had planned for an Eris x Rhys's sister one shot??

“When I’m High Lord, I’ll go–”

“I’m sure you’ll go far,” you interrupt, a half smile playing on your lips as you look up at the first born of Spring. With his luscious blond hair, striking green eyes, and well-defined jawline, he's undeniably a sight to behold. Unfortunately, his personality doesn't match his looks—dull yet somehow arrogant and miserably misogynistic. 

You don’t have it in you to spare him a moment longer, especially not when his overbearing pride is becoming overwhelming for your senses. You push past the desire to call upon your abilities and manipulate his emotions into something more humbling. He is not worth exposing your powers.

With a pat on his shoulder–too harsh for his liking– you add, “and I really hope you stay there. It was nice speaking with you, Heathen.”

“It’s Heath.”

You give an uninterested hum before making your way to the refreshments table, desperate for something to soothe the tension between your brows. A silent prayer is sent to the Cauldron that no other male approaches you with a lame attempt at conversation. If they are interested in you, they should at least be able to hold a good one. One that doesn’t incorporate any microaggressions toward you.

Fortunately for you, it is your brother who approaches you next. He takes your–what was it? fourth or sixth, you can’t remember– champagne flute from your grasp with an effortless ease. A glare settles upon your features as you watch him chug it before fixing your gaze straight ahead, to the dais where your father and mother sit. 

Your father occupies the grand throne, while your mother sits beside him in a smaller, less ornate chair. The Lady of the Night Court—magnificent and burdened with countless responsibilities—receives none of the praise that is lavished upon your father. Despite her contributions to your court, she is not held in the same regard… simply because she is a female.

It leaves you to wonder what your destiny is.

Rhysand looks at you with sympathy, and you realize that in your moment of vulnerability, you've let your mental shields slip. “Please, save your breath,” you mutter.

Sensing Cassian and Azriel approaching, you flash them a small, relieved smile. “And please, stay by my side,” you say, your eyes scanning the room where multiple pairs of eyes are fixed on you. You feel so exposed and though it’s no surprise, it leaves you unsettled. When your gaze meets that of one of Autumn's sons, you quickly look away and strengthen the shield around you.

“I could use my scary brother privileges right now.”

“Who are we scaring, princess?” Cassian asks, flexing his muscles as he pretends to adjust the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows.

Azriel lets out a snort, but his keen eyes are already scanning the room, easily locating the Autumn male. The red-haired male immediately cowers under his cold, hard stare.

“No one.” Rhysand replies, shooting them both a warning look. He then turns to you and you don’t need his daemati abilities to know what he’s about to say. “y/n–”

“Don’t you think I know exactly where I stand?” You interrupt him with an exhausted sigh.

Tonight was a celebration–a ball to honor you and all you’ve done for the Night Court during the war. When the war started, you were twenty-three and deemed too young to participate. Though, at that age, Rhysand had already completed the bloodrite and was esteemed a formidable warrior. You were fortunate that your father allowed you to train and even more so that he allowed you to join the Night Court council.

You quickly mastered the politics of war and the intricacies of the Prythian courts. Midway through the war, your father entrusted you to visit the war camps and delegate on his behalf. There was no doubt that it was a privilege you were granted due to your powers. Still, you embraced it eagerly and tonight was the night you would officially be recognized as an emissary.

But of course, many–especially the sons of the High Lords–confused tonight as your debutante ball. You were in your third decade, after all. While your brother was recognized as a fierce warrior and heir, you were regarded as a highly sought out bachelorette. 

Lucky you.

“I am meant to be pretty and docile,” you continue, gesturing to yourself. 

The dress you wore was far from your usual preference. The bodice, adorned with intricate beadwork and sequins, featured a sweetheart neckline that teased a glimpse of your breast—but not too much. The skirt of the gown was voluminous, made of layers of soft tulle that shimmered delicately with every step as the light caught the scattered sequins. It was a beautiful black ball gown, crafted by your mother's talented hands. Yet, you much preferred dresses that clung to you like a second skin, revealing more of your figure.

To put it frankly, you felt quite suffocated in this gown. And you rather not even get started on your makeup. You were transformed into a perfect painting of a sweet and innocent princess. Not the daring and powerful female you knew yourself to be.

“Desirable but not too attainable.”

 “However, that does not mean I need to be consistently tortured by dull conversations and hungry stares from controlling males,” you finish, crossing your arms against your chest with a scowl. “No one has even asked me about my role in this court.”

“Oh, yeah. How is it being an emissary to the Night Court?” Cassian asks, earning a smack to the back of his head from Azriel.

“Just splendid,” you reply with a sarcastic smile.

“You played a significant role in establishing peace between Spring and the rest of the courts after the war. I’m sure your efforts will not go unnoticed,” Rhysand assures you.

“Perhaps I played my role too well. Heathen has seemed to have taken an interest in me.”

It’s as if he heard his name being called, for the blonde male’s gaze meets yours across the ballroom. He winks at you with that stupid, cocky smirk of his. A grimace crosses your face. You had been hoping your conversation from earlier would deter him. It seems it has only spurred him on.

“He’s... pretty,” Rhysand starts, but then trails off, struggling to find a compliment for Heath. “Pretty full of himself,” he finally manages, shooting you an almost apologetic glance.

Both of you erupt into laughter.

“It could be worse,” Azriel comments after a moment, a futile attempt at making you feel better. “It could be the heir to Autumn. As the by-product of growing up under Beron’s cruelty, I hear he’s pretty ruthless. Might even turn out to be crueler than him. At least Heath isn’t as bright…”

“Ouch,” Cassian says with a playful wince, almost feeling bad for the Spring heir.

Your eyes find the male in question. Eris Vanserra. His vibrant red hair makes him and his siblings easy to spot in a crowded room. Surprisingly, Eris hasn't made any attempt to approach you tonight. Unlike his brothers. Instead, he stands by his mother's side. She appears uncomfortable and weary, her arm linked with his as she rubs her swollen, pregnant belly.

 As you focus on him, you feel a mix of anger and concern. “Somehow, I doubt that,” you voice your thoughts out loud, following the trail of emotions. Your eyes land on the recipient of his anger. Beron. The High Lord of Autumn stands amongst the other High Lords, engaged in conversation with your father.

Sensing your gaze on him, your father looks up from where you stand. He holds a hand up, summoning you and your brother.

“Time to shine,” Rhysand says, holding his hand out to you.

**

“Ah, my son,” your father greets with a smile as you and Rhysand come to a stop before him and the other High Lords. He then turns to you, violet eyes alight with pride that has your chest swelling with warmth. At least your father recognizes your worth and you don't dare to wonder if he'd see you the same if you weren't blessed with your power.

“My daughter, the guest of honor," he introduces, reaching for your hand to pull you to his side. You offer a polite smile and curtsy to the High Lords. “Y/n has done a lot for this court and all of Prythian. Tonight is a means to show my immense gratitude and present her with the official title of lead emissary of the Night Court.”

It is the High Lord of the Winter Court who speaks first, offering a slight bow of his head. “I look forward to continuing working with you, Lady y/n.”

“A wise and thoughtful member of the Night Court.” High Lord Thesan says with an amiable smile, the High Lords of Day, Summer and Spring sharing his sentiments.

However, the same cannot be said for the High Lord of Autumn. His lips curl in distaste, the thought of having to interact with a female tasting sour on his tongue. He had tolerated you before but only due to the war.

“You expect me to welcome her to my court to discuss important matter?" Beron huffs. "She’s just a girl.”

You don’t speak. You don’t even make a sound. But the look in your eyes…the look in your eyes was downright murderous.

Memories begin to flood your mind of you being berated and undermined. The box in which you had locked away your emotions can no longer contain them. A wave of anger and frustration begins to surge forth...

Rhysand knew exactly what was about to happen, his hand silently reaching out for yours. To hold you back.

But it was too late. Your mind was like a wall of steel. Impenetrable.

All you saw was red, your wings bursting forth from your glamor, unfurling behind you. They tore through the seams of your dress, provoking gasps. Swiftly, your magic mends the fabric, accommodating your true form.

Tendrils of darkness emanate from your outstretched hands, weaving through the air like sinister ribbons. Your gaze, unwavering and intense, remains fixated on Beron.  With each movement of your fingers, the room plunges deeper into shadow. The once-illuminated space is now consumed by a thick veil of darkness. Even Azriel’s shadows, accustomed to the darkness themselves, cling onto him like a second skin.

As the last glimmer of light fades into oblivion, the ballroom becomes a chamber of obsidian night. With a mere thought, you tap into the emotions swirling within the hearts of those present. Careful to be subtle upon the intrusion as you do not want to expose the true extent of your abilities.

You summon only the most negative emotions like a maestro orchestrating a symphony. Screams erupt, drawing your lips upwards. You can feel resistance against your power and whether it is from your father or brother or even one of the other High Lords, you can’t tell.

Gathering all your pent up frustrations, you use it to fuel your strength, wanting to hold onto this moment of mayhem just a bit longer. It is only when you feel Beron’s heart racing, feel the trace of fear threatening to dim the fire in his veins that you let go.

In the blink of an eye, your tendrils of darkness disperse, succumbing to the resistance. The faelights adorning the ballroom shimmer to life once more and the moon’s light seeps back into the room. It casts an ethereal glow over you, revealing the calm and cool expression on your face. Yet, your eyes remain seething with the fury of a dark, raging storm.

Beron's scowl deepens at your display. He parts his mouth in disbelief, looking towards your father, who says nothing. Beron then looks back at you.

For once in his miserable life, he is at a loss for words. Pride swells in your chest and you push against the talons raking across your mind, wanting to bask in your small victory.

“I’m just a girl,” you finally say and then give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders before turning to leave.

Reveling in the animosity radiating off of him, your smirk deepens as you recognize a faint trace of humiliation somewhere among the fire of his wrath.

The assembled crowd parts before you, their gazes a mixture of disdain, shock, and fear. You keep your head held high and eyes focused straight ahead. Dread begins to settle in, the onset of a headache from overexertion threatening to break your composure.

Still, you carry on, feigning nonchalance. The only sounds echoing through the room are the hushed whispers and the sharp click of your heels against the marble floors.

Yet, amidst the sea of wary onlookers, one figure stands apart.

Eris.

The heir to the Autumn court is leaning casually against the wall near the exit doors, his mother nowhere to be seen. The corner of his lips are upturned into a smirk, amber eyes alight with amusement and curiosity and perhaps, even something more.

Your steps threaten to falter as your eyes meets his. He looks back at you, holding your gaze with a searing intensity, it sends a shiver down your spine. He looks at you in a way no one ever has...as if he can see you for you who you really are.

Because you aren’t just a girl.

You’re the daughter of the Night Court. A shining star. A force to be reckoned with and one he finds himself irresistibly drawn to.

series masterlist

a/n: I honestly don't know how to feel about this one. I guess it's kind of a prequel to my upcoming one shot. Also, you can't tell me Eris wouldn't find anyone besting his dad like reader did in this hot lol

general tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria

[ateez-himari]

GQ MAGAZINE; SEGMENT

The Coachella-slaying, multi-language-singing, genre-obliterating members of Ateez are quickly becoming load-bearing stars of our global pop universe.

August 15, 2024

The expensive clothing layered onto the smallest frame in the group depicts an almost untouchable image, yet when the youngest member in question turns around it is pure warmth that decorates doll-like features when greeting the photographers. Himari is often referred to as innocence itself - main rapper Mingi calling her 'angel' several times throughout the shoot - due to radiating happiness in an effortless manner, though it reportedly was not always this simple.

Mental health has long been an avoided topic in the industry even amongst increasing hiatus frequencies, so when the maknae was struggling with heavy depression many remained unaware of her predicament. When asked about the impact of having to fight while keeping up an idol image, she explains that: "At times I couldn't even distinguish which one was the real me, the one who was tired of even having to wake up, or the one smiling at Atiny while performing."

"Even when I was genuinely happy felt like acting." She continues, manicured fingers fidgeting with a golden ring. "It was such a terrifying time in my life, but it helped me realize that there was no merit in pretending to be someone else or hiding my true feelings. Anger, pain, joy, fear, there's not one emotion less valuable than the others so now I feel them as they come along."

Seeing the avoidance in eye contact when talking about this topic I apologize profusely thinking that this might not have been the appropriate route, but she simply laughs before gracing me with one of her beloved cat-like smiles. "In truth I'm very shy." She reassures me. "People often see me as this very assured person because of how I am on stage, but in settings like these I tend to be much more introverted than with people I'm acquainted with."

The group is well known for hypnotizing performances high in energy with four members forming the 'Demon Line', adequately named after the specific type of personas they tend to embody on stage, which she happens to be part of. Conversing with me however is indeed a rather timid young woman, despite the dark makeup making her gaze much more piercing, who does not seem to share any commonalities with the siren witnessed by the audience.

Just when our eye opening conversation comes to an end several members come over to their youngest, praising her gorgeous visuals enhanced through the well chosen outfit. Therein lies another charm of this rapidly rising group, their genuine connections to each other. Being around the same people almost every minute of the year can undoubtedly become tiring yet even during the unit shoot between San, Seonghwa, Jongho and Himari, the atmosphere feels more like a regular poolside hangout than work.

While some poses do seem somewhat awkward between friends - such as Seonghwa holding her against his bare chest as he holds a thumb on her bottom lip - their six years together has built a strong sense of trust and comfort. A comfort that resonates as clear as the youngest's laughter while the older members threaten to throw her into the water, Jongho holding her across his shoulders like she weighs next to nothing.

[....]

Unique artistic expression plays a very large part in building an intriguing image around the group. ATEEZ's captain has lately risen to be a fashion icon due to his experimental style, Mingi has created his own brand with the usage of his iconic 'Fix On', and their youngest creates divine ink paintings, some of which have since been placed as permanent expositions in galleries.

The three of them form something known as the 'Producer Line', and are responsible for creating the group's discography. Himari is also an active producer for other artists of various genres, the most notable being SHINee member, Taemin. The latter, recognized as the second Hand of Midas alongside her brother, BTS member Suga, is currently fast asleep on the changing room couch on their manager's shoulder, surrounded by music sheets written for their Coachella performances.

"When you first meet her, she seems very calm and carefree." Yeosang explains while removing the accessories from her hair. "In truth even being a maknae, she takes on very similar responsibilities to our captain. Her studio is practically a second home at this point, that's how much she works. She doesn't even realize it either so either Yunho or I have to come drive her back to the dorm."

It becomes clear through conversations with the members that their rise from small agency trainees to performers desired by multiple music festivals can be attributed to their hard work. Each have their own style, personalities and defining charms, which makes every stage unique. We can certainly look forward to much more success from these talented artists as they continue to mark the industry.

RELATED STORIES FOR GQ

[napakmahal]

“ Did all this happen because I left?”

Pause girlies because this is actually kinda serious. I just got out of a depressive episode and just really wanted to give the depression girlies a lil treat. Remember: you need other people in your life when you have depression. Make friends not resources. I love y’all (angst)

How can something be so painful yet so numb at the same time? The human brain is one of the most complex systems in the universe, aside from the universe itself. How it can feel so many polar opposite things simoultaniouly, and in that creating an entire civil war within itself. How could the brain, the thing meant to be in charge with your care and wellbeing one day just decide to decrease its own activity and make you miserable? It was the worlds greatest betrayal.

You’d been lying in your bed for the past week, and you might have gotten up twice a day. Once to use the bathroom and the other to get some food and bring it right back to your bed. Everyone said it wasn’t a big deal because you were young and you were probably just in a bad mood because of your hormones. Hormones were evil enough to suction blood from your reproductive organs (usually) once a month, they couldn’t possibly be cruel enough for this.

On your overheated and whirling computer was an endless loop of lousy reality T.V shows you’d watched over and over. There’s been therapists that have said that in these times of depressive episodes, you should revert back to adding some life and movement back into your brain. Which meant doing things like crossword puzzles, working out, math games, and reading 200+ page books. All things that you could totally do and things you liked to do. But not right now. Now all you wanted was junk food and shitty TLC shows. Not some slow burn, or some huge mystery TV show that required you to remember tiny details from the beginning of the season. Reality TV was entertaining, effortless, and on loop but you’d be lying if you said everytime you heard the freaky eaters intro a little more of your brain died.

That’s the funny thing about depression. Because even though you can feel yourself slipping and drowning in total misery, there’s nothing anyone can do to save you. So you get stuck in this endless loop of self detructive behavior hoping that the pain you experience on the outside is enough to kill the thing on the inside.

You were clinically depressed, and nothing nobody did was ever going to change that. But these episodes weren’t always like this. For a while, episodes were bearable. Your ‘friend’ made them better.

You’d known Hiro for a while, meeting him on the downtown bus during sunset on a spring saturday. You thought he was cool, he thought you were pretty. But the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing seemed uncomfortable and the labels meade things weird.

Granted you were each others first kiss. The two of you had tried to convince each other it was just because you got asked out to your eighth grade formal and you wanted to be prepared. It also didn’t help much that the more you described the dude that asked you out, the more Hiro wished he hadn’t skipped all those grades.

You never told anyone about that. Sure you could say it was a one time thing but it was hard to use that as a defense when you’d made out with him because you were bored under the dock near the beach during the summer carnival, and when you were just playing video games in his room, and when you were sitting on the steps of the museum of Japanese artifacts while sharing a soda, and the time you two were at the skatepark after it closed and you two were making out- only except that time he’d taken off his jacket.

Sure you were both fifteen but you watched people make out in the hallways at school everyday. Kissing didn’t seem like this massive thing. Hiro grew up isolated from the true highschool experience, he didn’t know. All he knew was that making out with you was cool and pretending he only did it because he was bored (and not because he would swear on his teen hormones that he loved you) was even cooler.

His aunt and brother had liked to tease you for it, but that’s all it was: teasing. The two of you would never live down the torment you’d likey face if they found out about your “I’m bored, let’s make out” sessions.

Speaking of, your mom didn’t really know you and Hiro were like that. She was only partly sure you liked him and you only thought that because one day after she caught you being particularly smiley that night after having him over to stream a new song she came into your room, played with your hair and said: “So you and Hiro are friends? That’s nice, he’s seems nice. Just, make sure he doesn’t make it worse.”

That was also kind of a silly depression thing: People and their influence could make it worse for you, others, and even themselves. Bad influence already makes bad people, but bad influence on people with depression tends to make them miserable, desperate, and self loathing.

But contrary to what your mom had said, Hiro didn’t make it worse. He made it better and she would soon figure that out after you’d tried texting him multiple times despite knowing he was at an expo outside the city. And he’d respond as fast as he could with the best messages, but when he’d go dead silent for almost ten hours each day it just dampened your mood. You’d kept reminding yourself not to be selfish, that your lack of ability to be happy shouldn’t stop people from living their lives. But from the hours of 7 a.m. - 5 p.m. you were left with no friend and a fat headache.

