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realmsofdreams · 2 months ago

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when it was bad, your face kept me alive

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: you and cregan stark were bound by a betrothal forged in childhood. he was your first love, the boy with a wolf’s grin who promised you a life of warmth amid the cold of winterfell. you grew up dreaming of a marriage filled with tender moments, only for war to tear him from you before the vows could be spoken.

warnings: emotional angst, themes of war and loss, slow-burn, mild depictions of grief and trauma, heavy emotional weight.

author notes: currently listening to ‘goodbye brother by ramin djawadi’, and the melody is just so sad yet warm at the same time, it’s making me want to write something truly heartbreaking at the start, with just a flicker of warmth at the end. also, i’m considering opening a taglist! not sure when, but would you want to be tagged in my latest works whenever i post? my requests are open now, so if you have any ideas, don’t be shy and drop them in my ask! i only accept requests through asks, and don’t forget to read my rules too!

“my lady, they’ve returned.”

the guard’s voice cracks through the stillness of the hall, rough like the scrape of steel against stone. you’re seated by the hearth, a half-finished embroidery in your lap, the needle stilled between your fingers. you look up, slow, deliberate, as if moving too fast might shatter the fragile hope you’ve nursed for years.

“who?”

your voice is a whisper, barely audible over the pop of the logs.

“the men from the warband. survivors.”

the guard shifts, his boots scuffing the floor, his eyes avoiding yours.

“lord cregan… they say he’s not among them.”

the needle slips from your grasp, a tiny sound that echoes like a thunderclap in your chest. you stand, the embroidery tumbling forgotten, your hands trembling as they clutch the edge of the table. many moons of waiting, of staring out frost-rimed windows, of tracing the lines of his letters until the ink blurred beneath your fingertips. they’d stopped coming so suddenly, and with them, the rumors of cregan stark, lost in the south, cut down, burned, drowned. dead. they’d said it a thousand times, in a thousand ways, but never with proof. never with his body. and so you’d held on, stubborn as the ice that clings to winterfell’s walls, believing he’d come back to you.

“not among them?”

you echo, your voice sharper now, cutting through the haze.

“then where is he?”

the guard hesitates, his jaw tight.

“they… they don’t know, my lady. they saw him fall, they say. in the thick of it. no one could reach him. the field was chaos, in fire, blood. they’re certain he’s gone.”

gone.

the word lands like a blade between your ribs, your breath catches, and for a moment, the room tilts. but then you straighten, your chin lifting, your eyes burning with something fierce, something stark.

“no,” you say, quiet but firm.

“no, he’s not gone. not until i see him. not until they bring me his bones.”

the guard opens his mouth, then closes, nodding once before stepping back. you don’t cry. you don’t scream. you turn to the window, pressing your palm against the icy glass, and stare out at the snow-dusted courtyard where the survivors will soon stumble through. your reflection stares back—older now, sharper-edged, but still the girl who’d promised her heart to a boy with a wolf’s grin. he’s out there, you tell yourself, as you’ve told yourself every night since he left. alive. waiting.

five years bleed into six, and winterfell grows quieter, heavier, as if the stones themselves mourn him. you move through the days like a ghost, tending to the keep, smiling thinly at the servants, deflecting the lords who whisper of new betrothals.

they don’t understand.

they didn’t see the way cregan looked at you the day he rode out, his hand warm on your cheek, his voice steady, promising he’d come back to make you his wife. you’d been children when the betrothal was sealed, two small figures beneath the heart tree, giggling through vows you barely understood. but it had grown into something real, something that rooted deep in your soul. he’d been your first love, your only love, and you his.

his chambers remain untouched, a shrine to that promise. his furs still draped over the chair, his sword rack empty but polished, his letters stacked neatly on the desk. you sit there sometimes, late at night, running your fingers over the parchment, imagining his voice in the words.

“i dream of you, even here. keep the fire lit for me.”

you do. you always do.

the sixth winter is the harshest yet, you’re in his chambers again, wrapped in one of his old cloaks, when the horn sounds low, mournful note that reverberates through the keep. you freeze, the cloak slipping from your shoulders. footsteps pound outside, voices rising, and then the door bursts open.

“my lady!”

it’s the same guard, older now, his face flushed beneath his helm.

“he’s here. lord cregan, he’s alive. he’s at the gates.”

your breath stops, your knees buckle, and you catch yourself against the desk, his letters crumpling under your hand.

“alive?”

you rasp, the word tasting of snow and hope.

“half-dead, maybe, but alive. he came alone. on foot. gods know how.”

you don’t wait for more.

you’re running, the cloak forgotten, your boots slipping on the stone as you tear through the halls. the courtyard is a blur of torchlight and snow, men shouting, horses snorting, but all you see is him standing by the gates.

he’s taller, broader, his hair longer and matted with dirt, his face carved with scars that weren’t there before. his armor is dented, caked with mud, and he leans on a sword like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

but it’s him.

cregan.

your cregan.

you stop a few paces away, your chest heaving, tears burning behind your eyes. he sees you then, his gray eyes lifting, dull, haunted, nothing like the bright spark you remember. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stares as if you’re a dream he’s afraid to believe in.

“cregan,”

you whisper, stepping closer, your voice trembling with six years of longing.

“you’re alive.”

he flinches, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightening.

“i shouldn’t be,”

he says, his voice rough, scraped raw by time and war.

“i didn’t think i’d…”

he trails off, looking away, as if the words are too heavy to finish.

you close the distance, reaching for him, your hands shaking as they hover over his chest.

“you’re home,” you say, soft but fierce.

“you came back to me.”

he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t meet your eyes either.

