#we would get some clear information about her and her motivation and if anything were left

[miryum]

A Green and Silver Ring (Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

Word Count: 10.3k

I know I haven't posted in a long time but I have a plan trust the process. Also, this is me coming out and saying that I love Mattheo Riddle and he's amazing

Warnings: Swearing, bad and manipulative parenting from both Mattheo and reader’s parents, a lot of misogyny (a bit from Mattheo but he gets better by a lot and it’s not that bad), arguments, Tom isn’t Mattheo’s brother and Tom is a creep, arranged marriage, one bed trope, enemies to lovers, greek mythology reference, talk of kids, needing kids to carry on family lines, and kids. Mistress is the feminine term for master (so reader isn’t Mattheo’s side piece when I refer to her as mistress), old timey talk a bit, reader is a bookworm

From the desk of Ginevra

My dearest friend,

My parents have informed me of your engagement. I was ecstatic, yet surprised, when I heard the news. I was of the assumption that your parents were allowing you to choose your husband as your family line is secure in your brother and his wife. Yet, once I learned who your husband-to-be is, I was trepidatious. 

My thoughts are with you, my darling friend, and I pray for you to write to me the moment you get my letter. 

I hate to break the news, but you and your fiancé are the talk of high society. Never before have two such families been intertwined. Even I have had to scold my brothers for their gossip. They seem to forget that our families are close friends. 

I do not ask why your parents have made such a decision. I know they are intelligent adults and surely must have a motive, but I admit that I am blind in that regard. Your engagement seems sudden and unwarranted to me. When questioned, my mother sighed and said I would understand when I grew older. My mother continues to baffle me. I have borne two children and a third on the way! If I am not mature now, I better gain some knowledge quickly. 

Always remember that I am by your side. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you. I am sure Harry will agree. 

I love you, my friend.

Ginny

From the office of Lorenzo

Miss. L/n,

I believe we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m saddened to say that this letter is as formal as we’ll get - at least until your wedding. I am sure you must be taciturn and mercurial as of now. My father has told me much about you and I believe we’ll make excellent friends and confidants in our hectic world. 

You’re to be my new half-sister, aren’t you? My relatives and friends are petulant to meet you. 

Before any rumours (either about myself or your fiancé) hit your ears, I’ll put a rest to them. Bellatrix, your fiancé’s mother, had an affair with my father. They produced me and in return, I have the privilege of being your fiancé’s half-brother. 

Being a bastard child, I’m no stranger to being ostracised and ridiculed. To be blunt, I’m sure that you will be ostracised alongside me and I believe that is one reason we can connect. 

For rumours of my half-brother, I simply say this: do not fear him. He relishes in the consternation he places in other people, yet when he heard he was to marry you, I saw panic in his eyes like no other. It seems the tables have turned. He is hesitant to be wed, but you are not the problem. He simply doesn’t want to have the responsibility of another’s life on his. Your fiancé is used to belittling people - not supporting them as a husband should.

Any questions you have about your fiancé and my half-brother (whom in case I didn’t make clear, are one and the same), refer to me without any qualms. I am eager to meet you and hopefully make your transition into the Riddle family smoother.

I am well aware you have also lived your life in the upper echelons of society. But, as I’m sure you know, there are multiple circles in our complicated community. The L/ns, the Weasleys, and the Potters, for example, have grown their fortunes truthfully and innocently. They have earned the respect of their people and those whom they employ. The Riddles, Blacks, and Berkshires, on the other hand, have climbed the ranks in unconventional means and by skipping a few rungs on the ladder. They thrive and make their living on the terror and duress they cause those under them.

I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Lorenzo Berkshire

P.S. I hope I haven’t scared you off.

From the office of L/n

Daughter,

You’ll be pleased to hear the engagement has gone through. Your mother and I met your fiancé last night. He seems like a nice man. He will be able to provide for you. His family is influential.

We will return home late tomorrow evening. You will depart for Riddle Estate in a week. Begin packing. 

Your father

From the desk of Ginevra

Y/n,

You worry me with your lack of communication. Usually, you can’t wait to gossip with me. We have such fun at dinners and balls, yet with the most important aspect of yourself, you don’t respond. I’m simply worried, my friend. Are you alright? I can envision you curled in your bed, not letting anyone, even your nursemaid, into your room. Please do not let your impending marriage affect your state of health. It will turn out alright. Everyone I know (even me!) had apprehensions about their marriage. And with everyone I know, it turned out alright. 

Misters Sirius and Remus visited Harry and I the day before last. They came to see James and Albus, but I know there was a hidden reason as well. They know of our friendship and came to ask if the rumours are true. As much as my husband adores them, Sirius in particular can be prone to gossip. The pair tittered and tsked when I told them of your fiancé. Sirius wishes to distance himself from his family, and I know he has pre-existing thoughts of the Black family, and by extension, the Riddles.

Sometimes I take a moment to gaze at the family tree upon my drawing room wall. It is full of interconnected lines and squiggles that sometimes, it makes my head hurt! The web of family ties is complicated and if we’re not somehow related already, I know that we will be once your marriage takes place. It seems the Black family spreads its roots into the Weasley family and the Riddle family- the latter of which you’ll soon be synonymous with.

Give yourself some grace. Your fiancé falls far from the tree; I am sure of it.

Please write to me. I need to make sure my closest friend is doing well. 

Best wishes, 

Ginny

P.S. Hermione wishes to inform you that, from what she’s heard, your Mr. Riddle is quite attractive. I have yet to hear any of the rumours  myself, but at least your husband will be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it will make the marriage more bearable. 

***

Mattheo strode leisurely through Riddle Manor. It was one of the many estates his family owned, and it was soon to be officially his. Just as soon as he married the L/n girl.

The manor was spacious, which Mattheo couldn’t help but detest. How was he and a wife supposed to fill this void of empty rooms and dark halls? He knew servants and cooks would move in, but they wouldn’t occupy the dozens of upper rooms that were vacated. 

For a brief moment, Mattheo couldn’t help but envision a set of children running around the halls. One of the children would run up to him, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Mattheo would scoop the child up, grinning, and would carry them to their room. The room would be bright and cheerful, and maybe, just maybe, you would be sitting on a settee, cradling a newborn or helping an older child with their school work.

But for now, the room was dark and uninviting and he had yet to meet his future wife. He had seen a portrait of the L/n family and while they were in lavish, colourful clothing, Mr. and Mrs. L/n seemed cold and stoic - just like his parents. The children, an older son and younger daughter (whom he presumed to be you), seemed kinder and by their body language, Mattheo could tell that the two siblings were close. 

Mattheo slowly made his way down the hall. There were three wings of the manor; two were residential and the other was designed for taking guests. The East Wing - in which he and Miss. L/n would stay - was also fit with an office for him. He was expected to take over half of the family business once he got married. The West Wing would remain empty for now, sans for a large library and the furniture in the bedrooms. 

The boy knew that his bride was to arrive later that day. She would stay at Riddle Estate until the end of the week. Just three short days before they were to be wed in name. Mattheo would move into Riddle Manor tonight, giving servants time to wipe the dust off of tables, shine the silverware, and fluff the pillows. 

Mattheo walked the halls of his new home. His mind was devoid of any thoughts. Perhaps it was simply because he was always numb. Even when he heard of his engagement, Mattheo didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t remember thinking anything. Nothing such as ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!’ or even, ‘I can’t believe mother and father are arranging my marriage! She better be obedient.’ 

No, Mattheo had thought nothing of the sort. He had spent his childhood quietly observing his father and mother, noticing the amount of fear they could inflict on people just by silence. You didn’t have to be loud and dramatic to be powerful. You simply couldn’t be afraid to follow up on your promises - however deadly they were. 

The only question Mattheo had asked when Bellatrix informed him of his engagement was, “and what do we gain from the L/n’s?”

Bellatrix had shot him an callous and apathetic look. “Do not ask questions you needn’t the answers to, boy.” 

Mattheo had glowered, but shut his mouth. 

As he neared the foyer, Mattheo couldn’t help but think how marriage was a component in all aspects of his life. When he got married to the L/n girl, he would inherit a portion of his father’s estates, company, and wealth. Mattheo chucked to himself. Maybe he should’ve gotten married sooner.

***

“Pray tell, why weren’t you here when she arrived?” Bellatrix snarled as she gripped Mattheo’s arm. Her nails dug into his suit as she dragged him towards the drawing room.

“I was busy,” Mattheo replied harshly. Love was not a thing that came instinctively to his family. 

“Doing what? Planning your suidide?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I would march to the Underworld and choke Hades to bring you back.” Mattheo glanced down at his mother, hesitantly surprised. But he knew better than to raise his hopes and dreams. “We need this contract with the L/n’s,” Bellatrix continued and Mattheo’s jaw ticked. Of course. She didn’t love him; she never had. Her son was purely business. He should’ve known better.

“Maybe if you would tell me what the L/n’s provide for us,” Mattheo pulled Bellatrix back before she threw open the door to where you were. “Then I would be more complacent.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You think you’re smart, boy. You think you have everything figured out in that pretty little head of yours. But remember: you’re nothing without the Riddle family name backing you up.” She paused and licked her lips. “But if you must know,” Bellatrix sighed, giving into Mattheo. “The L/n’s just came into some very… lucrative land that we could gain from if you marry Miss. Y/n L/n.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to the drawing room door. After a moment, he asked, “is that her name? Y/n?” 

Bellatrix stared at him, aghast. “You didn’t bother to learn her name?!” She scoffed. “With a son like you…” 

She pushed open the drawing room doors and Mattheo trudged after her, muttering, “at least I know her name now.”

You had been waiting for seven minutes and thirty nine seconds in the drawing room of Riddle Estate, the trackage of time dependent on the old grandfather clock standing ominously in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth continuously as its second hand ticked by. Mrs. Riddle had left seven minutes and thirty nine seconds ago to fetch her son. 

While the room was perfectly clean, not a speck of dust on even the highest chandelier, it was still a cold and morose room, yet oddly epochal. The wood was the darkest mahogany you had ever seen and the lights cast odd shadows on the dark green wallpaper that had inlays of gold.

Your teacup that you were trying to hold steady was filled with a sad excuse for tea. There was a ring of gold around the mouth of the teacup. On the table beside you, a notch that looked as if someone dug a knife into the surface caught your attention. It was the little things like this that you noticed when you had nothing else to do. Your mind was trying to distract you.

The door then swung open and there stood your fiancé, his stare daring you to oppose him.

“Uh,” you stood, your teacup and saucer still in hand. You quickly placed them on the table, right over the knife nick. “Y/n L/n,” you introduced yourself. You bowed your head in an informal curtsy. 

Mattheo’s eyes flickered over your face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he said coldly. His voice was practically velvet. You didn’t mean to look him up and down, but you couldn’t help it. He was to be your husband, after all.

Mattheo’s hair coiled at the end and his eyes were just as dark as his curls. His nose had a scarred cut on it that looked as if it was just beginning to heal. Your fiancés cheekbones were practically sculpted from marble and for a moment, you believed that the gods had simply breathed life into a statue. Did this make you Pygmalion and Mattheo Galatea?

If it weren’t for their lethal eyes and stern posture, perhaps more would be friendly to the Riddles.

Mattheo spoke, “you’re to be my fiancée.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes.” You had the urge to add ‘sir’ at the end, but you bit your tongue. 

Bellatrix hissed something to Mattheo and thrust a small object into his hands. Mattheo rolled his eyes and stalked towards you. “My family ring,” he grumbled. He held out an intricate silver ring with three bands interweaving. A green jewel cut into a thin diamond shape sat steadily in the middle. “It has been in the Riddle family for generations. It’s tradition to pass it down to the wife of the firstborn son. And now that is you…” 

He trailed off and handed the ring to you, it laying flat on his palm. You took it from him, trying to minimise contact with Mattheo. You nodded in thanks and slid it into your ring finger. 

It seemed too concrete to fathom.

Mattheo stared at the ring on your finger. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “My… wife,” he murmured halfheartedly.

***

Three weeks had passed since the wedding and it was as if you had never gotten married in the first place. Yes, it was unsettling to wake up in a bed that wasn’t your own next to a man that you were supposed to call your own. But other than necessary, Mattheo had hardly uttered a word to you.

In the three weeks you had stayed there, you had seen Mattheo a total of twenty eight times, including mornings and nights when you were forced to sleep in the same bed. 

Your mornings, afternoons, and nights were all incredibly boring. You took long meals, pushing your food around. Sometimes you just sat by the window and watched the wind blow bits of grass and dirt past the window. The servants were still extracting the dust between the couch cushions and you tried to stay out of the way, but it only made you feel more isolated.

Mattheo was holed up in his office day in and day out. He had now inherited a large portion of his father’s company and Mattheo was determined to uphold the honour bestowed upon him. He had drafted contracts, sold and bought land, and even hosted a few dinner parties for his associates. 

You detested the dinner parties. Thankfully, Mattheo had yet to invite you to one - hell, he had yet to speak to you about the dinner parties. You had learned of the first dinner party when you had wandered downstairs one late evening because you were thirsty. You had stared at the group of strangers, all dressed in elegance, as they stared back at you in your night clothes. Not saying a word, you had sighed and returned upstairs.

You hadn’t been eager for the marriage, but wouldn't it befit Mattheo to show some affection? Or at least acknowledge your presence?

While you had continuously tried to get your husband to open up to you, his answers had been short and venomous.

It had been a long, monotonous day for you. You had returned to the master bedroom about two hours earlier than you normally would have if you were at home.

With the wealth that you came from, the opulence was sure to be evident, but you had underestimated the Riddle family’s prestige. When Mattheo had first shown you your shared bedroom, you had to allow a flicker of surprise break through your facade. The bedroom was larger than any room in your old home and had a large bed in the middle. The lamps on the bedside table were always dimly lit and the design of the room was the same as the rest of the house - dark and bereft of love and care. 

Your hair had been brushed enough, but you kept brushing simply for something to do while Mattheo finished up in the bathroom. Mattheo walked out of the ensuite with a towel wrapped around his waist. His curls were plastered to his forehead and a bead of water ran down his sternum.

Your eyes flickered to his figure through the mirror, taking in the dips and curves of Mattheo’s muscles as he silently got ready for bed. You tore your gaze away, berating yourself.

You built up your courage and tried to think of a conversation starter. You commented, “my parents wrote to me today.” After no reply from Mattheo, you continued, “they asked me when we would give them grandchildren.” You set your hairbrush down and stared at Mattheo through the mirror, looking for some sort of reaction.

Mattheo hummed noncommittally and put on some sleep pants. He used his towel to begin drying his hair. “It would be behoove us to produce some heirs,” he spoke. His tone was dismissive, as if children were nothing more than an obligation or duty to fulfil.

“Right,” you muttered, knowing that an uninterested reaction was all you were going to get out of him. 

You stood and moved towards the bed. “Goodnight,” you whispered, turning off the bedside lamp and tucking yourself into bed. Mattheo was still putting on his nightclothes and had yet to get into bed.

As you turned off the light and got into bed, Mattheo finished drying himself off and slid into his own pyjamas. He sat down beside you, but didn't bother turning off his own lamp. Instead, he laid against the headboard, reading a book. "Goodnight," he finally mumbled, not even looking at you.

You curled into your blanket. After a moment, you asked quietly, “what book are you reading?”

He looked at you over the top of his book. "None of your business," he replied curtly.

You simply uttered, “okay.” 

Mattheo felt an unwanted and unusual feeling root itself deep in his stomach. He scoffed and said sarcastically, "fine. Go ahead and keep asking questions all night long if it amuses you so." He opened his book again and pretended to read.

A longing and lonely pang resonated in your chest at his harsh words. You didn’t respond and instead turned your face into your pillow. You had known that your marriage was to be loveless, but it still hurt at every unspoken word. Perhaps, if you had been five years younger when you married Mattheo, your spirit would still be alive with the juvenile belief that you could stand up to him.

Mattheo huffed and his gaze turned up to stare at the wall ahead of him. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just leave?” he snapped, not even bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am sure your family would simply love to have you back.” He flipped another page in his book, not even bothering to look at the printed words.

“I never said I was miserable,” you answered quietly, even though Mattheo knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps, though, you believed it to be true. You took a steadying breath, closing your eyes.

Your husband smirked and leaned against the headboard. “What do you call your attitude, then? Why are you so downtrodden and defeated? Surely, you can’t blame me for being frustrated by it.” He knew that he should be taking account of making you feel this way, but he still tried to justify his behaviour. 

“Goodnight,” you reiterated. 

Mattheo sighed dramatically. “Whatever,” he grunted. He closed his book, threw it on the nightstand, and turned off his lamp. The room was encased in darkness except for the dim moonlight coming through the window. He shifted towards the edge of the bed, making sure a noticeable gap was between the two of you. 

He thought back to your conversation. “Why don’t you just leave?” 

It was too late now to apologise.

***

Mattheo let the door swing shut behind him, returning to Riddle Manor after an outing with friends. He glanced around, waiting for a servant to take his coat, but no one answered. An eyebrow cocked, Mattheo slowly walked up the stairs, hearing you instruct the servants on something, every other sentence of yours either containing, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Up on the landing, he found you directing a servant who was pulling a rack of your clothing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your damn mind? Are you trying to send a message or something?” 

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me, so I’m trying to make this marriage as civilised as possible,” you said diplomatically. “I believe that if I move to the West Wing and leave you in the East Wing, it will benefit our marriage.”

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this piteous attempt at attention?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you think it’ll make me want you more?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, grinning incredulously. “You’re delusional if you think that’s even remotely possible.” He stepped closer to you, towering over you with anger in his eyes. “This is not some game, L/n. This is marriage. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.” 

“I’m aware that we’re married, Riddle,” you retorted. “And don’t refer to me by L/n anymore. I am now a Riddle - just like you. However, I am not going to live in a state of constant sorrow and dejection. Having a wing of the mansion to myself may help.” 

Mattheo’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, irritated by your resistance. “Fine,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to come running after you when you decide you want attention. You’re on your own now.” He turned away from you and walked into his now solo bedroom. “Just remember - this is your choice.” 

You felt your anger inflate. “I thought you would like this!” Your voice rose and you tugged a hand through your hair. It was the first time in your marriage that you had fought back. “I have done everything I can to please you, yet nothing is enough for you!” Your voice turned desperate. “What do you want from me?”

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with surprise and disgust on his face. “Dammit, Y/n! Don’t yell at me like that!” His voice thundered, stepping towards you. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask for a wife or for you to try so hard to please me! All of this is ridiculous.” His hand slashed through the air to make a point. “All I want is some space. Space to figure out what the hell I want. But let’s make one thing clear: I don’t care about you.”

“Am I not giving you space?” Your fists clenched at your sides. “I am moving out of the bedroom and out of your way. Yet, you erupt at me and get angry over nothing! You send me mixed messages and I don’t know what to do.”

Mattheo took a breath, trying to regain control over his emotions. “I am not erupting! Lord, you are so sensitive!” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Can’t you listen for once? I am not sending you mixed signals. I am trying to figure out my place in this unorthodox situation we’re in.”

After a beat of silence, you asked firmly, “did you talk about me?” After seeing a flicker of confusion on his face, you clarified, “when you were out with your friends, did you talk about me? Did you rant about how annoying I was? Did you complain about marriage?”

His lips parted before taking a breath. “Yes, I talked about you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I complained about how frustrating I find you and how frustrated I am with my parents for arranging this senseless marriage.”

“What did they say?” you insisted. “Did they sympathise? Did they laugh at me? Did they add fuel to your fire by commenting about how… how ‘needy’ and ‘sensitive’ I am?”

Mattheo made a low sound in his chest and rubbed his temples, frustrated by your persistence. “They agreed with me, yes. A few believed that you are too emotionally attached and sentimental. Others chalked it up to the pains of an average marriage.”

Your anger flared up and you said, “Let me tell you this: I never wanted marriage either. But I at least tried. I tried to be a nice and loving wife and a kind human.” You turned on your heel, marching out of the bedroom and towards the West Wing.

Mattheo watched you go, an unwanted feeling of guilt washing over him. He sighed and walked over to the window. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything so damn complicated?”

For the next couple of weeks, you stayed true to your word. You avoided Mattheo and his office and stayed in your wing of the mansion. After a week or two, you decided to explore the mansion, stumbling upon a magnificent library. You inhaled in veneration when someone cleared their throat. Mattheo stood behind you, raising an brow. After a silence, you said recalcitrantly, “you never told me that Riddle Manor had a library.”

He smirked at your thinly veiled hatred, amused despite himself. “Well, now you know,” he said dryly. “It’s a perk of living in a Riddle household.” He walked over to a bookshelf and began browsing for a book he required for a contract that was being drafting. He showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort at your presence. “You may use it whenever you want. But don’t expect me to join a book club or anything juvenile.”

“I would never dream of it,” you said sarcastically. You step further into the library and can’t help but gape at the vastness. You trailed your fingers over the book spines, breathing in the smell of old books. You crouched down to examine a series of poetry titles. “I can read any of these?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded and leaned against the shelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Feel free to read whatever you would like. They’re here for the entire household. Well, the servants don’t have time to read books, so in a Riddle household, the parents and children use the library the most.” Your hand faltered over the titles. “If you find something that catches your eye, go ahead and take it. I won’t stop you.” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, as if he wished to know what topics and books piqued your interest. You hummed quietly, not fully acknowledging his words. You were already picking up a book and leafing through it. Mattheo watched you for a moment, his eyes softening briefly.