——————————————————————————

The intro to a show you couldn’t remember the name of played for the tenth time that day, drying out your eyes and causing an endless headache. You were surprised you hadn’t at least gotten a stomach ache from all the Tylenol you’d been taking. Someone knocked at your closed bedroom door before gently opening it.

“Y/n,” Your mom squinted through the darkness of your closed blinds and at the glowing computer screen. “There’s someone here to see you.”

With your back faced to her you couldn’t say anything other than a low, “Oh.”

She left for a bit as you continued to lay there, helpless almost dead. Thinking about death is something everyone does up to a certain extent. Questions like: How will I die? What comes next? Are ghosts real? All normal.

But when you and people like you thought about death it wasn’t like when other people thought about death.

Suddenly, your door creaked open and you didn’t even have the energy to look back but you just knew. Hiro had looked around at your depression room and sighed. He hadn’t even been around you for more than thirty seconds and he already wanted to cry. This was bad- so bad. The boy gently crept up to your bed and sat down. You felt the dent of his body in your mattress and still didn’t move.

“How are you?” His voice was quiet.

You responded barely above a whisper, “Fine.”

“When’s the last time you left this room?”

You didn’t even reply. At that moment, breathing was too much work. Having to think about the air going through your lungs and exhaling it out was a chore.

Hiro leaned over your body and shut the laptop closed before moving it off your head and placing his body in it’s spot. You two were now face to face, laying on your bed like the lovers of valdaro. It was bad this time and everyone knew it. Guilt had been eating him alive since he read the shift in your texts. How could he enjoy himself at this expo while you were there suffering?

“Did all of this happen because I wasn’t here?” He whispered.

You grabbed onto his hand. “No. I’ve always been like this.”

“Do you promise?”

“I swear it.”

“But it’s never been this bad before. If I was here then-”

“You couldn’t have done anything.” You cut him off. “Hiro I’ve been like this all my life. And you shouldn’t feel obligated to hold yourself back because I’m not normal.”

Once while playing around at the park at midnight you told Hiro that a therapist you had said these episodes will wax and wane. In the good there will be bad and in the bad there will be good. But there would never be moment where it would just be good. You’d be this way for the rest of your life, sad, in pain, and left with a feeling of mania and worthlessness. And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Do-” Hiro’s voice started to shake and a tear from my eye scurred across his face. “Do I at least make it any better?’

The thought of making it better by being there would in turn make him feel a little less guilty about not being able to be with you all the time.

For the first time in a week, you gave him a weak smile. No teeth, just lips. Before you leaned forward and gave him a prolonged kiss. In return, he brushed your hair from your face and started petting your head.

“Yes,” You whispered. “You do.”

[ow-old-men]

This is enabled by the lovely @czupl, I have MANY feelings and very specific thoughts about Cassidy and Ana’s relationship, this is basically just a fic in a weird format, enjoy;

Cassidy comes to overwatch young and alone and above all else angry. His hands are stained, so is the rest of him. They are stern and he bristles back in return, he knows how to do hard, he’s heated through like stoneware. If there is one thing he knows how to do it’s grit his teeth and bear it, soldier on and pull the trigger

He would like so much to be good, effortlessly, but it has never come easy. It sits knotted in his jaw, makes him avoid looking too long in mirrors. A shame that knows no name and precious little bounds

He still watches his movies, steals and trades in ammo for an old cassette and pops it in. There, in the midst of the cliches and the stunts and the stilted dialogue; a role he could and does play. He tips his hat down and forces the smile to be sly, drinks too much and chafes and spins his revolver twice around a forefinger before it goes into the holster

Ana watches him on the shooting range. She says, “you do not need the bravado,” and the thing in her eyes is almost a smile. “It’s heavy,” she says and holds Peacekeeper out in a stretched and steady arm. “Meet me here tomorrow and I’ll show you how to stop it hurting.”

His wrist ache only for a week more, there’s an ache on the left side of his chest that stays longer. It’s an old and cramped habit to release

And then Reyes let’s a ‘son’ slip on a briefing, accidental and fleeting and Cassidy feels both seen and washed out. Maybe tired most of all. It’s a heavy thing, all the bravado that needs to be put down. There’s the instinct to add to it; grin and smoke and go crash a bar though they technically aren’t allowed while serving, get somebody beautiful and effortless to steal it all away with reassuringly soft lips and fluttering eyelashes

Ana ever only says Cass. Her hands are steady and scarred and her voice wavers on the edge of shaking, but only sometimes. “You know, you don’t have to pretend. That’s a part of it.” She says and guides his hands though dressing a wound, in case it’ll ever be needed

They kneel on the tiled floor of a destroyed mosque in one of the many cities the crisis wrecked. Ana mumbles prayers and apologies until Cassidy can feel the presence filling the entire, cavernous room, until it spills out of the broken parts of the ceiling. “It’s heavy,” she says, “sometimes, knowing somebody loves you.” She looks over and her face is stained, “it’s no easy task, doing the right thing.”

They get up and Cass staggers, unsure. Ana has an arm against his bicep, her fingers are strong and undeniable. The beard comes haphazardly off into a motel sink, Cass treats the slight burn like she’s taught him

They are standing very still and Ana looks soft and faint and tired in this light, but when don’t any of them these days. It has swelled so long in Cass chest, crystallised at last until there is no denying. And she has to know

“I think I’m a woman?” Cass says, with a voice that is achingly small and shoulders that shake.

“Of course you are, habibti,” Ana says and stands still, her eyes warm and ocean-dark. It’s a voyage that brings her home, across the space between them until Ana has her by the back of the neck and they are intertwined. Cass feels stripped raw and more relieved than ever before

She cries for a long time, shakes with it until Ana unwraps her hijab and curls it around both of them and the world swims in blue and green and something both unbearably heavy and unimaginably light

[larkawolfgirl]

Fatherhood (Cloud/Tifa)

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: F/M

Fandoms: Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Compilation of Final Fantasy VII

Relationship: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife

Characters: Cloud Strife, Tifa Lockhart, Marlene Wallace, Original Child Character(s)

Additional Tags: implied aerith/tifa/cloud, Zack/Cloud if you squint, Pregnancy, Parenthood, Fatherhood, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Past Aerith Gainsborough/Cloud Strife

Summary:

Without warning, Cloud is thrust into a role he is not prepared for.

Read on AO3

Cloud entered the new Seventh Heaven positioned directly beneath their home. The bar was abuzz around him, a symphony of clinks and murmurs that he barely registered. Tifa had outdone herself; the establishment was alive, a maelstrom of energy that she commanded with effortless grace. The barkeep was nowhere to be seen, however. Instead, a young girl was sitting in the booth nearest to the bar. 

Marlene glanced up from her book as he approached, a soft smile lighting up her face. "Hey, Cloud," she greeted warmly.

“Where’s Tifa?” he asked.

“Said she had something to do. I’m filling in for now.”

“Let me take over.” Cloud had always been conflicted with the concept of the young girl serving alcohol, but she had been doing it since she was old enough to learn how to mix properly and she never complained. 

“What are you reading?” he asked, squeezing into the booth beside her. 

"It's a story about knights and dragons," Marlene said excitedly, flipping the pages to show him the colorful illustrations. "I like to pretend that Daddy is a knight going away to fight evil dragons."

Cloud’s chest tightened, knowing how much she must miss him. “Are you doing okay? With Barret being away so much?” He wasn’t opposed to tracking the man down and physically dragging him back home.

Her face fell. “I’m used to it,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Of course, I miss him. But…” She took his oversized hand in hers. “I have you and Tifa, so I’m okay. He gets caught up in saving everybody and forgets about me, but you two don’t.”

“Your father loves you very much.”

“I know. But lately, you’ve felt more like a dad to me.” 

Her voice was quiet, as if she was worried that he might become angry. He didn’t blame her considering that he had once lost his temper when Denzel called him Dad. He wanted to be better. It wasn’t their fault that he had reservations with that title. 

“I care about you and Denzel a lot,” Cloud conceded. “But I’m still not your father.”

“Neither is Daddy. Not really.” 

Silence fell between them. Then, she jumped up in a showcase of the innocence that persisted through the shadows of her life. “You don’t have to be a dad to act like one.” Her tone was insistent, leaving no room for arguing. 

He shook his head, holding back a chuckle at her forcefulness. “I suppose you’re right.”

She grinned and started running up the stairs. “I’m going to go play with Denzel.”

Cloud’s gaze fixed on the polished surface of the bar, but he saw none of the faint reflections in its gleam. Laughter and the clatter of glasses continued to surround him, but he felt the world still as he lost himself to his thoughts. As a child, he had never been one to entertain grand visions of domesticity. The very notion of fatherhood seemed as distant and alien as the stars dotting the night sky above Nibelheim. He remembered, with an inward wince, how his younger self would recoil from company, his shyness like an invisible barrier between him and the world. Even the simplest interactions were fraught with anxiety, and he became adept at pushing people away before they could glimpse the vulnerability he guarded so fiercely. The idea of anyone putting up with him long enough to become his friend seemed unrealistic; the idea of someone liking him enough to become his girlfriend, then wife, then mother of his child was absurd.

But somehow, he had made friends. First with Tifa, then Zack, and finally their mix-matched band of teammates. His attempts at pushing people away must not have been as effective as he assumed, or else his friends had the stubbornness of a mule. Knowing them, he would bet his gil on the latter. 

And somehow, Tifa was on her way to doing all of those things he never dreamed of. They had this comfortable life together, and he found himself finally questioning what the future held for them rather than hyper focusing on the current mission so as not to worry about misfortune might befall him next. Life had showered him in a shit storm, but most of the clouds had moved aside, allowing the sun to finally shine into his Mako-infused eyes. The future seemed promising for once; a future with Tifa, who never gave up on him, and Marlene and Denzel, who relied on him.

The weight of their trust was a badge he wore with a mixture of humility and determination. Tifa’s unwavering support, her kind smile that could chase away the shadows of doubt in his mind, her gentle touch that spoke volumes in its silent understanding. She saw past the hardened facade he wore like a second skin, piercing through the layers of pain and guilt to reach the fragile heart that beat beneath. The way Marlene and Denzel saw him as someone capable of comfort and guidance. The girl’s infectious laughter and the boy’s fierce determination to be strong like him. They were all treasures he never thought he deserved.

The door swung open, admitting a fresh wave of chatter and the evening's cool breath. Tifa stepped through with a presence that instantly called everyone’s attention. A few patrons raised their glass to her, and one lone man called out a hello. Returning the greeting, her eyes scanned the room, taking in the patrons and the state of affairs with a practiced sweep until they landed on Cloud.

He remained anchored to his seat as she approached. There was a quality to her movement, an eager bounce that suggested she was eager to tell him something. His reflection dissipated, replaced with anticipation for whatever she was about to share. 

Tifa's hand settled on his shoulder.. He looked up, gaze meeting hers, and his breath caught at the clarify of his reflection in her eyes.

"Cloud," she said, her voice brimming with an excitement that spilled over. "I'm pregnant."

Her words hung in the air, earth-shattering, reshaping the entire world around him. The clamor of the bar faded into a muffled backdrop, as if the universe had conspired to give this moment the reverence it deserved. Cloud remained silent, his own feelings momentarily caught in the gravity of her revelation.

His eyes snapped wide at this unforeseen plot twist in his life. leaving only Tifa's expectant gaze and the steady thump of his heart loud in his ears. A myriad of emotions fought within him—fear, hope, disbelief—all clashing into a frenzy that threatened to conquer him.

As the initial shock began to settle, a frown creased his brow. Memories, dark and smoldering like the remnants of Nibelheim's destruction, crept in. He had walked away from the ashes of his hometown with a resolve that had since turned into an unspoken vow: to spare any new soul from being drawn into the chaos and sorrow that seemed to trail behind him like a relentless storm.

The ghosts of his past loomed over him, whispering of loss and the cruel fate that had befallen those he held dear. How could he, a man who had struggled to protect even those closest to him, dare to bring a new life into a world that had shown him so much pain? The very notion clawed at him, a silent scream against the joy that he was supposed to feel.

Yet Tifa stood before him, her presence and eternal strength a balm to his negative thoughts. She carried within her the promise of a bright future—a future Cloud had never allowed himself to entertain, lest it crumble to dust like so many dreams before it.

Once, Aerith had elicited a beautiful fantasy. The Ancient had walked into his life like a rainbow after an endless storm. Her laugh was a melody that could make the slums of Midgar seem like a field of wildflowers. She found joy in the simplicity of existence, in the stray dog searching for scraps or the wilted blossom struggling towards the sun from a crack in the concrete. With every step she took, she rewove the fabric of the world, showing him colors he'd forgotten existed.

To her, hope was a certainty as real as the earth beneath their feet. He used to watch her tend to her flowers, her hands gentle and sure, her spirit unmarred by the shadows that clung to the corners of their lives. Aerith would whisper encouragement to each bud, believing that some part of them could hear her. Cloud caught himself imagining what it would be like for her to cradle a child of her own, to see her pass on that same optimism, that nurturing love, that unwavering belief in beauty despite the evidence of the contrary.

Yet the world was cruel, and fate even crueler. The day Aerith's light was extinguished, something vital within him had shattered. It was a loss that echoed the hollowness he felt when Zack, bright and brash Zack who embodied heroism and honor, had fallen. Their souls too pure, too full of life to deserve falling into the darkness that seemed to ever loom in the peripherals of their lives.

He remembered the weight of silence after she was gone, how the planet itself seemed to mourn. The color faded, leaving him with nothing but the echo of her absence.

Cloud let out a slow breath. The raw edges of those memories dulled slightly with time, but never quite healed. They were scars upon his heart, reminders of what could have been—and of what was irrevocably lost.

Cloud scrutinized his reflection on the table.He saw many things: an introvert, an outcast, a test-subject, a warrior, a protector, a friend, a lover, a hardass, a disappointment. The role of father was one he wasn’t sure he could fulfill. 

"Cloud?" Tifa's voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, yet it did little to still the tremor of doubt within him.

"Can I really do this, Tifa? Look at me. I've always kept everyone at arm's length. I'm not exactly a model of warmth and affection."

Her hand found his, reassuring. "You're more than you think you are," she said softly, her eyes holding his with earnest intensity. "You've been there for Marlene and Denzel. You might not see it yourself, but you care, Cloud. And they feel it—your love and your protection."

"But being someone’s dad..." he trailed off, the word alien and heavy on his tongue.

"There isn’t a right or wrong way to parent. You don't have to say much. It's in every action, every time you put their needs before your own." Her smile was gentle, an unspoken assurance that she believed in him more than he believed in himself.

Cloud looked away, his gaze drifting over the familiarity of the bar. Perhaps, in the quiet moments he'd shared with those kids, in the sacrifices he didn't even realize he was making, there was a capacity for fatherhood he had never credited himself with.

"Maybe," he finally murmured, the admission a tentative step toward believing.

The lone man who had greeted Tifa earlier called out for another round. Cloud watched as the woman he loved moved with practiced ease behind the bar counter. The way she mixed several kinds of alcohol creating a new concoction reminded him that he wasn’t a bunch of different things, but a conglomerate of everything combined, hopefully creating something better than any individual part. 

Maybe he could become what this child needed; maybe he already was, in ways he hadn't realized.

When Tifa returned to his side, she leaned against the wall. His eyes roamed down to her flat, exposed stomach. It was hard to imagine that a baby was growing inside. “How far along?”

She smiled, putting a hand to her non-existent bulge. “Three weeks. It will take a while before I start showing.”

Unbidden, the image of Aerith excitement rubbing over her stomach came to mind. She would have been ecstatic, a better reaction than his own doubts. "It should've been Aerith, instead," he said, voice raw. "She... she would have been amazing at this." His gaze dropped to the worn wood of the bar counter.

Tifa's somber gaze lingered on the empty space between them, her eyes reflecting an understanding that stretched beyond words. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Cloud's calloused hand with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the scars of many battles. Her touch was light, yet it anchored him to the moment, to the reality they both had to face.

"Aertih…" she began, her voice low and steady, "She would have been an amazing mother."

With a gentle motion, she lifted his hand, bringing it to her lips. The soft kiss she placed upon his knuckles was not just a gesture of love but also one of shared loss, a silent vow that they would honor the memory of their friend together.

"Neither of us could have had a child on our own. You would have been a part of that miracle, too."

Cloud's heart clenched at the truth of her words, grappling with the weight of a life that might have been, and the life that was unfolding before him.

When he didn’t respond, she continued. "Aerith saw the best in us," she whispered, "in you. She believed in possibility, in the new life we're building now. That belief—it's a gift, Cloud. And it's ours to carry forward."

Cloud watched as Tifa's eyes, often so full of strength, softened with a vulnerability that tugged at something primal within him. Her hand was still in his, her warmth a stark contrast to the chill of his doubts.

"Cloud," she said, her voice a whisper of resolve, "all we can do is try to be the parents Aerith would have helped us become."

He tried to imagine it—himself as a father, bearing the responsibility of nurturing a life, of protecting innocence from the demons living inside his head. It felt like standing at the precipice of an unknowable abyss, but Tifa's presence beside him served as an anchor, grounding him to the present.

Watching Tifa go through labor was excruciating. Her beautiful face contourted in pain, screams falling from her lips, and all Cloud could see was that she was hurting. In his protective rage, he nearly broke the midwife’s arm before Tifa’s calming voice reminded him that this was normal; she would be alright. It wasn’t a certainty, though, and every clench of her muscles caused his blood to boil. 

Over, over, it needed to be over. 

"Deep breaths,” he urged, attempting to sooth her even though his voice was hard and tight. "Focus on my voice."

Tifa nodded through a contraction, squeezing his hand with a ferocity that might have hurt him if not for the Mako running through his veins. He marveled at her strength, even through her contractions.

“You’re almost there.”

As another wave crested, she bore down, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. Her hand crushed his with each push until finally, the midwife lifted up a small mass of bloody pink. 

A wail of new life pierced the silence, resonating deep within Cloud's very soul. He watched, his breath held captive, as Tifa cradled their newborn daughter to her chest. The midwife gently cleaned the infant, and as the baby's features came into view, a hushed sense of wonder fell upon the room.

Cloud stepped closer, his eyes tracing the contours of the tiny face—a mirror image of Aerith's, with the same delicate brow and sparkling green eyes. It was as though time had folded in on itself, and for an instant, he could see Aerith there in Tifa's arms, her spirit born anew.