“i’m not… i’m not what i was,”

he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

“you shouldn’t have waited.”

the words sting, but you shake your head, tears spilling now, hot against the cold air.

“i knew you weren’t dead. i knew it. i’d have waited a hundred years.”

he looks at you then, really looks, and something in his gaze, something that remembers you, that feels of what you once had. but it’s buried deep, smothered by shadows you can’t yet name. you take his hand, cold and calloused, and lead him inside, past the stunned guards, past the whispers, into the warmth of winterfell. into his chambers.

the door creaks shut behind you. he stands there, a stranger in his own space, his eyes sweeping over the room, the furs, the desk, the letters. it’s all the same, frozen in time, just as he left it. you watch him, your heart aching at the way he moves, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid to touch anything.

“you kept it,”

he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. he steps toward the desk, his fingers brushing the edge of a letter, the parchment yellowed with age.

“everything,”

you reply, stepping closer.

“every piece of you. i couldn’t let it go.”

he turns, and for the first time, you see the weight he carries the lines etched into his face.

“out there,” he starts, his voice breaking,

“when it was bad… your face kept me alive. i’d close my eyes and see you, hear you, telling me to come home. but i didn’t think i’d ever…”

he stops, swallowing hard.

“i didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“where else would i be?”

you say, your voice soft but steady, the tears streaming freely now.

“you were my home, cregan. you still are.”

he shakes his head, stepping back, his hand falling from the desk.

“i’m not him anymore. that boy you loved... he’s gone. i’ve done things, seen things… i’m not worth waiting for.”

you move before he can retreat further, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into the leather of his sleeve.

“don’t you dare say that,”

you hiss, your voice raw with desperation.

“you’re still cregan stark. my cregan. i see you, even if you don’t see yourself.”

he stares at you, his breath uneven, and for a moment, you think he’ll pull away. but then his hand lifts, tentative, trembling, and brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear.

“you’re too good,”

he murmurs, almost to himself.

“too good for what’s left of me.”

“then let me remind you,”

you whisper, leaning into his touch.

“let me show you what we had, what we still have.”

the days stretch into weeks, and he doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t fully return either. he’s a ghost in his own keep, sitting silently by the fire while you talk of the years he missed. you tell him of the winters you endured, the letters you wrote and never sent, the nights you sat in his chambers praying to the old gods.

he listens, always listening, but his responses are clipped, guarded, as if he’s afraid to let himself feel too much.

yet there are small, fleeting moments, where the boy you knew peeks through. when you catch him staring at you across the table, his eyes soft with something like wonder. when his hand lingers on yours after you pass him a cup, the touch warm despite the cold. when he laughs at a story you tell of a clumsy servant, and the sound cracks something open in your chest.

you’re patient.

you don’t push, don’t demand. you simply stay, a constant presence, a tether to the life he left behind. and slowly, so slowly, he begins to thaw. he starts to seek you out, sitting closer by the fire, asking questions about the keep, brushing his fingers against yours without pulling away.

one night, he finds you in his chambers again, reading one of his old letters aloud, your voice trembling with the memory of him.

“stop,”

he says, but there’s no anger in it, only a quiet plea. he’s standing in the doorway, his shadow long against the floor.

you lower the letter, your heart pounding.

“why?”

“because it hurts,”

he admits, stepping inside, his boots heavy on the stone.

“hearing you… it’s like hearing a life i don’t deserve anymore.”

you stand, crossing the room to him, your hands reaching for his face. he doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t pull away.

“you deserve it,”

you say, fierce and certain.

“you deserve me. us. everything we dreamed of.”

his hands cover yours, holding them against his skin, and his eyes close, a shudder running through him.

“i thought of you every day,”

he confesses, his voice breaking.

“every damned day. i fought to come back, but i didn’t know if you’d still…”

“i’m here,”

you cut in, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mingling with his breath.

“i’ve always been here.”

he kisses you then, sudden, desperate, his lips rough against yours, tasting sorrow and six years of longing. it’s not gentle, not like the shy kisses you’d shared as children, but it’s real, raw, a reclaiming of what war tried to steal.

you cling to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and when he pulls back, his eyes are brighter, alive in a way they haven’t been since he returned.

“marry me,”

he says, breathless, his hands still framing your face.

“marry me now, before anything else tries to take you from me.”

the godswood is silent, the snow falling soft around you, the heart tree looms above, its red leaves stark against the gray, its face watching as you stand before it, cregan at your side.

you wear a simple gown, gray and fur-lined, a cloak of stark colors draped over your shoulders. he’s in his armor, cleaned and polished, but still bearing the scars of battle, a mirror to the man he’s become. the vows come slow, each word a promise carved into the air, into your souls.

“i am hers, and she is mine,”

he says, his voice strong now, unwavering, his eyes never leaving yours.

“from this day, until my last day.”

“i am his, and he is mine,”

your voice trembling not with fear, but with joy, with love so deep it aches.

“from this day, until my last day.”

he slips a ring onto your finger, a simple, silver, etched with a direwolf and you do the same, your hands shaking as you bind yourselves together. t

he septon steps back, and cregan pulls you close, his lips finding yours beneath the tree, the gods as witness. it’s softer this time, a vow in itself, and when you part, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“i’m home,”

he whispers, and you feel it, the boy you loved, the man he is, finally yours.

"welcome home, my cregan stark."

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heavenbloom · 6 months ago

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🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: BOYCOTT TLOU • HELP TODAY • DAILY CLICK.

𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒊: 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒆𝒓

knight!abby x princess!reader

you can find chapter one here! and the series masterlist here

songs: (act one) main yeh sochkar uske dar se utha — mohammed rafi, (act two) ang laga de — aditi paul, (act three) sealed in fire and blood — ramin djawadi

summary: in the aftermath of your crime, one is eaten alive by regret and the other is consumed by vengeance. the innocence of a blooming love lies dead and from its ashes rises something raw and sweltering.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut and angst, fingering (r!receiving), grinding (?), betrayal, typical fantasy and monarchal political themes, typical period-piece misogyny, mentions of death and a funeral, extensive descriptions of blood, violence and death, nightmares, enemies to lovers, threats made with both words and a weapon, side character deaths, profanities, derogatory language used, please read at your own discretion. semi-proofread

wc: 6.3k

a/n: sorry for the wait!! i hope y’all enjoy <3

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

The turned over soil was dark with its upheaval. The drag of earth, the thud of it, was the rhythm of a drumbeat, one that called for grief and received no answer in turn. The only ones to mourn poor Asha were the other servants. Her mother’s wails cut through the air, a skull-rattling cry of anguish. The others did not allow themselves to weep. The workers of the Palace had seen enough bloodshed within its cold, white walls, now numbed to its horrors. Only exhaustion engulfed their features. Another one…

Asha understood this pain as much as she did the thump of her own heartbeat. That was why she decided to work with you, to be a gatherer of secrets. You could still remember the lightheartedness that graced her features, her lopsided smile when she said, whose eyes are all-seeing if not a maid’s?

You were the reason for this girl’s demise. It may have been that nobleman’s blade that sliced to the bone, but it was your promises of hope and security that led her to an untimely grave.

You, a coward. You, a murderer.

You slipped back into the Palace as the rosy shades of dawn swaddled the figures of the grieving, before the welling of tears threatened to fall. Your weeping would have been a mockery, something disingenuous to those who would bear witness. Did you have the right to wear mourning white and feel emotions strong as the beating sun, throat dry and body weak?

Another face flittered into the forefront of your mind, freckled and sharp-lined. Grief clung to the inside of your ribcage. If only you could crack it open and pour this ugliness of yourself out, become pure and benign. Become something worthy of any of the graces you had been given.

You could taste bitter salt on your tongue, feel warmth drip from nose to lip to chin. You could pray and cleanse yourself of your sins all you liked, but it would never be enough. She would look upon your heart with fondness no longer. She saw you as you were, now. Treacherous, rotten, worm-eaten.

☾𖤓

You still adorned funerary attire when you arrived at the Palace’s holding cells. It was located deep within its bowels, lacking its upper cleanliness. The bricks here were haphazardly laid, and an oppressive dampness had seeped itself into each nook and cranny of the place.

The guards had sputtered at your presence, choked words of you not being allowed down here falling from their lips in a weak attempt to deny you entry. But you knew them well. Their loyalties lay at the feet of the Crown’s coin, not at the throne of the King. All you needed to do was shove a necklace and a few bangles their way, and their lips were sealed.

The soft leather of your soles caught slightly with each step, made for marble floors and not the rough and dusty ground beneath. The only sounds present were that of your jewellery chiming with each step and a distant drip, drip, drip.

There were no other prisoners within the holding cells, long since shipped off and never to be heard from again. Icy tendrils ran up the length of your spine as you made your way down the cramped hallway, eyes frantically searching.

She was in the cell at the end. Her back was turned, silhouetted from the little light that encompassed the space. Her outline looked equally defeated and taut, as if she was grappling with what was and what should have been.

You stepped closer, an exhale forcing its way past your trembling lips.

”Abigail.” Relief tapered the ragged edges of your voice. Your intricately stained hands clasped around the rusted metal of the bars as your entire being lurched forward.

Her body snapped tense, bowstring-tight, the set of her shoulders alone divulging the bitterness that simmered just beneath the surface. There was a moment of palpability as you let your presence hang over her, as unwelcome as pelting rain.

”Abigail,” you said more urgently when she remained unfacing. Softer, “Look at me, please.”

At your coaxing plea, she turned her head to the side. Her familiar profile was illuminated by the weak, flickering flame upon the wall. The sight of her was faint, but there was a certain fatigue about the set of her brow, something restrained in the pinch of her lips.

”You...” The word was pushed out on a weak breath, hazy as if pulled forth from a dream. Then, she gathered her bearings, shoulders rolling back and straightening so her broad frame swallowed up more space. Acrid venom coated her vocal chords as she squeezed the word, again, through the grit of teeth. “You.”

“What are you doing here?”

You crouched to your knees with the hesitance of somebody trapped at the whims of a beast. Her sclera shimmered violently in what little light there was. Those eyes had always been a weapon against your resolve. Each glance of hers was a nocked arrow aimed at the fortified centre of your heart. Now, it was as if she had dipped the arrowheads in oil and set them ablaze.

Your voice tumbled, an unfamiliar bubble of uncertainty rising within it. Carefully chosen, sweet words would not work on Abigail. You were disarmed by her, at the mercy of your own foulness that had been laid so bare before her.

So instead you decided to speak a truth, one that would not gut either of you so quickly. “Asha, my… the handmaid. She’s dead. She was killed by that nobleman.”

You waited for a response but Abigail remained silent, eyes pinning you in place and searching for any sign of trickery. Your fingers tightened around the bars as you stared back, seeking any crack that she bore, any fissure you could slip through and work to your will, but none sifted to her stony surface. Perhaps she just relished in watching you squirm.

“Her burial was this morning,” you spoke gently, the image of the lively girl flickering across your mind, seared there forevermore. “I came here immediately after. I knew that— I was overcome with an urgency to see you.”

Her eyes drifted to your white clothing. A hateful, bitter smile split the plaster of her features.