Everyday, you returned to the library. It was an escape from the walls of your room and the walls that Mattheo had put up around his heart.

Eventually, the servants recognised your routine and began to start a fire in the fireplace to keep you warm. They moved a loveseat in front of the fire that you gratefully used. You devoured the poetry collection, including Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, and started on the classics. Every once in a while, Mattheo would come into the library, but he wouldn’t talk. He simply took a book and returned to his study. Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered you lived in the mansion with him. 

Mattheo found himself frequenting the library more often, looking for books he had never needed before. A swell of pride filled him whenever he saw you by the fire, knowing that something in his home brought you such comfort. He still refused to speak to you, maintaining distance and ignoring your existence, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence. 

One day, on a whim, he decided to take a risk and left a stack of his favourite books on the table next to your chair. That afternoon, you found the stack of books. You smiled despite yourself, though you didn't make any comment to Mattheo. You picked up the first book, sat down in the chair, and began to read.

A week later, Mattheo was hosting a dinner party for his associates. He didn’t say a word about it to you, though you heard the servants preparing for it. You decided not to go, opting to stay in your safe haven of the library. 

After an hour or so of faint music, you heard the door to the library squeak open and your head whipped up. You saw one of Mattheo’s friends, Tom, enter and look around. He spotted you and his lips curled up into a smirk. “So you’re the wife we’ve heard so much about?” 

Your stomach clenched and you replied, “I guess so.”

Tom’s smirk grew wider as he took in your terse response, enjoying your obvious discomfort. He approached you with a lecherous gaze in his eyes before asking, “and how do you find life as Mrs. Riddle? Are you enjoying your… arrangement?” His words dripped with sarcasm, not believing for a moment that you and Mattheo were married for love.

You stared at him. “It has its perks,” you said simply.

Tom laughed derisively at your response, not convinced by your nonchalance. “And what are those perks?” he asked, moving closer to you. “Extravagant gifts? Luxurious vacations? Or simply the privilege of being married to such a powerful man?”

You squared your shoulders. “I am powerful without a man,” you said sharply. “I do not need a man to determine my worth and prowess.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? How exactly did you become powerful on your own?” he asked, challenging you. “I find it hard to believe that you could ever achieve anything significant without the backing of a powerful husband behind you.” He leaned in closer, grinning.

You closed your book with a snap. “The L/n family,” you said, talking of your maiden lineage, “has had control over many estates and affairs for decades. Without Mattheo Riddle, I would’ve inherited half of it, second only to my brother. I would’ve had four auspicious companies at my ready disposal, capable of doing most anything. So, yes, sir, I would have been momentous without him.”

Tom’s smirk faded as he recognised your family name. He remained undeterred, however, stating, “that explains why your husband was so eager to marry you. He must see you as a valuable asset to his business empire.”

As you opened your mouth to retort, the door banged open and Mattheo strode into the library.

Mattheo had noticed Tom’s absence from his party, but when it became too long to be excused as a restroom break, Mattheo had asked his brother, Enzo, if he had seen where he had gone. Enzo had smiled a small smile and whispered, “Tom went to the library. Where your darling wife stays hidden.”

Mattheo saw red. 

He barged into the library, a deadly, lethal, and borderline possessive look deep in his eyes. When he saw Tom flanking you, Mattheo’s expression darkened and his hands clenched into a ready fist. “What the hell are you doing here?” Mattheo demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a private wing of my home - not some place for you to bother my wife.” 

Mattheo moved closer to you, placing himself between you and Tom as if to protect you from further harm. 

Tom quickly stepped back and placed a confident demeanour on his face. “I was simply having a conversation with your lovely wife here,” Tom gritted his teeth.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, showing clearly that Tom was lying and intruding. You saw Mattheo’s eyes flicker down to you, his eyes softening reassuringly before snapping back to Tom, malice in his gaze. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Mattheo snapped at Tom. “There’s no need for any sort of interaction or conversation with my wife unless I am present.” Mattheo placed a hand on the top of your chair, his fingers gripping it and his bicep flexing slightly to warn Tom.

Tom’s eyes flicked with something you hadn’t seen before: fear. Fear commonly associated with the Riddle name. He adjusted his collar and straightened his posture. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he said bitterly.

You raised a brow. “I think it’s time for you to go now,” you said, your face stoic. Tom bowed his head slightly before exiting the library. You didn’t look up to meet Mattheo’s eye. You murmured, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it covered.”

Mattheo watched Tom until he completely left the room before turning to look down on you. His voice was threatening, “you may have been able to handle Tom, but I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting or harassing you while you’re under my roof. Consider this a warning - if anyone tries to cross you again, they will regret it.” 

“Perhaps you should tell your coworkers that. Not me,” you replied. 

Mattheo’s expression was cold. “Fine. I will,” he growled. “I will not sit idly by and allow anyone to disrespect my wife.” He let go of your chair and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. As if in a business meeting, he said, “And consider this another warning: if you continue to act so stubbornly, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place in this marriage.”

“My place in this marriage is your wife!” you cried out, finally standing up. “Your equal! Something you seem to forget until it’s convenient for you. Or until another man threatens your… your property! I doubt you see me any differently than this house or your assets.”

Mattheo grabbed onto your arm tightly, pulling you close and leaning down so his face was inches from yours. “Do not ever speak to me like that. You are not my equal - you are my wife and I decide what is best for both of us. If you cannot accept that, then you should reconsider your place in this marriage.” He released your arm and turned away from you, striding towards the door. “I suggest you reflect on your behaviour,” he added icily, leaving the room without looking back.

After he left the library, you let out a scream of frustration. You shoved the pile of books that Mattheo had carefully curated to the floor. They tumbled down, book after book, covers opening and pages bending. Tears pricked at your eyes as you examined the scene. 

You slumped into your chair, the fire in front of your crackling softly, emitting a calming warmth.

Eventually, you fell asleep in the chair, tear stains on your cheeks. In the morning, you woke to the serene morning light filtering into the room - a vast contrast to your mood. The fire had dissolved into crackling embers. Tucked on top of you was a thick blanket and the stack of books that you had pushed over had been re-piled and stood majestically atop the table.

You sighed, knowing you should thank the servants for taking care of you and cleaning up. 

After you walked to the kitchen, your footfalls heavy, you thanked the servants, who were finishing preparing breakfast. They exchanged glances and one piped up, “Ma’am, while we appreciate the sentiment, we didn’t do that. We weren’t aware that you were still in the library. We believed you had retired to bed before the social last night.” They paused and then added, “however, Mr. Riddle didn’t go to bed. He was in his study until morning light.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. You bid them an awkward goodbye before entering the dining hall. 

Mattheo was already seated at the head of the table, his expression exhausted and distant. He didn’t acknowledge you when you approached, focusing instead on the uneaten plate of food in front of him. 

You sat down opposite him and muttered, “the servants informed me that you blanketed me last night and cleaned up the books.” You hesitated and finally said, “thank you.”

Mattheo looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t respond directly. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “You should not be cold and uncomfortable in your own home.” He doesn’t make any effort to engage in conversation beyond that. Something was weighing heavily on his mind and he seemed preoccupied by it.

You hummed in response. Eventually, you stood and whispered to your husband before walking out, “you are not as cold as you want to seem. You needn’t keep the facade up with me.”

Mattheo looked up briefly before returning to his food. His expression relaxed, but he didn’t respond.

***

Later that day, Mattheo sat in his study as he always did. A knock came from the door and he glanced at the clock. It was a bit early for lunch to be delivered, but he announced, “come in.”

The door creaked open and your head peeked into the room. Mattheo’s brows furrowed - not with malice, but with scrutiny. You entered and sat in one of the two seats next to his fireplace. Silently, you cracked open a book you had brought and began to read. 

Mattheo watched you intently, his gaze never wavering as he took in every detail of your face. He tried to find any acrimonious intent behind your actions, but you looked so peaceful. He found himself noticing the details of your face and your beauty as the fire cast warm highlights on your eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked eventually, his voice holding an armour of needed suspicion.

“Reading,” you said simply. 

Mattheo frowned, not convinced by your answer. Why would you read in his study after the way he had been treating you? He leaned back in his chair, his work forgotten. “Isn’t there something more important that you could be occupying your time with?” he challenged.

“Not particularly,” you responded. “You’re in charge of the companies and estates. I have nothing to do. I thought I would accompany you. You must get lonely in a study by yourself.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “But don’t think I will stop working simply because my wife is here.” His posture grew taut as he began looking over documents again. “This is still my office and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I’m simply reading,” you murmured, a smile inching its way up your lips.

Henceforth, a routine was established. Every morning, you would knock on Mattheo’s study door, usually an hour or so after he began working. There was rarely conversation, the silence being broken by Mattheo’s scratch of a quill or you turning pages, occasionally being disrupted by the loud crack of a log in the fire.

One day, you had finished your book (it was an excellent book, one from the pile Mattheo had recommended) and stood to go retrieve another one. At the sound of your footsteps leaving his office, Mattheo’s head darted up and he suddenly asked, “where are you going?” 

You paused and turned back to him. “I’m to get a new book. Unfortunately, as wonderful as this one was, it had an ending like all books do.”

Mattheo frowned and a hint of vulnerability broke through his exterior. “Get a servant to do it,” he offered. 

“Well, I don’t know which one I want,” you counted, raising a brow in a smirk.

He huffed and shook his head, returning his eyes to his documents. He grumbled, “I will commission the servants to build you a small bookshelf for my office. You can keep your books there.” You stood, watching him for a moment, admiring him until his gaze snapped up. “Well, go get your book,” he said sharply. “… but hurry back,” he added in a mumble. 

You finally smiled at him before exiting and Mattheo gazed at the place you once stood, trying to memorise how your lips curled up and your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

He rather liked it when you smiled.

***

“Are you alright?”

You sniffed and laughed. “Yes, yes. I’m being foolish.” You wiped some tears from your eyes. “My book is very good.”

Mattheo chuckled lowly. “And what made you cry, hm?”

“A daughter and father interaction,” you replied quietly. 

“Was the father cruel to the daughter?” Mattheo laughed tersely, shaking his head at his documents. “Are your feelings not strong enough to withstand their wrath?”

You frowned at Mattheo, setting the book down. “No,” you corrected slowly. “The father was being kind to his daughter. He was supporting her and loving her; as a father should.” There was a pause as Mattheo looked up at you. “I know that the Riddles are a harsher family - I’ve known ever since I knew I was to marry you. But… but are you alright?” 

You felt absurd asking the question. Yet, when Mattheo couldn’t meet your eye, a wistful sadness blanketing the room, you felt as if you should’ve asked the simple question weeks earlier.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then Mattheo turned in his chair so his back was facing you. "I'm fine," he finally answered, his voice rough and strained. "I am used to dealing with it, I suppose." Despite his insistence that he didn't need anyone's pity or concern, your words seem to have affected him more deeply than he wanted to admit. 

“May I ask a question?” you asked softly.

Mattheo hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes never leaving the window as he spoke. "Ask away," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He then cleared his throat and said, "but I won’t give a warm and fuzzy answer." 

There was a pregnant pause in the air as you gathered your courage up and suddenly thrust your fears upon your husband. “If we ever have children, which we’re somewhat expected to,” you added hurriedly. “I don’t want them to grow up in a household where they feel as if they have to vie for love or attention. And I don’t want me to be the only one giving them attention.” Mattheo turned his head so his face was angled toward you, but his eyes could still stray to the window if need be. “If we have kids, can you promise that you’ll love them? Even if you don’t love me?” 

Even though your voice was steady, Mattheo knew of the vulnerability deeply rooted within you.

He nodded cautiously, his expression serious. "I promise," he said firmly. "I may not love you, but I will love our children unconditionally. They will never have to compete for my affection or feel neglected. I may not be a fond father, but I will provide for them and protect them as best I can." A protectiveness filled his veins just at the thought of something happening to his future children. 

You nodded once, a sad smile on your face. “Perhaps we’ll have a big family. Enough children to start a sports team.” You smiled at the thought, laughing lightly.

Mattheo smiled, despite himself, imagining a large brood of children running around the manor. It was an oddly appealing idea, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. "I'd rather have lots of sons; they'll carry on the family name and ensure my legacy continues." He turned back around and attempted to focus on his work.

“And daughters too.” You frowned, staring at your husband, even if he wouldn’t spare you a glance. “Daughters can carry on the family name just as well as sons.” A muscle in your jaw ticked.

Mattheo scowled at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why hadn’t you just fallen into line? "Fine, daughters too," he reluctantly agrees. "But make no mistake, they will be raised to be strong and capable like their brothers. The Riddle name demands nothing less." 

“And the sons can be soft and caring and sensitive,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have to vie for affection. I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have needless competition in their life. I don’t want them to grow up… like, well… you.” You finally uttered the words that had been hanging off your tongue dangerously. 

Mattheo’s expression hardened as he clenched his fist tightly. "Fine!" he snapped. "They can be whatever the hell you want them to be! But don't expect me to sit back and watch while they become weaklings and failures. We need to teach them to be strong and ruthless like I am." He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process.

You jump up after him, crossing towards him. You whirled to a stop in front of him, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “Listen here, Riddle. Just because someone is kind and vulnerable doesn’t mean they’re weak!” You growled, “and just because you grew up like that, does not mean that’s the type of household I am going to have.”

Mattheo stepped forward and his hand flew up to grip your wrist. His eyes blazed with anger, but then something changed in his expression and he took a step back, looking surprised at his own reaction. "You're right," he admitted begrudgingly. "I shouldn't have assumed that being vulnerable meant being weak." He ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed, yet resolute in his decision. "But don't expect me to be a pushover either. I'll still teach them to be strong and independent."

“Strong and independent are good qualities,” you conceded. “Both for the boys and girls.”

"Agreed," he said. Mattheo straightened his cuffs and cleared his throat. "Our children will be taught to be strong and independent, regardless of gender. They will know that they are loved and valued by both of us, equally." He held out his hand to you, indicating that the argument was over - for now at least. "Deal?" 

“Deal.” You shook his hand defiantly. It was a business deal, but a good deal at least.

Mattheo exhaled and brushed past you. “I’m to a meeting,” he informed you. It was a simple comment , one that was an offhand remark, but to you, Mattheo had just let you into his life. It was something he had never done before. Even if it was just a response to where he was off to, it was a window into his life. A life that now may have enough room to hold you. 

Mattheo paused when he reached the door. “I never knew the way I grew up was wrong until I saw other families. I saw the parents bending down to listen to their children instead of hushing them. I saw parents comforting their children after scraped knees, not pushing them to the kitchen for some rubbing alcohol. I saw parents beaming when their child could plunk out the simplest of tunes on the piano. No one else got berated for being out of rhythm or playing a D instead of an E. I never saw another child get slapped by their parents or scolded as harshly as I was. It was around then I realised that something was wrong. But what was I to do about it?”

Words dried in your throat. You wanted to cry at his words, but you felt dried out. How could someone treat their child like that? It explained so much… 

Your husband was a fragile man, you were just realising. And he was trying to pick up the pieces and present them to you in the only way he knew how. 

"The stars remind me of you,” he said quietly, the change in conversation sudden. “I mean that in the best possible way.” His voice was the softest and most tender as you had ever heard it. You hoped he would keep speaking the melodies that made your heart sing in tune. 

“How so?” you asked, afraid to break the plane of existence that you and Mattheo were carefully standing on.

"They are so beautiful, yet so far away. I may see them, but I can never touch them."

***

The servants didn’t know what to do. The master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, seemed to be at a ceasefire. The cooks lamented at how they had seemed to be doing so well. The maids thought they were destined to doom from the start. The butlers gossiped about Mr. Riddle’s letters to a Mr. Tom, terminating their long-term partnership. The scullery maid still had hope that the husband and wife would come to their senses and live a happy life.

It perplexed the servants when the mistress requested to move her belongings back into the master bedroom and the master looked on, a soft smile on his lips. It confused the servants when the Mr and Mrs began taking meals together and talking in hushed tones late into the night. And it bamboozled the servants when, one summer afternoon, the Lord of the household stood from his desk, cautiously moved to his Lady that was reading by the open window, and asked her to accompany him on a walk. She had accepted. 

There was to be a dinner party, this time hosted at Mr. Draco Malfoy’s manor, that Mr. Riddle was expected to attend. Per usual, the master didn’t invite the mistress, but she was content to stay home. A maid briefly heard the madam whisper to her husband, “hurry home, please? I don’t like it when you’re away.” The maid had scurried away before she could hear the reply.

Mattheo returned home that night, just before the sun was setting. He climbed the steps, unbuttoning his cuffs and loosening his tie. The soft glow of light was still shining under your shared bedroom - something he still hadn’t gotten used to - and Mattheo couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you still up?” he asked quietly when he entered the room.

“You promised to be home early and I wanted to see you before I go to bed,” you reminded him, a small book in your hands.

“Right, right.” Mattheo chuckled and shook his head, slinging off his tie and jacket.

“How was the dinner?”

Mattheo hummed noncommittally. “Not the worst. A couple of my good friends, Theo and Pansy, were there to help alleviate the pain of socialising. But… I found something odd happening.”

“And what was that, husband?” Mattheo took a moment to relish in the way that word curled off your tongue effortlessly.

“I found myself wishing you were there. Nay,” he quickly corrected himself. “I wished I was here with you.”

“Oh?” Your eyes flickered up towards Mattheo, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. “Why… what do you mean by that?”

Mattheo began to unbutton his shirt and moved towards his closet. “Well,” he admitted, mumbling to himself. “I simply mean that instead of having to socialise with people who are too tightly wound and whose only intent is to take my money,” he chucked his belt into his closet and rolled up his sleeves, “I would rather be at home with my darling wife.”

A smile inched up your lips. “Really? Tell me more about this darling wife of yours.”

Mattheo hummed, stepping towards the bed. He crawled down on the bed, leaning on his forearms to lean up towards you. “My wife… I’ve come to care deeply about her. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, one who has a fiery tongue about her and an intelligent brain that even I cannot rival. She always seems to get her way, even when I try to fight back. It’s as if my wife has a command over me that I have willingly submitted to. And I am not ashamed to say so.” He lightly caressed your arm, sending a trail of goosebumps up your skin. 

“You must be careful, Mattheo,” you uttered. “That sounds an awful lot like love.” 

Mattheo brought his eyes up to meet yours, the sting of tears building up behind them. His voice cracked as he said, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name, Y/n.”

Your lips parted in shock. “I- I didn’t realise. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Mattheo demanded before reaching up to pull you into a kiss. 

His lips were soft and meaningful against yours, hungrily trying to gather every ounce of love from you. His kisses were feverish at first, his strong hand coming up to cup your jawline, his fingers just teasing behind your ear, before his lips slowed. Mattheo was a starved man and he wouldn’t let anyone take away his only solace. He shifted so he could be closer to you, gently taking the book from your hands as you surrendered yourself to him. Your hands found his silk shirt, gripping it in your fists. He placed the book on the nightstand and moved so he was hovering over you, never once letting a second go by without feeling your skin against his. 

Mattheo slowly, achingly pulled away from you and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. “My darling, my love, my life,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your cheek. “I apologise for everything I have ever done or said that made you feel inferior. I would be happy to kneel for you in front of my associates and family members - just to show them how much power you have over me.” He took a breath before persisting, “I was foolish. I was incompetent. I didn’t realise how much love I held for you. It is, and always will be, only you. I will promise you this: you will be the only woman I ever touch, the only voice I ever want to hear, the only skin I will ever caress, and the only eyes I ever want to see. I will wake and fall, every morning and night, thinking of you. You are the other half of my heart, for it is you who I love. I will place the galaxies and stars in the night sky for you. If you are ever unhappy, my love, I will not rest until I see you smile again. If you are ever mad, my love, I shall smite whatever upsets you, even if it is I. And I would die a happy man if you could give me only an ounce of what I give you.”

Your breath shook and you swore Mattheo had injected ambrosia into your veins for you were sure your blood was singing with the love that was filling your soul. “I wrote a letter to your mother today,” you offered quietly, as if your mere words could ever compare to the love poem Mattheo had just gifted to you. “And I thanked her.” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with confusion. You continued, “I thanked her for birthing such a wonderful husband and for raising him. I know you u wish to renounce your family, but as of now, I want to thank them with all my heart. Mattheo, I love you.”

“And I you,” Mattheo whispered, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. His nose bumped against your cheek and he couldn’t contain his grin anymore. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he mumbled.

You laughed lightly. “Luck? Fate?”

Mattheo shook his head and his nose brushed light curves over your skin. “No, my wife. Simply love. Pure, unconditional love.”

***

The house was bright, the curtains pulled as far open as they could be. Some servants scuttled around, holding laundry or preparing for dinner. Meanwhile, Mattheo strode leisurely through the halls, smiling lovingly as his nephews chased each other through the halls. “What do I say, boys?” he called after them.

“Have fun, be safe, and don’t get caught!” they yelled back before running around a corner.