A sob caught in Tifa’s throat, raw and filled with a love so powerful it threatened to overwhelm the both of them. Tears blurred his vision, each droplet refracting the light, casting prisms across the walls as if the Lifestream itself danced around them.

"Aerith," Tifa whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

The name settled over them like a hymn. Cloud reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the soft tuft of hair atop the baby's head. His heart, once heavy with the weight of loss, now swelled with a joy so profound it carved through the numbness that had long been his shield.

"Hello, Aerith," he managed through the tightness in his throat, his words barely more than a whisper. They were tears of happiness that mingled on his cheeks with Tifa's—a shared testament to the enduring legacy of love they both carried.

In that sacred moment, with Tifa and their daughter by his side, Cloud knew what it meant to be whole again.

The chocobo mobile spun lazily above the crib, its gentle melody filling the small nursery as Cloud stood at the threshold. He watched Tifa cradle their daughter, Aerith's namesake, her soft coos a tender harmony to the music.

"Cloud," she said softly. Her smile held a secret, something shimmering just beneath the surface like the sun glinting off the water. "I have news."

Drawn to her side, his hand automatically reaching out to stroke the baby's cheek. Tifa took a breath, her gaze flickering between him and their child before it steadied, locked onto his.

"I'm pregnant again," she announced, the words lifting into the room like a prayer set free.

He felt the world tilt, a joyous disorientation that left him momentarily speechless. Another child—a sibling for Aerith. His heart, still tender from the birth of their daughter, expanded with a rush of unexpected emotions. It was hope mixed with the ghost of old fears, but above all, it was love—vast and boundless.

"A boy," she continued, watching him closely, gauging his reaction. “Call it mother’s instinct.”

A son. The notion settled within him, both daunting and exhilarating. Images of Zack flashed through his mind—the grin, the easy laughs, and the courage that had buoyed him through darkness. The name came to him unbidden, as natural as drawing breath.

"Zack," he whispered. The single syllable was a tribute, an offering to the past that shaped their present.

Tifa's eyes widened with understanding, then softened with a fondness that made her seem to glow. "Zack," she repeated, tasting the name, embracing its significance. "It's perfect."

She shifted Aerith gently in her arms, making room for Cloud to sit beside her.

"Tell me about him," she said with gentle curiousity. "About Zack. I want to understand more about the man who meant so much to you... and to Aerith."

Cloud hesitated. Zack existed in the worst of his memories, but he existed in some of his favorites as well. Speaking about him was skirting the edge between nostalgia and trauma. But this was Tifa, and this was their future—a son who would bear the name of a hero, continuing to carrying on the legacy Cloud inherited.

"Zack," he began, his voice finding strength as he spoke, "was the kind of person who made you believe in the impossible..."

His gaze drifted toward the window where twilight painted the sky in hues of purple and gold. "He had this laugh," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the ache it brought. "Loud enough to startle birds into flight. He never cared who heard it."

Tifa's hand found his, her fingers curling around his palm in a warm, comforting clasp. "Sounds like he was full of life."

"More than anyone I've ever known." Cloud turned to meet her eyes, their depth reflecting patience and a desire to understand. He took a steadying breath, as darker memories tried to surface. "We were on this mission once, sneaking into an enemy base. Everyone was tense, all except Zack. He just grinned, saying we'd breeze through it. And somehow, we did."

"Because of his confidence?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Because he made us believe in ourselves," he clarified. "Even whenever shit hit the fan, Zack would stand tall, sword swinging, always the shield between danger and the rest of us."

Her thumb brushed against the back of his hand. "What else do you remember?"

"The fact that he was never worried about what anyone else thought–except probably Angeal. He never hid himself. And his sense of humor." Cloud chuckled, the sound more of a whisper than a true expression of mirth. "He used to play pranks on the other recruits and then pretend he didn’t know anything about it. One time he put hair dye in our shampoo bottles, but then acted like nothing was unusual when everyone showed up to training with green hair."

“He didn’t prank you?”

Cloud shook his head, a gentle smile on his face. “He never targeted me. Zack was my best friend, and he knew the other guys… didn’t like me very much. When it came to stuff like that, he’d usually warn me beforehand.”

"I wish I could have known him better," Tifa murmured, her lips curving into a tender smile.

Cloud's heart swelled with gratitude for the woman beside him, for the way she readily embraced his past. "You would have loved him," he said sincerely. "He would have loved you too."

Their linked hands symbolized the connection between their past and future.The pain of loss might never fully fade, but the love that remained with them was a guiding force, pushing them ever forward.

Cloud carefully placed their newborn next to Aerith. Their tiny hands almost touched in the space between their cribs. Tifa gently adjusted the blankets around them, ensuring both infants were cocooned in warmth.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the couple watched their children with a reverence that stilled the world around them. In the silence, Cloud felt the weight of his past—the hollow echoes of loss that had long resonated within him—begin to fade. 

Aerith's serene face mirrored the grace of her namesake, while Zack's occasional wriggles and soft sighs reminded him of a friend's boundless energy. The sight of two new lives so full of potential and innocence, filled the spaces grief had carved out of him. The void left by those he had loved and lost was now a quiet place of honor as their memory lived on in the bright eyes and gentle breaths of his children.

"Cloud?" Tifa's soft voice drew him back from his reflections.

It took him a moment before he could look away from their children. "They're perfect.” The words were barely a whisper, but his revelation shown through.

Tifa smiled and intertwined their fingers as they had countless times before—a silent reminder that they could get through anything together. 

Cloud squeezed her hand back, silently acknowledging that he would do everything in his power to become the best father he could be. In the stillness of the room, surrounded by love and innocence, he realized that the demons in his head were quiet. His children were what completed his fragmented soul, bringing him back to wholeness. Every battle fought, every heartache endured, had led him to this moment of profound clarity. This was what he needed—a purpose beyond the sword and strife, a love so unconditional it transcended heartache.

“Thank you.”

Tifa studied his face before resting her head against his shoulder.

[greypetrel]

let’s mix it up here, how about ❄️ and 🌈 for the ask meme :D

Hiiiii!

Mh, mix it up, you say?

Ok! Let's go with a WIP for the Fenris AU I... I started to write but never finished. And I honestly don't know whether I'll put an end to it, but it's here. And it's something angsty, ready to be soothed by the second. For the second I'll add a drawing wip, I hope you don't mind! But I'm kinda falling off wips to share, writing wise. x°D (and the ones I have are all angsty?)

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP.

Translation:

C: "Ok, if you have so much to say about how light Fereldan beer is, I CHALLENGE YOU. A: "Aaaw! No, come on, I don't think it's necessary… How would you cope with tomorrow's Council?" C: "I insist."

A: "Aaaaaaaah. hiccups This reminds me of that time that bla bla bla I think I'm a little out of shape, ih ih ih! Shall we ask another round, Cullen? You know you have such nice hair? They do look very, very soft, like a halla! 💜

(it's before they got together and if he would have been awake to listen he probably would have collapsed) (in my headcanon, Dalish brew liquors from everything, each Arlathven is basically an excuse to share recipes and introduce youths to drinking. Refusing offered alcoholics is rude, each young Dalish gets absolutely trounced at his first event in drinking age. She' survived attended two.)

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

A month of less than nothing.

A common ground, by the stable, Aisling taught and Fenris listened and grumbled as he wasn’t able to do something she asked, or she made something look too effortless. It was normal, as normal it could be between them. She knew Radha was looking at them, whenever they were together, and she didn’t mind. A reminder that all they could really have was that. Polite and purposeful, together through circumstances.

Bringing him to Valammar seemed the most logical thing to do. It was for Varric, and they were friends too. She handled the trip in close proximity, carefully keeping her distance. She became good, in the 8 years they were apart, in keeping distances, she could manage it. Even if with him, somehow, it was more difficult than with all the rest. Fenris knew, she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t sad and struggling and scared. He knew, as well as Radha did.

But, she couldn’t like Bianca, she couldn’t be polite with her. It was like looking in a mirror, without lingering affection. The worse was that the woman wasn’t even sorry, or not sorry how she should have been. Did she knew how many people died? Did she knew that-

“You’re not the one to talk to me about disfunctional relationships and not managing to let people go, ok?” Varric snapped, when she approached him after getting back to Skyhold for some confrontation about it, and she let slip a less than praiseful comment on the smith.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you think it’s a big secret about you and Broody? Because it’s not. Quit it and let him go if you want it, or do not and stay there dancing around the other like you are, dance around Curly as well at the same time. I really don’t care, but whatever you do, don’t you play the moral judge with me and Bianca.”

It hit her. It hit her close to home, and it hurt because she saw the truth in his words. But, she saw the truth in her words too, and if years ago she would have been angry, right now she just felt cold calm creeping in. The same that she called for passing judgements. And as Varric knew where to hit her, she did as well, now.

“At least when I fucked up, nobody died.”

They didn’t speak to each other for the whole week afterwards, and something cracked between them. It was ok, with Aisling. It wasn’t like she allowed herself to make friends anymore, she was ready for things to blew up, and they did. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t taken into account.

All in all, tho, she stopped going to the stables in the morning, and when she practiced with her horse, she just took him out for a walk, on her own.

It was better like that, Varric was right.

She was just the Inquisitor, she could bury her heart something deeper still, and ignore the question in Fenris’ eyes the first time she walked out of the paddock without a word.

It was better like that.

[the-king-andthe-lionheart]

Day 24 - Compassion and Kindness

One of the most ignored aspects of Arya’s personality is her compassion and kindness, which is honestly very baffling considering one of her major themes is mercy, which literally means “compassion and forgiveness”.  I won’t deny that GRRM explores many aspects when it comes to mercy, including the role of someone easing a dying person's suffering, however that doesn’t erase the fact that Arya is COMPASSIONATE and KIND.  She’s not the type to flatter or pretend to be kind and compassionate, compared to other characters who use courtesy to chirp meaningless pleasantries, but that just goes to show how authentic Arya’s compassion and empathy really are.  

A lot of people like to pretend that Arya is a sociopath/psychopath, but there are many instances in the books that disprove this.  The very fact that Arya feels empathy, guilt, and shame tells us she isn’t any one of those things.  The fact that Arya feels guilt and shame about what she’s had to do to survive and to protect others is proof of it.  The fact that Arya has literal nightmares about these things tells us this.  Arya is an incredibly compassionate, kind, and empathetic individual.  In fact she’s one of the most empathetic and compassionate characters in the books.  I understand that after the Trident incident and after AGOT Arya has had to be more careful about looking vulnerable, about being vulnerable, and had to put up a guarded wall.  I understand she’s been traumatized, but the fact is that Arya was and will never be a monster and people could easily find instances of this in the books, yet their own misogyny and character biases get in their way.  Arya is an authentic person and her compassion is authentic and effortless.  She also can make friends with anyone and everyone authentically.  She may have to fib about her name most of the time and backstory, but other than that her personality is always Arya, even when she takes on another face and takes on a couple new traits by doing so.  And she’s able to make authentic friends so easily because she is kind and compassionate among other reasons.  

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father's table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her "Arya Underfoot," because he said that was where she always was. (Arya II AGOT)

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher's boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers. (Sansa I AGOT)

Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores. They bought clams and cockles from her, told her true tales of Braavos and lies about their lives, and laughed at the way she talked when she tried to speak Braavosi. She never let that trouble her. Instead, she showed them all the fig, and told them they were camel cunts, which made them roar with laughter. Gyloro Dothare taught her filthy songs, and his brother Gyleno told her the best places to catch eels. The mummers off the Ship showed her how a hero stands, and taught her speeches from The Song of the Rhoyne, The Conqueror's Two Wives, and The Merchant's Lusty Lady. Quill, the sad-eyed little man who made up all the bawdy farces for the Ship, offered to teach her how a woman kisses, but Tagganaro smacked him with a codfish and put an end to that. Cossomo the Conjurer instructed her in sleight of hand. He could swallow mice and pull them from her ears. "It's magic," he'd say. "It's not," Cat said. "The mouse was up your sleeve the whole time. I could see it moving." (Cat of the Canals AFFC)

So having said that, I’m going to quote the canon material that backs up this argument.  Unfortunately there are so many examples that if I quote all of these instances, this post will probably be at the very least 20 pages of written document, so I’m just going to quote some of my favorite examples from each book.

AGOT

While there are so many to choose from, Arya defending Jon against Sansa’s classist behavior, Arya defending Mycah from physical torture and possible death by Joffrey’s hand, and Arya chasing Nymeria away to save her life, one of my favorite examples of Arya’s compassion, empathy and kindness happens in Sansa III and that’s because she tried to comfort her sister in the middle of Sansa throwing a huge temper tantrum.  It’s a big deal because while they both fought, it was Arya who came and genuinely apologized to Sansa about throwing a squashed orange at Sansa, even though it was Sansa who was victim blaming Mycah right in front of Arya who was still deeply grieving her friends loss, and it was Sansa who threatened Arya with the power she’d hold as queen.  Furthermore, after Arya threw the fruit it was Sansa who screamed that Arya should have died instead of Lady.  Yet it’s Arya who apologizes and tries to make things better all the while Sansa is disparaging her without a thought of guilt or shame at her behavior (something she never actually shows in all the books about this situation or even the situation at the Trident when she not only sided with Joffrey, but she didn’t care one iota that Arya was about to be killed).  But even so, when Ned reveals that he is sending the girls home, and Arya sees that Sansa is upset about this prospect, it’s Arya who tries to comfort her:

"It won't be so bad, Sansa," Arya said. "We're going to sail on a galley. It will be an adventure, and then we'll be with Bran and Robb again, and Old Nan and Hodor and the rest." She touched her on the arm.

"Hodor!" Sansa yelled. "You ought to marry Hodor, you're just like him, stupid and hairy and ugly!" She wrenched away from her sister's hand, stormed into her bedchamber, and barred the door behind her. (Sansa III AGOT)

ACOK

ACOK has so many wonderful moments to choose from.  Some of my favorite examples are Arya sharing the portion of the rabbit with Gendry that she had hunted since she got a whole leg, even though the Night’s Watch recruits were already low on food at this point.  Arya insists that Yoren get a proper burial even despite the frustration she felt through the grief.  Arya takes care of the crying toddler, Weasel, making sure she’s looked after and fed, and defends her and Hot Pie and Lommy when Gendry suggests that the two of them leave them because they were a hindrance.  Arya trying to forage and hunt for food, not just for her, but for everyone.  Arya taking Gendry and Hot Pie along with her during her escape from Harrenhal, even though she didn’t technically need them.  Arya getting justice against Chiswyck when she overheard his horrible story (that was told like a humorous antidote) about how he, Gregor Clegane, and a bunch of other men brutally raped an innkeeps daughter that was barely older than her.  Or when Arya bravely tried to save Gendry from the Mountain's men.  I also really love this moment from Arya X, because Arya just found out that her baby brothers might be dead, and is trying not to cry, and is grieving in silence, yet when she sees that Elmar Frey (someone she doesn’t even get on very well with because Elmar is a classist jerk) is upset, she tries to comfort him:

"What's wrong?" Arya asked him when she saw the tears shining on his cheeks.

"My princess," he sobbed. "We've been dishonored, Aenys says. There was a bird from the Twins. My lord father says I'll need to marry someone else, or be a septon." (Arya X ACOK)

My other favorite moments take place in Arya IV, and if anyone has read that chapter I think this one is pretty self-explanatory.  In Arya IV, the Night’s Watch recruits are attacked by the Gold Cloaks in the dead of night, resulting in a bloody, traumatic battle, as well as a huge deadly fire.  This chapter only confirms what we learned in Sansa I AGOT, that Arya is a compassionate and brave hero, because not only does she save Weasel from the battle and the fire, even though her friends were telling her not to, she also goes back into the fire to save Jaqen, Rorge, and Biter (and no, just because 2 out of three of these people turn out to be horrible monsters, it still doesn’t negate that this was done out of compassion).  And even through this battle and the fire, Arya still feels compassion to the dying animals in the barn.

As they were running toward the barn, Arya spied the crying girl sitting in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by smoke and slaughter. She grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet as the others raced ahead. The girl wouldn't walk, even when slapped. Arya dragged her with her right hand while she held Needle in the left. Ahead, the night was a sullen red. The barn's on fire, she thought. Flames were licking up its sides from where a torch had fallen on straw, and she could hear the screaming of the animals trapped within. Hot Pie stepped out of the barn. "Arry, come on! Lommy's gone, leave her if she won't come!"

Stubbornly, Arya dragged all the harder, pulling the crying girl along. Hot Pie scuttled back inside, abandoning them . . . but Gendry came back, the fire shining so bright on his polished helm that the horns seemed to glow orange. He ran to them, and hoisted the crying girl up over his shoulder. "Run!" 

Rushing through the barn doors was like running into a furnace. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall a sheet of fire ground to roof. Their horses and donkeys were kicking and rearing and screaming. The poor animals, Arya thought. Then she saw the wagon, and the three men manacled to its bed. Biter was flinging himself against the chains, blood running down his arms from where the irons clasped his wrists. Rorge screamed curses, kicking at the wood. "Boy!" called Jaqen H'ghar. "Sweet boy!"

[...]

"You take her!" she yelled. "You get her out! You do it!" The fire beat at her back with hot red wings as she fled the burning barn. It felt blessedly cool outside, but men were dying all around her. [...] Going back into that barn was the hardest thing she ever did. Smoke was pouring out the open door like a writhing black snake, and she could hear the screams of the poor animals inside, donkeys and horses and men. She chewed her lip, and darted through the doors, crouched low where the smoke wasn't quite so thick.

[...] She couldn't see the wagon for the smoke, but she could still hear Biter screaming. She crawled toward the sound.

And then a wheel was looming over her. The wagon jumped and moved a half foot when Biter threw himself against his chains again. Jaqen saw her, but it was too hard to breathe, let alone talk. She threw the axe into the wagon. Rorge caught it and lifted it over his head, rivers of sooty sweat pouring down his noseless face. Arya was running, coughing. She heard the steel crash through the old wood, and again, again. An instant later came a crack as loud as thunder, and the bottom of the wagon came ripping loose in an explosion of splinters. (Arya IV ACOK)

ASOS

As I mentioned above, during Arya’s escape from Harrenhal, she also saved Gendry and Hot Pie as well, despite really not needing their help for survival, in fact she even acknowledges that they are slowing her down, but these are her thoughts:

She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave them.  They were her pack, her friends, the only living friends that remained to her. (Arya I ASOS)

Later on in the novel, Arya sees that Edric Dayne is looking miserable so she tries to distract him from that misery:

[...] Arya pulled up the hood of her cloak and hunched down, sodden and shivering but determined not to falter. Merrit and Mudge were soon coughing as bad as Watty, and poor Ned seemed to grow more miserable with every mile. "When I wear my helm, the rain beats against the steel and gives me headaches," he complained. "But when I take it off, my hair gets soaked and sticks to my face and in my mouth."