“Will you blame that poor girl’s death on me as well?” she asked in a mocking tone, voice laced with amused contempt. “Oh, I can hear it now, what they will say about me. Abigail, so faithful a knight that she struck down feeble noblemen and maids alike for her princess.”

Heat crept up your neck as you bristled at her mockery. There it was, the stinging lash of the truth coming to strike once more.

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who took the fall for the crime. This is on you, Abigail, and your own foolishness. You have… you have no right to scorn me for it.”

Her body dipped forward, closer, and it was the first time you heard the weighty rattle of chains. They were fastened onto her ankles. Normal conduct for an alleged killer, yet they looked so misplaced now. Such a far cry from the shining knight she was only days ago.

The derisive tone she had moments ago slipped away to reveal a nakedness, a rubbed-raw thing that clawed its impatient fingers up her aching gullet. “And you did not fess up to your crime. You watched like a helpless little lamb as they dragged me away, all the while you were bathed in that man’s blood.”

Her voice shook with the vulnerability of leaves caught within a storm, but it was not tears that she tried to reign back. It was rage, pure and sharp as the edge of a diamond.

“Where is your honour, princess?!”

The same dormant fury that she held close to her sparked to life in your chest. If it were anybody else, you would have shoved the vile emotion down, but it was her. She had already seen the violence, the pulsing and ever-malleable wrath, that consumed your entire being. For once, you could be outwardly wretched. You could be honest.

Honour this and honour that. The blood of a hundred monarchs shaped the very drum of your heartbeat and she wished to speak of honour? You would laugh if it weren’t for the tightening fist around your lungs.

The colour seeped from your knuckles as you pressed yourself closer to the iron bars, as if you could melt into them with the very ferocity racing within you. “You forget yourself,” you reprimanded firmly. “If you dare question my honour again I’ll��”

“What will you do?” Her chin jutted out, mouth pressed into a thin, stubborn line. The possibility of challenge hardened her features. “My title has been stripped, my morality brought into question– all on the basis of a lie. There is no worse pain that you can inflict upon me.”

Yet your life remains intact, you thought viscously. Yet I let you sit here and lick your bloody wounds, unharmed.

“You should know my capabilities well by now,” you whispered, your words drifting to her like opiate smoke; low, heady, perilous. You were not subtle in the ribbon of a threat you wrapped around your words, tightened noose-like in the way your eyes pinned her in turn.

She rose to her feet then, the clank of iron ringing in the air as she dragged herself closer to the bars. She stopped just out of arm’s breadth from it as the chains screeched in protest.

You had never felt threatened by her presence, but now you could at last understand the notoriety of her legacy that followed her like a shadow. As she looked down her nose at you, you felt a dull pang of sympathy for the long list of her opponents on the battlefield. Even restrained, she was a formidable sight.

“And you remain ignorant of mine…” she spoke lightly despite all things. “You would do well to remember them, princess.”

There was a pointed promise in the way her lips shaped around each word, as if each one was loaded with the very essence of vengeance.

You lifted yourself from the ground, elegant as ever as you straightened your back and met her eye, drawing the veil that had slipped onto your shoulders over your hair once more. A princess. Her superior.

A smile curled on your lips, the cloying quality of milk beginning to sour. “We shall see, then, how… proficient you are from within a cell.”

Your head dipped forward slightly, a hand pressed to your left breast. There was a taunt in how respectful the gesture was. It was one only exchanged between equals.

“May the gods smile upon your determined spirit, Abigail.”

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

You were dreaming of it again. Metal in your hands, metal in a gut. The bubbling groan of a man mere moments away from death. And, oh, the crimson, everything red-slickened and raw. His eyes were no longer his own, but rather beads of boundless contempt, staring and staring and—

Reality slammed its fists into your chest, awakened with a choked gasp squeezing its way out of your throat. Your eyelids flew open to the deep blue near-dawn. The crooning of first birdsong flitted through the arched doorway, eerie in its solitary note. You blinked up at the roof, the carvings of deities and flowers shifting and mingling, one and the same, in your unfocused vision.

The man you killed was not owed any sympathy. He was egotistic and wished to be as close to your brother as a cat curled on its owner’s lap. He would have done anything to garner the love of a tyrant, and you felt a nauseating amount of hatred for him even in his demise. There was no remorse for killing him, and you reminded yourself that it was an act of rooting out bad weeds before your reign, but your subconscious disagreed.

It was still taking a life and it was a defiling rake of nails beneath your skin. No matter who the man was, he was still human.

You wanted to be ruthless, to cleanse yourself of any feeling and barrel towards your goals with cold, uncaring resolve. But then you would be the spitting image of your brother. The thought of it made your stomach turn.

You sat up then, the sheets slipping off of your torso and heaping onto your lap. You dragged your shaky hands down your face until your fingers traced the soft outline of your lips.

Your thoughts parted then drifted back to Abigail. At this hour, they seldom didn’t

You recalled the strength in each of her actions even as she moved about with an easy fluidity. The glimpses of raised white scars that littered her body, one that you had never known the complete bareness of.

What were her feelings when she first killed someone? Was she now plagued by a thousand phantoms in the world of her dreams, still bleeding from the wounds she inflicted upon them? Did she feel nothing at all?

Your rumination was cut short when a faint breeze wafted through the curtains, fragrant from the foliage below. You lifted your head to it as it stirred the loose hair that brushed against your forehead. The action should have been soothing, but what you spotted turned the blood in your veins glacial.

You had no idea how long Abigail had been here. She was sitting on top of a floor cushion in front of the balcony doorway, one knee propped just beneath her chin and the other leg stretched outwards. The position would have looked regal, akin to the uncaring languidness of a ruler, if not for the way she watched you. Chin pointed towards her chest, a blue glare slicing through long brown lashes.