Enzo jogged after them and grumbled to Mattheo, “it’s not your duty to rule them up.”

“As their favourite uncle, yes, it is.”

“Your wife is in Andromeda’s room,” Enzo told his brother before sprinting off after his sons. Enzo wasn’t usually at Riddle Manor, but today was a special day. It was Orion’s birthday.

Mattheo chuckled to himself before Orion raced up the steps, panting. “Papa! Papa!” 

Mattheo grinned widely and scooped Orion up. “Are you alright, hm? What’ve you been up to?”

“Aunt Pansy’s carriage just pulled up!” Orion bounced in Mattheo’s arms, beaming.

“And you’re not even dressed,” Mattheo stared at Orion, pretending to be stunned. “Where’s your mother, Ori?”

“She’s helping Andy get dressed,” Orion announced. Mattheo nodded and carried his son to his daughter’s room. “Mum!” Orion cried out, seeing Y/n standing behind Andromeda, knotting her hair into a braid. 

“Oh, my darling,” Y/n tied Andy’s hair up before crossing to Mattheo and taking Orion from his arms. “Are you excited for your birthday?”

Orion hummed excitedly and wiggled down from Y/n’s arms. He darted to Andromeda and wrapped himself around her in a tight hug. Andromeda grumbled, but allowed him to cling to her as she finished her hair and rouge.

Mattheo took Y/n’s hand and pulled her back toward him, nudging his nose against hers. “Look at that,” he murmured, reaching down to play with the silver and green ring on your finger. “Mine.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from your children, he backed you up and caged you against the wall in his arms. “Seven years with you and two beautiful children to show for it.”

“Hey, mum? Where’s my- eugh!” Andromeda turned around and reeled back from the scene in front of her. “For the love of Salazar, please get a room!”

“We are in a room.” Mattheo smirked, glancing up from the crook of your neck. 

“Aren’t you two, if I'm doing my calculations correctly, nearing thirty years old?” Andromeda tsked and rolled her eyes. 

“You believe that simply because we’re getting older, I’m going to stop loving your mother?”  Mattheo chuckled before pressing a light kiss to your jawline. 

You shivered and tucked your face into your husband’s chest. “Matty, spare the poor children,” you chastised lightly. “What do you need, darling?” you turned towards Andromeda.

“You used to call me that,” Mattheo whined. He stepped back from you, letting you out of his embrace.

Andromeda sighed and asked, “where is my white shawl? It’ll go well with the dress I’m planning to wear to Orion’s party.”

“Why does it matter what you wear to Orion’s party?” Mattheo asked, puzzled. 

“Because Albus Potter is going to be here,” you said as if it were obvious.

“Harry Potter’s son?” Mattheo asked incredulously. “That scumbag?”

Both you and Andromeda ignored Mattheo and Orion left the room at the sound of Aunt Pansy entering the foyer and shouting out for her favourite nephew.

“Your shawl should be in the library,” you answered. “Ori was using it as a blanket yesterday.”

Andromeda sighed and turned towards the door. “He needs to stop taking my things. Just last week he stole my candelabra so he could read in the dark. Perhaps you should accelerate his schooling. He’s getting bored, you know.”

“We’ll raise our own son, thank you, Andromeda,” Mattheo raised a brow. Andy huffed and and flicked her dress out behind her dramatically, exiting the room. Mattheo turned to you and said, “they get that from you. The love of reading.”

“Yes, but they get their flair for the dramatics from you. And lest us not forget, you keep fuelling our love of literature by buying more books and expanding our library,” you countered.

Mattheo hummed. “‘Tis true. But how could I live without spoiling my wife and children?” He whirled you around in his arms and pressed a long kiss to your lips. “Speaking of children, what would you think of expanding our family?”

You let out a laugh. “You simply like the act of making a bigger family.”

“I love my children too,” Mattheo defended.

You reached up and brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Yes you do,” you smiled up at him. “You love your family very much.”

“Always.”

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #reader #x reader #tom riddle #ginny weasley #harry potter #lorenzo berkshire #bellatrix lestrange #hermione granger #pansy parkinson #shes a great aunt #draco malfoy #sirius black #remus lupin #blaise zabini #theodore nott #albus severus potter #arranged marriage #one bed trope #enemies to lovers #greek mythology #victorian au #manipulative parents #Tom isn't Mattheo's brother #hope yall like

[alienwithaguitar]

Shelby said a lot during her stream, teetering from honorable to downright strange, and I want to address some of the issues. Before I say anything, I am still supportive of Shelby’s story, but this stream revealed a lot to me. I especially push Shelby supporters to read this, as this stream pushed MANY people I know to a neutral stance.

Shelby claimed having a depressive disorder just involved "feeling depressed", which is a harmful misconception that minimizes our struggles. Depression is more than feeling sad, and is categorized as being "different from regular mood changes and feelings about everyday life." It can involve constant hopelessness, angry outbursts, loss of motivation in most activities, and can lead to fluctuating weights, suicidal ideations, and self-sabotaging. To say "we all feel a little depressed sometimes" is to dismiss the lifelong struggles people with depression go through.

Shelby also implies that people with mental illness cannot change, and that recovery is not possible if your depression has hurt others. Not only is that an incredibly harmful idea to spread, it's blatantly incorrect. Just as habits and thoughts are trained throughout your life, they can also be untrained. There is genuine psychological basis in this, and to say that recovery is impossible is scientifically false. Personalities shift our entire lives, and changes in our physical and mental environments help us train new habits. This is part of the reason we try forming better schedules in new environments, and why a consistently stressful environment can bloom negative habits.

People don't chose to have mental illness, and if you're never taught to handle it, it can be extremely easy to hurt others. The most powerful tool to recovery is believing you can be better, and Shelby telling people to not even try is just enabling self-destructive people to hurt others for the rest of their lives. Change is a long process, but it's absolutely possible- Something as simple as a disruption in your life, a wake up call, and a drive to be a better person are the first steps to kickstarting change.

Shelby’s claims are very strange considering the rest of the stream. Earlier, she went on a rant about content creator’s influence on teenagers. She acknowledged teenagers are impressionable, and that it’s important to take care of those looking up to you. She recognized her fanbase was mainly teenagers, many of whom struggle from mental illness. It feels backwards to emphasize being a good role model before telling thousands of kids that their mental illness makes them a bad person. Her statement was about treating people with kindness no matter what, but she couldn’t keep that energy for people with depression.

Shelby herself was able to find help in therapy, so to deny that others should seek help feels selfish. She also confirmed on stream that she's seen the informative resources people sent her, and that she has ignored them. I can excuse the stereotyping if she's willing to be educated, but she's made it clear she believes she’s right. This is one thing I cannot defend, and I can't forgive her for slandering myself and thousands of struggling teens’ progress to their faces.

One final thing Shelby mentioned was that we should wait for evidence, and it's alright to feel doubtful. I want to revisit her statement with the current evidence we have, that I will take with a grain of salt by her own request. With the proof we have, nothing that Shelby claims comes across as abusive outside of the biting.

Shelby said she would get locked in his house at times. UK houses need a key to unlock the inside, and Wilbur likely only had one. While at his house, Shelby had access to her phone, and there were ways she could communicate with him or call for help if this was a problem. We have no evidence to claim that he trapped her. Shelby also stated her family never met Wilbur, because she had to travel to meet him. It wouldn't be unreasonable to stay in his house for an extended amount of time, and that was entirely her choice. She certainly might have felt neglected, but to claim that it was entrapment is baseless.

Wilbur was also busy with tours, absent nearly 200 days of the year. Feeling lonely makes sense, but raising that as abusive and holding it against him is ridiculous. As a famous musician, Wilbur has obligations that he legally can't drop. This was something she needed to be aware of when pursuing a relationship with him. She's allowed to wish things were different, but genuinely expecting him to abandon his lifelong passion is more than a little strange. This doesn't detract from her feelings, but to hold his legal obligations over his head when she should’ve known he'd be busy is unreasonable.

Shelby has also made a point of publicly shaming his hygiene. The inability to care for yourself and your space is a common symptom of depression. It was kind of her to clean, but her words imply she thinks he's just lazy. She explicitly notes that Wilbur didn’t expect her to clean, but that he waited for her to clean. This is weird to specify, as people with depression typically don't make plans to clean for long periods of time. She likely just assumed his inaction was a sign for her to do it, rather than something he struggled with and had no plans to do anyway. I don't think she was right for shaming his depressive habits, and I don't think he was right for dismissing her help. However, the comments he made about her cleaning very strongly imply that he never had plans to clean either way. This just reads as a choice to help out, not expectation or pressure.

Based on the evidence we have now, the points Shelby made just come across as her dating a mentally ill man and not being prepared for the challenges that come with that. Her family never met him, and he was very busy, so there wasn’t much outside opinion she could get. It's reasonable for her to feel neglected, but that doesn't necessarily mean it was intentional harm. It's important for both parties to get help, to communicate what happened and talk about their feelings. Wilbur stated he was committed to talking with her and addressing her concerns, while Shelby blocked him and refused to communicate, despite telling him she wanted to remain friends. All she's done since is reject his apology (even though he made a statement, not an apology, for legal reasons) and ignore his requests to speak. This avoidance to communicate is likely why the lines of consent and expectation were blurred in their relationship, as they've both expressed an inability to communicate.

This was not written to discredit Shelby's experience, I do believe she has trauma. However, you can absolutely be traumatized by relationships that weren't necessarily abusive. I've experienced years of PTSD from completely fabricated nightmares, and have trauma from repeated hallucinations of my ex. She’s not lying about her feelings- But between the contradictions, refusing to talk with Wilbur about an apology, and the insistence to "communicate” despite the fact that she blocked him, I can't support Shelby's actions.

I will always fight to uplift victims, and I am sympathetic of her story, but I can't defend someone who makes no effort to communicate or educate herself before speaking. Until either of them presents something that is beyond "he said, she said" I will remain neutral. I think they both deserve a chance to change and talk about this privately, and I will be waiting for a better response in the mean time. There was clearly miscommunication, and this was brought to us prematurely (shown by her contradicting statements.) I urge you all to look at the evidence and hopefully come to a similar conclusion. You can feel for someone's experiences and sympathize with their mental state without endorsing them. Stay safe, be kind, and don't jump to any conclusions. 🤍

#wilbur #wilbursoot #wilbur soot #not a wilbur defense post #but its still important to consider #shelby #shubble #shelby shubble #wilbur support squad #shubble support squad #shelby support squad

[ctitan98official]

Human RE8 au: Miranda and Y/N are the parents of the four lords

I had an idea for an au where Miranda and Y/N are married and the lords are their kiddos. Alcina and Karl are fraternal twins and they’re 6, Sal is 4, and Miranda gets pregnant with Donna. Just fluffy family head canons. Oh, and Angie is their little dog! Reader, as usual, is gender neutral. Let’s get into it!

Life in your household is lively, that’s for sure. You hadn’t ever considered the possibility of kids before you met Miranda, but… You’d do anything for her.

After you two had gotten married, she talked endlessly about wanting to have a baby. She would get a far off dreamy look in her eyes as she imagined it. She had always wanted to be a mother. You eventually really warm up to the idea.

During Miranda’s first pregnancy, she was overjoyed to find out she was having twins.

You fainted during the ultrasound… But you were happy too.

Alcina and Karl were so tiny when they were born. However, they both grew to have big personalities. They don’t get along all of the time. While they love each other dearly, they just know how to push the other sibling’s buttons so well. Actually, your dog Angie can usually end their squabbles. A few licks on the face of each twin gets them to laugh and put aside their differences.

Alcina is your little princess. She loves to make you have tea parties with her.

Karl is your little buddy. He follows you around as you fix things around the house. He asks lots of questions too.

Sal was your third child. He’s quieter than his two older siblings, but he is brilliant. Even as a newborn, he instinctively opened his eyes and grabbed your finger when you held him for the first time. You joked that he was probably going to be a doctor or something when he grew up.

Sal loves to be read to… Mostly by Miranda, though. He is a mama’s boy, to be honest. However, you two love to watch movies together. That’s your favorite shared activity.

You and Miranda still make time for date nights. It’s nice to spend some quality time together away from the kids.

However, Miranda seems to have an ulterior motive on one particular date night.

You two are enjoying dinner together when Miranda suddenly becomes quiet as she thinks about something.

You quirk an eyebrow at this. “Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. L/N?” You joke.

Miranda’s face erupts in a blush. She clears her throat, nervous about something. “Y/N? I… I know how happy we are now.” She begins. “It’s just… Hear me out.” She says, holding her hands up in a placating gesture.

You swallow hard. What is she about to say?

“Um… I want to… Have another baby.” She admits.

Your eyes go wide. “What?” You ask softly.

Miranda reaches out to gently grab your hands. “I… Just think that our family isn’t fully complete yet.” She tells you. “I love you and the little ones so much. Another baby would add even more love to our lives.” She explains. “I… Just really want this.” She pleads.

Miranda’s request is so sweet. She’s already an amazing mom. You are silent for a moment as you process this information. Four kids… That’s a lot of responsibility.

Miranda feels like her heart is going to beat out of her chest as she waits for you to say something.

However, you finally realize that you wouldn’t mind another baby either. You breathe out deeply and squeeze Miranda’s hands. “If that’s what you want.” You offer.

Miranda gasps in happiness at your answer. Her eyes well up with tears as she leans over to kiss you. “I love you so much, draga mea.” She says as she pulls away.

You smile. “I love you, Miranda.” You tell her.

Miranda glances around to make sure no one is near before she once again leans over the table. This time, though, she whispers something in your ear. “What do you say we go home, put the children to bed, and have a little fun?” She suggests.

You quickly nod your head and desperately flag down a waiter so you can pay the bill.

Miranda giggles at how eager you are.

Needles to say, you and Miranda had a very (Re)productive night. (A/N: Haha! XD)

It doesn’t take long for Miranda to conceive. She decides to keep it a secret for a bit just to make sure nothing bad happens. She actually did that with the first two pregnancies as well, but you never realized. While Miranda is just hoping for a healthy pregnancy… She can’t help but be tickled at the idea of having another girl. Alcina would be thrilled.

Weirdly enough, while Angie is affectionate with everyone in the family, she has been glued to Miranda’s side ever since she found out she was pregnant. She whines or barks if she is away from Miranda for too long.

Miranda doesn’t mind. Running her fingers through Angie’s coat is calming.

Once Miranda has decided that she is comfortable telling you the news, she cuddles with you on the couch as you two watch a show… And just blurts it out during a commercial.

“Y/N? Could you pass the popcorn? Also, I’m pregnant.” She says in literally the same breath.

You nod. “Sure.” You say. But your eyes get wide when you finally comprehend what she just said. “Wha- For real?!” You ask her, excited.

Miranda grins. She reaches out to cup your face and gently kisses you. “Yes, my love.” She says happily.

“Holy shit!” You yell, elated.

Miranda quickly claps her hand over your mouth and shushes you. “Shh, Y/N! The kids are in the other room!” She whispers at you.

“Ha! Y/N said a bad word!” You hear Karl announce to Sal and Alcina. The three of them start laughing immediately.

Miranda sighs and puts her hand on her forehead.

“Which one did they say this time?” You hear Sal ask innocently.

You start chuckling.

Miranda growls and pops your shoulder. “So, you’ve been teaching my children your dirty vocabulary, have you?” She asks sourly.

“Ow! No! They must have just heard wrong!” You defend yourself.

Karl doesn’t make anything better. “Well, last time they said fuck, but this time they said shit!” Karl relays. His two siblings absolutely lose their minds at this.

Miranda scoffs. “Unbelievable.” She says, shaking her head. She stands up and promptly walks out of the room, Angie hot on her heels.

“Hey, babe, wait!” You call out.

Miranda’s had enough foolishness for one day… You end up sleeping on the couch that night. Miranda can’t stand cursing.

Note: Angie and Donna were meant to be together from the very start T^T Also, I don’t know which of the four lords is canonically older than who, but from some of the information we get from the game I think Donna might have gotten the cadou last.

Masterlist

#re8 #re8 village #re8 shitpost #re8 incorrect quotes #mother miranda #mother miranda x reader #mother miranda x y/n #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #karl heisenberg #salvatore moreau #donna beneviento #angie beneviento

[writers-vlogx]

Hi can I request a Rafa x reader? Where reader was kidnap by Rafa because he loves her in he's own twisted way and reader was able to escape but got in an accident where they hit their pretty hard and when reader wakes up reader doesn't remember anything in their life like amnesia and Rafa taking advantage of it in the end.

He had tried so hard to get you to love him, tried to make you understand and even after all that you didn't want him

Why? Please tell him why? Can't you see he's trying so hard to show you he's perfect for you, with him you would never wish for anything again.

So imagine the panic that set within him when he found the window to your room wide open and you no where to be found.

You didn't know how long you had been there, but it was definitely long enough to make your legs weak. You weren't used to running this far, especially when you didn't even know in what direction to go or where the hell you were at. Thankfully the adrenaline helped you stay alert and on your feet. There was no clear sign that showed you where you were and anywhere you looked everything looked the same. Trees everywhere, it was no use trying to find a difference so you turned in the first direction you faced and just kept running straight ahead

Meanwhile, Rafael was running out of the house, and anyone within a meter of him could tell he was fuming, angry, and yelling at the sky. He had grabbed his keys on the way out and started the car, rafa knew you were weak, he knew you couldn't have gotten very far and even if you did there was nothing for miles except a long road that was rarely used. In the worst-case scenario he could just shoot anyone that tried to help you and take you back.

You kept running and just a few minutes later you came onto a road, looking around you realized just how secluded this place was, there was a single road and no one in sight, but for whatever reason God must have felt pity on your poor mortal soul because not even a minute later you could hear a car approaching and as you ran towards it, the driver may not have been paying as much attention as he should because he hit the brakes too late. All you saw was black

When Rafael found you his anger shifted from you to the poor idiot who decided to hurt his love, everything he lived for. One bullet served enough and that was that.

...

Now we all know he has money and resources, so let's not fool ourselves. Would he be scared? Yes absolutely but would he bring over the best doctors in the country if he needed to? Also yes. And that exactly what he did, he brought the best doctors gave them the money and told them to shut up.

They fixed you in no time, you would be walking soon enough, after all they were the best.

And nothing like a gun pointed at your head to give you some good motivation.

So when he heard there was bad news he was about as ready as he'd ever been to shoot the doctor on the spot. But Felix held him back from it, that's right Felix knew about this little obsession of rafa and the only reason he had helped him continue his...hobby, is because he produced a good worker and it seemed like when you were around, Rafa had less time to get up to "Estupideces" and "Mamadas" as Felix liked to call it.

Either way, the doctors informed rafa that you would suffer from partial memory loss, how much? They were unsure but they would know once you woke up. And so Rafa's only hope at finally being loved by you was this.

When you eventually woke up, just as the doctors said, you didn't remember running away or the accident, instead blank spaces were where those memories should have been.

Rafael had been nervous all morning when he was informed that you had woken up, he was not ready to face you if you remembered but the curiosity was eating away at him, so he slowly made his way to your room and opened the door.

When he came in he wasn't met with that cold gaze you always gave him, the lifeless eyes you had like a bird in a cage. Instead, he was met with big bright eyes full of questions, and it was true you had questions because your memories were recollections of better times, times when you worked alongside Felix and Rafael in the business, times of the first few time Rafael tried to court you. But nothing else, no rejection, no struggles, and least of all, the lovesick man you had come to meet in your months of captivity.

You asked what happened, asked how you got hurt, aksed if he was hurt.

You were worried for him, worried for your partner, for your dear friend. He answered, he also asked what you remembered, did you know who he was? Of course, you did, you spent the evening answering every single doubt he could have had.

He didn't show it but he was happy, this meant he would paint the perfect picture for you, so he lied he told you of the life he had always dreamed to have with you, the life he had tried to make for you, the life he would make for you and you believed it.

You didn't feel this love he talked about but the way he described it sounded magical, and so you promised to try to remember, try to love, he promised to make you fall in love all over again to make you see just what exactly you had before all of this.

Let's just hope he doesn't fuck it up this time right?

Authors note- I'm sorry loves but I'm trying my best to be okay, a good thing is I'm finally getting to watch the show again, and let me tell you FELIX CONTENT IS COMMING SOON AND MAYBE POSSIBLY YOU GUYS CAN ASK FOR SMUT. I'll try my best to not fuck it up since I've never written it but even if I do, I worked hard on that meal and you will eat it 😌❤️ LOVE YOU GUYS AND I WILL SEE YOU WHENEVER I FIND A GOOD FELIX IDEA BYEEEE

#tenoch huerta #narcos mexico #rafael caro quintero x reader #narcos mexico imagine #rafa caro quintero #rafael caro quintero x you #narcos mexico x reader #narcos x reader #rafael caro quintero #rafa caro quintero x reader #rafael caro quintero x male reader #rafa caro quintero x male reader #male reader #yandere rafa caro quintero x male reader #yandere rafael caro quintero x male reader #yandere rafael caro quintero x reader #yandere rafa caro quintero x reader

[laurelsofhighever]

Hey, just saw your fic with Maric x Serving Girl Alistair's Mother. I read your author's notes on Ao3, and were you hinting at conflicting information on Alistair's mother's identity? Or is my tired brain misinterpreting? I'm all for writing whatever you want, go nuts, no problem with the fic. But this peaked my interest, because I've never heard of anything disputing Fiona, given 'The Calling' novel. Does it have to do with there being no acknowledgement in DAI if you have Alistair and Fiona at Skyhold at the same time? Any information or clarification you provide would be appreciated. I always loved Maric.