"You have a knife," Gendry suggested. "If your hair annoys you so much, shave your bloody head."

He doesn't like Ned. The squire seemed nice enough to Arya; maybe a little shy, but good-natured. She had always heard that Dornishmen were small and swarthy, with black hair and small black eyes, but Ned had big blue eyes, so dark that they looked almost purple. And his hair was a pale blond, more ash than honey.

"How long have you been Lord Beric's squire?" she asked, to take his mind from his misery. (Arya VIII ASOS)

But my absolute favorite moment of Arya’s kindness and compassion and empathy is probably one of her least acknowledged moments in the books in the general fandom.  I’m talking about when she and the Brotherhood Without Banners go to Stoney Sept and discover the Northmen being held there in crow cages, already on the brink of death.  Arya’s feelings about this discovery are complicated and conflicting, because during her arc, especially in ASOS she is becoming ever more aware that it doesn’t matter what house or region you belong to, if the nobles declare war, it’s the smallfolk who suffer because in general, most of these people don’t care that they are destroying the lives of the smallfolk, thus many of them burn and raid the villages of the smallfolk, rape their women and children, torture, and kill innocents.  Arya is trying to rectify this reality, and even though she is upset and angry at these men, she still feels compassion for them so she gives these men water to ease their pain:

She looked at their filthy hair and scraggly beards and reddened eyes, at their dry, cracked, bleeding lips.  Wolves, she thought again.  Like me.  Was this her pack?  How could they be Robb's men?  She wanted to hit them.  She wanted to hurt them.  She wanted to cry.  They all seemed to be looking at her, the living and the dead alike.  The old man had squeezed three fingers out between the bars.  “Water,” he said, “water.”

Arya swung down from her horse.  They can't hurt me, they're dying.  She took her cup from her bedroll and went to the fountain.  “What do you think you're doing, boy?” the townsman snapped.  “They're no concern o' yours.”  She raised the cup to the fish's mouth.  The water splashed across her fingers and down her sleeve, but Arya did not move until the cup was brimming over.  When she turned back towards the cages, the townsman moved to stop her.  “You get away from them, boy--”

“She's a girl,” said Harwin.  “Leave her be.”

“Aye,” said Lem.  “Lord Beric don't hold with caging men to die of thirst.  Why don't you hang them decent?”

“There was nothing decent 'bout them things they did at Tumbler's Falls,” the townsman growled right back at him.

The bars were too narrow to pass a cup through, but Harwin and Gendry offered her a leg up.  She planted a foot in Harwin's cupped hands, vaulted onto Gendry's shoulders, and grabbed the bars on top of the cage.  The fat man turned his face up and pressed his cheek to the iron, and Arya poured the water over him.  He sucked at it eagerly and let it run down over his head and cheeks and hands, and then he licked the dampness off the bars.  He would have licked Arya's fingers if she hadn't snatched them back.  By the time she served the other two the same, a crowd had gathered to watch her.  “The mad huntsman will hear of this,” a man threatened.  “He won't like it.  No, he won't.”

“He'll like this even less, then.”  Anguy strung his longbow, slid an arrow from his quiver, nocked, drew, loosed.  The fat man shuddered as the shaft drove up between his chins, but the cage would not let him fall.  Two more arrows ended the other two northmen.  The only sound in the market square was the splash of falling water and the buzzing of flies.

Valar Morghulis, Arya thought. (Arya V ASOS)

Arya doesn’t do this because she doesn’t care about the smallfolk and is siding with the Northmen in those cages, and she doesn’t know that once she gives them water they will be given mercy.  Despite what many in the fandom would say, Arya has a great respect for life, from insects to animals to humans.  Killing for survival and enacting justice against evil people in a feudalistic society where justice is most often only achieved in the manner she achieves it, does not negate her respect and compassion for others.  Arya giving water to people in general and out of compassion is also very prevalent in her arc.  She does this several times.

Honorable Mention:  Arya shows empathy and contrition about ruining the acorn dress Lady Smallwood gave her to wear, when she discovers that Lady Smallwood’s son is dead:

[...] the next morning as they broke their fast, Lady Smallwood gave her breeches, belt, and tunic to wear, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs. "They were my son's things," she said. "He died when he was seven."

"I'm sorry, my lady." Arya suddenly felt bad for her, and ashamed. "I'm sorry I tore the acorn dress too. It was pretty."

"Yes, child. And so are you. Be brave." (Arya IV ASOS)

AFFC/ADWD

In the center of the temple she found the water she had heard; a pool ten feet across, black as ink and lit by dim red candles.  Beside it sat a young man wearing a silvery cloak, weeping softly.  She watched him dip a hand in the water, sending scarlet ripples racing across the pool.  When he drew his fingers back he sucked them, one by one.  He must be thirsty.  There were stone cups around the rim of the pool.  Arya filled one and brought it to him, so he could drink.  The young man stared at her for a long moment when she offered it to him.  “Valar Morghulis,” he said.

“Valar dohaeris,” she replied.

He drank deep, and dropped the cup into the pool with a soft plop.  Then he pushed himself to his feet, swaying, holding his belly. For a moment Arya thought he was going to fall.  It was only then she saw the dark stain below his belt, spreading as she watched.  “You're stabbed,” she blurted, but the man paid her no mind.  He lurched unsteadily to the wall and crawled into an alcove onto a hard stone bed.  When Arya peered around, she saw other alcoves too.  On some there were old people sleeping.

No, a half-remembered voice seemed to whisper in her head.  They are dead, or dying.  Look with your eyes.  (Arya I AFFC)

Arya once again shows compassion and kindness to this complete stranger when she first enters the House of Black and White.  She offers him water, not knowing that it is poisoned.  She thinks she is helping a distressed, thirsty man, and in some way she is, but she didn’t think the water she gave him would kill him.

My other favorite moment takes place in Samwell III AFFC when Sam encounters two bravos who want to fight and mug him, but Arya, disguised as Cat of the Canals, comes to Sam’s rescue and also offers him free food:

Sam wanted to run, but if he did was like to trip over his own swordbelt. Do not touch your sword, he told himself. Even a finger on the hilt might be enough for one or the other of the bravos to take as a challenge. He tried to think of words that might appease them. "I'm not—" was all he managed.

"He is not a lord," a child's voice put in. "He's in the Night's Watch, stupid. From Westeros." A girl edged into the light, pushing a barrow full of seaweed; a scruffy, skinny creature in big boots, with ragged unwashed hair. "There's another one down at the Happy Port, singing songs to the Sailor's Wife," she informed the two bravos. To Sam she said, "If they ask who is the most beautiful woman in the world, say the Nightingale or else they'll challenge you. Do you want to buy some clams? I sold all my oysters."

"I have no coin," Sam said.

"He has no coin," mocked the fair-haired bravo. His dark-haired friend grinned and said something in Braavosi. "My friend Terro is chilly. Be our good fat friend and give him your cloak."

"Don't do that either," said the barrow girl, "or else they'll ask for your boots next, and before long you'll be naked."

"Little cats who howl too loud get drowned in the canals," warned the fair-haired bravo.

"Not if they have claws." And suddenly there was a knife in the girl's left hand, a blade as skinny as she was. The one called Terro said something to his fair-haired friend and the two of them moved off, chuckling at one another.

"Thank you," Sam told the girl when they were gone.

[...]

"Are you truly in the Night's Watch? I never saw a black brother like you before." The girl gestured at the barrow. "You can have the last clams if you want. It's dark, no one will buy them now. Are you sailing to the Wall?"

"To Oldtown." Sam took one of the baked clams and wolfed it down. "We're between ships." The clam was good. He ate another.

Another example of Arya’s compassion and kindness, is also linked to Arya’s sense of justice.

"To other eyes, your nose and jaw are broken," said the waif. "One side of your face is caved in where your cheekbone shattered, and half your teeth are missing."

She probed around inside her mouth with her tongue, but found no holes or broken teeth. Sorcery, she thought. I have a new face. An ugly, broken face.

"You may have bad dreams for a time," warned the kindly man. "Her father beat her so often and so brutally that she was never truly free of pain or fear until she came to us."

"Did you kill him?"

"She asked the gift for herself, not for her father."

You should have killed him.

He must have read her thoughts. "Death came for him in the end, as it comes for all men. As it must come for a certain man upon the morrow." He lifted up the lamp. "We are done here." (The Ugly Little Girl ADWD)

What a lot of people fail to realize is that Arya’s sense of justice is rooted in compassion, and we can see this with her list.  Her list is assuredly a coping mechanism against trauma, but it’s a lot deeper than some sense of revenge, and a lot of different emotions are attached to it.  Most of the people on Arya’s list are there because they are actually bad people who hurt and brutally murder innocents.  And I’ve seen it said that Arya only cares about getting revenge for the hurts she and her family have suffered and that’s not even remotely true.  Arya’s sense of justice is all encompassing, which is why she gets justice for complete strangers, and feels so strongly about getting justice for the little girl who was viciously abused by her father.  This compassion also extends to slaves, past and present, as well: 

"All gods have their instruments, men and women who serve them and help to work their will on earth. The slaves were not crying out to a hundred different gods, as it seemed, but to one god with a hundred different faces . . . and he was that god's instrument. That very night he chose the most wretched of the slaves, the one who had prayed most earnestly for release, and freed him from his bondage. The first gift had been given."

Arya drew back from him. "He killed the slave?" That did not sound right. "He should have killed the masters!" (Arya II AFFC)

Conclusion

No matter what others say in this fandom, Arya has many examples of compassion, kindness, empathy, and altruism.  She is very emotional, and still retains her humanity.  Arya is not a soulless, emotionless killer.  She is not a psychopath.  She is not a sociopath.  She is not anti-social in any way.  She is, however, a truly emotional young girl who cares too deeply about others even despite her own pain and grief.  Arya is truly such a wonderful and complex character, and she is a complete joy to read!

[justzawe]

Zawe Ashton on Bringing Her "Quirky" Love Story to Life in "Mr. Malcolm's List"

Zawe Ashton grew up a Jane Austen lover. Her gateway to the world of Regency romance? 1994's "Emma," starring Gwyneth Paltrow as the titular heroine.

"When you've loved a book and you see it being imbued with so much contemporary humor and with one of the biggest movie stars in the world at that time, it feels exciting," the actor tells POPSUGAR. It's appropriate that Austen's prickly Emma was Ashton's favorite, since her scene–stealing character in the Regency romance "Mr. Malcolm's List," Julia Thistlewaite, is, as she puts it, "so Emma-y." Plus, Ashton's middle name is Emma.

Ashton only had 24 hours to decide to sign on to the movie, directed by Emma Holly Jones (another Emma!) and based on the novel by the same name from Suzanne Allain, who also wrote the screenplay. "I read the script. It was the intersection of so many genres that I am passionate about, rom-com and this new wave of Regencycore that we're seeing," Ashton says. She fell in love with her character immediately. Plus, Ashton has a "very clear intentionality" about supporting first-time female and other underrepresented directors. It was easy to say yes.

Ashton explains about the film's premise, "We meet her four seasons into her unsuccessful matching with the husband. Just felt like something was very contemporary about meeting a woman at this point in life where society and her mother and all of this messaging is saying, 'For goodness sake, just make a match already, just marry yourself off.' "

But Julia, for all her wealth and snark, is still intent on marrying for love, a promise she made to her friend Selina (Freida Pinto) when they were young girls at school. "She's a woman who knows her own mind, and society isn't necessarily supporting that," Ashton explains.

Once Ashton arrived on set, she says it was easy to form connections with the rest of the ensemble, who she calls "glorious." There was, of course, the challenge of getting to know people when COVID-19 restrictions demanded they wear masks and shields most of the time. But she says that they quickly realized they had a lot of connections, and with familiarity came "effortless" chemistry. Her favorite scene to film was the big dinner party, for which most of the cast was together. "All of that fizzy energy was just really palpable."

"You're not supposed to say that," Ashton admits. "You're supposed to say, 'I worked very hard to establish the connections. I was working hard to pretend that I liked Oliver Jackson-Cohen.' Actually, we became best friends on day one. And the only challenge that I saw presented to me was how I was going to keep a straight face in doing a film with him."

Jackson-Cohen plays Julia's cousin Lord Cassidy, and the two are a classic, catty pair of friends. "We are very much hoping for a spinoff," she jokes. "So if you could just start that campaign, that would be wonderful."

Ashton's onscreen love interest is Theo James as the dashing and slightly ridiculous Captain Henry Ossory; viewers might not even recognize him with his resplendent mustache. "I'm looking forward to people seeing the blooper reel so they can see just how hard it was to not break character when I was with him," she says. "He's got such a wicked sense of humor."

"Theo's such a brilliant romantic, leading partner as well, because he was kind of the anti-hero," she says. "And it's just so much easier sometimes when you don't have to carry the central love story. You can be much more quirky, maybe a bit more acerbic. And that was just very, very fun to do with him."

The other relationship she loved playing out was that between Julia and Selina. "[It's] that push and pull friendship that has existed from childhood that feels so familiar and safe, that you can sometimes show up as maybe not the best version of yourself, but it will always hold you and sustain you," she says. Ashton explains that she's had similar "very long, fruitful female relationships" in her life.

Ashton hopes she's "quite different" from her character, though she loved diving into Julia's mind. "There's something about the way that she leans into high society," she explains. "Bless her, she's been really conditioned and trained to exist in that echelon of the world. And that was something that I really, really loved embodying and getting under the skin of. Because I personally am not about to go to the opera wearing a huge feather and have that be a status symbol."

Julia, she notes, also "finds it hard to let her guard down." "I don't struggle with that," she explains. "I let people in all the time. I don't have a guard. I need to build a guard. So it was very satisfying to play someone who has that edge to her."

Julia gets her happy ending, and it mirrors some big changes in Ashton's own life. On June 29, Ashton and her fiancé Tom Hiddleston went public with the news that they're expecting their first child. And her career keeps on rolling; in 2023, she'll appear in "The Marvels," the upcoming "Captain Marvel" sequel.

But it's not a happy ending for Ashton; she's just getting started. (x)

[random-imagines-blog]

Post Red {Viktor Krum x Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 3072 Summary: At a time when he should be focused on the game, Viktor Krum is distracted by you, his childhood best friend, and a blonde-haired boy who won’t stop flirting.

The Quidditch World Cup. You came just about every year, getting pretty okay seats with your best friend Viktor and his family. His parents and yours were good friends, which instantly meant that you were best friends. And with his father holding season passes to every Quidditch world cup, no matter where it was, this had become a yearly tradition. “I’m going to be on the Bulgarian team one day,” Viktor would always state as you watched the players fly. Bulgaria was always his favorite. Home country pride. It was yours too, but sometimes you liked to cheer for other times to mix things up. You would always grin and nudge him to point out something a player was doing, but not this year. This year, you were at the top of the stadium, standing next to the Minister of Magic in a special area, watching Viktor Krum play in Bulgaria versus Ireland. He was achieving his dream.

Every time that he flew past you, you jumped up and down, waving the flag of his team. He had become the star seeker of the team so quickly, it made your head spin. But you were nothing if not supportive. You used up your allowance to buy his merchandise, even though he could get it to you for free. It almost became a joke between the two of you, how you would always show up to his house wearing a sweater with his face on it, bright and smiling. You always made the joke that he was smiling on the sweater because it was the closest that he would ever get to your chest. He would make the joke in return that he was just smiling because he finally was looking at someone good looking - himself. He was actually very funny for a serious looking man.

You weren’t the only one high up in the stadium. Sharing a box with you was the Minister of Magic himself, and a man with his son. The boy was two or three years younger than you, you would assume by his size, and his hair was as silver as snow, just like his fathers. You had no interest in them. You weren’t here to make friends. You were here to support the best one that you had. But you did give a friendly hello and smile to the Minister, as it was better to have a friend in him than an enemy.

The other boy though, he wanted to have more than a friendly hello with you. He kept moving closer to the part of the box that you were occupying. He spoke to you with a very snobby voice, and though it would be considered rude and your parents would be disappointed in you, your direct reaction was to pretend that you didn’t know English.

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” He said, sticking his hand out to shake yours. “We’re here with the Minister of Magic. Are you here by yourself?”

Rather than shake his hand, because you honestly didn’t want to touch him for too long, you tapped yours against his in a high-five. “Ja, go fast!” You said, pointing at one of the Bulgarian Chasers who just flew past you.

The look on Draco’s face was worth it. But there was still a long game ahead of you. It could go on for hours. For days. Hopefully for the former though, because Viktor was a really good seeker. You had full confidence that he would get the snitch before it turned midnight.

Draco went and stood by his father for a little bit, and the two had quiet conversations. You didn’t pay him much attention. You were too busy watching the game. Even during lulls when it was just Chasers fighting over the ball in the middle of the pitch, you were intrigued. You didn’t pay attention to anything else - except for maybe making faces at Viktor when he passed by you on his way to catch what he thought was the snitch. He was darting back and forth so quickly though, it was hard to tell if he had seen you.

Since the World Cup was officially sponsored by Butterbeer, it kept being brought up to your box by people who worked for the Quidditch federation. It was enough to keep you warm as the game went into the nighttime. The skies seemed to threaten rain, but you didn’t care whether it fell or not. You were having fun, regardless of the weather.

The Irish scored the first goal. You booed, even though the others in your box seemed to be very supportive of the green team. You smiled apologetically at Fudge as he gave you an odd look, but didn’t pass a glance at the other two. However, the young boy came and stood beside you again, leaning over the box to look down at the people below in the lesser seats. He was sneering at them, like they had done something wrong by just existing there. That was worth a look to you at least. He caught your eye, and that sneer turned into a smile.

“Is this your first time at the Quidditch World Cup?” He asked. You shook your head, still feigning not knowing any English. “We come every year. But this is the first time that we’re in the Minister’s Box. So how did you get up here anyway? Who are you?”

He wasn’t letting up. You tried to look up at the players again, but the war for the Quaffle was going on in the middle of the pitch which meant there wasn’t much to look at right now. He nudged your side, so you finally answered, giving him your first and last name.

“Sounds exotic,” He said, which made you have to turn away and roll your eyes. Leave it to someone from England to think that your name was exotic, when it was commonplace where you were from. And not like he had the right to judge - what sort of name was Draco?