She was motionless in the purpling hues of morning, more beast crouched in wait than leisurely empress.

The fear you felt seeped marrow-deep, but something else lurked beneath it. swirling in the pit of your gut. It had been months since you had seen this face last, yet it was stitched into the seams of your every thought, conscious or dreaming.

Something within you lurched.

For once, words eluded you. Ambition was a potent drug, you knew, and paired with vengeance it became absolute. How could you placate such a resolute mind?

Your throat dried as you watched her stand. There was no preamble as she crossed the room in a few long strides. This time, there were no chains and bars to keep her sequestered. The truth of this should have sent you scrambling, but astonishment buoyed you to the bed, quiet.

Her freckled cheeks were awash with a rosy red, almost cherubic despite the face that she wore. A hateful expression. A hate so powerful, it teetered on a look of pain.

Your thumb twitched as she stopped mere inches away, the desire to smooth out the uneasy crease of mouth and brow shoved back into the depths of yourself. Why did her presence, the mere concept of her, steal away all reason and substitute it with something so sickly vulnerable?

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words wilted on your tongue when you felt the cool press of steel against your neck. There was no tremble in the blade. Her grip on the hilt was certain.

Understanding came as steadfast as the morning unfurling itself to the earth beyond your chambers. You, lovesick. Her, loathing you for it. For all of it.

“If you utter a single word…” she warned through gritted teeth, pressing the tip of the blade closer to your skin, the pressure of its presence imminent.

Her eyes drifted down to the column of your throat, eyeing the stable heaving of your chest. A scowl fractured her features. “I should end your vicious little life right here and live up to the title you've cursed me with.”

You could sense it, the unspoken however. The wraith of the word settled over you like the gauze of a veil. If she wished to kill you so badly, she could have left you gutted on the fine sheets and fled before buttery sunlight engulfed the room.

Why hadn’t she?

“I expected the same amount of goodness in response to my sacrifice. I expected you to come clean or… or to at the very least free me from that miserable cell!” Her features contorted at the remembrance of the dark, cramped space, the stifling silence, the numbing solitude.

Then, the more chilling memories. Your face, flitting behind each blink. Your laugh, heard in the heavy rhythm of her own breath. Your lips, whispers and kisses and bites, felt only in the slumbering hours of a place that remained in stasis. Her hand flexed around the weapon.

Her voice took on the timbre of fervently plucked sitar strings. “The very thing I pledged my life to, the very thing I killed for, left me to rot. My King and his supposed sweet, saintly sister… how do you think such a wound festers, princess?”

You could not dignify her question with an answer. You had known no such discomfort, no such betrayal or ache.

“Abigail…” Her name, spoken again with the quiet of a clandestine prayer. What else was there to do but acknowledge her through these three sweet syllables?

A prick of pain. The warmth of lifeblood trickling down the length of your throat. Just a nick, a rivulet. Abigail drew in her breath. Her irises seemed to shiver in their anger.

“I told you to be silent,” her voice sank into an exacerbated whisper. “Or would you rather I skewer you now?”

Gone was the radiant, gentle-hearted knight, eclipsed by the moon of this new vindictive creature. You were enraptured by the jaggedness of her being. Hair uncharacteristically dishevelled and loose around her shoulders. Dilapidated sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“How angry you are…”

“Insolent–”

“Your beauty shines like this.”

Silence, thick and saccharine as flowing honey, settled over the moment.

Abigail looked as if you had snatched the dagger from her and plunged it bone-deep. The first tremors of uncertainty twitched beneath her sure, calloused fingers.

The wanting, besotted thing within Abigail gnashed its craving teeth. No. She would not let you disarm her of this, the one vein of conviction that pumped purpose into her battered heart. I will not waver.

But it was another thing entirely, to resist the beckoning call of surrender when you reached for her.

The moment your sleep-warmed hands came in contact with her own, she knew that fighting was futile. Her grip loosened, the blade slid from between her palms and into your own grasp.

It was without a doubt stolen. It was weighty and intricately engraved with motifs of the sun and moon. The crest of your kingdom. How ironic.

Your gaze flickered from it to Abigail, whose eyes chased every movement of yours. She was waiting for you to return the favour, to press the blade to her own throat.

It never came.

The blade was placed on the low, wooden bedside next to the bed, its mass clattering against the varnished surface. Surrender.

“Why…?” she breathed through the constriction of her lungs. Where was the familiar fire, that arrogance she came to despise?

“We were not destined to be adversaries.” Spoken as if this rivalry was something you alone could decide.

Your features were aglow as first rays of dawn crept its way into the room. Brilliant eyes, straight spine, parted lips. In the liquid, shifting gold, you looked incorporeal. Coaxed from the most bereft parts of her mind.

A large palm cupped the softness of your cheek, a thumb running over the bending bone of your jaw and leading up to the bridge of your nose. She had to remind herself, sometimes, that you were flesh and bone beneath the title and crown.

They say that the royal blood carried on the legacy of a fallen deity, who perished for nourishing this very kingdom. She never considered herself a particularly pious person but it rang true to her, especially now.

“Then, enlighten me, princess,” she spoke softly. “What path have the gods carved for us?”

“The gods have no hand in this.” Blasphemous words that cut into her. “No, I won’t accredit this to divinity.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you let yourself melt into the coolness of her touch. “I want you, Abigail.”

A litany of pleas that danced, unsaid, on your tongue. Love me, love me, love me.

Begging was unnecessary, for the same thrill of need sang in her own bones. She tilted your head up slowly, admiring the way grandiosity slipped from your being as swiftly as it came.