Hi Nonny! This has consumed my entire evening and I hope you’re prepared for the splurge about to be unleashed. Thank you for the ask! The disclaimer at the top of the fic is there because historically the subject of Alistair’s mother has been a… charged subject, for reasons that I won’t get into now because it’s not really relevant to your ask and I don’t have a horse in that specific race.

However, if you look into canon, there is indeed a bunch of conflicting information about the identity of Alistair’s mother – or rather, there’s a bunch of information that conflicts with the Word of God confirmation from David Gaider that Fiona is Alistair’s mother. Which… is also not exactly true. In an interview from 2014 when asked specifically about it, he said (after a long, weary sigh), “I never actually meant for it to be a thing … I thought the book was fairly obvious and then people were asking and I just never confirmed it … it comes up in the game and I will leave it at that” (timestamp starting 35:28 if you want to check it out yourself). Thing is, it doesn’t come up in the game, either in DA:O or in DA:I – which may be the game he’s referring to, since the interview is mostly to hype its release. It isn’t clear.

We do come close to getting in-game evidence for Fiona: in DA:I, the Inquisitor can ask her about her past, and if you read between the lines there is wistfulness there, and she’s sorry he dies, but her comments about it being “too late” to know him could just as easily be taken as being about her time as a Grey Warden if you haven’t read The Calling (TC) – she never comes out and directly says it, and we never witness a conversation between them, even if he’s a Warden presumably curious about how she became immune to the Calling (I have thoughts about this, but we’ll get to that later). In the DA:O end slides, it says someone orders an investigation into Alistair’s parentage that comes back “inconclusive” – but even without the dubious canon of the end slides (given that some, like Cullen’s, got heavily retconned in later games) this is a shaky piece of evidence at best that Alistair’s mother was anyone other than a servant. An inquest is politically motivated, after all, and would have been more concerned with his connection to Maric than the identity of his mother.

So where does this leave us? Well, we could go in circles debating what should count as canon or not, which isn’t entirely useful because people can draw lines in the sand wherever they like to make the points they want. We could argue that BioWare is really good at retconning and muddling its own lore and that the simplest explanation – that the devs made a mistake in some of the details and no one caught it – is the most likely, and that caring about it more than Gaider obviously does (with his well-known dislike of Alistair as a character) is kind of a waste of time.

Unfortunately, you’ve asked me about it, so what we’re actually going to do is go through every relevant piece of Dragon Age media, assume it is all canon, and weigh the evidence in the text to try and offer some clarification. Where things contradict, I will give more weight to the version that targets the broadest possible audience, i.e. the games > the books and novels. Where things contradict within the games, I’ll be considering which source of information is more authentic and direct within the game’s context, i.e. Alistair should know more about his history than a tavernkeep who’s listening to rumours.

Having said this, let’s start with TC, where all of our problems begin. In the last scene of this book, Fiona introduces Maric to a baby she says is theirs, and asks him to find it a home where it can be free of the stigmas of being the child of an elven mage. Fair enough. However, as conspiracy-brained as this is going to sound, there is no direct evidence to confirm that this baby is Alistair, and one or two things that suggest it isn’t. I’m not so shallow in my literary analysis that I count the fact that the baby is never named as one of those pieces of evidence. That would just be petty. Far more compelling is:

Timing: TC is set after Queen Rowan’s death. There’s some quibble about dates in World of Thedas and whether it was supposed to be set in 9:10 or 9:14 bur really that’s a numbers game and it’s beside the point, because it’s built into the plot that Maric decides to go with the Grey Wardens specifically because he’s feeling depressed and reckless through grief for Rowan. This is important because, as gets mentioned quite a few times in DA:O, Alistair was hidden in Redcliffe because Rowan was still alive. This is a conflict of information, and as already stated, games > novels.

There’s no amulet: Giving Alistair his mother’s amulet is a pretty significant moment in DA:O. It’s all he has of hers, and it’s something that ties them together narratively. If this was all meant to wrap up neatly, then the least Gaider could have done would have been to mention Fiona taking off her Andrastian amulet and gifting it to Alistair to be something of hers he can keep even when she’s not with him anymore. The fact that this doesn’t happen makes this scene emotionally empty when we know he got an amulet from a person whom he considered to be his mother. If not Fiona, then where did it come from?

'“He’s human,” [Maric] exclaimed out loud': if there’s one thing a lot of DA fans can agree on, it’s that “human/elf hybrids are totally human” is bullshit. It’s not how genetics works, it has some yikes implications considering how heavily the devs took inspiration from oppressed minorities to create the elves, and it’s not a plot point that’s ever used in an interesting way (we will get to Michel de Chevin in a moment). It’s also not true. In DA2 there is an entire series of quests about a character named Feynriel, who was born to a Dalish mother and a human father, and who is visibly part-elven. He has points on his ears! He has facial proportions halfway between the humans and elves in the game! He’s rejected by both sides of his family because of it! Now, there is also Michel de Chevin, who in The Masked Empire (TME) is revealed to have an elven mother, but this is never mentioned when he appears in DA:I, and is kind of a non-issue in the novel as well. This is the most nebulous piece of evidence by far, as it relies by default on picking which bits of material are canon, which I've already said we’re not doing here, and to be honest the physical differences between elves and humans are only really noticeable in DA2 where there was an effort made to make them look deliberately nonhuman.

Except for the timeline of the book, the evidence in TC is circumstantial. We get to more definite evidence in Until We Sleep (UWS), the third volume in The Silent Grove comics storyline, where Alistair gets to meet and talk with a dream version of his father, Maric. When Alistair asks his father to come home, Maric says, “I had a life. The people I love are all here – Cailan, your mother, Loghain… none of them are in the real world any longer, are they?” (A+ parenting there btw). Since this series takes place before DA:I, Fiona is definitely still alive, so Maric can’t be talking about her. Also, it’s interesting to note that this too is written by David Gaider, so it’s not a case of writers being at cross-purposes or not getting any intra-office memos. There are continuity mistakes in these comics, but these are mostly confined to the fact that neither Alistair nor Isabella match their in-game appearances – and remember, the games have more weight than the comics. Having said that, it does conflict with the "official" story.

With all this said, let’s come to the other beginning of all our problems, most people’s proper introduction to Alistair’s character, DA:O. In this game, it is a significant plot point that Alistair is the son of a servant from Redcliffe: it is explicitly stated in Alistair’s codex entry, and furthermore, it is something that multiple characters assert is true, including Loghain and Alistair himself.

First, Loghain. If you spare him at the Landsmeet, he joins your party and has dialogue options that talk about Alistair and why he was kept at Redcliffe. According to him, Maric nearly acknowledged Alistair, but “had more than his honour to think of”, namely the effect it would have had on Rowan and Cailan (implied: how that would have affected political stability in a Ferelden still recovering from the Orlesian Occupation). He points out that Alistair "would have been a continual reminder to Rowan of Maric’s infidelity”, which as mentioned above, means that she would have still been alive when Alistair was born.

As for Alistair, yes he was a baby at the time so doesn’t really have an objective viewpoint, and it’s not confirmed whether the person he considers his mother died in childbirth or just in his early years – the codex entry says “when he was young”, he says “when I was born”. Nevertheless, it’s clear he’s asked questions about her because he knows roughly who she was and what she did, and also at some point learnt the name and rough location of the person his entire companion quest (and Fade dream) revolves around.

Let’s talk about Goldana.

Really, she is the biggest wrench in the certainty that Fiona is Alistair’s mother, because there’s no way to square away that fact with her existence, and by extension the existence of the servant in Redcliffe who was her (and Alistair’s) mother. But what if she’s just an exceptional liar, thinking she could make a quick sovereign out of the king’s bastard by playing along? It’s possible. However:

When you take Alistair to meet her, she’s the one who brings up Maric (“I said the babe was the king’s, and they told me he was dead, and gave me a coin to shut my mouth”) – Alistair until that point has only mentioned his mother and that she worked in Redcliffe Castle. If she was hedging her bets, wouldn’t it make more sense for her to accuse him of being Eamon’s bastard?

If she were talking nonsense, why would “they” bribe her with hush money? It would be very easy for someone as powerful as Arl Eamon to dismiss or debunk such claims, and he shouldn’t care what a random servant’s kid has to say – unless there’s a kernel of truth in it that he doesn’t want anyone looking at more closely

On that same note, why would “they” tell her the baby was dead if it wasn’t, if it was just some random’s kid? Either there’s an entirely separate baby that Goldana believes for some mysterious reason was fathered by the king, which Alistair – actually fathered by the king – replaced at just the right age that nobody noticed, or they’re the same baby. One of these options is far more plausible than the other

If she’s that good at lying, why is she still just a washerwoman living in a hovel and asking three copper per load? She should be running Denerim!

Facetiousness aside, Goldana’s story confirms that at the very least there was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who had a baby at roughly the same time that Alistair was born, and that for whatever reason, she was connected enough to Maric that multiple people in the castle suspected he was the father (and resented Alistair because of it). If this was an entirely separate baby, then it makes Maric an absolute shit of a person to have taken one son and used him to replace one that had just died in childbirth. Either that or a complete idiot for sending his actual son to a place where he’s rumoured to have a son and deciding that’s a secure hiding place – because you can’t tell me Eamon wasn’t aware of what was going on under his own roof. Even the fact that Alistair himself knows and was aware of it from a young age suggests that it wasn’t a very well-kept secret.

So where does all this leave us? From here, things get a little more suppositional, a little more Doylist, and a lot more subjective. To start with, taking into account all of the above evidence, if Fiona is Alistair’s mother, then his arrival at Redcliffe relies on a – I would say – plot-breaking  set of contrivances.

1: Fiona, somehow cured of the darkspawn taint enough to have a child, arrives in Denerim with Alistair, who isn’t old enough to be weaned yet, asking for somewhere to put him that won’t draw attention. She does this after walking pretty much all the way across Thedas even though, as mentioned in TC, the Wardens already have procedures in place for fostering children born to their ranks, presumably ones that don’t involve so much steady exercise.

2: Instead of using his kingly resources to track down a woman in Denerim who has recently given birth and telling her to take on an extra kid, Maric decides to send the baby to the other end of the country, to the house of an unmarried nobleman who will definitely not stir any gossip if he shows up on his own doorstep with an infant he wants someone to care for. Where did the baby come from? Don’t ask. Are you happy that everyone will think this kid is your bastard? I’m sure it’s a decision that won’t have any negative consequences for me in the future. But you are going to tell everyone he’s your bastard to keep up the ruse, right? No, now stop asking questions.

2: Luckily, there’s a woman in Eamon’s household who has recently given birth, or is at least close to it, and they can substitute? add? this baby to that baby without having to pay her off, because she’s an employee. The bait ‘n’ switch is timed so perfectly that no one notices that there are in fact two babies, or that the baby is suddenly several months older than it was before (truly, a medical miracle). Unless they’re exactly the same age, in which case what are the odds.

3: Somehow, despite all the secrecy, this woman’s other child knows that the baby is the king’s and won’t shut up about it, to the point where someone has to pay her off and send her packing. But that’s all unnecessary, because the woman – and her original baby I guess? – both die and leave no witnesses.

4: Rowan still manages to be mad about this and everyone is worried for her reputation despite having been dead for two years.

It’s a level of convolution that does not exist with the alternative, which has been pretty common since forever in the real world: powerful man sees pretty woman, decides he’ll have that, doesn’t want to face the consequences, makes everyone miserable in the process. Alistair’s mother being an ordinary person caught up in the orbit of someone she can’t resist is so much more narratively coherent, if significantly less romantic.

And this is where we get into the biggest problem that I have with Fiona-as-Alistair’s-mother: it has no payoff. These are fictional people, structure is important for narrative, and while I’m not saying that every little thing has to have purpose or direction, a pretty significant amount of Alistair’s character arc in DA:O is wiped away if his mother isn’t who he thinks it is. His story is about social class and identity and whether legacy is even worth it: Fiona’s identity means nothing to him, and that’s not something that ever changes. In DA:I she looks a bit sad when she mentions him, but there’s no work ever done to explore that, or to explore how Alistair might feel if his mother is actually alive but abandoned him, and how awkward that makes things for him if he’s king. OR to have him hear that she’s now immune to the taint and be just a little bit curious about how that came about. There’s no conversation, no status quo shift. Instead, the devs rely on the fans who know this metatextual fact to do the emotional heavy lifting for them and extrapolate the consequences they don’t want to deal with themselves.

It is lazy writing.

In some cases I also think it becomes a prop that invalidates the point of his character arc – and even breaks the worldbuilding a little, turning what was originally a struggle to forge an identity separate from people’s expectations, into a straight case of nepotism. The two most egregious examples?

Is he able to use templar abilities without lyrium because anyone with enough training and discipline can do it, and the lyrium is just the Chantry’s way of keeping its army leashed and loyal? Nope, it’s because he’s special because his mummy was a mage and it gave him special latent mage powers. That’s far more interesting than examining the ramifications of a religious order using addiction and brainwashing to make sure its soldiers will commit atrocities without question.

Is he a Warden because of his strength of will and determination to survive, chosen from the ranks of the other potential recruits because he had a spark of something that Duncan knew would be valuable in the fight against the darkspawn? Nope, it’s because his mummy was a Grey Warden and gave him special taint immunity powers, and also she was best friends with the current Warden-Commander so he was picked even though there were better fighters among the potentials competing that day. Don’t worry, this doesn’t mean that all Wardens secretly have Warden blood already because that would be ridiculous, it’s just Alistair who needed that extra leg-up because otherwise he’d be useless at everything.

I promised myself I would rein in the sarcasm but from a storytelling perspective it really annoys me that this shift turns him from an ordinary person into the specialest boy in the world, because it denies him his agency and takes the teeth out of his achievements. I’m not even going to get into how it lets BioWare off the hook for representation, insisting he is half-elven and taking a gold star when he’s never identifiable in-world as a member of an oppressed minority, and it never has any bearing on how he views the world or how it views him. It feels like it’s giving the devs far more credit than they deserve, especially when the effort they put into this (minimal as it was) could have gone into giving Zevran more to say on this. exact. subject. He’s right there, and he is perfect for exploring this aspect of the worldbuilding when he isn't being overlooked.

This is getting a little ranty now so I’ll wrap it up with thanks for your patience, Nonny, if you’ve made it this far. What’s the conclusion? At the end of the day, people can make up their own minds with their own reasoning, all I’ve attempted to do here is lay out the various threads untangled from the snarl that is BioWare’s incomparable ability to fuck up their own lore. Personally, I think Alistair’s mother being an ordinary servant makes his journey and the themes of his character arc more compelling wherever he ends up, and I like that this means his parentage is a facet of his identity rather than the only interesting thing about him. I also think the weight of evidence in DA:O, the game where he’s first introduced, is greater than in a tacked-on scene at the end of a tie-in novel written by a guy who seemed to just think it was a good idea at the time. But hey, I’m not the authority.

However, if there’s one solid takeaway from this then here it is: don’t give BioWare more credit than they deserve, don’t do their work for them, and especially don’t assume they’re leading us down a merry path with super-secret truths for enlightened minds only when the simpler explanation is that no one stopped (in this instance) David Gaider getting carried away.

#dragon age #dragon age meta #bioware critical #dragon age: origins #dragon age: inquisition #the calling #dragon age 2 #alistair theirin #maric theirin #alistair's mother #arl eamon #teyrn loghain

[noforkingclue]

Hey how are you? Are you still battling the heat? I hope work is okay.

If it's okay with you I would like to request a Dhawan!master x reader request where the reader is a huge fan of Agatha Christie and the master notices this and so he takes the reader to meet Agatha Christie as a surprise. The reader meets Agatha Christie but when this happens there is a murder and the master is framed for the murder, the reader works with Agatha Christie to prove the master's innocence.

Sorry for making such a long request, I know that you like Agatha Christie. If you're not comfortable writing this then it's okay. I hope you have a great day/ night.

P.S not sure if you saw the commonwealth games closing ceremony but there was Peaky Blinders tribute featured.

Note: requests are currently closed

Oh yes! I do love Agatha Christie. I got the complete collection and I'm currently writing my own murder mystery.

Title: Whodunit

Doctor Who tag list: @v4n1r, @queerconfusionthings, @yourneighbourhoodclown, @love-of-fandoms, @emilythezeldafan, @fabulous-jj-style, @theseeker945, @pleadingeyes, @kjaneway1, @truthbehindthemysteries, @im-a-muggleborn, @startrekkingaroundasgard, @mythandmagik, @geocookie21, @zerocanonlywriteshit, @thewinterpoet2, @anteroom-of-death, @night467, @clarasoswaldd, @sessa23, @mxacegrey

Dhawan!Master tag list: @agentmalfoy24601, @b-bae-27, @praxeus-13

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

You folded your arms and raised your eyebrows at the Master. The Master just rolled his eyes and sat down on the bed.

“I didn’t kill that human.” He said

“You were standing over the body,” you said, “you must see how it looks.”

“People stand over bodies all the time.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then I’ve been showing you the wrong things.”

“I haven’t no desire to see any more corpses.”

“I can’t grantee anything, love.”

You sighed and sat down next to the Master. You nudged him gently and said,

“Some treat this turned out to be. You promised to take me to see my favourite author and you got accused of murder. Only with Agatha Christie right?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’ll be like us going on the Orient Express or a Nile river cruise and there being a murder. Bit of a coincidence don’t you think?”

“Isn’t life just made up strange little coincidences?”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust and the Master smirked at you.

“That sounds like something the Doctor would say.”

“Now why would you insult me like that?”

“And why-“

It was at the moment the door to the room opened. You sat up straight and felt your face get hot as you came face to face with your idol. Agatha Christie stood awkwardly as she shut the door behind her. Silence fell over the three of you and eventually she cleared her throat and said,

“The police have been called.”

“Oh joy,” the Master said, “Twentieth century human policing. I’m sure they will be very effective.”

Agatha frowned and said,

“You really do say the strangest of things. You remind me of someone but…”

She trailed off and shook her head.

“I really must be going now. I only came here to inform you of the update.”

Once she left the room you look over at the Master and said,

“What was that about?”

“I had another reason for taking you here?”

“There always has to be an ulterior motive with you, doesn’t there?”

“Time energy.”

“Huh?”

“There’s residual time energy surrounding her. It’s a mystery.”

“And you can’t let a mystery go unsolved.”

“I have a strong suspicion I know who is involved.”

“Ugh,” you groaned and shook your head, “can’t we have one trip without the Doctor being involved.”

“With how much she’s travelled we’re bound to bump into her sooner or later. However,” the Master held up a hand when you opened your mouth, “next time I’ll be sure to find a place te she hasn’t graced with her presence.”

“Next time,” you grimaced, “if we manage to get out of this situation.”

“Then you better get out there and find out whodunit.”

You rolled your eyes and stood up. Before you left you pressed a brief kiss against his forehead before you slipped out of the room. You stumbled slightly when you realised that Agatha was outside the room. She seemed embarrassed when she spotted you and you said,

“Miss Christie, umm, err, hi. I just wanted to say that I’m a big fan. Oh, you probably get that all the time but I…”

You trailed off, your face hot.

“You probably that all the time.” You muttered

“Yes, well,” Agatha gave you a small smile, “it’s always good to meet a fan.”

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly

“Yes. I’ve been meaning to ask you something as well.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Ah,” Agatha looked away, “it’s actually linked to your friend in there. I don’t believe that he is the man we’re looking for.”

“Really?”

“Yes. What do you say that you and I do some investigating? I have a feeling that I’ve come across something like this before and not a plot in one of my books.”

“Investigate a murder with Agatha Christie. I’d love to help!”

Maybe this trip wasn’t going to end in disaster after all. 

#fanfiction #doctor who #reader insert #request #the master #dhawan!master #the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader

[genericpuff]

The Uncanniness of Episode 165, and What Could Have Been

Alright, let's cut right to the chase, because this is like, the third time I've had to re-type this entire post because Tumblr has this stupid bug where it deletes my entire post up until the first photo upload every time I hit CTRL+Z to undo something 😒 (I have zero clue why it does this.)

Episode 165 has always... bothered me. I admittedly forgot about it in recent months, as the ongoing degradation of LO S2.2 onwards continues to rot my brain, but after stumbling upon it again, I was reminded of just how strange this episode is.

From the start, nothing really feels amiss. It picks up right where 164 left off, revealing the aftermath of Hades post-pomegranate and his first formal meeting with Hecate.

But it's as soon as we jump out of that flashback and return to the present - Hades standing before Persephone, the pomegranate tree perched peacefully in the background, that things start to get weird, in a way that I still honestly can't put my finger on.

And the spiraling into uncanniness begins with these two panels.

There's this rule in creating webcomics and writing stories - don't show or say anything you aren't intending your audience to pick up on. And when these panels were first released? I can tell you, as someone who was FastPassing back then, these two sets of panels threw the fanbase into an absolute riot. The fairly unanimous opinion from the fanbase was that Persephone had stolen the fruit for herself.