There was finally some action on the pitch, which took his attention from you for a little while. Unfortunately it was Ireland again, scoring the second goal of the game. Your eyes scanned the pitch to look for the familiar frame of your best friend and you saw him across the stadium. He was balanced on his broom, sitting on it in a way that made it look easy. Comfortable. You always admired how effortless he made it look to fly, while you were always hunched down, holding on with both hands until your knuckles had started to hurt. You waved at him when you thought you caught his eye and he smiled back at you. You chuckled as you heard a few girls in rows below you start to squeal because they thought that it had been at him.

“He’s overrated,” Draco muttered beside you.

“Krum?” You asked - before realizing this was very close to exposing yourself as a fraud.

“Yeah. He’s not even that good. In fact, I’m better than him. I’m the Seeker on the Slytherin Quidditch team. I got in second year, which is really rare, actually.”

You let his voice go in one ear and then out the other. This boy seemed to like to talk about himself an awful lot.

Ireland scored a third goal, and you groaned loudly, cutting off Draco in the middle of a sentence. “Oh, are you cold?” He asked.

Either he didn’t notice that you were shaking your head, or he didn’t care. He moved in closer to you and tried to put his arm around your shoulders. In your discomfort, you took a few hasty steps away, and ended up bumping into the Minister himself, stepping on his robes which almost pulled him down.

“I’m so sorry,” You said in horror as you realized what you had just done. You helped him to upright himself, and he gave you a wary look, like he should have expected this.

“It’s quite alright,” He said, but he did wander to the other side of the box, far away from you. You watched, feeling a bit bashful about what just had happened. At least, until there was a cheer from the fans. Ireland scored yet another goal. You sighed, and put your gaze back on the game. Viktor had moved since you had last seen him, and you began to scan for him once more, only for him to pop up not too far from you.

“I knew you spoke English,” Draco said from next to you. You almost forgot about the little twerp, but here he was, making himself known again. You never met anyone so infuriating before. He just couldn’t pick up a hint. “Come on, talk to me. Do you go to Hogwarts? I felt like I would have seen you there.”

“I don’t go to Hogwarts,” You stated. “You have not seen me before. And after this, we shall not meet again. Please, leave me alone.”

“I’ll be telling my father about your rudeness,” He said, finally turning away from you. You let out a sigh of relief. Maybe you could finally get into the game.

There had been a few close calls of Ireland getting the snitch. They were winning by quite a lot, and you could feel Viktor’s frustration from where you were standing. He kept looking at you, and you didn’t have much to offer him except for crossing your fingers.

“I think you should come to have dinner with us after the game,” Draco said, strolling back over to you after a while.

“The game could go on for hours, or even days,” You said, clenching the fence in front of you. You had never felt the urge to punch someone before but it was growing slowly and steadily. Something about his ferret like face.

“Well, we’re taking a break soon. We brought our new house elf. It’s an alright cook, it’ll do for the occasion. And you’re going to join us, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine here, thank you,” You said, scoffing at the idea of a break. You had no intention of leaving the game until it was over, even if that meant starving or peeing yourself. You were dedicated to stick it out for Viktor, at the very least.

He was flying not too far, eyes peeled for the stitch. But he looked at you. He was able to smile once more, but a hand grabbed yours and pulled you away from the fence. In your astonishment, you had let go. “Come on, we’re going to have something to eat.”

There was a sound of awe from the crowd at the exact same time that something went soaring by your head. You just barely managed to duck before it turned around and came back. A bludger. But how in the hell did it-

It went returning the way that it had come from, flying across the pitch. That was when you saw Viktor again, a little closer to you this time, holding a beater’s bat. He tossed it back to the beater, who went soaring after the bludger, while Viktor looked over at you. You put your hands over your heart as a thank you. He had always been a little overprotective of you, but right now, you were grateful for it. You were able to snap your hand away from Draco’s grasp, who was still ducking from the bludger attack. “I said I’m fine here. And if you, or your father, have a problem with that, you can shove it up your rear!” You shouted. The Minister overheard this part of the conversation and let out a little ‘oh my’ in surprise.

You didn’t even care. Enough was enough. If he grabbed you again, you would be telling everyone that you were being assaulted, and put him on full blast. Though he looked rather shaky after the encounter with the bludger, so you had the feeling he wouldn’t actually be bothering you again. You returned back to the fence so you could overlook the pitch again, and wrapped your hands around it so no one would be able to drag you back again.

-

The game finished with Bulgaria’s loss. You were disappointed, but it wasn’t Viktor’s fault. He still managed to catch the snitch, so he had done his job. It was the Keeper that you were disappointed with, and you would be bringing that up to him later.

You descended the endless flights of stairs, blending in with the crowd after the game - many were celebrating but there were quite a few who looked the same as you felt. Damn Ireland, you were thinking to yourself. And damn the Bulgarian Keeper! He hadn’t been able to do his job properly. Even Viktor would have done a better job, and it was his least favorite position!

You managed to veer away from the crowd to go to your own little campsite. Much like the others around yours, the tent was much bigger and roomier on the inside than it appeared on the outside, thanks to a little magic. You marched on through the flaps to go inside, and change out of your clothes. It had been a long game, and you had definitely sweated at least a little bit. You wanted to be much more presentable when Viktor would come along and join you.

The flap came open once more, and Viktor strolled in, just as you were fastening the button on your bottoms. He had perfect timing - now at least, maybe not so during the game. His jaw was clenched, you noticed, and he looked very angry. He’d lost games before, but still reveled in the fact that he had been playing. This was not a mood that just came from the game.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, watching as he walked past you to the armchair that was in front of the budding fire. Thank heavens for magic - a fire and a tent would never have worked otherwise.

“That boy who was touching you-” He said, sinking into the chair, and spit directly into the fire with disgust. “What’s his name?”

“Oh, we don’t need to worry about him, Vik. I think you scared him enough with the bludger. He wouldn’t even come close to me after that. Turned white as a sheet,” You chuckled at the memory, but his anger seemed to rage on.

“No, tell me his name.” Viktor demanded. You sighed, and walked to where he was sitting. The chair wasn’t big enough for the both of you, but it had rather wide arms and you planted yourself right there. You leaned your head against the top of his, the bristly growth of his hair tickling your forehead. “Y/N...”

“He was a stupid, petulant child who I am never going to lay eyes on again, Viktor Krum. Why did it make you so mad?”

“No one should be touching you. No one should be dragging you...” He said, moodily. He was staring into the fire, not at you at all.

“Tell you what. I’ll let you know his name after you calm down, how about that?” You suggested. It would take some time - he had a temper like a bonfire that would just keep on burning until the morning.

“Fine,” He grumbled. He said nothing more, and the two of you sat in silence, staring at the fire as it crackled, and listening to some of the cheers from outside. People were still celebrating the Irish win out there, and it gave everything a joyous atmosphere. “I’m not angry anymore.” He said after a few more minutes.

You pulled away from him, and took a look at his eyes to see if he really was in a post-red mood. He still looked grumpy but the worst of it seemed to be over. “His name was Draco Malfoy. His father is friends with the Minister, which is why I didn’t do much about it myself. You took good care of me, Vik. Just be happy that it ended the way that it did and we could move on with our lives.”

“If I see him again, I’m punching him,” Viktor grumbled. You shrugged, alright with that since the likelihood of it seemed so low.

“That is a price that he will have to pay then,” You smiled, moving back towards him and fell into his lap. Before you could try to get up, his arms went around your waist and started to tickle you in the way that he knew you hated. Fingers digging into your skin, it was a horrible feeling but the closeness that it brought wasn’t entirely terrible. “Vik - come on, stop...”

“I like it when you call me that,” He said, finally letting a smile come across his usual gruff features. You smiled in return, and lightly ran your fingers across his sculpted jawline, feeling the bone beneath his skin. His breathing hitched, and he held you closer, tighter.

You grew closer, until you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips. Viktor was so close - and you hadn’t realized until this moment that this was something that you wanted. You had always been friends, and your parents had teased since the beginning that they were planning your wedding to each other. But this was the first time that you had seen what they had been seeing.

Screams came from outside, and they were far from being the joyous kind. There was serious fear in the female voice that you had heard. And then came others. More and more screaming. The tent seemed to move as people were rushing past it. You could just see it through the crack between the flaps which acted as doors.

“Stay with me,” Viktor said, getting up immediately. You agreed to this without question, and when he offered you his hand, you took it. Whatever danger was out there, you were certain that you could face it together.

[manndo]

not today, but someday [oberyn martell x reader]

gif credit

pairing[s]: oberyn martell x female!reader

warning[s]: 18+ due to heavily implied sexual content (no actually smut), sexual references/situations, mentions of breeding (in reference to conceiving a child), swearing; talks of pregnancy & the inability to conceive; fluff; angst; oberyn being oberyn (is that a warning??); no mention of ellaria; possible inaccuracies about got (see notes)

word count: 5.4k (ummmm, whoops?)

prompt[s]: none.

summary: all you had ever wanted was a little one, a child to call your own. and yet, months later, you were still without child. still barren, and your dream of becoming a mother seemed to be slipping away. 

author’s notes: okay, so, let me start off saying this -- oberyn martell has taken over my life and i have spent much time yearning over him. and, in doing so, i got this idea one day because, as we know, oberyn had eight daughters. so, i thought, what if he had a s/o who could not seem to conceive? hence, this fic. but, i have never watched an episode of got in my life. i have seen his scenes (besides, you know, that scene because in my head, oberyn is alive and well and having all the berries and orgies he wants & i just can’t handle that much violence) and i have read some articles about the show, seen the gifs/posts on tumblr, and talked to people who have watched it in the past eight+ years. but that the extent of my knowledge of got. so, i apologize in advance for any inaccuracies that this fic holds. and i hope that my characterization of oberyn is good. also, no ellaria -- i just did not feel like she fit in this in anyway possible, and i did not want to force her into the story, so to speak. well, i think that is it! so, on with the show! all mistakes are my own. comments/reblogs/likes are much appreciated. thank you! ❤️

“I am sorry, m’lady.”

You did not know what else you were expecting. You knew, deep down, that nothing had changed. You did not need the maester to tell you that you were still without child — you knew. But, Oberyn had instead you call up on them, and you were too tired to argue. You also hoped you were wrong, and Gods did you want to be wrong. But, you were not.

You plastered on a polite smile for the maester. “It’s quite alright,” you said, your voice tight as you forced your emotions down. You weren’t going to shed any tears in front of the maester; you would never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing you cry, save for your husband. You nodded your head toward the door. “That’ll be all. Good day.” The maester bowed lowly before turning on their heel and exiting, the large wooden door shutting with a resounding, empty thud. 

The sound echoed in your head and heart; it seeped into your veins, and began to settle in your bones. The sound felt like a finality of sorts. An ending before anything could even begin.

A short, broken sob escaped your lips, and you quickly slapped your hand over your mouth to stop the sound from breaking free. However, it did not matter — the dam had broken, the heartache released. Another sob escaped, muffled by your palm as you squeezed your eyes closed, and laid down on your bed. Your body curling into itself as tears easily flowed down your cheeks, staining them. You felt as if your body was turning on you, tearing you apart at the seams as you shook violently with your cries.

For eight months now, the two of you had been actively trying for a babe, an heir for Oberyn. Not that he himself required an heir — he had eight beautiful daughters, his Sand Snakes, whom he loved dearly no matter their status. But, when the two of you had been wed over a year ago, there had been an unspoken expectation placed upon you both. Oberyn paid no mind, and told you to do the same, but that was easier said than done.

You had always wanted to be a mother, wanting to have babe upon babe running around, mucking up your home and tugging at your skirts. To watch them grow and prosper, becoming handsome young lads and beautiful young ladies, all whom would be intelligent and strong, but caring and kind. To have your legacy, no matter how small or large it would be, live on thorough them. Perhaps there was a small sense of duty, as a woman, that made you yearn to have children. But, you knew that was not the whole picture. Children were beautiful, wonderful, and loving. They were gifts, and you want to have those gifts, to cherish and love them till you were dead and buried. You wanted it, with all your heart, and yet, it seemed like fate was delivering you a cruel hand.

There had been, one fleeting moment in the very beginning of your wedded bliss, where you were positively sure you were with child. You had been so sure, so eager to see the maester; however, you had quickly been proven wrong by your own body betraying you. You’d spent the day in your chambers, unwilling to leave for any reason. Oberyn had found you curled deep in your silken sheets that evening, and try as he might with his quiet, reassuring words, he was unable to pull you from your depressive state. So, he had held you — silently, but tightly, pressing soft kisses across your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. He let his fingertips brush against your skin, tracing nonsensical patterns across your hips, your stomach, your chest, anywhere he could reach. His touches were light, and his movements were sluggish. He comforted you silently, the best way he knew how, and you allowed him to do so. It hadn’t eased the pain completely, but it had been enough.

But, slowly, the days had turned to weeks, and the weeks turned into months, and nothing changed. It did not matter that the two of you had stopped bringing others into your bed to focus solely on each other, for Oberyn to focus solely on you. Nor, did it matter how many times he filled you with his seed, or how willing and open you were to taking what he offered. It did not matter day, afternoon, or night. Nothing mattered. Because here you were, still without child. Barren.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed as the tears flowed and the sobs continued to wrack your body as you laid curled in your marriage bed. Your hand maiden had knocked on the door at one point, but you had been quick to dismiss her before she could enter and find you in your current state. She had not come back and you were grateful. 

But then, finally, everything came to a standstill; the tears you had been crying seemed to dry up, and your body had stopped trembling. You took a deep, shuddering breath and unfurled yourself, allowing your limbs to stretch out across the sheets. The tears were still clinging to the corners of your eyes, but most of them had already dried and stained your cheeks and neck. You pushed yourself to sit on the side of your bed, and roughly wiped away at your face, brushing away the outward sings of your heartache. You silently wished you could easily wipe away the heartache in your chest, too. The one that had buried itself so deeply in there. 

You hadn’t even noticed the door to your chambers opening, didn’t even hear a voice calling out to you. It was only when the door shut — that hollow, empty thud — that you were brought back, your head whipping toward the sound. “Oberyn,” you said, your voice soft, a breathless whisper. He wasn’t supposed to be here; from what you recalled, he was supposed to be kept busy with mundane princely duties (his words, not yours). You weren’t supposed to see him till this evening — and from the way the sun was peeking through the curtains, it could only be mid afternoon — which would have given you plenty of time to steel yourself. To gather yourself together, lock your heartache and pain away before delivering the news. To pretend that it didn’t cut into your soul, didn’t rip you apart from the inside out. “What are you—”

“I had a free moment,” he said, making his way toward you, his golden robes flowing effortless around him. There was a smile playing at his lips, which told you that he actually did not have a moment — he made a moment to come and see you. 

You felt the heartache clawing at your throat, fighting to be released.

Quickly, you pushed yourself to stand, and turned away from him in a futile attempt to hide your face. He would come closer; he would see your pain, your sorrow. Because, though you had wiped away the tears and the stains they had left behind on your cheeks, your eyes were still red and puffy. The pain and heartache still lingering behind your eyes.

God, you had hoped to have more time, more time before you had to tell him. Before you had to watch the sadness and disappointment appear, filling his rich, beautiful brown eyes. You wanted more time. 

A pragmatic pause. “Love,” he said, his voice sounding strained, painful. Your actions had spoken louder than words, it seemed.

You could feel a fresh set of tears springing to your eyes, your hand grasping at the dress clinging loosely to your side. You fisted the fabric tightly and closed your eyes, willing yours tears to stay put, to not fall. You heard Oberyn call out for you again, this time your birth name falling from his lips just before you felt him come closer. He hadn’t touched you, not yet, but you could feel his presence only mere inches behind you. 

“Love,” Oberyn whispered once more, this time as you felt his hand wrap gently around the fist at your side, the other coming to wrap around your waist. “I am—”

“Don’t,” you breathed out, the word sounding more like a broken sob than anything coherent. You broke away from Oberyn, and thankfully, he let you go. “I cannot bare another I am sorry, especially from you, husband,” you said, your voice harsher than you had intended, angrier. Not at him, no, you could never be angry with Oberyn. No, you were angry at yourself. This was your fault; you were defective, broken, unable to provide him and yourself with the one thing you had so desperately wished for. “I have heard enough apologies to last me a lifetime.”

You felt his fingertips brush gently against your arm, the lightest of touches, barely there. A soft gesture to tell you he was there, and that he would not leave. You took a shaky breath, and loosened the grip on the fabric in your hand, letting the dress fall back against you. “There is no rush, my love,” he said, his voice soft and tentative, as if he knew he was treading rough water. And, he was.

A choked chuckle escaped your lips, and you turned to face your husband. “For you, perhaps,” you said, letting your eyes take in his appearance. He looked as handsome as ever, but he was growing older, as was the consequences of living. Over time, more grey had appeared in his hair and his beard, and a few more lines and wrinkles adorned his regal face. Even his stomach had gone a little soft (not enough for anyone besides you to notice). But, he was still the man you had met many moons ago. Still the Red Viper. Sill the man could make any woman or man fall to their knees and beg for his cock. “You, my stallion, can breed until you’re dead. The same cannot be said for myself.”

“I do not think I would call myself a stallion, my dove. Not anymore.”

You snorted, and turned away from him, letting your eyes look down at your marriage bed. You ran a hand across the silk sheets. “With the way we’ve been fucking these past few months, I’d disagree.”

You heard an amused chuckle escape his lips. “I may be able to still mount you like a stallion, but perhaps, I can no longer bred you like one.”

You looked over your shoulder at Oberyn, and raised your eyebrow. “Don’t tell me the father of eight daughters doubts his ability to breed?”

His shoulders gave a small shrug before he reached out to you, wrapping his callused hand around your wrist. Oberyn brushed the rough pad of his thumb over your pulse point. “I am not in my prime anymore, my dove. Perhaps, the fault does not lie on you.”

You looked away from him and back toward your marriage bed. You felt him take a step closer before you felt the press of his lips against your shoulder in the briefest of kisses. The hand holding your wrist slide down, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You’re taking pity on me, husband,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I would never,” he said, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. He pressed another kiss to your shoulder before his chin came to rest there, his beard tickling your skin ever so slightly. “I am merely stating a possibility,” he mumbled, the hand holding yours moving, arm shifting to wrap around your waist, hands still tangled with one another. “A truth, perhaps.”

You scoffed. “You cannot be serious, my prince.”

Oberyn hummed, and placed a soft kiss on your neck. “I am,” he mumbled into your skin. “I could deny reality, if I wished, but denying the inevitable does not change the outcome.”

“So,” you swallowed and looked down at your tangled hands that were resting on your stomach. You took a deep breath. “You do not think of me as a failure?”