Her lips against yours were a beckoning. They moved with a sure rhythm, gentler than the last time. Her kiss told you to unveil yourself to her. Give me sincerity, it whined. Give me an honest place to lay this love.

You fell back against the plush pillows, pulling her down with you. Her weight crashed against yours, hefty and unknown, yet comforting in its corporeality. She smelled faintly of mildew and rain, a scent splintered with the sharp tang of rust.

Your tongue ran across the bottom of her plump lip gently, asking for entrance. If she wanted the truth, you would offer it in its entirety.

Your searching fingers found her blonde tresses while hers skimmed down to the hem of your nightgown. She slowly drew the airy fabric upwards from your ankles to your knees and then the middle of your thighs. The contact of the calloused drag of skin sparked something within, warmth coiling in the pit of your belly like a slumbering dragon.

You broke away from her to sit up, pulling the piece of thin cloth up and over your head. Abigail watched, sitting back on her haunches, as each inch of your skin was bared to her patient gaze. The softness found in each curve was a marvel to her, a body unmarred by the outside world. She observed you like one would an intricate tapestry, each whorl and knot revealing more depth with each second passed.

A hum of appreciation reverberated through her chest as she began to focus on discarding her own threadbare clothing. First, the tunic and then the tight hose that stuck to her skin.

Her body was a thing conjured from epic poems and scriptures. Robust and sunkissed, with the new dawn melting over her back and haloing the outline of her body. A hero, draped in the splendour of victory… a god, blessing the mortal realm with its incomprehensible presence.

You reeled Abigail back towards you, the searing heat of her heaving chest pressing against yours. Her lips trailed dulcet kisses along your jaw as her fingers splayed against the flesh of your thighs.

Your bodies melded together, pressing as if through the sheer force of passion, you could become one. Your bodies sang with pleasure, thrumming out an ancient and gasping melody.

Hands and eyes, dilated with velvet-black pits of ecstasy, explored. You traced over the scars that ran down her body, transforming them into rivers and pathways, her body an entire world that they occupied.

Her fingers grazed over the wet, sensitive flesh between your legs, silky and petal-like. They found the sensitive bud there, rubbing gentle circles upon it with her thumb while two of her other digits prodded for entry.

You arched into her, a sweet noise dancing off of your parted lips as she slid them in knuckle-deep. She lured bliss from your body with each thrust and curl, each sweet word and absentminded, drunken press of her lips against yours.

Your writhing figure against hers was enough to make her own cunt throb with pure need. You felt, even through the haziness, her broad body rocking against yours, her pelvis gently seeking friction against the plushness of your thigh.

A symphonic crescendo of moans swelled in the morning air as you both neared shivery climax. Her ministrations grew more frenzied, eyebrows knitted together and bottom lip drawn tightly between her teeth.

The pressure snapped, swift and blinding. You held onto Abigail tightly as she shook along with you, shallow breaths mingling together. The hard planes of her stomach were now sweat-slicked and she felt almost feverish against you.

As the throes of orgasm subsided, you raked a hand through her hair and pressed a dry kiss to the junction between her neck and shoulder. She was still panting, slumped on top of you.

This was a first, this contentment that wound itself through her being. There was not an ounce of tension in the sculpted divots and muscle.

You pressed another kiss to her temple and you exhaled as she buried her nose further into your collarbone.

Vulnerability rose up within you, and this time you loosened your grip on its reigns. Insatiability had always been your greatest weakness. You wanted her, you realised, not just in passing but always. You wanted to wake up to golden hair fanned across your pillows and a freckled nose pressed up against yours. You wanted the surety she guaranteed and the devotion that it promised.

You wanted to love with all of yourself, and not just through the confines of the mould that you had been trapped in since birth. You wanted to be loved, no matter how many times you were forced to bloody your hands.

For that, however, you would have to peel back one last layer.

☾𖤓

Abigail was turned away from you as you told her your plans of usurpation, her face tilted up towards the heat beating in as she gathered up her scattered clothing. She pulled each piece on with a languidness, the nape of her neck still flushed beneath curling blonde baby hairs.

The lack of reaction turned the sweetness of your post-lovemaking haze sour. Your thoughts raced and tangled together in an incessant bundle as you forced the words leaving your mouth to remain a steady stream.

Would this revelation swing the pendulum of rivalry into motion once more? With your prior actions, you could sympathise, but this… this was grander than her. It was the ember that would flare the kindlings of hope; a prosperous future assured.

No remorse could be felt for that.

“Abigail…” you spoke slowly, the shape of her name dripping with solemnity. “My conviction is stone.”

You drew breath into your lungs as you watched her drag her bottoms up her legs, as if you were whispering sweet nothings and not outright treason.

“If you are not my ally… if your heart's not in this, I will declare you my enemy.”

You touched the dagger still resting at your bedside, precious and half-forgotten. “Do we have an understanding?”

She turned to face you then, absentmindedly fastening the ties of her tunic. Tousled but bright as noonday, she was beautiful enough to crush the new bloom nestled in your heart.

She gazed at the weapon before looking at you directly. Clear blue and milky white, unwavering and unreadable.

Not so much an arrow now, her eyes were a roaring blaze, and your resolve was the aftermath of something swallowed whole.

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

The wind wailed into the silence, crashing its invisible body against the looming Palace and whistling in the gaps of the sun bleached stone. Chaos roiled in the underbelly of the night, the closing notes of summer felt in the lashing heat that lingered.

Despite the late hour, the oil lamps in the throne room and surrounding hallways burned low and perilous. Servants scurried out of the way, prostrating themselves on the ground as a cloud of white and gold glided past them.