And can you blame them? The way the tree is framed, and repeated, with the camera shifting its focus, lacking the pomegranate in the shot completely, immediately told readers that it was gone. Of course, it wasn't, as was later clarified through the S2 finale and through Rachel's own wording; I believe she later stated that the pomegranate just 'wouldn't have been visible from that angle', hence why it was missing, but again, this is visual storytelling, it doesn't matter if the pomegranate TECHNICALLY wouldn't be seen from that angle, if you're going to remove it from the shot, that means you're telling your audience it's gone. It just feels too intentional, at best I might assume that that was the plan at one point, only for it to somehow end up changed along the way.

And it doesn't help that that scene is IMMEDIATELY followed by Persephone playing 20 questions with Hades.

These questions are all very specific, to-the-point, and hypothetical, concerning the pomegranate specifically, what it's done and what it's capable of doing. She's asking these questions not just for curiosity's sake, but with an ulterior motive - the writing on the wall is clear, she fully intends to eat the pomegranate, but is testing the waters with gentle but hypothetical questioning so she can gauge whether or not it would get her what she wants. Hence why she asks the marriage question - would marriage be enough, or would I have to make the trade with Erebus?

And then, of course, just as she gets the information she needs, she playfully changes the subject.

Hades does not look comfortable here. Some may argue that he's just nervous to have his photo taken with the girl he's lusting after, but again, it seems fairly obvious what's going on here. Hades has just made himself vulnerable* to the girl of his dreams (*i.e. trauma dumped and love bombed on her but that's another topic for another essay) and is now being cornered and interrogated by her. I know it's LO Hades, but I'd like to think he isn't that stupid. The sudden topic change isn't just to get a cute photo of him, it's to throw him off the scent, to make her seem innocent despite all of that earlier questioning.

In hindsight, we know now that she didn't take the fruit. She never planned to overthrow Hades. And while she wants to take things slow and 'do all the things', she does genuinely want to be with him, without it feeling forced. But I can't help but still feel unnerved at the sight of him in that selfie, watching the gears in his head turn, wondering what Persephone's going to do with all this new information after prying it out of him like a rat scavenging for its next meal.

Which brings us to Persephone. We know now that her wrathful side is purely wrath, gifted to her by Eris. Of course, often times her red eyes are applied to any sort of non-default emotion, including lust, but these are also the same red eyes attributed to her trademark appearance as the Dread Queen, foreseen by the Fates.

Again, I need to make it clear, in visual storytelling, do not show or tell anything you don't want your audience to know or infer. Why else would they suddenly draw her red eyes here after asking about the one thing that would grant her that Dread Queen status?

With Episode 165 and its strange toning in mind, let's turn to Zeus.

Zeus wasn't always an antagonist to Persephone. Zeus once supported the idea of Hades getting with her-

-but eventually shifts his opinion, after finding out about the Act of Wrath and Demeter's role in covering it up, eventually coming to the conclusion that Persephone specifically is planning to overthrow Hades. Not him, Zeus, the King of the Gods, nor any other God, but Hades. This suspicion has nothing to do with what Persephone actually did, and it's played off as a misunderstanding during the trial to set the stage for the creation of Elysium, but with the implications of Episode 165 still fresh in my mind, what if Zeus had been right? What if those suspicions weren't entirely unfounded?

Episode 165 feels like a preview for a story we never got. One that quickly and quietly changed gears halfway through and decided to shy away from the concept of Persephone actually being conniving and deceitful. I would love to say that RS set up this foreshadowing in a way that was brilliant, if it had actually paid off. All of the pieces were there, the pomegranate was gone, the stage was set - but instead, we now have Persephone playing house with Hades, hardly even doing a damn thing with her new title.

There is no Dread Queen.

#lore olympus critical #lo critical

[oksana-moods]

Queens of Promise - Part 7

Summary: Between battles and treasons, a new emotion comes to play. And oh poor Wanda, she found herself a traitor.

A/N: Look at me keeping my promises, but have to warn you though, chapter 11 progress is slower than I had planned. But we’ll get there when we get there. Well, I am dropping hints to solve the big puzzle (at least I think I am haha), do you guys have any theories by now?

Trigger Warning: Violence, mentions of blood, death. Game of Thrones canon violence. Previous parts here

"Between heaven and hell"

#just because I love her smile in this gif Fury Valley – Improvised Campsite

You looked around the place and saw people arguing, while others tried to make any sense out of this madness.

Present in Wanda’s tent were only the ones both Princesses trusted with their lives. That being said, Lady Rambeau, Lady Danvers and Lord Barton were your companions while Wanda called for Lady Romanoff, Lady Dreykov and Knight Bishop’s presence.

Sir Barnes wasn’t attending the meeting for he had marched north earlier that morning with part of his men as to inform the King about the death of Lord Rogers.

The fireplace attracted your eyes, and the fire dancing drew your attention for what felt like a lifetime but, in reality, only minutes had passed.

Your head flew miles away from Fury Valley, for Lord Wilson was on his way to Triskelion to inform the Queen about the ambush and the failed mission of returning Lord Rogers to Sokovians’ care.

Queen Calanthe would be mad, for sure. This was unacceptable, how could a simple task go so wrong as this one had? In a span of hours, you had analyzed and overanalyzed the past events trying to find where your mistake was.

Some of the best soldiers, ones that you trusted with your own life, were tasked with the burden of keeping and protecting Lord Rogers. It was as though they didn’t even have the chance to stand a fight and oh she knew how skilled they were.  

You’ve been into many battles so far and had experienced some chaotic fights, but the attackers came out of the blue and easily outnumbered Taharrian and sokovian’s troops. It was messy and hectic, especially when you were trying not to die all the while making sure your nemesis wouldn’t get hurt as well.

Gladly enough, you were able to keep Princess Maximoff alive, otherwise this whole messed up situation would be even more chaotic. Suddenly, bile climbed through your throat as you thought about the possibility of Wanda’s death. It bothered you to no end and made your heart clench at the mere idea.

Why, though?

In terms of politics, it was only obvious what problems this would entail. If Wanda died this would mean extra violence from Sokovia. Because, if Loki were to die, no matter the situation, you’d wreak havoc to avenge your brother, surely King Pietro wouldn’t do any different.

In theory, protecting Wanda was a must. Firstly, to avoid more problems; secondly, chances were that you could warm your way to Wanda, therefore, you could try and ease the tension to stop the war for good.

However, deep down you knew these reasons were just the political Princess in you speaking. Deep down you knew there were ulterior motivations, maybe they weren’t clear to you just yet – or maybe it was clear, yet you kept in denial.

There was something about Wanda that pulled you towards her. It was something different from everything you ever felt, but somehow you knew she meant more than a possible acquaintance or possible not-enemy. To say Sokovia could be a friend was too much. Not-foe was good enough for you.

She shouldn’t mean anything to you, so why was she so important to the point your body would physically reject even the mere thought of her death? Why does your heartbeat lose compass when thinking about hers stopping for good?  

Angry shouts broke through your bubble of thoughts and your head surfaced back to the exchange going on the tent. Lady Danvers had her hands in fists and was ready to attack no one other than Princess Maximoff herself. While Bishop only listened and swapped few words with Barton, Maria and Natasha argued near the fireplace.

Lady Dreykov was massaging her chin and judging by the distance, the cause of her discomfort probably was Carol’s fist. Sighing, you got up to your feet and walked towards the others.

“This is your fault, Princess.” Danvers’ eyes were red, visibly distressed, she had lost good friends the day before and this was a wound too fresh. “You brought this to yourselves, and now it’s rubbing on us.”

“This is outrageous! And you should take your tone down a notch, I’m not your Lioness that allows you to speak as you want. I’m Wanda Maximoff, Princess of Sokovia and you’ll treat me as such.” The redhead spat back at the lady in front of her.

“My Princess is a respectable warrior, one of the greatest that I had had the pleasure to serve, now I can’t speak the same about you.” Carol growled, eyes screaming danger. Not that Maximoff was one to bother with threats. Spoken or not.

“Draw your sword, peasant, and I’ll give you something to talk about me.” Wanda countered and this threat was plain as it can be. “While you still have your head above your shoulders.”

Before Carol could do anything stupid and force Wanda’s hand, you stepped between both woman, hoping you could try and calm their nerves.

“As entertaining as it could be, I’m afraid we have more pressing matters right now.” You spoke alternating your look between your Captain and the princess. “And we have to work together if we want to get to the bottom of this problem.”

“Work together?” Lady Romanoff took one step closer to the three of you, and the others gathered closer as well. The assassin in front of you had her brows furrowed, possibly trying to think how sworn enemies could work together without killing each other.

“Precisely.” You replied now focused on the spy in front of you. “It seems we found a common foe and I don’t know about you, but I want to know who they are.”

“We already know who they are, princess!” Lady Danvers, though a little more collected, spat once again. “It’s probably the Kree that this woman, disregarding all the suffering in Noveria, called back to our lands.”

You flinched at the accusatory tone, but also at the pain coating every single word pronounced by your dear friend. You understood where she was coming from, it could be the Kree, indeed. However, the mercenaries, though ruthless, didn’t seem to be the type of men the northern barbarians would choose for a job.

“Refer to me as this woman one more time and I’ll teach you how to address to a princess properly.” The redhead barked and you saw her hand looking for the hilt of her sword. Wanda was on edge with the attack, of course, but she still got a short fuse.

Faster than you or anything you had to say, Carol threatened again. “You can shove your little title on your ass, Your Highness. You brought these barbarians here, I wanna see what you’re going to do now.”

Wanda growled, audibly, with her hand clutching around her sword dangerously. Their nerves were escalating out of proportion, so you did the first thing that came to your mind. Almost innocently, you placed your hand on Wanda’s shoulder as if trying to ground her, somehow.

For a few moments, she let it. Her eyes trailed to your hand and to back to your eyes for a few seconds until she figured this intimacy wasn’t appropriate enough for her taste and slapped your hand away, as one does with a disgusting fly.

“Carol.” Your tone was underlined with a warning and the woman looked at you. “I understand and respect your worries but you, of all people, know that the Kree wouldn’t hire some bandits to attack us. They’d do it themselves. And these guys bled red just as we did.”

You held Carol’s eye contact, until the woman relented and nodded at you. Her instance, in turn, shifted from dangerous-ready-to-attack to attention. She was ready to jump into action if needed but took a few steps back and let go of this argument.

Again, you tried, this time looking around the room as to emphasize your words. “Together. Is the only way to find out who set us up.” You were rewarded with some nods but soon Wanda found her voice again and dropped a bucket of cold water on your ideas.

“Bold of you to assume that I’ll work with your… scum.” She dropped her hands to her hips in a defiant pose. “We can fend for ourselves.”  

There were thousands of remarkable comebacks that you could throw her way, but you limited yourself to sigh. Taking a deep breath as if said breath could summon a little more patience, you commanded everyone in the room to leave. Taharrian or Sokovian, every single one of the presents obeyed.

“Ladies, gentleman, could you excuse us for a moment?” Your voice was soft, a simple request but still a command. Wanda was completely impressed with how easy her own people followed your demand.

It was impressive how you didn’t have to try, there was just this sheer confidence in your whole body as if this was a physical trait now. But if the redhead thought about it, your whole life you grew up knowing you’d be a ruler and your whole life you prepared yourself to stand tall before friend or foe.

Just like you had said to her, years ago, at King Tony and Queen Pepper’s wedding: “Enemies must see our strength. Flaws and weakness may encourage rebellion, we can’t afford that.” Wanda, for sure, saw the strength but something else.

Kindness.

You were sarcastic, yes. Extremely playful at moments that Wanda deemed inappropriate, not to mention the suggestions about intimacy that you insisted it should be public knowledge. However, she had never seen you speak unkindly with your subordinates and subjects, especially with hers.

Your strength relied, Wanda understood, not in your combat skills or obvious knowledge but because you were always kind and behaved as if there was no difference between ruler and ruled. And, more importantly, this wasn’t an act or a play to full or lure people into you.

It was simply who you were.

The power held by your eyes, scanning Wanda’s soul was too entrancing, maddening even. So the princess took one step back and busied herself with a cup of wine, not bothering to offer you one. Her body reacted strangely when you were close to her and all she needed right now was distance.

But she wasn’t getting any.

Wanda watched as Maria Rambeau stopped close to you on her way out of the tent and when your eyes were drawn to your friend, Wanda realized she could breathe again.

Your attention shifted from Wanda, who watched you like a hawk, to Maria, who had a not so satisfied knowing look on her face.

“I see the way you look at her.” Her voice was low as to not draw attention, especially from whom she was talking about.

You smiled softly, hoping this could settle some of her worries. It didn’t.

“Before you go and try to get into her bed, can I remind you that we’re at war and she is our enemy?” As last resort, Maria tried to knock some sense into your thick skull.

“Maria, have you ever seen me do something so stupid like that?” You asked, the face of seriousness, but she wasn’t buying. She knew you too well now.

“Dozens of times. Literally.” She hissed, letting you know she wasn’t amused by your attitude. “And I saved your ass a lot to know that when you want a woman, you get. But maybe, this time would be wise to avoid more problems with the Maximoffs.” You could see right through her scolding. She was concerned.

“I know what I’m doing, Rambeau. Trust me.” You flash her a sly smile as if this could help settle part of her worries, but a shake of her head as she walked out of the tent told you that she trusted that you would make something stupid. As always.

And you probably would.

Wanda Maximoff possesses an undeniable beauty that verges perfection itself and after the past few days made you realize that she’s way much more than a pretty face, for you saw not only her fighting skills but also how intelligent she was.

If anything, the woman you came to know was beyond extraordinary and she had you admiring her, drowning in those deep, green orbs without a single clue as to how pull back.

You took a long, deep breath and exhaled audibly as if this could clear your head.

“I know you don’t like us. Or trust us.” You started and after her eyes locked with yours again, you continued. “But these men killed Lord Rogers, so you’d think we lied about our bargain.” You spoke softly, Wanda was only a few steps away from you.

“You weren’t supposed to be part of the exchange, Princess. Think. Everything adds up.” You pleaded. “So many bandits? Only a few would survive this massacre and the news at Wolfgang would be that we killed Rogers even though we agreed with a truce. Even though you agreed with a truce.”

“Not to mention that those shady men looked awfully like the ones attacking your crops at Karov before this all began.” You added as an afterthought.

Your voice resonated through the tent while Wanda’s head spun. “How do I know that you’re not lying to me right now?” Then she looks at you once more. “How can I be sure you’re speaking the truth?”

The intensity poured from her eyes was breathtaking. Your stomach fluttered as if you were on your ship in the middle of a summer storm, even though your feet were very much grounded.

It was unsettling.

“You can’t.” Finally, you found your voice somehow. She turned to look at you again, alarmed this time, but your face was blank. No mockery, no deceit. “There’s nothing that I can do to make you believe in me. And there’s nothing that I can say to make you trust me.” You elaborated.

She remained still, simply watching your every more or word as if her mind eye could see the truth through your words. Then, you tried again.

“So, I say you gotta risk it, Wanda. That’s the moment you got to choose. You can get out of your comfort zone and get to the bottom of this pile of lies or keep your head stuffed in the sand like an emu and pray for everything to be okay again.”

“Spoiler alert: it won’t.” You added, running your hand through your hair restlessly.

Wanda snorted at your words more out of reflex while her heart pondered about their meaning. And the more she learned about you, the more she felt you were right and being nothing but truthful.

But old habits die hard. She was raised to hate your kind. Liberalists like you never paid attention to the traditional ways, never respected other sovereigns, always mingling with some other kingdom’s war.

In Taharr anyone who proved their loyalty to the crown and did great services to the realm were granted with a lordship or ladyship, this meant that a commoner could rise on the society disregarding other traditional families. Actions like these certainly encouraged rebellion, enviousness, she supposed.

Vision always mentioned how brutal the Taharrians were. Or how there’s always someone aspiring to take the Queen down. For they envy more power than they could get, boldened with titles that didn’t and shouldn’t belong to them. Commoners always aspired for more than they could have.

Wasn’t this line of thought right?

However, if the past few weeks taught her something was that her previous knowledge didn’t add up with what she was seeing.

Maria Rambeau rose from nothing, yet she was an outstanding warrior and clearly had the respect of her peers. She clearly had your respect. And she, definitely, didn’t look like someone who would scheme to bring the royalty down.

And even Wanda knew how devoted Lord Barton was, he treated you as if you were his own daughter and would lay himself on the ground if that meant you wouldn’t get dirt on your feet.  

Wanda sighed. She was tired. Tired of fighting, arguing, thinking, learning.

“Lord Rogers was my subject, just as the people affected by the heists.” Wanda’s eyes locked on yours and you saw, again, her protective walls closing around her. “My people, my problem. You have your truce. So, take your men to your south.”  

“These are my people too, not only yours Wanda. They are women, children and they deserve to live their lives without fear. War is our life, not theirs. Let us help you hunt down whoever’s behind this.” You were adamant on not letting her shut you out now. Only your combined forces and minds could make any sense out of this puzzle. “Let me help you.”

Still, she could not see it the way you did.

“You want to conquer us so you can have all the resources to yourself. The great, relentless Queen Calanthe who can’t be defeated surely wants to defeat the Maximoffs and get our lands. She’d become a legend, not that she isn’t one already.” Wanda spat the same speech she had been for the past years.

It wasn’t difficult to understand that Novi Grad as one realm again would have no match in this continent, maybe even in Westeros. Food, gold or spears, never ran low in Taharr and in Sokovia, imagine how giant their kingdom would be if their forces were combined?

Queen Calanthe had tried a diplomatic approach before, Wanda remembered. Still hurts. Her father and mother were interested in a peaceful negotiation, but fate got in the way before any real discussion could take place.

During their trip to south, as they were the first Sokovians’ sovereign in ages to be welcomed in Triskelion, the ship her parents were travelling in got lost in a storm and separated from the escort vessels, then when pirates attacked, they were outnumbered and did not survive.

If Princess Maximoff were to be reasonable your mother wasn’t the one to blame, much less you, not really. But she was emotional, her heart blamed the gods, the seas but specially the Taharrians for trying to reach out and solve your quarrels.

If her parents didn’t leave the castle, didn’t leave Wolfgang, they’d be safe and still alive. She wouldn’t have to take hard decisions if they were alive; Her and Pietro wouldn’t be orphans at a young age, and they definitely wouldn’t be alone for almost a decade by now.

The hatred, the blame… She knew this was repetitive, but your presence was making her feel ill.

She couldn’t breathe, there were shivers up and down her spine whenever you made eye contact and her body itched. Maybe you had sabotaged her wine, for she knew this was your doing, somehow, and for that she hated you.

“This war was your idea, your caprice, not ours. This is not about our ambitiousness, but this thick proud heads of yours that can’t see past your hatred.” You bellowed, exasperated at how blind and stubborn a person could be. How stubborn Wanda was.

“Stop.” It was her turn to roar, and it nearly startle you. “Stop talking. We are enemies, not allies and I don’t need your protection in my own land.” She shouted, stressing her words as she spoke as if this was a concept that was taking too long for you to grasp. A concept that you should’ve known already.  

You bit your tongue about the protection part.

“Can’t you see that I’m tired of your stupid face and poor excuses? Can’t you see that I hate you?” Wanda continued, barking her words so passionately and you knew she meant it, this was the real Wanda Maximoff, devoid of all her decorous layers.

“You barely know me, Maximoff. Why do you hate me?” Your reply came in a serene voice that was so soft that made Wanda’s head spin for a moment due the contrast. “For real, not this childish reference about our realms feud.”

You took one step towards her and saw Wanda’s eyes go down to your feet and back to your eyes. As if this action could make you stop walking. It didn’t. “Tell me why do you look at me the way you do, as if I had personally inflicted you pain? Even the way you pronounce your hate towards me feels personal. Why?”

Wanda’s body now shook and every single step you took closer only provoked waves and waves of this strange feeling that she didn’t have a name for. For the nth time, Wanda felt conflicted about her emotions, and she didn’t know what to do.

There was something powerful between the two of you and she always named it as hate. Though, inside her heart she knew this hate was different. She hated everything you made her feel. Hell, she hated the intensity which you looked at her right now.

Desire.

Everything she wanted, everything she desired was to hate you the way she’s supposed to. But she desires to learn who the real woman beneath your title is. Wanda desires to understand how can you affect her so much, without even trying?

Against better judgement, the redhead caught herself replying.

“Because you get under my skin, more than anyone has ever been. And for that I hate you.” Wanda’s voice was low, but still had an edge of something that made your skin crawl. “Because I don’t know why I want you to go further.”

You stood there, bewitched by her presence and words. Even in the poor light, her green orbs shone more than thousands of stars, and their power sent shivers down your body like never before.

Wanda Maximoff took one step closer, and you felt as though she was stealing the air. As though her powers included to freeze you in place so you could all but admire her perfections. Your chest was beating erratically and, though you tried, you couldn’t avert your eyes away from her.

Right in that moment, you were her willing prisoner.

Your mouth was dry, but you managed a few words. “I’m tired of fighting, Maximoff.”