Before you could blink, Oberyn had spun you around to face him. His rich, dark eyes were narrowed, but there was no anger behind his eyes. “You are not a failure, my love,” he said, his voice filled conviction. He reached out, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Please, do not think of yourself as one.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “There are not many things women are afforded in this life, Oberyn. Many of us are not giving the promise of kingdoms, riches or lands when we are but babes,” you stated, your voice hard, irritation lacing your words. “But this, the gift to bare children, we are born with that. That is ours,” you said, your voice softening as your throat tightened and tears welled at the corner of your eyes. You closed your eyes, and feel another swipe of his callused thumb across your cheek. “I know I am worth more than my anatomy. I know that my anatomy does not define me. That this, this failure,” you said, your voice catching in your throat, “this inability to conceive, does not define me.” You swallowed, and opened your eyes, looking into Oberyn’s deep, chocolate orbs. “I know these things, Oberyn. I know them. But, it cuts me deeply, so deeply that I feel as if I am bleeding out with no way to close the wound.”

“My dove,” he said softly, his other hand coming to rest on your other cheek. He held your face gently between his hands, his features soften, and you could see a pain in his decadent eyes. A pain that was reflected in your own. “Your pain is my pain, know that. And know, there is nothing I would not give up in this world in order to give you the gift of a child,” he said, and you could tell that he meant what he said. He wanted this as much as you did, you both wished for this, silently prayed for this. And yet, barren. 

You watched as he removed one of his hands from your cheek, sliding it down your neck, shoulder, down the middle of your chest, between your breasts and coming to rest on your stomach. Oberyn looked down at his hand, as did you, and spread his fingers across your stomach. “What I wouldn’t give to see you swell with our babe,” he said, and if you listened close enough, you could hear the slight hitch in his breath. You placed your hand over his on your stomach, fingers resting between his. “To see them suckle at your breast, to tug at your skirts, to wreak havoc in the halls.” He gazed back to you, and you felt a lump forming in your throat, a fresh set of tears prickling at the back of your eyes. “The sound of their cries and laughter filling the rooms. To see them as they grow and blossom.” He paused, and you could see he was choosing his words carefully. You felt a knot grow in your stomach. “But, I am starting to think—”

“Please, Oberyn,” you interrupted, your voice cracking as you closed your eyes, your fingers tightening their grip on his. “Do not say—”

“We need to take a step back, my love.”

Your eyes snapped opened. That was not exactly what you expected. You had expected him to say that you two should give up, forget the notion of ever having your own babe. Perhaps, he would even suggest an orphan child; you were not opposed to the idea, you loved children and would gladly be a mother to a child in need of one. But, you were not ready to give up the idea of having your own yet. 

“A step back?” you asked, your eyes filled with confusion as you released your grasp on his hand. You were not entirely sure where your husband was going with this statement. You could not imagine that he was implying to stop fucking. Though Oberyn had aged, he still enjoyed the pleasures of sex (as did you) and the idea that he would give that up? Preposterous. “Are you suggesting we stop fucking, dear husband?”

Oberyn looked aghast at your suggestion, and it made the corner of your mouth tick up. “What a ridiculous notion, dear wife,” he said, mimicking your words back to you, his voice sounding almost betrayed that you would think such a thing. Even suggest such a thing. “Besides,” he started, voice dropping an octave in tone and pitch as he moved both hands, the one on your stomach and the one on your cheek, to come and rest on your hips once more. Oberyn’s callused fingers dipped into your hipbone and held tightly, almost too tightly. It barely phased you. “The idea that I could keep my hands, mouth and cock to myself around you is absurd,” he muttered, a wicked grin spread across his face, his dark eyes flashing with lust. It lasted only a moment before the smirk fell, and a serious look appeared upon his face. “However, if you wish to cease—”

You shook your head. “No, no,” you muttered. “I could not do that to you.”

“My love—”

“I’ve already asked too much of you by ceasing our activities with others.”

“Which,” he started softly, “I had no issue forgoing for you, my dove.” He paused and removed on have from your hip. He placed a finger under your chin and pushed up, lifting your head to make sure that your eyes caught his rich, dark orbs. “You have my body, my heart, and my soul. I love you. Whatever you need, I will comply.”

Your heart swelled in your chest. Oberyn partook in every pleasure imaginable, had never denied himself and tried almost every sexual act under the sun. And yet, here he was, willing to forgo sex for you. You knew he loved you, but this? This proved how far he would go for you, the lengths he would go to make sure you were well, that you were content. Whatever you needed, it seemed, he would gladly give it to you. 

“No, Oberyn,” you started and he opened his mouth once more, but you stopped him as you placed a hand on his cheek. “I am — I have no problem continuing our sexual activities.”  

You watched as Oberyn studied you, his dark eyes scanning your face for any sign that you might be hiding the truth from him. After a moment, he seemed content with what he found. He nodded and removed his finger from your chin. “Then, that is settled. But, I think, my dove we may have put too much pressure on ourselves,” he murmured, turning his head into your palm, and pressing a soft kiss to the center of it. “Not that our lovemaking is not pleasurable, it most certainly is, always,” Oberyn said, turning his gaze back to you, slipping on another mischievous smirk his let his free hand come to rest just below your breast. “But, perhaps, we’ve forgotten what it is like to be us,” he said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your neck as you let your hand fall from his cheek and back to your side. “Without pressures.” Another kiss, lips moving down. “Without worries.” And, another, lower. “Only us.” His final kiss landed on your shoulder. “Return to an earlier time, when we had first laid eyes upon each other. Do you remember those days, my love?”

You nodded. You remembered those days vividly; the hours spent walking through the water gardens, talking about everything and nothing. The nights spent together, tangled in each other, exploring each other with hands, lips and teeth. Back then, all you had wanted to do was learn about the man you shared your bed — and soon, your life — with, and he had wanted the same. Oberyn still attended to his duties, as required, but every moment when he was not busy, he was with you and you were with him. 

Then, when you had married, more of your time had become consumed with your own requirements and duties as well as his own. Much of your time together was spent was in the evenings, in your bed in hopes of conceiving a child. 

“Perhaps, my love,” Oberyn started again, “we need to allow ourselves to enjoy each others company, get lost in each other.” A brief pause. “In and out of our bed.” You caught Oberyn’s dark orbs, and him yours. The hand on your ribs was removed, and placed instead upon your cheek. You leaned into his touch. “What do you say, my dove? We do not forgo our dream of one day having a babe of our own. We just,” he paused, for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eye, “allow ourselves not to be pressured or burdened by the notion? Return to simpler times, so to speak?” 

You let your husband’s suggestion mull in your head for a moment. Perhaps, he was right; perhaps the two of you had been too focused on conceiving a child that you had, unintentionally, made sex a burden. Oberyn was not wrong; your times with him were always pleasurable and the two of you never fucked if either of you was in no mood to engage in sex. But when you did, perhaps, the burden was there, always lingering in the back of your mind. That the burden had become an unknown weight upon you, upon Oberyn. It would be nice to silence that burden for a while. 

“My love?”

You blinked and focused your gaze back on Oberyn. His deep brown eyes were studying you, patiently waiting for your response. You smiled softly at him. “You are right, my prince,” you agreed, and you watched as a triumphant look filled his eyes, the corner of his lip ticking up. You narrowed your gaze slightly. “Watch that ego of yours, husband.” Oberyn chuckled lowly and moved to grasp your hips. He pulled you tight against him, a wicked smile on his face.

“Or what, dove? Hm?”

“Or,” you started, lifting arms and wrapping the loosing around his neck and shoulders, “it will get you killed one day.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “Will it now? By whom?”

You held your chin up. “Me.” Oberyn laughed, the sound filling your shared chambers, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow. “You doubt me, my prince?”

“I do not doubt, your strength, my love,” he said through the laughter, which slowly began to die down as the milliseconds passed. “Or your cunning wit. However, I do know that you love me too much to even harm a hair on my head.” He paused and titled his head. “Well, unless in the throes of passion, of course,” he added, another mischievous grin pulling at his lips. “Then well?” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It cannot be helped.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance, but you knew the smile pulling at your lips betrayed you. “Whatever you say, my prince,” you muttered.

Oberyn hummed thoughtfully. You had thought to say something else, but before you could even open your mouth to speak, Oberyn’s lips were on yours, his tongue licking at the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. And, you willing granted him entry. His tongue slid harshly against yours, warm, wet and unyielding. A small moan escaped your lips as your arms tightened around his neck, fingers tangling into the curls at the nap of his neck. You used your hold to pull yourself even closer to him, pressing your chest against his as you slipped your thigh between his legs, pressing it against his swelling cock. A low growl escaped his throat, one that was eagerly swallowed by your lips as his grip on your hips tightened.

There was a loud knock at your chamber door.

Oberyn barely pulled away, mumbling, “ignore it,” against your lips before sliding his lips against yours again. And, you had planned to, already lost in the taste of him. However, the moment his tongue had slipped back in to your moth, there was another knock. This time, much louder.

“M’lord?” It was one of the man servants. “Are you in there?”

Oberyn groaned and pulled his lips away from yours reluctantly. “Yes,” he responded, his voice stern, but somewhat out of breath. You smiled. “But.” One of his hands travelled from you hip, up to your side, coming to rest on your breast. He kneaded the flesh, and you let out a soft mewl, heading falling back, eyes closing. “I am very, very busy. So, if you’ll ex—”

“Your presence is requested, m’lord.”

Oberyn rolled his eyes. “By whom?” he asked, but he did not bother to move toward the door to let the servant in, only lowered his head to your neck. He gave the skin at the base of your neck a quick, hard nip. You let out a small yelp of surprise mixed with pleasure as you tugged on Oberyn’s dark locks once more.

You were sure the man servant now knew exactly why Oberyn was busy — or, more accurately, whom he was busy with.

“Your brother, m’lord,” he answered, his voice tight and proper.

Oberyn growled against your skin in irritation before he nipped the skin again, this time worrying the skin for a brief moment. “Oberyn,” you whined, the sound a little louder than a whisper. Another nip in the same area. You were sure you’d have a bruise within the hour. You straightened your neck and opened your eyes. “Oberyn,” you said again, trying to quell the ever growing arousal pooling between your legs. However, his name sounded too breathless and needy on your lips. You glanced down at him the best you could, and saw his dark orbs shining with lust. Oberyn gave a sly smirk.

“M’lord?”

You knew he didn’t want to go, that he would rather lose himself in your body and pleasure. However, you knew that if he did not go now, it would only mean more time away from each other later.

“M’lord? He wishes to speak with you as soon as possible. If you could please open this door, and—”

“Go,” you whispered, ignoring the man servant’s plea, scratching at the back of Oberyn’s neck and giving him a soft smile. “The sooner you meet with him, the sooner you are back in our bed.”

Oberyn raised his head, his eyes watching you closely. The hand resting on your breast slide up and over your shoulder. His callused fingers began to play with the strap on your gown. “And you will be waiting for me?”

“Of course,” you answered, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Unless, you’d like to visit the brothel tonight?” Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “It’s been a while, my prince, and that is my fault. I know I asked you, and you willingly followed my request. But, I do not wish to hold you back anymore. If you would like to share a bed again, I am more than willing to share tonight.”

Oberyn leaned forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, but before it could go farther, he was pulling away. He grinned down at you. “Perhaps another night, my dove. Tonight, I plan to keep you.” The hand on your hip slide off and over, his hand cupping your clothed and aching center. A small whimper escaped your lips, and Oberyn’s own lips twisted into a wicked smile. “And, this pretty cunt all to myself tonight.” He leaned forward, his lips hovering near your ear. His warm breath ghosted over the shell, making you shiver. “Make you come undone upon my tongue for hours,” he whispered, the word sending a fresh flood of arousal between your legs.

“Oberyn—” your voice sounded choked, hoarse, needy.

“Before I finally sink into that tight little cunt.” He pulled your earlobe between his teeth, and worried the skin. You groaned, eyes falling closed as you grasped at his upper arm for support. His teeth released your lobe. “And fuck you until the sun rises.”

You bite down on your lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape your throat. Oberyn pulled back, hand sliding from your aching center to your hip, and looked at you, that wicked grin still pulling at his lips. “Perhaps—”

“M’lord?” The man servant sounded terse, clearly annoyed that he was still standing outside the door. You glanced at Oberyn to see him roll his eyes, irritation clearly written on his face. “I am sorry, but, I believe—”

“Tell him I will be there in a moment,” Oberyn all but growled through the door at the man servant. You gently swatted at his chest, and gave him a look that silently told him to be nice. Oberyn sighed. “If you would be so kind,” he added, his voice much less demanding as he glanced over his shoulder toward the door.

“Um, I would,” the man started, “but he — he requested that I personally accompany you, Prince Oberyn.”

Oberyn rolled his eyes once more. “Of course he did,” he muttered.

You bite your lip once more, this time trying to stifle a giggle that threatened to erupt. However, it escaped — a meager sound, but a giggle nonetheless. “He knows you all too well, my prince.”

“That he does,” he muttered, and let out another heavy sigh before turning his head and attention back on you. “You’ll be fine, my dove?”

And, you knew what he was asking. He was not just asking if you would be fine while he was away, or if you would be fine for the rest of the day. No, he was asking that and more, much more. Oberyn was asking if you’d be fine from here on out with what you two had agreed upon. Would you really and truly be fine with forgoing your want for a babe? Forgoing the need you had created to conceive a child for the foreseeable future. Were you, for now, fine with only having him in your life? No children, only him, only your prince. Only your husband. Only Oberyn. 

You smiled sweetly, and reached out, placing a hand upon his cheek. “Yes, my love. As long as you promise to stay by my side until one of us takes our dying breath.”

Oberyn smiled, his dark orbs shining brightly with love and adoration for you. He reached out and covered your hand on his cheek with his, squeezing your fingers gently. “Promise.”

You nodded. “Now,” you started, letting your hand slide from his cheek, his fingers still grasping at yours, “go on. Before your brother comes and hunts you down himself.”

Oberyn scoffed, and looked toward the door. “That’ll be the day,” he muttered, and you chuckled softly, shaking your head.

“Go,” you said, voice a little stern as you gently pushed at his shoulder in an attempt to move him toward the door.

Oberyn laughed softly and untangled his fingers from yours. “Fine, my dove, I am going,” he muttered, leaning down to press a soft, quick kiss to your lips. “I will see you in a few hours.” Oberyn took a step back from you, his eyes never leaving yours. He grinned and took another step back. “Make sure you’re ready for me.”

You smirked. “Do not worry about me, my prince. I will be,” you said and he grinned, all teeth and wicked before turning on his heel, and leaving your shared chambers.

The door shut behind him with a resounding thud, but this time, it did not cause you heartache. There was no finality or dread that sank into your bones. It was just the sound of a door opening and closing, as they always do.

Perhaps, you had closed the door on your dreams of having little ones. But, it wasn’t locked; you could open that door once more, when the time was right. Or, perhaps, you’d find another door, another way. However, right now, you would enjoy the idea of a closed door.

taglist (for pedro characters):

@over300books​

[abovethesmokestacks]

Hidden Love

Title: Hidden Love

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: All audiences

Warnings: None. Or me, probably butchering the Victorian era. Also, you know, slight angst, because I can’t help myself

This story sparked from a moodboard I made a while back, of Victorian King!Bucky and maid!reader, and it kinda got away from me, as everything tends to do these days. And listen... I know. The term Victorian really only relates to the history of the United Kingdom during Queen Victoria’s reign, but please bear with me on this and suspend belief and step into a world where during this era, Bucky is king, and enjoy the stay.

The sounds of crystal clinking together should be like silver bells carrying over the din of hushed conversation, but to his ears, it's like nails on a chalkboard. The food before him is rich and each bite seems to swell in his mouth, forced down in thick swallows and gulps of wine. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and his feet itch to leave, to stand up and walk out. He could.

"More wine, your highness?"

He could, he is king.

The server's voice is low, bowed down appropriately to only be heard by him. He shouldn't have another glass, for the sake of his mental faculties. He should, to keep up appearances. He can already sense his mother's eyes on him, the calculating gaze he has known his entire life. The dowager queen, a mother only as it serves her image in the kingdom than anything else.

"Everything all right, James?" she asks, and oh, that tone is deceptive. Kind on the surface, but weighed just so with the barest hint of concern to draw the attention of the other guests.

He wants to grimace, his name sounding contrived and wrong in his ears, granted with the weight of legacy, set aside for a few blessed years of childhood and then thrust back upon him when illness took his father and forced him back into a mold he would much rather escape. The coronation had his stomach in knots, a chill persisting in his bones and a simmering dread as he was crowned - anointed by God, what god would place their faith in someone so flawed as man? - His Majesty James, by the Grace of God, King of the Nation, Defender of the Faith.

"Nothing, mother. Pondering my choice of drink."

He tries for amicable, jovial. It is the annual Christmas feast, why shouldn't he be happy? His mother quirks an eyebrow, holding his gaze just long enough for the hairs on the back of his head to stand on end before her eyes glide from him to take up the conversation she left.

Some defender of the faith he is, he doesn't even have faith in himself.

An eternity seems to pass as dishes pass before him, plate after plate until he feels nauseous. Around him, the atmosphere has relaxed, emboldened by wine and spirits, and even his mother is no longer sparing him a glance to keep track of him. Somehow, he would have thought being king would have meant finally being free of her shadow, but she is still there. No longer a shadow, but a presence right behind him, a metaphorical foot on his robe to remind him of his place, and hers. He wonders if anyone has noticed that his glass of wine has not been refilled in a long time, that he has been nursing it steadily and that his boisterous laughs have all been hollow.

He could leave, but not without drawing attention. Just a little while longer. He glances at the opulent grandfather clock, feels its ticking like a heartbeat. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Each tick of the clock is an endless journey. Through rigid traditions, glasses of brandy, sweet sugarplums and fragrant pines, all he can feel is the passing of time, one second after another without an end in sight. Gifts are exchanged, crackers pulled with cloying glee and he feels more like a fool than a king when one of the footmen is coaxed into slipping the thin paper crown on his head. His mother bows out with effortless grace, sparking hope that maybe, just maybe, he can make his escape.

"Let me accompany you, mother," he asks, begs, voice low as he stands up to offer his arm for her.

Take it. Please, for the love of all things good and holy, take it.

Her smile is not exactly smug, but it hides a kind of joy that he thinks must be sour.

"Nonsense, my dear. Don't leave on my account, stay, be merry."

It's loud enough to be heard, for plenty of people to hear her deny him his exit under the guise of a mother not wanting to spoil her son's fun. He tries not to let his gaze harden or his forced smile to weaken, instead kissing his mother's hand and bidding her good night. Propriety will keep him here another hour at least. The clock ticks, chipping away at the span of time before he can have his freedom.