The tremendous, ancient doors opened with a loud groan, making you swivel around. Encased in the rigid formation, like an egg warmed by a hen, was your brother. He spared you so much as a glance as he climbed up the stairs leading to the throne, his footfalls muffled by the plush, richly coloured carpet. The knights dispersed to their positions as he did so, silent and armed witnesses.

“My King…” You knelt low to the ground, your head centimetres from the cold marble. You were his subject first, his blood second.

You heard the rustle of fabric and the sigh of a feather-stuffed cushion being squashed beneath weight.

“Rise.” His voice was clear and authoritative. You lifted your head to your mirror. The same eyes beneath a cruel set of brows. Same mouth, pressed into a thin line. The same hands, enclosed around the sheath of a sword, merely ornamental. A dutifully polished thing that had never tasted violence.

You stumbled onto your feet, and noted his clothing; a plum-coloured robe and a necklace of pearls and rubies dripping down his throat, like bone and blood congealed. Ever opulent, ever the lavish King, even in the privacy of nightfall.

“State your business,” he spoke with a now bored inflection. “Tell me why you have disturbed me at so late an hour.”

There was a hum of warning beneath his tone. If the reason for this disruption was frivolous, you knew he would not think twice about spearing you through.

After all, what was an imperial daughter? Your value was held in your capability to be married off, to secure alliances, to fawn and charm and pamper. You had proven long ago that you would not be a bargaining chip in the game of monstrous men.

You may have been worthless in that regard, but perhaps there was a way to regain his favour…

Eyes wide and lips quivering, you huddled your arms to your chest. Weak, small, inferior tohim in every way.

“I caught her, Your Grace. The knight that escaped her cell,” you spoke through the warbling tones of fear. “She… she made an attempt on my life, but, blessed by the gods, I was saved.”

This piqued his interest. Your brother rested his chin on a thickly jewelled hand, his body leaning forward. Frankly, there was no love in his heart for the nobleman that lost his life, nor was there a thirst for vengeance because of it. Nonetheless, Abigail’s escape had tarnished his punitive, unbested reputation.

For that alone, her head deserved to roll.

“Ah… finally a useful word you speak.” He smiled, his lips still wrapped around his teeth. Its mirthfulness stopped short of his eyes, still as shrewd as ever.

You watched as he gestured around the room, turning his head this way and that in mock confusion. “Well? Where is the unloyal cunt?” Joy trickled down into his demeanour now and, like a child anticipating gifts, his body straightened and his eyes shone. Only in his cruelty did the more human parts of himself show from within.

You turned to the guard standing beside the entrance, and inclined your head deeply.

There was a whirl of feather-white silk as he left the throne room, and mere moments later, the clang of metal against the marble floors reverberated through the vast space. It was different from the cheerful, jingling song of the anklet bells of dancers that typically graced these halls. This was weightier. It held no rhythm or reason.

Abigail was dragged in hastily, adorned from waist-to-toe in chains. The men who pulled her along dumped her onto the ground unceremoniously and her form sprawled with no resistance. The dry scratch of her voice, pain, left her lips. Her golden, knotted hair clashed with the deep red of the carpet, spilling across it as she tried to right herself. It was one last shred of dignity, to rise upon trembling knees.

A low, appreciative whistle shot through the air, drawing your attention back to your brother. A grin now split his features, a thing with too many teeth. Each gemstone shimmered as he stood, a wave of light as he clutched his sword tightly by his side.

“You’ve done well, sister,” he praised as he descended the stairs slowly. His eyes were trained on Abigail as he spoke to you, his steps were punctuated with the chime of finery. He had a likeness to a predator in this moment, something feline slinking towards its prey.

“Very well, indeed.” Deep purple pooled at his ankles, his finely crafted shoes just centimetres from Abigail’s form. He looked down his nose at her, undeterred by the glare she shot up at him.

There was a hiss of steel being drawn. Your brother’s sword was an elegant thing passed down to the new King when the old died. Golden hilt and flowering carvings that twined up the blade, it gleamed prettily in the lamp light. Despite its deadly point, it had never been used for battle, only a symbolic cementation of status.

What was he…

He tossed the sheath away and its impact rang hollow across the cavernous room. Then he turned away from Abigail, his attention on you.

Instead of blinding pain, you were met with the handle being held towards you. His eyebrows softened, you supposed, in an act of what he believed was familial fondness. If I cannot exploit you as a flower, I will make use of your thorns.

“I believe this victory is yours.”

You had no choice but to take the sword in shaking hands. The surprisingly lightweight hilt felt like fire, burning in your grasp. In all your years, you had only ever gazed upon this ancient relic.

Your brother rested a hand on your shoulder, as if to soothe your nerves. You were a skittish animal, always, in his mind.

“Even a fool can do this if the blade is sharp enough,” he whispered, lullaby-soft. “Get your vengeance, my sweet sister. Honour our blood and let the final image of her life be the throne that she betrayed.”

Your fingers pressed into the cool metal. Abigail’s eyes were trained on you, her mouth parted ever so slightly. You watched as her body shifted. Lungs expanding, throat constricting.

“Now!”

In an instant, disarray seized the room. The clang of armoured bodies sounded everywhere and so too, the squelch and roar of men dying. The resounding whine of the doors being closed and barred. Trapped in the midst of massacre.

You kept your gaze trained on your brother’s face. First, you watched as he recoiled with shock. The curtain-lift of realisation.

Finally, anger.

The hand on your shoulder tightened and bunched the fabric of your nightgown. His teeth were bared and the veins in his throat protruded with rage.

“What have you done?! You spineless little bitch!”

Your brother was wrenched away from you with full force, curses and spittle still flying from his mouth as he was forced onto his knees. Abigail was out of her chains, never completely restrained to begin with, and she eyed you with a tight expression as she held him down.