With her, with Sokovia, with bandits, with enemies, with the foreign emotions she made you feel. You didn’t want to fight anymore. “I hate you.” As her hot breath hit your face, you could feel her voice burning with passion as she meant every word she spoke. Though, none of you knew that this feeling was not hate at all. Quite the opposite.  

“I hate you too.” Your voice was flat, but you couldn’t deny or pretend that your heart wasn’t hammering inside your ribcage. Especially now that you realized how close you were.

Until you weren’t.

As if in slow motion, you felt Wanda pulling you by the fabric of your tunic into her personal space and attacked your lips.

For a whole moment, you froze but a second later you kissed her back. As if acting on automatic, your arms pulled her into you by grabbing her waist, completely flushing her body against yours.

Then everything was Wanda. Her hair, her tongue, her mouth, her hands. It was as if she was claiming your very soul with such a simple action.

The princess gasped softly when her back touched the table behind her, allowing your tongue to slip past her lips. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull when her tongue clashed against yours for dominance, and your heartbeat was so erratic that you thought your organ would explode.

It was a sweet battle provided by her soft lips and you, for once, didn’t mind in fight.

Usually, your senses wouldn’t be so slow to keep a track of your surroundings, but you were so drunk in her scent, so lost in her lips that took you a little too long to grasp a shift on the atmosphere in the tent.

Somehow, a voice inside your head screamed for you to break the kiss. Later you’d thank that voice.

As soon as you pulled back from Wanda, you saw two things: one, the redhead lips chasing after yours as to reconnect the kiss and two, a figure in full black with a dagger centimeters away from the two of you.

It was remarkable how fast your survivor mode kicked in.

With one hand, you pushed Wanda away from you, so her back arched further over the table. But before she could complain at your sudden harshness, she saw your other hand blocking the hooded figure from slashing her metal over your heads.

Quite out of character, Wanda screamed in horror before her head broke from her stupor and joined the fight.

You were skilled, very much so, you and Wanda knew this. But your opponent was faster, and far much more skilled. You dodged, threw objects, tried to block with anything you could find and counterattack with anything resembling a weapon, but this new enemy kept moving around the tent relentlessly.

Few cuts were already visible on your tunic, and you knew some of those had reached your skin, nothing life threatening, but if you kept this pace, this assassin would have you in shreds in minutes.

Wanda attacked and the assassin’s attention shifted to her, granting you time and space to attack with a fire poker. Though before you could do real harm, they turned back to you and counterattacked.

Helped by the furniture that got in the way, they had you pinned down and their dagger were centimeters away from your throat. Their hood only allowed you to see only their eyes and it was darker and colder than the northern seas at night.

They’d be your demise.

Then, everything seemed to happen at the same time.

There was a commotion at the entrance of Wanda’s tent and the assassin blinked right before you could see a piece of metal piercing their neck, then their lifeless body weighted over you. In shock, you realized, Wanda had just saved your life.

As you pushed the body off you onto the ground, you locked eyes with her, and you could see the despair flooding those green orbs that you grew so fond of. She was scared and your heart ached to comfort her, but you weren’t alone anymore.

Your moment was broken. Just as fast as it started.

Wanda dropped her sword as if the metal piece weighted a ton, her hands were shaken and her whole body shook with a sick feeling that she couldn’t control. Or understand.

She hated you, yet she had kissed you and her lips still tasted yours when the idea of losing you was terrifying.   

“Princess!” Maria Rambeau and Natasha shouted at the same time as they approached both women.

Lady Rambeau kneeled by your side and accessed your wounds. “Princess!” She patted your cheek lightly as to bring you out of your shock until your eyes focused on hers.

“I’m okay, Maria.” Your voice was low, almost as if you weren’t really paying attention at her. She followed your gaze and found that you had averted your eyes back to Wanda.

“She’s fine, Princess.” Maria reassured, thinking you were worried that Wanda got hurt.

Well, you were worried, but you were still trying to process everything that had happened in a span of minutes. You went from arguing to kissing to fighting for your lives and now her eyes burned your heart and soul.  

You nodded and let the past events fall to the back of your head, at least for now, for Romanoff’s voice brought your attention back to present as soon as it reached your ears.

“A Black Widow.” The assassin revealed, ravaging through the dead’s clothes as to find any clues.

That made sense. Only someone with that skill level could easily overpower you and Wanda at the same time. Only someone with spy skills could’ve entered the tent after strutting the campsite undetected.

Then, after looking on another pocket, the Sokovian spy found more clues to add to the pot. A golden coin unmistakably from Sokovia and a small pendant beautifully worked in a golden form of a lioness.

All eyes were on you.

“I’m afraid you’re their target, Your Highness.” Natasha voiced what everyone in the tent were already thinking. After all pockets were cleared, she got up to her feet and dropped both the pendant and the coin on the table.

Wanda took small steps towards the objects as if they were a menace. The implications were clear: someone in Sokovia wanted the Young Lioness dead and the prospect of your death made her sick in the stomach. Somehow, it felt as if she was responsible for your attack.

“Who would want you dead?” Maria asked to no one in special. It was more a question to herself, as if the action could help her find the answers of this entangled puzzle overflowing with odd things or facts that didn’t add up.

“Who doesn’t?” You retorted sarcastically, and the captain sighed, relieved that you were back to your common self, no longer lost in shock. “Wanda?” You asked tentatively and the woman locked eyes with you.

A sour taste impregnated her mouth and Wanda’s head couldn’t seem to stop replaying the scene of the assassin with their knife ready to slice your throat and the life out of you. The Scarlet Knight tried to focus, but her nerves got the best of her.

“I don’t know.” Wanda’s eyes were glossy, and she hated to be seen so weak. Not in front of Lady Rambeau or Natasha, but in front of you. “Please, leave.” She sobbed and turned away from you.

Romanoff’s head turned to her protégé, then at you and nodded. Silently asking you to comply with the Maximoff’s request.

You hesitated. You wanted to take the remaining steps that separated you from Wanda, so you could comfort her and hold her until everything was sorted and solved. But you didn’t.

In the end of the day, Wanda Maximoff was still your enemy, and you were a Lioness with a dead bounty over your head. Nodding back to Natasha, you left the tent without looking back.

As you walked away, Wanda felt a heavy cold blanket covering her whole body. There was a traitor playing the cards, that much was clear, but right then and there, she couldn’t help but think that she too was a traitor.

It was undeniable that there was a pull between the two of you, and she understood that her heart, somehow, harbored feelings towards someone she wasn’t supposed to. She was a princess from a realm with a deadly war against yours, her captain got killed after you took him as hostage, yet she couldn’t bring herself to think as she used to.

Traitor.

With the tip of her fingertips, she traced her lips and the redhead sworn she could still taste yours. It was exhilarating, disturbing, yet magical. One touch and the whole room vanished, one kiss and she forgot who she was.

Yes, she was a traitor. In her mind’s eye, this was unacceptable, absurd even. How one develops feelings towards their enemy? Fortunately, your home was far, far away from hers. Maybe with distance she’d come to her senses and her heart would stop betraying her reason.

Maybe with distance, she wouldn’t betray herself.

----

The next few days nothing really changed. Well, actually, your guard had increased in number and in patrols and even in your tent there would be a knight to protect you in case another assassin decided to show up.

Everyday Sokovians and Taharrians reunited in order to discuss their ideas or knowledge about this strange web of facts. And the sum of their info together granted them few answers.

For starters, they understood that Hydrarr had more participation in this mess than they previously thought, for Natasha tracked the dead Black Widow and learned that the woman lived in Cross Bones Village – Hydrarr’s Capital. With the wax and the assassin, this couldn’t be a coincidence.

Secondly, the group asserted that the bandits that attacked them several days ago were the same bandits railing Sokovia’s crops this whole time.

And third, the pendant with a lioness beautifully crafted in gold had an artist signature from Wolfgang Village, a man that only worked for the nobility in Sokovia and probably kept a record of his services.

So, this strange group of detectives formed by sworn enemies, realized that someone in Hydrarr or Sokovia, maybe both, was calling the shots in this dubious game of war. And this someone belonged to nobility with access to the castle and to King Pietro, for they knew where the entourages would meet to retrieve Lord Rogers.

Days had passed and though it was incredibly good to learn so many things about this war, you couldn’t shake away the memory of Wanda’s kiss.

Despite your attempts, Wanda never allowed you back into her tent for a private meeting. And after having your request denied twice, you understood the message, she didn’t want to be alone with you. She didn’t want to talk about the kiss nor to relieve it.

You respected her, of course. Even in your head this romance seemed farfetched, and this was saying something when you had your share of complicated relationships before. This wasn’t complicated, this was a girlish dream where one could find their soulmate and live happily ever after.

Real life was not a fairy tale.

As the meetings prolonged, you would always take your time to look at Wanda. To properly look at her. Somedays she’d show up dressed in confidence and others you’d see her puffed eyes or her strained smiles.

But there wasn’t a single day where you didn’t want to reach her and simply hold her body against yours. Touch her silk like skin, feel her warmth, feel her breath, feel her.

Much like a virus, the Maximoff impregnated and flooded your thoughts day and night. Though you had never felt like this before, you knew that your heart was inexorably falling. And there was nothing that you could do about it.

Unfortunately, there were still some mysteries to solve, and the increasing amount of snow was a somber reminder that their leads would run cold if they did not hurry. And that meant that they had to leave the camp and march their respective homes.

Only you couldn’t.

There was no way in hell that you would go back to Triskelion without getting to the bottom of this. The only problem was that the answers were guarded in Wolfgang, Sokovia’s Capital. You couldn’t just ask your unit to go with you, this would attract too much attention. Not to mention the danger and, of course, Wanda would never allow it.

You needed to go on stealthy mode. Luckily, you knew the perfect person for it. You only had to convince your guards to march south without you.

“Not going to happen.” Lady Danvers exclaimed as soon as you shared your plan.

“C’mon, Danvers, don’t start acting all serious and preoccupied now. You’re fan of action just as I am.” You intervened. “I just need you to stall.”

She snorted. “Do you have any idea of what your mother will do to me? Or my wife?” Carol ran a hand through her hair, and this was her tell-tale that she was already worried about the outcomes. She knew you too well, though, you wouldn’t change your mind.

“It won’t be your fault. Barton and I will march right after the Sokovians and everybody else will think I’m resting inside my tent.” You tried, you needed her help, otherwise Maria would think the Sokovians kidnapped you and would wrack havoc until she gets you back.

“Fuck.” Carol spat, then nodded. She hated being your friend. “But this is madness, Princess.”

“What’s the worst thing that can happen to me?” You opened your arms and looked around as to show her the place you were in, for in your head, a bounty was worse than death itself.

A threat like this is like breathing with a heavy rock over your chest. It’s breathing, but like hell uncomfortable. “Valar Morghulis.” You enchanted something that your years wandering in Essos and Westeros had taught you.

“Good luck explaining that to the Queen.” Carol kept her façade, but you knew she’d give in. She always did. No matter how much in trouble she’d get into.

You looked around, you didn’t have much time. The Sokovians would leave soon, and you wanted to go on their wake. Not too close as to not draw attention and not too far as to stay too exposed, alone in the woods that you and Barton knew so little about.

Captain Danvers sighed and cursed herself lowly before asking. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

“Clint used to be a spy and his stealthy skills are undeniable.” You began, the plan had one too many blank spots, and anything could go wrong, but you and Lord Barton knew about the risks. You were both going into this willingly and highly aware of its dangers.

“We’re going as commoners to Wolfgang Village, maybe stay a few days in a brothel as to keep a low profile while we’ll investigate the leads we have so far.” You shared your ideas, it looked simple, and you only hoped it wouldn’t get too complicated.

Carol’s hand pitched the bridge of her nose, as if foreseeing the possible outcomes of this absurd. “And you think they won’t recognize you at all?”

“Natasha Romanoff will help us. She’s aware of our plan.” You confided. It was astounding how easily was for the spy to agree with your plan, but you supposed that after losing her best friend, she’d want revenge and, in her mind, it didn’t matter who would help her get it.

She even tipped you about what gate you should use to access the city, for she knew they used to accept more gold than they should to let people inside the city without many questions.

“Does Princess Wanda know about this madness of yours too?” Carol inquired, voice far from the light tone she’s used to speak with. This is a death wish and she’s digging her own grave by indulging this foolish adventure.

Your eyes flashed with hurt, you didn’t have had alone time with Wanda, no matter how hard your heart craved for it. The kiss was a mistake, and the redhead was too intelligent, naturally she understood this. You, on the other hand, let the emotions get the best of you.

You wanted her still. Despite everything. Because of everything.

“Unknown.” You finally said. “I gotta go.” You muttered, after hearing the shouts of sokovians troops finally moving.

Carol nodded but hugged you before you could leave. “Please, don’t get yourself killed.”

“I won’t.” You smiled lightly at her and rushed through the trees where Clint was waiting for you with the horses and provisions, ready to sink in the craziest adventure ever.

A Lioness would enter the wolf’s den.

Part 8

Taglist: @californianwhiterabbit

#queens of promise #medieval au #princess wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda marvel #wanda maximov #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda x fem!reader #wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x fem! reader #wanda #angst #enemies to lovers

[piracytheorist]

Masks Off

There's something interesting when it comes to the (literal) masks Twilight puts on for his missions. While we see him wear a lot of them, we don't always see him rip them off. I mean, we don't always have to.

And when we do see him rip them off... I think I've noticed a pattern. It's like it's an actual masks-off moment when he does.

As other people have said, it's very important that the very first scene we get of Twilight is of him wearing a mask, which he rips off right after.

A+ character introduction. It tells us how good of an actor he is, how willing he is to face risks for his missions (the tiniest fault in his performance and the informant could have info about him to share with the government), and how nonchalant he is about this. He rips the mask off, throws it away, and prepares a new disguise for himself. Just another dull day at work.

So even though he doesn't say anything with his voice, the presentation itself says a lot.

The next time we see him ripping off a mask is an emotionally impactful scene.

As he does, his inner monologue (which Anya hears) is "How could I forget? To create a world where children won't have to cry… That's why I became a spy."

Seconds before, he thought of his own vulnerable spots - how hearing children crying reminds him of his own scarred childhood. This is him laying his character motivation for us to see out in the open... just as he reveals his face again... but not to the camera. We still see just the back of his head. WISE members know that each one of them wants to put an end to the cold war, but it doesn't seem like they know each other's inner turmoils. Twilight didn't even know that Sylvia had a daughter (I'm assuming, since she seems to share it as a new information). The others know Twilight has the shared goal of stopping the war - but he (and now Anya) is the only one who knows what motivates him; something as vulnerable as not wanting kids to suffer like he did. Something which he of course hides, hence us only seeing the back of his head here. We might have had a glimpse of his inner thoughts, but they're something he will keep to himself for some time.

(If there's something more revealed in the manga, please don't spoil me as I'm only watching the anime)

The thing is, this is all deliberate. In this situation it would have been preferable for him to keep the mask, since then he just went back inside the supermarket and ambushed Edgar and his goons. In the manga he even says something along the lines of "As if I'd let you see my face" as he takes them out one by one. It would have been more realistic... but it wouldn't have been impactful. Or badass XD

The next time is much later, when he rips off the mask of the secret police officer, after trying to see if Yor knew about her brother working for said secret police.

Franky notices his agitation, and says, "Hey, come on. Don't tell me you feel guilty for doubting her." Twilight replies with a very curt "I don't." Nice try, Twilight.

And again, we don't get a clear view of his face. He's lying, to Franky and to himself, as he walks into the shadows, turning towards the alley, his back to "the world", while the camera, the audience, is keeping a distance from him. We are not allowed a glimpse of how he schools his features into a neutral face that conceals his guilt. There's still way to go.

The next time isn't emotional, but I still think it's an important detail about Twilight's character: his perfectionism.

"It's impossible for me to perfectly play the role based on such a short video. If we were dealing with a pro, he would've been on to us."

The ruse worked, though. The student successfully believed that was really Keith betraying him, and is now revealing important information to them. Yet on Twilight's mind is the fact that they could have failed.

It's a small moment, but I think it's interesting that it was put in. We didn't have to see him rip the mask off, they could have shown him in his real face, holding the destroyed mask in his hand to reveal that oh this was Twilight then. This is also a time where, just as in the introductory scene, we see Twilight's face from up close after the mask comes off. His perfectionism isn't something he feels the need to hide.

The next time is as he rips off the mask of the minister, apologizing to the dog for something he had no control over.

"I'm really sorry. I'm sure the last thing you wanted was to get dragged into some foolish conflict between humans."

Twilight made sure to barely even hurt the dog; the easiest solution would be to just shoot him, instead of focusing precisely on the bomb bag straps and then allowing the dog to bite him. At first you think him apologizing is because he's about to kill the dog, but instead he honestly apologizes for how their conflicts got him caught up in all this. Though his voice and composure make him look cold and distant, he still cares enough that even a dog's life is innocent and worthy of protection to him. His stance is the mask he wears; underneath that is his real self, someone who cares for an innocent animal.

And again, it would be more practical to keep the mask (unless those masks hinder his vision and he needed it off to make sure his shots land where they had to) so to not waste time and not risk the chance of Keith seeing his real face. But this show loves its symbolism, and we love it for that.

From today's episode:

"I think I've had my fill of tennis for a while."

I admit, this is probably the least notable case. I don't know how much of a surprise it was supposed to be, that this guy was actually Twilight with a mask on; so I don't know if there was any meaning behind it or was just added there as a gotcha! moment. Still you could argue that this is him subtly expressing how tiring his actual job is.

Again, not a big moment, especially when it's overshadowed by the next mask-off moment, where he takes off the "Twain Phony" disguise.

"I'm Loid Forger, a married man. I can't have the neighbors getting the wrong idea about our relationship."

Nightfall has her disguise off already. There's literally no reason to start the scene with Twilight still wearing the wig and fake stubble, if not to make a connection between him taking it off and what he says there. Of course, the plot explains it as him explaining to Nightfall why they shouldn't arise suspicions, but still.

He is Loid Forger, a married man :) Maybe he doesn't know it yet, but we do!

#Spy x Family #sxf meta #Loid Forger

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 8 "Ghosts"

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Series: Fairy Tail, Witcher AU

Notes: Finally found the motivation to finish this chapter! It's a bit transitional, a bit tense, I'm hoping to get into some juicier stuff in the next chapter. Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

--

“Is it true what the folk say? That Witchers are emotionless?”

A small, half-dead fire cast weak light on the Witcher and the sorceress. He’d set it, and maintained it long enough to roast the small rabbit he shot shortly after setting camp. It was a meager meal, but they’d both brought enough supplemental vittles to make it a worthwhile meal.

Gajeel grimaced at the broad question, with so little nuance. He leveled a disappointed stare at her, arching a single brow, “Tell me you’re not so thick.”

She raised her hands in surrender with a dry laugh. “I’m joking. I have eyes, you know,” she offered. “Curious where the rumor comes from though.” They had spoken briefly about what he was when they’d first met. It felt like an age, now, since that night in her old home when she was patching up his wounds from the Fiend. When she thought that was to be the one and only time that she would ever meet and interact with the Witcher. It felt more valuable, then, to try and eke out whatever information she could get on Witchers if she was to never meet one again.

It was amusing, in retrospect, how ignorant the two of them were that night to everything they would experience in the coming days. When fate would draw the two unlikely allies together not once, twice, but three times. It started to feel like some sort of cosmic affront to do anything but travel together. Which led her to wonder what that would mean for them when she did find Erza. Would the two of them go their separate ways then? Levy and her compatriots, surely, would have no shortage of work to do when she found out whatever Erza had to impart upon them. None of which had to do with Gajeel. 

Levy had limited knowledge on Witchers, but she did know that they notoriously did not involve themselves in the matters of men. Certainly not kings. Hunters for hire, that was their purpose, and they had yet to make any qualms with that designation.

Gajeel showed little amusement or enthusiasm towards entertaining her line of conversation.  Especially given where they left off just a short time before settling down for the night. He’d grown more than accustomed to her composure, at times so steadfast that she readily humbled him into his own. Levy, in the short time he knew her, held her nerve. In the face of Temerian soldiers and Fiends in the dark, she stood steady. Yet this night, looking into a crowd of dancers, the mere possibility she saw someone she believed dead drove her to near madness.  The look in her eyes before almost calling out to the crowd was unrecognizable. Foreign.

Still, it was clear even to him that she was just trying to fill the silence, and he found himself with much more tolerance for her than he expected. If tolerance was even the word for it. Did tolerance feel like the overwhelming desire for her to talk to him?

He cleaned off the last bit of meat from a femur, and swiped the back of his hand at the grease on his mouth. “Same place they all come from. Shite storytellers with an agenda. Witchers were respected until they weren’t, and you know the damage the right people can do with ignorant townsfolk and a good motive.” There was no real bitterness or displeasure in his tone as much as there was boredom. It was a tired tale and it made no difference to him what people thought. If Witchers took the time to give a shit about the opinions of the masses, they’d never do anything else. “We gotta keep ourselves in check in this line o’ work anyway. Focused, disciplined, all that. It’s an easy image to keep.”

Levy cocked her head, leaning back against a tree. “It’s clearly untrue, why let them believe it?” 