He thinks he might finally be going out of his mind when the clock strikes midnight. His other guests are either half-asleep, lulled by brandy and the late hour, or eagerly playing cards for the trinkets they received in their crackers. Enough. He takes his leave, wanting to roll his eyes at the hasty displays of respect and deference. No matter. He is free. A quick trip to fill up a plate from the abandoned dinner table, something for the road, as he jests with his escort. The palace is quiet when they traverse the corridors to his private chambers, their footsteps echoing ominously with nothing but a candelabra to light their way.

"I think I'll manage myself tonight," he tells his escort when they're outside his door. "Go sleep, I won't tell on you."

They put up the token protest, but still leave, hastening down the dark hallway while he lets himself in. The world feels more manageable inside. It's still a constant reminder of his privilege, of the opulence of his station, but it's his. No one can enter without his permission, no one can disturb him without just cause. Sometimes he wishes this was his entire kingdom.

Setting down the plate on his bed, he loosens the ascot, glad to be rid of the strangle-like hold around his neck. Off with the tailcoat, unbutton the waistcoat. Breathe.

Thunk.

He whips around, gaze falling on the large armoire in the corner. The silence that follows is deafening, but he knows what he heard. With a smile curling his lips, he swipes a treat off the plate, hiding it behind his back while he closes the distance, pulling the doors open in a rush, only for his ears to ring with a piercing shriek.

"Hush! Good god, you'll wake the entire wing, calm down! It's just me!"

The girl cowering into the corner of the armoire claps her hands over her mouth, eyes that had only moments ago been wide with fear now glaring at him as she breathes  through her nose to calm down. It’s strange, how his heart beats quicker, how the heaviness of his mind lightens under her fierce gaze. Years ago, they met by accident, he was still prince, young and cocksure, and she was, as she is now, a maid in the vast household that served his father the king. It wasn’t prudent, but he enjoyed giving her his attention, little flirtatious exchanges that somehow grew into a tender love with stolen kisses in hidden nooks. She has never asked for anything, much as he has offered to help her. She has declined promotions, slapped him for trying to sneak a small pouch of coins into her apron, made him promise not to do anything that would change her status in or outside the court.

He extends his hand to her, helping her up and out, twirling her around the room, making the skirt of her black dress flare around her, and his soul soars at the way her face settles into a sweet smile. With an exaggerated bow, he holds out his hand with the hidden treat, a sugar plum. She plucks it from her hand, delight colouring her features as she takes a small bite. 

“I thought you were…” she begins, swallowing before dropping her gaze, slipping the rest of the sugarplum into her apron pocket. “I wasn’t sure you were alone. I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

They come to a halt by the window of his room, and instinctively, he positions his back to the window, protecting her presence with the frame of his body. This may be his private quarters, but the palace has eager eyes and ears.

“My mother.” 

It’s answer enough. Their love lives in the shadows, in the small kingdom of his room, in the hidden passages of the palace and with notes tucked into cracks only they know about. His heart aches, because she deserves so much more, wishes the world knew about this generous soul that holds his heart in her palms, whose smile lights up his presence even during his darkest days, who will take nothing but the reassurances of his affections and the kisses he bestows freely.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he adds, bringing up her hands to kiss her knuckles. They’re cold, worn from hard work, but he loves them as dearly as the rest of her.

“She knows.”

It’s simple. A statement, not a question, and her hands slide from his grip as she takes a step back.

“We don’t know that. She enjoys tormenting me, we’ve known that for quite some time. And even if she knows…” He closes the space between them again, wraps her up in his embrace, and nudges her chin to make her look at him. “Even if she knows, she won’t do anything overt. She can’t.”

“She’s the-” his love starts, eyebrows knit together, mouth set in a way that he knows she won’t let this go.

“She thinks she owns me. She thinks she controls me. In her eyes, I am as much a servant to her as anyone on staff. And I’m happy to let her keep her delusion, if it means I get to be with you, if it gives me time to…”

“To what?” she asks, tilting her head. “If it gives you time to do what, Bucky?”

To fight for that, he wants to say. His nickname, falling sweet from her lips and making him feel like a person. It’s a treasure from those happy childhood years, when he’d only hear it from his string of governesses and teachers, a concession to play pretend at a normal life. It felt like stepping out of a pleasant dream when he had to leave it behind, had to step into the heavy legacy of James, into the title of king. He looks at her, the only one to call him Bucky these days, and feels courage rise with the beating of his heart.

“To figure out a way for us to be together,” he tells her resolutely, continuing on his next breath. “We’ll go away, I’ll make sure we’ll have means to live until we can settle down. We’ll go far away, we’ll cross the sea if we have to.”

He twirls them around in a dance, away from the window, away from vulnerability of unseen eyes. Away. Gone. Together.

“Bucky…”

“We’ll live in a cottage, you and I. I’ll… I’ll learn a trade. I can tend horses. I can hunt. We’ll have a life that’s… that’s ours.”

“Buc- Your highness!”

The title cuts him down, poleaxes him and pulls him out of the dreams like someone has poured a vat of cold water on him. She’s no longer in his arms, once again removed, three solid paces between them, and she looks so small, so despairing, hands folded in front of her. This time, she finds her voice before he can find his.

“I can’t ask you to do that. You’re king. You… You have responsibilities. You have a realm that depends on you for guidance and rule. You can’t just… I’m no one. I’m not important. I’m- You are king, and kings marry queens and live happily ever after. I don’t fit into that story, your highness.”

He takes a step forward, she takes another step backwards. Even so, it hurts more to hear the way she talks about herself, makes herself small while he grows to something fabled and grand, when truth be told, he feels like all this time, he’s been walking on stilts and wearing a costume to hide the person he really is.

“Neither do I,” he starts, winces inwardly at how trite it sounds. “I didn’t want this. To be king, I mean. It’s not for me. I don’t care for politics and mind games, I don’t care for frivolousness and rigid customs. This is a prison to me. It’s beautiful, and grand, but it’s a gilded cage nonetheless. Outside this room, away from you, I am not myself. I am weak. I am a pawn in a game. My desires don't matter. You…” He takes a careful step forward, hope springing when she stays where she stands, “are everything I want. Everything I need.” Another step. “And I will do anything to be with you, anything to make this my story. I’ll bide my time, I’ll weigh my options, I’ll make every preparation, but one day…”

Another step. He’s back in front of her, and though she avoids his eyes, she’s not running, not putting distance back between them.

"Your highness…"

“My love,” he interrupts, offering her the depth and width of his affection, his voice low and ardent as he kneels before her, prostrating before the only person worthy of him. “My sweet, my… my everything. One day, I’ll find a way for us to be together.”

[egelantier]

Tian Guan Ci Fu

where is it and what is it

it’s a chinese webnovel by mxtx, the same author who did untamed; it exists as a webnovel, finished and kindly translated here, the manhwa, the donghua (animated adaptation) happening right now, and there’s a live action adaptation in plans, directed by the same guy who did untamed. the donghua is gorgeous, the adaptation i’m unsure about but prepared to be hopeful, the manhwa seems to be very pretty. but all the adaptations only cover the very beginning of the novel for now, so i went ahead and read the novel, and i have no regrets. it helps that the translation is very good - not without awkward translatorese, but it has consistent and engaging flow and style, and it’s also pretty good at conveying mxtx’s humor without awkwardness. it reads pretty well.

what’s it about?

the world is split into two parts: mortals and various ghosts and demons and entities share the land, while ‘heaven officials’, aka gods, live in the heavenly kingdom in the sky. pretty much anybody can become a god if they do something really heroic or memorable and/or cultivate (meditation, training, virtuous behavior) really hard. when above, the gods rule their domains and fulfill their believers’ wishes; they work sort of like pratchettian gods, dependent on their followers’ beliefs and getting influenced by them. heavens are strictly hierarchical, with their own economy and pecking order, and the gods aren’t particularly sinless or benevolent; mostly it’s a question of scale.

our hero, xie lian, is a prince of a prosperous kingdom who’s been on a fast track to ascension for most of his very short life; he’s talented, he’s virtuous, he’s kind, he’s strong, and his only peculiar flaw is (somehow naive, but well-meaning) obsession with equality and value of human lives and so on. he becomes a god, unexpectedly, at seventeen, after slaying one especially dangerous god, and rises in heaven at the peak of his faith, influence and happiness.

…and then he finds out about drought and incipient trouble in his own kingdom, and, being a young and righteous god too close to his mortality, eschews heavens and returns to save everybody. it, to put it lightly, does not go well. at all. in fact, it goes catastrophically wrong, and, having lost everything, xie lian ascends again, only to get into a fight with the heavenly emperor, and get banished again, this time for good. he roams the mortal lands for next eight hundred of very lonely, luckless and hard years, technically immortal but not invincible, with his powers and his luck stripped away, and leans to make do, eking out a living as a scrap collector. his temples are desecrated, his name is forgotten, his kingdom is long gone, and - well. so it goes.

so it goes! until one day, to everybody’s great surprise, he ascends once again: a humble, gentle, immune to embarrassment, unflappable man, an embarrassment to heavens, a 'laughingstock of three realms’ who just wants to be left well enough alone. he’s Tired.

instead of rest, he gets sent to investigate a dangerous ghost stealing brides who pass through its mountain, and there, during the course of the interrogation, has his first (he thinks) meeting with a terrifying, old-powerful and vengeful ghost king named hua cheng, who likes to terrorize heavens from time to time. but said ghost king seems to be very benevolent and very interested in helping xie lian, and xie lian is pretty instantly smitten… with knowing what’s the cause of such interest.

…and meanwhile, in the beginning, there'was an unlucky boy, born under the worst stars, whom xie lian saved from falling once, while still mortal, and promptly lost track of. a lot of things happened to this boy, who wanted to be the most devoted worshipper to xie lian the god of the sword and the flower. as one does, you know.

that’s the beginning! from there on: investigations, heavenly secrets, old friends and enemies and acquaintances, thematic parallels, old tragedies, more pining than you can shake a stick at, grand acts of love.

is it good?

it’s very, very good. it’s the first fantasy cnovel i read (aside from the hilarious one about a guy traveling back in his own timeline and becoming a sugar baby to a mafia boss, which was in a very different league), so i don’t know which things are baseline and which things are unique, but it had a very solid foundation: ambitious multilevel, multi-timeline plot coming together in the end both events- and emotions-wise, beautifully iddy main relationship, maybe multifaceted characters who change and grow and clash together in fun ways, a clear and heartfelt understanding of its own core themes.

it’s also, unexpectedly, very funny, in this visual, slapsticky, begs-to-be-adapted way - i found myself laughing out loud over it a lot of times, and it possesses this gift of swerve between understated but earnest emotions and all-out jokes that i associate with… a bit of prattchett and a bit of gintama, honestly. take it as you will.

(oh my god the mecha. i will laugh over this one until i die.)

it also made me cry several times; granted, it’s not like it’s this time, but those were very heartfelt tears.

and the main duo?

first let me say that xie lian was lifted out, wholesale, out of my deepest character preferences. he fell really, really far, and did some bad things, and some very horrible things were done to him, and by the time we meet him he went through everything and achieved this effortless kind of traumatized, humble, accepting, wryly self-deprecating, utterly competent chill that makes a character incredibly appealing to me. he’s kind, and he’s sweet, and he’s gotten any possible embarrassment at least a couple of centuries ago, and he kinda made peace with himself and kinda didn’t. i love him.

and, thankfully for me, hua cheng, the ghost king, loves him a whole damn lot, a ridiculous amount, an epic, over-the-lifetimes, life-shattering amount, and he’s a terrifying presence to everybody else and a shy, protective, sweet dork to xie lian, and every time they’re together on page my entire heart is just. it’s AMAZING. he’s a great combination of playing the obsessive protective yandere stalker-lover trope straight and putting it on its head, by making hua cheng not just revere but respect xie lian, in all his good and bad decisions.

they are just so - good for each other, holy shit. they get each other so well. they’re the best ever power team. i love them.

(the rest of canon is various character reenacting “really? in front of my salad?” meme at them. it’s hysterical, and it’s the best. everybody teams up to tell xie lian that his boyfriend is Problematic way, way before xie lian clues into the fact that he does have a boyfriend, and he’s having none of it. i love it.)

and the themes?

okay, so. roughly half of this novel is ridiculous iddy pining, and a fourth of it is various tropes (off the top of my head: soulbond, sex pollen, body switch, de-age, various shades of identity porn… crossdressing…) played very shamelessly. but it also really benefits from having an overarching set of ethical questions, and while it deals with them a bit shounen-style, it still deals with them, and it makes the whole text fresh, and sweet, and bold.

is it possible to save everybody? should you try to save everybody? if you lack the powers to back your convictions, does it make you complicit? when is it possible to stop the cycle of suffering, what can you do if you want to but can’t? if you tried and people you failed turned on you, whose fault it is, where does the blame stop?

Detailed spoilers begin from here, and i would REALLY advise to stay unspoiled, because the domino reveals are very fun

i loved the various ways the novel sets all those pieces up and then overturns them and then returns to them. xie lian wanted to save everybody and it was arrogant naivete of an untried, untested, privileged young man who never had a real challenge before; his presence made things escalate quicker, and yet everybody around him pretended it was his attempt to make things better that ruined everything, and not a combination of factors outside of his control. and yet he accepts the blame, because it dovetails with his shame at not having enough powers to back his intent up; and yet his triumph over bai wuxian is that he doesn’t, after all, renege on his initial drive to help people.

my most favorite part of this novel is that its turning point, the lynchpin of the whole novel, the moment that keeps xie lian’s soul and safety intact, is not his personal purity and drive; it’s not even hua cheng’s devotion and sacrificial love. it’s just a moment of little, grudging, human kindness from a little, petty, rude man whom the history will sweep away soon. the bamboo hat in the rain. the rest of the plot keeps twisting and turning and coming back to itself, but this? this was unquestionably, beautifully clear, and i loved it. it’s never about the gods, it’s all down to - fallen human is human, ascended human is human, and human is not some state, virtuous or sinful, you get stuck with - it’s a multitude of choices, and there’s never a final one.

and incoherent spoilery screaming for people who read it already

oh my god i had SO MUCH FUN. i’ve been flailing on meme for days, because somebody just finished reading there too, and i’m still bursting with ALL THE FEELS. ruoye origins oh my god! that hat! jin wu’s backstory and ultimate end! e-ming’s praise kink! pei ming’s little shippery 'hoho’! hua cheng’s horribly handwritten stick and poke tattoo of xie lian’s name! the lanteeeeeeeeeeeeerns. feng xin and mu qing on the bridge, making up with each other and with xie lian! hua cheng trying to explain to xie lian that his habit of using himself as bait and pincushion at any given moment is deeply emotionally upsetting to him, and succeeding! banyue’s learning from xie lian to be a truly horrible cook! the entire deal with shi qingxuan and he xuan and the wind fan in the end. THE CAVE. THE GIANT MECHA. aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa and aaaaaaaaaaaaa and aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa and i am beset, beset by feelings. come scream with me.

[geralthastwohands]

The Play’s The Thing

I just wanted to write something with Jaskier using his brain to get them out of a sticky situation with a healthy side of angst and this spawned out oops!! but also hey!!! i finished a fic!! 

***

The mercenaries attack their camp while they sleep.

By the time Jaskier is woken up, Geralt is already being held down on the ground by at least four men. He’s putting up a good fight, but Jaskier can tell the witcher is only so strong. The men were human, but they were well trained.

He has three options. Option one, get on his feet and try to fight back against the mercenaries. There were six men standing around the four holding Geralt down and Jaskier’s always been more of a lover than a fighter, so that was out. Option two, pretend he was still asleep and let Geralt get taken away like a coward. He is many things, but he refuses to be a coward. That leaves option three…

“Oh, thank the gods.” Jaskier breathes out, standing up on shaky legs. All heads snap towards him, including Geralt’s. If he wasn’t committing to this new role, he’d be offended that they seemed to have forgotten about him.

“Who the fuck are you?” One of the mercenaries asks. He’s the only one not wearing a face mask. Most likely the leader.

“I-I’m a bard. Dandelion,” He stutters. Geralt lets out a low growl and Jaskier flinches overdramatically. “The witcher’s had me trapped with him for so long. I knew if I waited long enough someone would rescue me! You, kind sirs, are gifts from destiny.” He knows he’s playing it up, but he needs this to work. He glances towards Geralt and sees the hurt confusion there and hopes they live long enough for him to explain.

“Y’here that, boys? We’re gifts from destiny!” The leader laughs. “Fuck off, bard. We’re taking him for the coin.” The leader shoos him like a fly the little- and gestures for the now bound Geralt to be pulled to his feet.

“He’s seen your face, sir.” One of the men pipes up. “We should kill him.”

“Oh, no, no! You don’t have to do that!” Jaskier quickly interjects. “I could- I could come with you! I’m known for many songs! Drinking songs, love ballads, even the occasional jig, if I’m in the right mood for it. I could be your entertainment, at least until the next town?”

The leader leans his head back and forth, considering it. He turns towards the man who spoke, who shrugs. Jaskier notes how he doesn’t look to anyone else. Most likely the second in command. Good to know for later.

“Alright...Dandelion, did you say your name was?” The leader pauses so Jaskier nods in answer. “We’ll give you a chance to earn your life. Morning is hours off yet. You’ll play while we eat. If we enjoy it, a few of my boys will escort you to the next town.” The leader raises an eyebrow. “Agreed?”

“Anyone here know Fishmonger’s Daughter?” He asks in lieu of a response. The men cheer.

***

Within the hour, the mercenaries have taken over their camp with their own bedrolls and firmly secured Geralt to a tree. The witcher won’t look at him, no matter how many times Jaskiertries to sneakily catch his eye. Even Roach, ever so loyal, turns her head away when he pauses to slip her a carrot.

There’s a stew cooking over the fire and ale being passed around. With Jaskier’s music, it’s a proper celebration of a job well done. The bard wants to snap and swing his lute at the nearest head. Stick to the plan, Jaskier…

“Oi, Dandelion! You know anything about these?” Jaskier looks over to see the second-in-command next to the fire, holding up one of Geralt’s potions. He can't believe his luck. Fuck the plan, this one is better.

“Y-yes, sir!” He fumbles the lute onto his back, playing up the helpless bard once again. “The witcher had me gather the ingredients for some.” He stands awkwardly above them until the second gestures for him to sit. “The one in your hand is a night vision potion called Cat.” He digs through the bag for a second, slipping a small vial inside his sleeve under the cover of the worn leather. He pulls out another harmless one. “This one is for your reflexes, he called it Blizzard.”

“Interesting…” The second mutters, listening intently. “Don’t suppose a human would be able to take them, do you?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He answers, fully knowing Witcher’s potions would kill a full-grown man. Without thinking, he leans a hand on the pot to look closer. The hot metal quickly burns his skin through his sleeve and he lets out a sharp yelp of pain.

“Ryvel! What are you doing to the poor bard over there?!” The leader calls out with a laugh.

“Fuck off, he burned ‘imself!” The second - Ryvel - calls back with a grin. He shakes his head as he tugs Jaskier’s hand closer. “Let me see where it hurts.”

Jaskier freezes at the touch but relaxes when nothing follows beside gentle prodding at the new burn. Ryvel digs through his own pack for a second before coming up with salve and a roll of bandages. They’re both silent as he coats the burn then wraps it with the care of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.

When it’s done, Jaskier flexes his hand. “Thank you.” He whispers. “I didn’t expect…” He trails off, not knowing how to say it without offending the mercenary.

“What happened to us kind sirs being a gift from destiny?” Ryvel teases. Jaskier forces a smile.

“I should go back to playing.” He excuses before standing. “Any requests?”

“Something fun,” is all Ryvel replies.

Jaskier crosses back to where he stood to play earlier. Ryvel’s kindness almost made him feel bad for the deadly amount of White Gull he poured into the stew while burning his arm. Though judging by the fact that every man is without a mask and calling each other by name, they weren’t planning on letting Jaskier go anyway.

He sneaks another glance at Geralt who still refused to look at anything but the ground. Soon, love. You’ll see what’s going on.

***

Dinner is served once the meat is declared cooked through. No one offers him any and Jaskier doesn’t ask. He plays while they eat and doesn’t think he’s ever felt more anxious in his life. He watches every single mercenary as they chew and swallow and take bite after bite. He keeps waiting for someone to say something about the taste or spit it out or call attention to it.

And then the first man drops, suddenly and without warning. Jaskier starts inching towards Geralt. He only has moments before the mercenaries realize their friend has been felled by more than just ale.

The second man drops. Jaskier picks up the pace. Geralt is finally, finally, looking up. He’s got this confused expression and his head is tilted to the side and oh, that would be so cute in a different situation.

The third man drops. All hell breaks loose. Jaskier uses the time they take to sluggishly grab their weapons to throw his lute to the side - Daddy’s sorry, baby, but needs must. - and pull the dagger from his boot. He cuts Geralt free as the fourth and fifth man drop in quick succession.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, before throwing himself at the leader. With the drugs in his system, the man goes down easily. It’s actually almost laughable how effortless it is to simply push the next three mercenaries to the ground and wait for them to die.

Ryvel, now the last of his men, falls to his knees before Geralt can even touch him. His eyes are firmly locked onto Jaskier, mouth open in shock. “You manipulative fucking jester…” He hisses out. His last words before he too meets the ground.

After hours of talk and music, it’s eerie to be met with only silence.

Geralt, with no more mercenaries to take care of, settles on Jaskier. He opens his mouth to say something only to be cut off by the bard launching into nervous ramblings.

“Listen, Geralt, I know what I did wasn’t safe or smart or anything else you’re going to say but what else was I supposed to do? Let you get taken by those brutes?”

“Jaskier.”

“And that wasn’t even my original plan, poisoning them. That was just a lucky mix of circumstances that I got into your potion bag - you should really label those, by the way. We’re lucky I just so happened to pay attention to colors and bottles last time you organized this mess. And another thin-”

“I was going to say thank you.”

The bard stops. “I’m sorry?”

Geralt takes a step forward, tense. “You did well. With the stew. And the...acting.”

Jaskier blinks. “Not as good as that, I hope. You do know I’d never actually betray you, right, Geralt?”

The witcher raises an eyebrow. “Brothers have betrayed brothers for less than their lives.”

“For gods sake, Geralt, I didn’t even tell them my name! What part of that made you think I trusted them? Do you really think so low of me that-” Jaskier cuts himself off. He’s smarter than that. He knows it’s not him that the witcher thinks low of.

The bard takes a step forward and Geralt lets him.  “I could have stayed at Oxenfurt, you know. As a professor. They all loved my classes. I was the hot, young new teacher.”

“Did you accept favors in exchange for good grades, Professor ?” Geralt asks, voice low. Inwardly, Jaskier groans.

“As sexy as that was, you’re not seducing me out of talking about this, Geralt.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier admonishes and slaps him on the chest. “Listen to me, you brute. My point is that I could have had the easiest, boring-est, lavish-est life I wanted. Instead, I chose you. And I will continue to choose you over everything else in this world, including myself. Because you’ll do the same for me.” He says this with such certainty, as if Geralt had never done a single selfish thing in his life.

Geralt swallows, not quite meeting Jaskier’s eyes, and nods. “I would. Do the same, that is.”

The bard smiles, bright and wide, like Geralt just told him that he was personally gifting him the stars. The witcher smiles back, small and quiet, but it means all the same.

“Now that that’s settled,” Jaskier breaks the silence with a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘Let’s find out who hired these men and kill them, hmm?”

[vlindervin7]

I love ure fics, i was thinking maybe a kieu my/fatou one where they're in fatous bed and the cash queens come over, and then idk how it'd go it depends if it's pre/post fatou telling them about kieu my but basically just cute awkwardness from them and not knowing what to do/say and the cash queens realising kieu my isn't the ''ice queen'' they thought she was 🥰🥰

Can u make a fic about Kieu my and Fatou cuddling on their bed and kissing, pure fluff ✨from Kieu my’s pov

Here to say that I loved your kieutou works! Thanks for sharing them with us! Could you write something about the girls still being unsure about the relationship because they don’t know kieu my well and them witnessing how fatou and kieu my are together? It could be after everything is solved between the cashqueens and kieu my (she has apologized to ava for the past) but the girls aren’t still 100% sure of her feelings for fatou and get to see how soft kieu my is for her.

Read on ao3

Fatou is looking at her and the weird thing, the slightly uncomfortable thing, is that Kieu My wants her to keep looking. Her gaze is hot on her, scalding, and it almost burns uncomfortably, but it’s just on the right side of too much, like a hot shower after a winter day. Usually when people look at Kieu My she has the impression of standing on a podium, under bright spotlights, focused on the play she’s putting on. Fatou’s gaze is like a breeze that catches her off guard and caresses her face, makes her shiver, but feel held, too. It’s like she said that one time: Fatou sees right through her. She’s not party Kieu My to her, not popular Kieu My, not the picture perfect pretty princess she pretends to be. She’s just Kieu My, in her purest form. And Fatou loves her for it. She doesn’t even have to try.

She doesn’t have to try.

She doesn’t have the words to describe how incredible that feels. Sometimes it feels like nothing comes naturally to her. Every single thing she does, every person she interacts with, is a challenge she needs to overcome, something she needs to adapt too. But with Fatou… With Fatou the only thing she ever had to actively try to do is staying away from her and not fall too deep. She miserably failed at that, clear by the fact that she’s currently in her bed and in so deep she can’t remember what the outside of it looks like. Effortless.

She’s snapped out of her contemplation when Fatou shifts on her side slightly and reaches out to stroke her cheek softly like summer.

‘What are you thinking about?’, she asks.

Kieu My hesitates for one second, before recalling her freshly made realisation that around Fatou it takes more effort to hold back than to let her in, so she answers truthfully. ‘How easy this is.’

‘This?’ Fatou’s still absentmindedly moving her thumb against Kieu My’s cheek.

Kieu My gestures between the empty space separating their two warm bodies on the bed. ‘This.’

A smile grows on Fatou’s face. ‘Us?’

Kieu My nods once, and moves closer to Fatou on the bed, until her forehead rests against Fatou’s chest and her arm is around her. She can’t remember ever feeling this safe to just let go.

She stays there for a moment, simply breathing. With every passing second she feels her thoughts slow down more and more, until what’s left is a background buzz she can easily ignore for the feeling of Fatou all around her.

After a while, she lifts her head from her chest and looks up at her. Fatou squeezes her tight, before letting go. Kieu My moves upwards until they can look each other in the eye. And now she’s smiling again.

She can’t help but laugh at how happy she is. She feels so calm and somehow it doesn’t really scare her anymore.

Fatou looks at her with a semi questioning look, but most of it is fond like she gets it, so Kieu My simply shakes her head and kisses her. It soon turns a bit more intense than originally planned, but she doesn’t mind and, by the look of things, neither does Fatou.

She’s just starting to really get lost in the feeling of Fatou’s lips on her when a sudden knock on the door shocks her right out of it.

***

When she knocks on the door and then passes her head through the crack in the doorway when there’s no answers, Ava is met with the sight of Fatou and Kieu My quickly sitting up as if suddenly caught doing something private. Ava figures they were in a way, judging by the state of their hair and the sheets, the embarrassed looks they’re sending each other. Especially Kieu My, usually exuding such strong confidence, is looking anywhere but at Ava, possibly in an attempt to hide how flushed she is.

‘Can we come in?’, Ava finally asks, referring to Nora and Mailin standing behind her in the hallway.

Fatou checks her phone and, upon seeing the time, grimaces. ‘Sorry’, she mumbles sheepfully. ‘We lost track of time.’ She looks at Kieu My when she says it, and she seems to relax the slightest bit seeing Fatou’s expression.

‘It’s fine, chibi’, Ava answers. And it is. She knows Fatou doesn’t mean it and wouldn’t deliberately forget about their meeting. Who can blame her really? She’s so in love Ava can feel it radiating off of her.

‘We get it’, Nora says, with a teasing smile, making her way into the room and settling on one of the poofs. Taking on an old lady voice, she continues, ‘I remember being young and in love.’

Fatou lifts her hand to half-heartedly hide behind, says ‘shut up’ and drops it. ‘We lost track of time.’

‘We’d gathered, yeah’, Mailin answers from where she’s now sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Ava, now being the only one still left standing, makes her way to Fatou’s desk and sits down on the chair. She considers the bed for a second, but with Fatou and Kieu My on it, it suddenly feels like it should be just heirs, a small space carved out for them in the midst of the room, their own private island.

She notices Kieu My still hasn’t said anything since the girls walked in and has avoided eye contact beyond the small smile of greeting, but she also notices Fatou’s hand moving closer to Kieu My’s on the bed and Kieu My’s shoulders relaxing when she finds it, like Fatou’s touch is the anchor she needed to pull herself above water.

‘So are we still up for lunch?’Ava asks finally, pointedly glancing at what Fatou’s wearing, obviously still the clothes she slept in, but then she makes sure to catch her eye and smile to make sure she understands that she’s not upset.

She doesn’t think any of the girls mind waiting a bit longer. They’d been so wrapped up in their own worlds lately that they’d failed to take note of how the perpetually bright light in Fatou’s spirit had dimmed over the past few weeks. It’s especially obvious seeing her now, with that sparkle in her eyes and smile that would take more effort to try to suppress than to constantly wear. Her little quips come quicker and more often like when they first became friends, and she’s always been the warmest person Ava’s ever met, but now she seems to point that warmth at herself, too, instead of giving it all away and leaving herself shivering.

Of course!’, she Fatou reassures quickly and loudly, ‘I just uh. Need to get dressed and all that.’

She looks at Kieu My then, just a raise of her eyebrows in question, and Kieu My answers with something between a shrug, grimace and smile. Ava doesn’t speak fluent Kieu My the way Fatou clearly does, but she thinks she can safely say she’s uncomfortable. Ava hadn’t really paid it any mind before, but she suddenly realises she’s never seen Kieu My not dressed up before, bare-faced and bleary-eyed, wearing one of Fatou’s old t-shirts. She looks surprisingly vulnerable, holding herself differently like she’s shed off all her armour. It makes sense, Ava thinks, for her to surrender in the safe presence of Fatou, but she probably wasn’t prepared to forget all defences when it comes to Ava, Mailin and Nora. It almost makes Ava want to look away.

‘The reservation’s at twelve, so we have a little time left’, Nora comments after checking her phone, and Fatou looks away from Kieu My upon hearing her voice.

She hesitates a moment before saying, ‘I’ll be quick’, and making to get out of bed, but Ava stops her. She knows why she hesitated, and while, since Kieu My apologised to Ava and they smoothed everything out, Ava’s completely fine with the idea of her being Fatou’s girlfriend, she admits that she’s still not entirely comfortable around her. She’s never spent much time with her after all, but Fatou’s possibly the person she loves most in this world. She should get to know her girlfriend.

‘Are you coming with, Kieu My?’, she asks then. She’ll start as soon as possible.

‘That would be cool!’, Mailin adds, and Nora is enthusiastically nodding from her place on the pouf. After smiling at Ava gratefully, Fatou turns to Kieu My with her puppy eyes fully turned on, and even before Kieu My gives in Ava already knows she won’t stand a chance.

‘Yeah, sure. Thanks’, Kieu My says, looking at Ava in particular. Ava recognises part of the same sentiment she just felt reflected in Kieu My’s eyes. Maybe they haven’t found much they have in common yet, but they can start building a bond stemming from their shared love for Fatou.

She gets up from the bed, clearly wanting to get dressed as soon as possible. When she does, Fatou falls on her back and stretches out her arms with an angelic smile on her face. ‘Help me up?’

Kieu My fondly rolls her eyes before obliging and pulling her all the way up and out of bed. Fatou drops a kiss on her lips when she’s finally out of bed, and Kieu My flushes but she lets it happen.

‘We’ll be back’, Fatou exclaims, grabbing Kieu My’s hand and pulling her out of the room.

After the door closes behind them, the girls catch each other’s eyes and burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of their friend. Ava ‘s so happy to be back on good terms with them. The few weeks they were fighting was so hard for her, even though she maybe didn’t show it. She truly loves them a lot and to feel so completely misunderstood and taken for granted by the people who are supposed to have her back always is not an experience she’d care to repeat. They all need to do a little better.

It doesn’t take Fatou and Kieu My much time to get back to them, the waiting filled with chatter and laughter. Ava doesn’t mean to listen in on their conversation, but she’s sitting the closest to the door, and as much as tries to block it out, she can’t help but overhear Fatou ask, ‘You feeling okay now?’, standing in front of the door to her room, clearly waiting to make sure Kieu My is comfortable before rejoining the others.

It’s quiet for a moment in which Ava imagines Kieu My is nodding or something similar. Then, in a quiet voice she answers, ‘Yeah. Just felt like I was violently being woken from some perfect dream. I wasn’t prepared.’ She says the last part accompanied by a laugh as if trying to brush it off, but knowing Fatou, she’ll take it seriously.

It’s silent again, for a slightly longer time. Ava tries not to actively imagine what’s happening to give them privacy, but she has an idea anyway. Her brain doesn’t have the same moral compass as she herself does. After a few minutes, Fatou breaks the silence and whatever else that’s going on, ‘Ready now?’

When Kieu My laughs this time, it sounds much more genuine. ‘Ready. Love you.’

‘Love you, too.’

When they enter the room, Ava pretends to shake herself out of something she was reading on her phone. She doesn’t know if she’s convincing, she’s never been much of an actress after all, her emotions right there for everyone to see, but she thinks the girls are too wrapped up in each other to notice, either way.

‘Let’s go?’, she asks enthusiastically, getting up from her chair.

‘Let’s go!’, Fatou cheers, pulling the others into her infectious excitement, holding Kieu My’s hand and smiling blindingly at Ava.

Yeah, inviting Kieu My was definitely a good idea, Ava decides. There’s not many things better than seeing her chibi so completely happy.

[drarryhaven]

@drarrymicrofic Prompt: Masks ( dancing song )

The ministry holds its week-long masked ball. A time where strangers become lovers or lovers become strangers. 

Harry stood at the edge of the dance floor and adjusted his silver mask. It covered most of his face, all but his chin and lips. A young man with blond hair walked up to him. He was wearing a simple black mask, making the strangers silver eyes stand out.

“May I have this dance?” 

Harry nodded, flushing. “Uh-sure. I mean yes.” 

The blond gentleman started in a waltz, pulling Harry gracefully across the floor. Harry didn't know how to dance but this man made it seem effortless. The strength of an arm around his waist and the swift steps made Harry feel at ease and safe. 

“So-” the stranger asked, leaning down slightly to whisper in his ear. “What brings you to this ball?” 

“I was invited by the minister and thought it rude to decline his invitation.” Harry mumbled trying not to stumble on his words as the strangers calm but penetrating silver eyes roamed over his face. 

“I see. Do you get a lot of these invitations then. From the minister?” 

Harry nodded before he was spun. A few turns later Harry was back in the steady arms of the silver eyed man. With steady hands on his waist Harry was lifted slightly in the air, in a graceful jump. 

On his feet again and held closer, the stranger continued, “I take it you do not like balls, parties or any big social gatherings of any kind.”

“I don’t like crowds.” Harry whispered, his eyes never leaving the stranger’s. 

“Neither do I.” He smiled and spun Harry one more time as the song ended. “Until we meet again.” The stranger bowed slightly and turned to walk away. 

“Wait-” Harry called out reaching for the man’s arm. “How will I find you? I don't know your name.” 

“I’ll find you I suppose. Save me a dance.” Then he turned and disappeared into the dancing and whirling of strangers. 

Over the next few nights Harry stood in the same place waiting for his stranger to whisk him into another waltz. Night after night they danced and talked. The stranger always leaving as the clock struck midnight. 

It was the last night when the silver eyed man pulled Harry into an alcove in a long hallway. 

“I want to know you. I hate hiding behind these masks.” The stranger said, voice quiet and calm.

Harry nodded and reached for his mask. Ready to take it off.

“Just promise me something. Remember who I am, who I was this past week. This is who I am. Not some play or lies I have made up.” His silver eyes gentle and passionate. 

Nodding Harry closed his eyes as the stranger gently ran a finger down Harry’s cheek, feather light as if he barely had been touched at all. “At the count of three then.” 

Then the masks came off. Unyielding silver eyes bore into Harry’s wide and eager, bright green eyes. 

“Draco.” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Harry.” Draco responded, voice wavering into an emotion Harry had never heard. “I had hoped-dreamed the moment I saw you. I thought I recognized your eyes-I pretend it was you. I-I didn’t think it was.” Draco was talking fast now, stumbling and stuttering over his words. 

Harry smiled and let out a breath of relief. “It is you. Your eyes made me wonder-I wanted it-longed for it. For a while now.” 

Both leaned in, slowly and gently. Draco’s hands steady and tight on Harry’s waist. Harry gripping the front of Draco’s robes scared of letting go, afraid if he let go he would disappear and this would be some wonderful dream. The sound of the music drifted in, a quiet steady pace, the moonlight casting a glow from the window. The clock struck midnight and Draco’s lips met his own.