Gajeel shrugged, “Why not? It’s good for business, and we get paid either way,” he flicked a cleaned bone off into the shrubs. “If you’re necessary, good at what you do, and feared, it tends to work in your favor.” With a long stick, he pushed around the charred logs in the fire, working to smother the remaining embers.  It was risky enough to set a fire, but they needed to eat, and if he was being honest, he wouldn’t have protested a little something to get his blood pumping.

The sorceress knit her brows together, “I have a sneaking suspicion that really only works if you’re a man.”

“It does. Good news for me,” he flashed a sly grin at her, which she did not return outright, but the twinkle was in her eye regardless. That should not have felt like as much of a victory as it did. “Though the stories ain’t stingy with how much not being a man works for you sorceresses,” Gajeel paused to puff out his chest a little and tilt up his chin, “Political power, wealth, positions of esteem.” There’s mockery in his tone coming from someone that had absolutely no regard for any of these things. Money he needed, sure, for gear and the day to day. But wealth? Nothing but problems.

Levy barked a laugh that lacked any shred of warmth. Ah, that was far less satisfying. “Oh yes, how mighty we are,” she sneered, adjusting the hood around her neck. “When men fear one another, they have an odd habit of turning it into respect or obedience. Oh but when men fear women, particularly those they cannot grasp and control when fires ignite in their gluttonous, round bellies…” She held his stare then, the dying firelight dancing across her features. He thought, suddenly, of when he first met her and the way her conjured fire illuminated her when facing the Fiend. How his immediate thought, before he controlled himself, was how terrifyingly beautiful she was. And how that clashed with what she was telling him now.

Half of the Lodge’s identity was their beauty. In fact, it had been an intentional representation, because magic and swords were not half as effective at gaining favor as desire. Part of their development as mages, a reward as it had once been called, was the ability to alter their appearances. If one had the chance to make themselves beautiful and young with a wave of their hand for the rest of their lives, who would pass the opportunity?

In their prime, their alliances wanted both their favor and their company in equal measure. The latter they could often dangle without ever having to follow through, though that wasn’t to say there hadn’t been sorceresses that readily wielded that weapon whenever the benefit arose. Vanity was a trademark of the Lodge, and they had no reason to hide it. Everything was a competition, least of all how many powerful men each had wrapped around their pinky.

The truth of the matter was the Lodge as a whole got cocky. Regardless if there were those of them who preferred more subtle, careful approaches, they were still a singular body in the eyes of kings. The fall was swift, brutal, and bloody. Now she lived in hiding, on the run, with all her relationships strained or burned.

“Well,” she continued, gesturing down at herself, “The story writes itself in living color.” Levy stared Gajeel down a moment longer, then sighed and looked off to the side. She was bitter, how could she not be? She crossed her arms, settled back into the tree best she could, and shut her eyes, “We should get some sleep.”

That was that, and any chance Gajeel had of pushing the issue, or any others burning in his mind was gone. He waited at least another hour to sleep, ensuring the fire was out entirely and their surroundings remained quiet. He told himself that was the only reason he stayed up, but his attention was split between their surroundings and the slow breaths of the demure mage. 

Gajeel wasn’t a curious man by nature. He did not linger, he did not dwell. He killed his targets, collected his reward, and moved on. But this situation he found himself in, somehow willingly, was against everything he thought himself to be. He wanted to know more about Levy, he wanted to help her.

A rustle in the brush coiled every muscle in his body, and his eyes flicked from her to motion where the shrubs cleared. A rabbit ran, the shadowed figure of some bird of prey trailing behind. He relaxed, and only then did he realize he had reflexively angled himself closer to her.

Gajeel wanted to protect her.

Those thoughts sat like stones in his chest. Dangerous, heavy stones. But even so, for the first time in the last few weeks, the Witcher’s sleep was dreamless, and the tug in his chest had gone still.

–

“What if they don’t like me, though?” green, expectant eyes turned up to the sorceress who was only a few inches taller than her. Two figures walked down familiarly cold, dreary halls, the shorter carrying a small stack of books.  Levy walked with a practiced poise, the straightness in her spine giving away some indication of a higher position.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” That was her voice, Levy’s voice, but it didn’t come from her. In fact, it was as thought she was watching herself from the outside. “Even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re the most talented prospect Aretuza has seen in an age.”

The younger pouted in response, “But I don’t want to just be a talent. You’re so many things, Levy. I want to be many things too.”

“Likable, among those?” Levy raised her brows and gave a warm, knowing smile to the young mage. “You have more to your advantage than you give yourself credit for.  Don’t let the jealousy of your year-mates distract you.”

They turned a corner, coming face to face with another woman dressed like Levy and with similarly perfect posture. A tail of near-white hair was braided over her right shoulder, hanging in front, tied with a black ribbon. All the sorceresses, even the sorcerers, out of Aretuza boasted fair looks, but Mirajane was nothing short of a vision. Devastatingly beautiful, she had spared no effort when given the opportunity to magically alter her appearance. It was as though she looked at every possible asset she could bestow upon herself, and said ‘yes, all.’

“Levy, Mavis,” she nodded to them both by way of greeting. Behind her, a small group of girls the same age as the younger mage with Levy suddenly found the walls and the floors more interesting. “Will you be joining class this evening, or will your lessons take up all your valuable time?” A sly, playfully accusatory look slid over to Levy, who merely rolled her eyes. “I’ll be expanding on deadly herbs and their versatility in harm and healing, if that’s of any motivation for you.” 

Mavis shifted shamefully at Levy’s side. She did enjoy Mira’s classes, but Levy’s private lessons were far more interesting. “I’ll have her back when expected, Mira,” Levy cut in, placing a hand on Mavis’ head.

“I’ll hold you to it.” The other sorceress gave her a warm smile, then beckoned to the group of girls behind her to follow along down the hall. 

Levy chuckled to herself and ruffled the young mage’s wet hair.

Thunder boomed through the keep’s halls, and Levy withdrew her bloody hand from the girl at her side. She looked out the window first to clear blue skies, and another crack came roaring through. The sorceress opened her mouth to speak to her apprentice, but when looking down upon her found lifeless pools of green staring back. Through her. A cloak of red spread over her, pooling at her bare feet, and volatile magic crackled in sickly green sparks around her.

“I wanted to be just like you.” The third explosion collapsed the halls, and the floor fell out from under them. “I always will.”

–

In the distance, thunder rumbled, long and rolling. Levy lurched awake so violently she choked on her own breath, and fell into a coughing fit.  She sat up abruptly, cupping her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound, when two hands pressed on her shoulders. Her eyes darted aimlessly before finding the yellow irises of her Witcher.

“Eyes on me, Lev,” Gajeel’s voice rumbled, calmly, through the chaos of her waking mind. “Breathe,” he commanded, and his grip squeezed once on her shoulders.

She held eye contact with him, trying to swallow down her choking breaths, and he waited patiently with her. The proximity made his heart stutter, but he couldn’t spare the composure to think about it. Levy clasped her collar, trying to anchor herself, and after several moments the fits ceased.

“Good. In through the nose, out through the mouth,” he instructed, calling back on his own daily meditations. She followed without protest until he could hear her heartbeat slow. 

The sun had barely started to rise, and cast a stark red glow through the trees upon their camp. It could not have been a more ominous light to wake up from a nightmare into. “I’m fine, thank you,” she raised her hand and placed it against his chest, a form of dismissal but to him a jolt. He released her with control, and leaned back onto his heels.

“Still can’t sleep, eh?”

Levy laughed dryly and swallowed hard, “You could say that,” she answered, “Just, dreams that don’t make any sense.” She brushed herself off, trying to smooth the sleep out of her clothes. Twice now she had embarrassed herself with him.

“I find most of ‘em make sense if you turn ‘em the right way,” he remarked vaguely as he eyed her up and down. He knew that better than she could understand. “Ya want to talk about it? Ain’t been right since last night.” Levy shot him a look that was a pretty immediate ‘no,’ with a tingle of uneasiness that he wasn’t going to just pretend her outbursts at the windmill or just now didn’t happen. “Got anythin’ to do with this Mavis?” Color drained from her face all over again. “You were mumblin’ it in your sleep,” he offered, hoping it would land a bit softer than rehashing their night.

She groaned and ran her fingers through her blue hair, the color shifting with the movement of her hands back to an unassuming brown. Her palms dragged down and round her neck, then pushed up her cheeks to rub at her aching temples. “Can we talk about this on horseback, please. I’m stiffer than a shot of dwarven spirits.”

Gajeel blinked, then laughed gruffly while hauling himself up onto his feet. “Deal. Rain’s gonna start at some point and we got a ways to our destination, yet.”

Another groan. “Rain. Stellar.”

–

“It makes no sense,” Levy started, clutching the rim of the saddle behind her.  They’d been riding for somewhere close to an hour already, and moisture most certainly hung in the air as dark clouds moved in faster than they were cantering. “She’d never even been to Aretuza. Mavis came into my life before everything fell apart,” there was a faraway tone in her voice, like still half trying to make sense of the imagery. “Though not for lack of trying on everyone else’s part…but that place would have ruined her.”

Gajeel took a moment to consider his words, which by all accounts was not something he cared to do often. But this was significant to her. “There was someone at the party that looked like her.” Not a question.

Levy deflated, and her face heated in embarrassment. “Yes.”

“But she’s dead?”

Her breathing stilled, and there was a long beat before she answered again. “Has been for a while. But for that dance, however long it was, she was alive. She loved to dance. Terrible at it, but she was a child then. She would have been,” another weighted pause as she started to count, but gave up, “well, it doesn't matter. Facts are what they are. And I lost my head for a moment. It won't happen again.” There was an edge to her words that told him she was done talking about this. Again. “We soldier on, Gajeel.”

For now, he would have to leave it be, whether he wanted to or not.

The trail they followed forked in front of them, with the most direct route bringing them through Alness, and the path to the left along the forest edge before curving south again.  It had been some time since he came out this way, but the way was still familiar. The less direct route would avoid the bustle of town, and still get them to their destination with little time lost. 

Wordlessly, he pulled them left and continued in relative silence as thunder rumbled again and rain started to sprinkle. However, Levy was the one to speak again, voice low with warning. “Gajeel, smoke.”

The Witcher grunted, narrowing his eyes at the black wisp rising from somewhere just past the treeline. “I see it,” he replied, giving a quick nudge to the horse to bring them to a trot. All they needed to do was look busy, and keep moving. There’s a lot of trouble that can be avoided by not lingering.

But, not this trouble, it would seem.

Four men with weapons drawn emerged from the brush, and if his hearing served him right a fifth hung back out of view. Gajeel pulled back on the reins to slow down, scanning over the four of them with a look that he hoped would give them second thoughts. Subtly, he leaned forward leading with his right shoulder, where the two hilts of his swords rose up. With his eyesight, he saw one of them look at his weapons, hesitating for just a second, before moving then to the small undeniably feminine figure in the saddle behind him. 

Gajeel bristled more than he expected to when they all exchanged looks, speaking unintelligibly to each other. He angled the horse in a way it would look like he intended to swing wide, and one of the smaller men took a quick step in the same direction, sealing their intentions.

Instinctive excitement bubbled in his chest at an opportunity to test his armor at last. His breathing slowed, and a predator’s calm settled over him. “Stay on the horse. Do nothing to draw attention,” he said in a low voice, angling forward to dismount.

“I can help, Gajeel, you’re outnumbered,” Levy whispered back, pulling her hood more securely over her head.

“Ain’t gonna say it again. This’ll only take a minute,” Gajeel heaved himself off the horse, landing with a heavy thud in the dirt. “Keep. Your. Cover,” he growled, not once taking his eyes off the bandits in the road. “Ride when they come at you.”

Levy didn’t have a chance to ask what he meant before the Witcher took off in a full sprint for the trees, away from the group, and several things happened at once. By the faces of the four men in the open, they were also taken entirely by surprise. One of them, wielding a mace, took only a second of hesitation before he shouted in protest, and took off in pursuit. The remaining three looked to Levy, stricken suddenly with expressions that screamed ‘opportunity.’

“Hells, Gajeel!” she hissed, scooting forward in the saddle to take hold of the reins and give a hard tug and a swift kick.  The horse took off in a wide arc to put distance between her and the immediate threat and try to keep eyes on Gajeel.

But he barged, unhindered, through the underbrush, and disappeared swiftly from view.  Unaware of the fifth member, it appeared to Levy that he just left the scene entirely, but despite how little they knew one another it seemed unlikely he would run from a fight. 

At the same moment the man with the mace caught up to the treeline, Gajeel came back into view to meet him, dragging a small man with a bow by the face. The Witcher effortlessly lifted his captive up in front of him, ‘aiming’ him at the assailant, as an arcane blast of force launched the archer forward. Two bodies cracked together and crumpled into the dirt, but Gajeel did not stop.

Levy didn’t have the time to track what he would do next as he barrelled forward, forced to keep her attention on the men that had their sights on her.  She could easily have ridden off and truly gone a safe distance, but she had no desire to be so useless, and would need to stick with evasive maneuvers while keeping close.

“That’s right sweetheart, stay right there!” one of them sneered, and she felt her skin prickle.

If I fry all three of you it won’t matter if I break my cover.  Try it, ape, she thought, feeling her fingertips tingle. 

The mage would find no use for her magic today, as Gajeel commanded their attention instead, with no room for indecision. “Eyes on me!” The words may have been enough, but he punctuated them with three brutal cracks of his sword fist against his chest before brandishing the black steel sword at his side. The Witcher was the embodiment of brutality, and as he rushed forward the thrill of violence surged through every vein, spurred even more by the flash of regret from the remaining three bandits. 

Too late to back out now; he made it more than obvious they were dealing with a Witcher. And not just any, but Black Steel.  It was time for them to get an intimate view at the craftsmanship that earned him that name. 

They made a paltry attempt to ready themselves for the one-man onslaught, the bolder of the three lurching forward with a shortsword swing.

Let’s see how good your work is, Salamander, he thought, skidding to a halt as he thrust up his right forearm to take the hit. The blade clashed into the scales of his bracers, and went no further. Gajeel barked a thrilled laugh, glancing at the man from below his arm, as his free hand shot forward to unleash a blast of fire into the bandit’s face.

The agonized scream barely rose from his throat before Gajeel sidestepped around him, and with one spin he arced his steel into the two remaining men at once. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was hiss of his fire under steadier rainfall, and Gajeel was left feeling…wholly dissatisfied.

He huffed, swinging his steel to the side hard enough to throw off the majority of the blood. The sound of hoofbeats approached, and he turned to meet Levy as she came closer.  He watched her sweep her eyes over him once, and he found himself straightening slightly under her scrutiny.  “Having fun, are you?” she asked, crossing her arms and surveying their surroundings while trying to avoid looking at any of the bodies too long.

Gajeel flashed his teeth at her, “I would, if they were worth–”

Levy’s face twisted in panicked urgency, her eyes locking onto something beyond them, but all the warning she could manage was to shout his name.

White pain blasted from the edge of the Witcher’s vision, followed immediately by the scream of a horse.

#gajevy #gajeel x levy #fairy tail #fairy tail fanfiction #fairy tail fanfic #gajeel redfox

[the-final-sif]

Some people are saying Dream's definitely did /something/ wrong and harmful, and I can't think of what's been confirmed (or as much as anything can be confirmed at this point) they could be talking about. I'm really doubtful they're just talking about sharing the private snapchat handle. I'm not trying to say those people are wrong, I just know that I'm not at all emotionally experienced enough to grasp what they're grasping.

Some people appear to believe that Dream ever dming fans back or talking to them is somehow wrong or harmful by default. Or that somehow, there is no context where Dream sharing a private snapchat handle to talk to someone further isn't wrong/harmful.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but it's not one that I share though. Having read through the Instagram conversation several times, I could absolutely see a context where Dream thought that he was talking to an aspiring/small content creator his own age, and wanted to talk to them more. The interaction wasn't particularly fan centric, and we don't have any context/evidence provided for what age Dream thought Amanda was at the time.

It's important to remember that Dream and Amanda's interactions took place on instagram, not twitter or tik tok which have been the profiles that people have been able to look at. We don't know if Amanda's instagram is/was a fan account, or what age she was listing on there at the time. Or if she told him her age in a removed message.

In fact, what little evidence we do have lightly suggests that Dream may've believed Amanda to be older than she was. On Amanda's twitter, in Feb 2021 she talked about her original twitter account being banned because she had apparently been lying about her age "to avoid being bullied". We also know from her instagram messages, that she's been using her instagram account since prior to that point and that her instagram account did not change/get banned. There is a not unreasonable inference to be made that if she was lying about her age on one platform, she may've lied about it on another. Amanda would also have a motivation to not want to correct/post her actual age on her instagram account out of fear of that account being banned as well. If she had provided an inaccurate age to being with. Particularly given Dream's early interactions with her were prior to when she attempted to correct her age on twitter (late 2020), there is a real chance that he checked her profile, saw an inaccurate age, and believed her to be older than she was.

Hell, she might've had her graduation year in her bio ('22), which is a trend that I'm very aware was/is a thing on instagram, and I do not understand it even a little bit. Literally the only thing this trend has done is confuse people as to what age the person they're talking to is. Because if you don't know '22 means "graduating in 2022", or you miss the ' then you will reasonably think the person you're talking to is 22. Particularly if there's nothing to clarify or no actual age listed. I've known people that got mixed up over this, and I think it's a very stupid trend. If this were the case, it's very possible Dream could've thought she was 22, even without Amanda intentionally misrepresenting her age (side note, this is a stupid trend and should stop. If you want/need to have your age in your bio, put a reasonable aproxx in (ie, under 18, 18+, 21+, etc). Don't put in your graduation year. Nobody needs that information, and certainly not strangers on the internet.).

Now, I want to be very clear, we do not know if she was misrepresenting her age on instagram. We don't know if she ever attempted to correct it if she did, or if she ever directly represented her age to Dream. That is all context that is entirely missing from this situation, and it's part of why I'm not casting judgement on it yet. I think some people are taking context we as an outsider have (ie, Amanda's twitter account, her tik tok account, etc) and running under the assumption that Dream had the exact same context we did. When we do not know that. Nothing of what we've seen took place on twitter or tik tok. It was on instagram, where we don't know what context Dream may or may not have had for their interaction.

It is entirely possible that Amanda's instagram account was a clear Dream fan account that openly listed her accurate age, something she told him, and Dream had every reason to know that sending her his private snapchat was a bad idea and inappropriate. It is also entirely possible that Amanda's instagram account looked like the account of an aspiring/small content creator, gave few if any indications of being a stan account and had an inaccurate age represented such that Dream thought he was messaging a content creator his own age; in which case, Dream sending her his private snapchat to talk to her is, in my opinion, a reasonable choice and not inappropriate.

The missing context for this interaction creates wildly different situations that I would have wildly different opinions on. We currently do not know which of these situations is true, and we have little evidence to point to either of them. This is a big part of why I'm not comfortable casting judgement on the situation until I have that information. While, again, everyone is allowed their own opinions, I don't think it's fair to say whether that conversation was inappropriate or harmful without this sort of context.

#sif answers #Anonymous #dream discourse #discourse #sif speaks

[shy-assassin-enthusiast]

This may be an unpopular theory/opinion but, as much as I love fics where Twilight finds out about Anya’s powers and is immediately patient and comforting, I kinda think Loid isn’t gonna handle it in the best way…

To be clear, I do not think he’s gonna do anything unforgivable, but I think there’s a good possibility that his first reaction will be one of panic and suspicion.

It’s an on running issue of his in the series, that he will often jump to somewhat ridiculous possibilities about people’s motives or behaviors, that he then has to talk himself down from, and reevaluate. Like the time he questioned if Becky was working against him to foil plan B, for example. He realized, rather quickly, that his suspicions were getting the better of him and calmed down, but those funny little moments like this give us some insight on how his thoughts & emotions work. He’s a spy, he’s lived years without anyone (outside of his profession) knowing that he is, he’s learned to question everything from everybody. Which is usually smart to do in his line of work, but it also breeds a terribly unhealthy paranoia in him at times.

I think, in the circumstance that Anya is found out/outed by someone else, that Twilight’s brain would fall back onto old habits and that it wouldn’t be so easy for him to step out of them in this particular situation. Because this isn’t a “what if?” situation that his brain presented to him after noticing some small detail, this is a serious, concrete fear, with severe possible consequences, being made real. I think that he would panic, and his spy-brain would kick-in and tell him that he needs to get more information, he needs to understand the situation better, he needs to know how to handle this now. He’s not thinking about anything outside of that, because his brain has locked in on this goal, and he just starts rattling off questions:

“How did you get these powers?”

“Do you know the name of the organization that you were a part of?”

“Have you been in contact with them since we met?”

“Were you planted by them to learn information about me? To sabotage this mission?”

He isn’t yelling, he’s not trying to scare her, but he’s nervous and he’s frustrated, and it makes his voice and stance come off very intimidating, and Anya’s trying to answer as best she can but he seems angry and he isn’t giving her much room to speak and ‘he’s going to send me away’ and he doesn’t notice until it all becomes too much for her and she’s crying and then he realizes

Oh. Oh, no.

He knows he’s messed up, and he starts to calm her down and make apologies, and he promises her that they’ll figure it all out later when she’s ready, that he’s not mad, and he won’t ever react like that again.

And, of course, he makes true on those promises when they discuss it later and he makes sure she knows that she’s safe and cared for and cheers her up with whatever she wants! (within reason)! But the point is, I think this would be a teaching moment for Loid and an important step towards him accepting himself as a permanent father in her life.

#spy x family #loid forger #agent twilight #anya forger

[crack-art-n-stuff]

yanderes in the empire??

Cornelia Agelastus.

Empress of the Crenovara Empire. Described as easily one of the greatest rulers in the empire’s history. Kind and generous towards the common folk. Fair and negotiable towards the nobility. Firm and strong towards her enemies. Not that the empire had many, at the moment.

She truly brought an era of peace for the people and you never needed to travel far to hear someone sing her praises for her rule. One thing, though……

Information on the royal family never seemed to leave the palace, outside of formal addresses. The empress’ concubines, and their children rarely ever made public appearances outside of birthdays, and even those were incredibly exclusive. It did put the common folk off a bit, some wondering about this iron barrier that seemed to separate them. But life was good in the empire, so it was best not to bite the hand that feeds them, no?

An agonized scream rang through the halls, alarming the new maid that walked with her senior. The young girl flinched and looked over her shoulder as she remained in place, as if she’d see the source right behind her. To hear such things in the late night naturally would be concerning and unsettling. However, the older maid paid no mind, her steady paced step not faltering for a second.

After noticing the older woman continuing down the hall, the young woman hurried to catch up to her. “Mrs. Tillman, didn’t you hear that? Should we not check to see if anyone needed help? Someone could be hurt!”

The maid kept her gaze forward, one hand holding a candle to light their way, but she quickly linked her arm with the younger and picked up her pace. Softly speaking, she warned, “We’re in the 3rd concubine’s palace. I suggest you ignore any strange noises from this place.”

“What? Wait-”

“Please don’t ask questions right now. I’ll answer when we get out of here.”

The rest of their scurry was in unsettling and confusing silence.

Meanwhile, the owner of the screams was rything on the ground, clutching the front of their shirt. Right over their lungs.Once in a while, their screams form words. Pleas for their suffering to stop. Begging for a chance to redeem themselves and have another chance at life. Sadly, their executioner had no such mercy. Simply cold disdain and disappointment, ever present in his crimson eyes.

Eventually, the screams became chokes, that became gasps, which became silence.

The only light that filtered into the room was the moonlight that came from through the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows. They casted a near perfect spotlight on the elegant, statuestc figure and fresh corpse. 

“Remove this.” The cold voice finally spoke. Every word felt like icicles that formed in the deep winter. 

The guard standing by at the door, made quick work of the body, calmly carrying it out. Leaving the figure alone.

Turning  around and approaching the closed window, the man gazed at the clear moon. His power. His gift. ‘The Breath of Life’. The reason he was chosen as the 3rd of the empress’ harem. Using a special paint, any brush stroke he made could spring life anywhere. Such power was a clear benefit for the Empire. But that wasn’t An Shao’s motive. His reason for anything was the same as always.

His beloved empress, Cornelia.

Her grace, intellect, and beauty stole his breath away. She was why he was willing to leave his own country behind just to be at her side. If she never returned his feelings, he didn’t mind all that much. As long as he could be the closet beside her. And truthfully, he was. While they were not officially married and he was not named the empress’ husband, he had quite the knack for leading people. He also knew how and when to get his own hands dirty, so Cornelia’s would remain clean. Of course, not to her knowledge as far as Shao was concerned. He was aware she wasn’t stupid or blind. But she had never said anything about it to him.

They even had three children together. The 4th, 5th, and 6th princesses. Triplets. Shao adored them and wanted to believe Cornelia did, too. Somewhere in her heart.

But he knew better. No matter what, he wasn’t the apple of her eye. Unlike the 5th concubine. 

Some country bumpkin the empress met while passing through the countryside traveling to another kingdom.

Shao always hated him. His filthy brown eyes that reminded him of the mud that covered his rain boots. His disgusting short hair that constantly looked like a nest made by rats. Imperfect scars on his face from his worthless peasant life.

He could never compare to Shao, his crimson eyes that always burned with life and shone like jewels, his long silky hair that flew in a nice breeze, or his smooth skin accented here and there by small beauty marks. 

Shao was leagues ahead of that waste.

So, why wouldn’t she look at him like that?

Cornelia would smile sweetly and give that garbage such a loving gaze. She’d hold their child close, peppering their head and cheeks like little kisses. She’d happily greet him with a warm embrace.

That useless waste of space received love, attention, and affection that RIGHTFULLY belonged to Shao.

Some days that information felt like a stake through his heart and nearly drove him mad with anger. 

But he never faulted Cornelia. He could never.

It was that filthy peasant’s fault. He must have schemed something. He had to. Otherwise, how would he have stolen Cornelia from Shao?

Shao was determined to get rid of him and his annoying rugrats. Yet he was met with failure. Hence the merciless punishment towards his former servant.

All he had to do was get rid of those brats and secure one of Shao’s daughters as the heir to the throne. That would practically secure his place as Cornelia’s official husband and only love. That idiot just had to poison them. How could he fail?!

His face started to redden from anger, so he gently placed his forehead on the chilled window. Feeling it spread to his face, he took some deep breaths and closed his eyes.

He had to remain calm to achieve his tasks. He had to get rid of the trash to live happily with his empress.

This time, he wouldn’t be failed.

#yandere oc #yandere male #yandere #male yandere #male oc #ocs #oc x oc #manhwa #manhwa practice #practice #sims 4

[sapphire-dreamsky]

Le Festival Des Rêves

Starring: Oda Sakunosuke | Reader | Dazai Ozamu

Pairing: Oda Sakunosuke / Reader

Words: 1883

Synopsis: 

‘‘Are you craving some pink and blue cotton candy? Or maybe you have nothing planned for the weekend? Don’t worry! We got you! Le Festival des Rêves will be in town on Saturday and Sunday! Bring your children and partners! We can guarantee you will have a good time!’’

It was a peaceful day, one which only happened once in a blue moon. These days were rare and far in between but Oda appreciated them nonetheless. On these days off, the man would often wake up a little bit later than usual. He would snuggle a bit closer to his girlfriend and if he felt motivated enough, would even prepare breakfast for the two of them. The afternoon would then be spent with the kids. However, that day, Oda already made plans. The day before, when he was on the way to Bar Lupin, he saw an advertisement that would immediately catch the eye of any passer-by. The bright colours would attract anyone’s attention. But if you missed the colours, you wouldn’t miss the big marquee in the middle of the advertisement with lights hanging around it to make it attractive. 

‘‘Are you craving some pink and blue cotton candy? Or maybe you have nothing planned for the weekend? Don’t worry! We got you! Le Festival des Rêves will be in town on Saturday and Sunday! Bring your children and partners! We can guarantee you will have a good time!’’

‘Tomorrow is Saturday and is my day off...maybe I could bring (Y/N) there…’ While he was contemplating their plans for tomorrow, he didn't notice Dazai creeping up behind him. ‘‘BOO!’’ There wasn’t much which could startle the man. That was something Dazai learned very early on in their early days. SO he wasn’t very disappointed when Oda failed to jump in surprise as Ango would. Despite this, however, he still pretended to be sad that his little prank didn’t work out. Oda, bless his soul, tried to cheer him up by awkwardly patting the back of his ‘sad’ friend to cheer him up. 

‘‘Why are you outside, OdaSaku?’’ Dazai tried to peek around his friend’s frame to see what caught the stoic man's attention. Upon seeing the sign, his eyes lit up. 

‘‘Oooh! A festival is coming into town! Will you go OdaSaku?’’

Oda glanced back to the sign, before nodding. ‘‘Yeah. I will bring (Y/N) there.’’

Dazai’s eyes lit up even more, ‘‘your girlfriend, right?! Here, come, come OdaSaku. Let’s go inside and I will tell you all about what you can do to make her swoon! You will see! With my advice, nothing will go wrong! And who knows? Maybe you will even get lucky!’’ Dazai winks obnoxiously at Oda, trying to hint something at the older man. However, Dazai must have overestimated how Oda could be clueless sometimes. So instead, he only dragged Oda towards the bar, sighing dramatically at his friend’s oblivious expression. 

‘‘Now, now OdaSaku! You can’t pretend that you have never thought about this!’’

Oda didn’t have the heart to ask his friend if he has ever been on a date before. Or that he, in fact, knew what his wink meant. But the man had no desire to walk on that road. He had no desire to divulge any private information to his friend about his relationship status. And so, for an entire night, the poor man only nursed drinks after drinks as Dazai tried to give him ‘the talk’. This was a long night for him. Possibly one of the longest one.

When he woke up, he was immediately attacked by the light. Oda groans at the disruption. Once the morning fog cleared up, he realised two things. 

He is in his bed and in his pyjamas. He must have either walked all the way here, changed clothes and crashed in bed after the long talk at the bar, but that was highly unlikely. He didn’t remember anything after the sixth whiskey. Either Dazai helped him and took him back to his place, but even that was a stretch. He made sure to not divulge any information on where he was living to anyone in the mafia for security purposes. And even if he mumbled his address in a drunken haze, Dazai had no key. The second key is with (Y/N). She must have let them in. ‘She saw me drunk,’ was the only thing running through Oda’s mind amidst the pounding headache.

(Y/N) is not beside him. The sun is too high for it to be seven. He must have slept in. ‘Not only did she have to take care of me drunk, but she also had to prepare breakfast for the two of us.’ Oda mentally chided himself. Next time, he would cut back on his drinks. He will make sure of it.

With a groan, Oda’s head fell back on the pillow. ‘So much for a planned perfect day.’ His groan must have been loud because his bedroom door opened. A head peeked inside. (Y/N). Letting out a slight giggle at the sight of her defeated boyfriend, she nudges his lying form. Oda peeked from the pillow he was using as a shield against the sun. He quietly observed his girlfriend as she recounted last night’s event. ‘So he did tell Dazai where he lived,’ Oda mentally notes that he needs to call the man the day after. 

‘‘What happened to you to drink so much last night? Bad day?’’

She gently plays with his locks. He leans in a bit closer, but upon noticing that his new position wouldn’t do it, he decides to just lay his head on her lap. ‘Soft…’ Oda snaked his arm around her middle. He was rarely clingy like this, but in the morning, when Oda had nothing much to do, he would cling to her side as much as he could. For (Y/N), these days were the best. They were quiet, peaceful, and for a moment, she could forget about all the dangers Oda exposes himself to every day. For a moment, he belonged to her and not to the mafia. He was hers to cherish and care for.

‘‘...a festival in town. Want to go?’’

‘‘Hmm? Why not? It’s been ages since I’ve been to one.’’

Oda nods in her lap, letting himself fall into the welcoming arms of Morphe once more. ‘Such a sweet place to be…’

The festival was beautiful. The lights were bright and illuminated the streets. The smell of greasy food wafted in the air. The place was noisy. There were children running after each other while laughing wildly (Oda smiled at the sight), funny looking clowns walking around handing animal-shaped balloons to old and young alike while singing the festival’s theme song, making children sing with them. The atmosphere was good. While it was not as peaceful as staying at home, Oda couldn’t help but like it. People here were happy. They were escaping from their day to day life for a moment. ‘A moment of respite from daily life,’ the man muses. He smiles slightly, looking down on (Y/N). She had such a happy grin, it was really infectious. 

‘‘What do you want to do first?’’

The woman shrugs and yet, despite her dismissive attitude, still drags him towards a stand of cotton candy. 

‘‘Let’s get one first, yeah? Then we can walk around.’’

After buying cotton candy for his girlfriend, they went on a stroll. In the back of his mind, Oda couldn’t help but remember what Dazai 'advised’ him to do. ‘Listen, OdaSaku! This is the moment! The moment where you make her swoon! The moment where you impress her and show her who you really are! Win her a plushie! She will love that!’

Oda wasn’t certain how many drinks he already had back then, but if he still remembers that ‘advice’, then it must have been before their conversation strayed away from innocent advice.

Oda looks around the stands looking for something memorable. (Y/N) casually broke off some candy and nudged Oda. He looked down at her, flashing her a smile, accepting the sweet candy. 

While looking in her direction, he notices something on a stand. ‘Is that a dog? It’s cute like (Y/N)...’ Grabbing her, he led her towards the stand. 

‘‘Welcome, welcome! What a lovely pair do you two make!’’

Oda feels blood rushing to his cheeks but pays no mind to them as the man gushes over them.

‘‘Ahh! I remember taking my wife to these fairs! And now, look at where I’m working!’’

The man began laughing at the fond memory. His eyes scan the price shelves while (Y/N) converses with the man. 

‘‘Ah, no, we are not married!’’

The old man leans into (Y/N), winking at her before murmuring.

‘‘Yet.’’

He leaned back into his place while (Y/N) looked embarrassed. 

‘‘Is there anything that is catching your eyes, miss?’’

His girlfriend looks up, her eyes immediately falling upon the dog Oda was glancing at earlier. She points towards it. Oda nods slightly. 

The man hands the two of them a fake gun, telling them about the objectives. But Oda cared little for that. He used to hold guns in his younger days. With a small confident smile, Oda aimed at all the targets effortlessly. (Y/N), who completely forgot about her own gun just gawked at him. Oda patted himself on the back. 

‘‘Whoah! Young man, this was perfect! I wished I was as good as you when I was younger! It would have saved me face and money, hahaha!’’

The old merchant hands Oda the price. Upon close inspection, the dog plushie looked even more adorable. He hands it to (Y/N), who fell in love with it instantly. 

‘‘Thank you, Oda! Hmm...It kind of looks like you!’’

She points at the eyes of the plushie. 

‘‘He has the same puppy eyes that you do when you pout!’’

Amused, Oda started to lead her to the ferry wheels.

‘‘He?’’

‘‘Yep! I’m naming it OdaSaku!’’

‘‘Should I be jealous?’’

‘‘Only when you are working.’’ 

She winks at him. Oda shakes his head, paying for the attraction while (Y/N) admires his features. The lights cast an almost magical glow around the man. ‘He looks majestic…’

The trip to the top was slow but filled with playing jabs at each other. As their cart moved up, (Y/N) began snuggling up to his side, hugging her plushie in her arms.

‘‘Thank you for today.’’

Oda merely smiles.

‘‘Thank you for being patient with me…’’

(Y/N) looks up at the man questionably.

‘‘The man earlier...The one with the plushie stand...I wouldn’t mind marrying you.’’

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. She knew Oda was not one to speak lightly. He was honest, never played games. His intentions were always clear. Never one to lead his partner astray on anything or leave misunderstandings brewing for too long. This was a trait that (Y/N) admired with him. If she had to name one quality of his that made her fall for him, it would his honesty. He never aimed to hurt people intentionally.

‘‘I would happily marry you then.’’

#oda sakunosuke x reader #odasaku x reader #bsd oda x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader

[tea-with-evan-and-me]

hey all, first off, please know that although i didn't post your asks, i'm not ignoring you, your thoughts or your concerns. i hear you, i just have like.. 80 messages that are essentially the same thing, asking if it's real, questioning the validity, the motive, etc. and i'm just finally at home going through my messages. there's a few things i want to share in the spirit of transparency, and the fact that in the absence of clear facts, we all need to think critically. hopefully this answers some of you guys' questions in the process.

first, various people have messaged me the same screenshot of a patreon page purported to be frances' showing explicit, but blurred photos - no faces are shown and no identifying features. every screenshot is the same, which to me is indicative of a singular screenshot being reposted by multiple people, not multiple people seeing the same thing and taking a photo themselves. i also have not seen multiple ''different'' screenshots of frances' alleged tumblr posts; they all appear to be the same source photos. it would be very strange that the only existing photo of the leak is the preview page, where images would be blurred unless you subscribe to her patreon. it's been hours since this ''story'' broke, by now i would think there would be additional images leaked. there almost certainly would have been a period of time, no matter how brief, where someone would have either already been subscribed, or saw france's alleged tumblr posts and then subscribed, seen the actual patreon page, and took a screenshot. there is someone who i chat with on here (off anon) who i trust, that has also shared some things with me that i feel cast doubt on the origins of this story. because multiple people are involved here, i'm awaiting consent to share those details with any identifying details redacted. there's only one person who has messaged me alleged information about what was seen on the patreon page (meaning what frances wrote in her patreon posts), but had no proof of this part. allegedly this took place at around 2am est and i did not receive any messages nor did anyone post about it on twitter until around 4am est. so that would mean approximately 2 hours elapsed without anyone posting about it that i am aware of. the user who messaged me did so from an account that had few posts, and they were all from today, which to me signifies the account was created for the purpose of sharing this information. and we now know the news made it to frances herself, who has denied it vehemently. despite some of the criticisms towards her, i fully believe that going this far and doing something of this nature would be completely out of character. all of these things, to me, are casting a large shadow of doubt on the validity of this story. in the absence of undeniable proof, i urge everyone to pause before jumping to conclusions.

additionally, i know many of you are concerned about rosa, someone we know to cause issues in the fandom and exhibit bizarre behavior, and seeing as she is the only twitter user who blasted this story out to everyone.. i get it. but there's also a very good chance that her involvement is a false flag, seeing that she so frequently just reposts things other people have said. my advice is to report her account, which i have done myself. i will say that right now, to me, this feels like a set-up. i have my own suspicions about the motivation in doing this, but i don't think right now is the time to speculate outside of saying that i think there's a high likelihood that there is someone watching our spaces, wanting us to lash out, spread this defamatory image, attack frances and run wild with the narrative that she has leaked nude photos of evan. personally, i am not risking making myself a pawn in someone's fucked up game and i advise anyone who follows me to refrain from engaging in any judgement calls and assumptions. i will be the first to say i don't know anything with certainty; i'm just sharing what to me seems most likely, until someone can provide substantial evidence to the contrary.

personally, this situation has been upsetting to me and i know it has been for many of you as well. real or not, evan's name being dragged into something so despicable and violating is not okay. there's no scenario where doing something like this is okay.

[thegodovereverything]

TMNTober

prompt: That is not a person

gen: rise

ao3 link

@tmntober-2023

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

The reporter on the TV adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “After last week's invasion, many have been thankful to the not-humans that fought off the aliens.” The screen to the right of her shows a blurry photo of green blobs with color coordinated masks, weapons readied as they run upwards up a falling building. 

“Many others believe that they were part of a plot to earn public trust. Protesters have been lining the streets of New York City, calling for an investigation of their motives,” The screen changes to depict protestors lining the street. They chant indistinctly in front of a governmental building. 

“John is there on the scene,” The camera snaps over to a reporter in front of the protesters, a warm scarf loosely tied around his neck. “Tell us John, what should the people of New York know in the midst of the current panic?”

“Well, Sarah, it is not looking good out there, I can tell you that. The protesters have been here since eight a.m. and show no signs of stopping. We haven’t gotten any further contact from the not-humans that fought off the alien as of yet, only riling people up further. Everyone here has a different theory as to their purpose for fighting the aliens off, ranging from escaped aliens from area-51 to a secret governmental task force.” He’s nearly yelling over both the wind and the roaring protestors. 

A teenager sneaks up to the reporter. She wears a bright green sweater, and her hair is pulled back into two buns. The reporter continues, unaware of her presence, “They want answers, and possibly compensation. Many of their homes and offices were destroyed in the fight, leaving many homeless or without jobs.”

She taps on his shoulder, “Excuse me, sir, April O’Neil, reporter from Eastman Laird University. I actually have some information about the “not-humans”, did you call them?” 

John breathed out a small sigh, before facing the budding reporter. April took that moment to steal his mic from him. April held it out of his grasp, dancing out of his way every time he attempted to grab it. He eventually gave up, motioning at the camera to switch back over to the studio. It doesn’t. He taps his foot impatiently as she begins her speech. 

It was clearly well rehearsed, spoken with a clear voice that was easily heard over the background noise. “Their names are Raph, Leo, Donnie, and Mikey. Raph is the oldest at sixteen. They fought the aliens called the Krang in order to protect us all. They are afraid. They are hurt. Leo is in a coma, healing from the damage he took when he sacrificed himself to get the Krang back into their prison. He is fifteen years old . Mikey, a   fourteen-year-old, has permanently damaged his hands from making a portal to save Leo. They are teenagers. They are people too. They fought hard for us, and I’m disappointed that we aren’t doing the same. April O’Niel, out.” She drops the mic and John blinks, lost for words. Slowly, he comes back, picking up the dropped mic. “Well, erm,” He clears his throat, tugging on his scarf. The screen cuts back to the reporter inside the studio, who looked equally as ruffled.

“We’ll be right back after a quick break.” The screen cuts to an advertisement about a foot fungus.

The screen turned black, closing like curtains at the end of a play. Splinter's sigh was a deep one, pulled from the wells of his soul. He was thankful to April for trying, but he understands humans (he used to be one, afterall). They will never change, they will always hate anything different. He remembered when he first moved to America. He wasn’t welcomed then, and he was a human. He feared to think of what would happen to his boys if they went public.

#tmntober 2023 #tmntober2023 #words exist #this prompt was a hard one! #But I think I'm satisfied with this #this is the last one thats actually posted in october #but hopefully I'll only take two days to get the rest out!