“What have I done, brother?” Your voice now trembled with the venom of restraint snapping. “I have done what is right. Our people deserve a true ruler, not a coddled man who plays at one.”

A wet laugh bubbled from his mouth, hysteric over the symphony of steel around you. “And you think you have what it takes to be a ruler?” His eyes were open, drinking in the light, wide pools of disdain. “If I am so coddled, what does that make you? Tell me, what do you know of history? Of warfare?

“What are you but a woman? You were raised for marriage,” he continued, his amused mask slipping to reveal the undercurrents of fear that roared within him. “I was raised to be King! This is my birthright and you cannot simply snatch it away!”

“Princess.” Abigail’s voice was stern over your brother’s prattling. A simple reminder.

You stepped closer and watched as he faltered.

“W… Wait and heed my words. There is an order to these things,” he spoke desperately. “Disposing of me won’t alter it. Do you think the masses will warm up to you just because you are soft-hearted? They will still starve and slave their lives away, and they will hate you all the more for your gentleness. See things as I do, sister. When their hunger grows, will they look upon you kindly? You struggle, even now, to hold a sword.

“They won’t view your weakness as benignity.”

Even in the act of begging for his life, he managed to crush you beneath him, like wilted petals in the palm of an enclosed fist. You brought the blade close to your face and inspected each silver bud of jasmine and rose.

“Should I care about whether they view me as strong?” you asked, the cadence of your voice sounding distant and foreign to your own ears. “You forget that within the hour, I will control your army.”

You held out the sword in front of you then, the steel glinting. Your ancestors were right not to use it. It felt like a sin to have to dirty it.

No matter, you supposed. Today, history will be rewritten. With its rebirth, it was inevitable that some traditions would rot. Best to start with this one.

“What was it you told me before? ‘If the blade is sharp enough…’”

The wailing of a man defeated pierced your ears. His eyes were unseeing and yet so filled with despair. He slumped against Abigail’s grip and she let him fall to the ground with a thud.

You loomed over your brother, sword raised over your head.

“Goodbye, dear brother. We will meet again, I’m sure, in the land of the damned.”

It was as clean as the business of death could be. A splash of vermillion against the desolate white. A whimper, followed by cloying silence.

The deed was done.

#gold star reward if u spot the princess mononoke reference #knight!abby #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson angst #abby anderson smut #abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #tlou writing #tlou fanfiction #abby anderson fanfic #tlou2 #tlou #the last of us #aeot

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pureanonofficial · 6 days ago

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Babes I'm new to chess, why do we hate the Danny strong book?

So this my personal opinion; other people have historically loved the Danny Strong book! Thus far, I have not.

I do want to preface my opinion by saying that thus far, the Strong book has only been seen in workshops. I love Beetlejuice the musical; had I encountered the D.C. workshop first instead of the Broadway remount, I would not have believed it could be good. Long history of musicals absolutely sucking in workshops and then turning out okay on Broadway.

For me, I have hated the Strong book so far because of its its characterization choices, dated political jokes, efforts to make the show a political thriller, and its absolutely abhorrent and offensive depiction of mental illness. For ease, I refer to the 2018 Kennedy Center production as Kencen, and the 2022 concert as Choncert.

For starters, characterization in Chess has always been mutable. There is no such thing as OOC when it comes to Chess, only choices I like less than others. However, I do think the characterization choices in Strong Chess make the show weaker. Freddie ends up coming off as the most sympathetic character, which Should Not Be. Anatoly struggles with depression and paranoia in this book, which could be really interesting, except he's a boring dick. He has no charm; it's just all paranoia and depression. He tells us in the first act that his wife was spying on him, which turns out to be a lie, and he refuses to believe she loved him even as she is begging him because their children might get sent to the gulag. Florence describes him as sweet and kind and thoughtful, and this is not evident in this slightest. Florence is very girlboss emotionally mature which is...very not Florence or especially interesting. She is the caretaker for Freddie, and in Choncert, she does something that immediately tanks all sympathy for her.

She steals Freddie's psychiatric meds, causing him to spiral and lose the match. The show does not dig into this, nor bring it up again. It's just a baffling choice to give your supposed sympathetic female lead.

In addition, Florence/Anatoly falls completely flat in a new, unique way than previous Chesses. In Choncert, there is a whole scene about them having an affair in Rome a couple years before canon (while Anatoly was married and Florence was with Freddie) and they sing YOU AND I LIKE THIRTY MINUTES INTO ACT ONE??? INSANE??? YOU DO NOT DESERVE THAT SONG YET. This further tanks my liking of these characters, as they've both been carrying on behind their partners' backs for years. Here is a video of One Night In Rome.

https://www.tumblr.com/hellyrigs/703512439768121344/the-new-scene-in-chess-dec-12-2022-one-night?source=share

Because of these changes, Freddie comes across as the most sympathetic main character??? Somehow?? He's explicitly struggling with mental illness here, either schizophrenia/bipolar depending on whether it's Kencen/Choncert (we'll get to that.) He's introduced singing A Taste of Pity by himself while struggling from a panic attack, and Florence shows up and tells him "You have to take your pills, Freddie." His paranoia is actually objectively correct here, as the Soviets ARE using underhanded tactics to get him to lose, and Florence IS cheating on him with Anatoly. You should never, ever make Freddie justified and correct in Chess. When you've done that, something has gone wrong. I don't think it's a coincidence that when Kencen sparked a little surge of Chess content, it was disproportionately about Freddie. This was definitely because of Raul Esparza's charisma, but Ramin Karimloo has an even more rabid fanbase, and there was very little Anatoly content. He's also not as horribly misogynistic and abusive here as he is in other Chesses (you can even read it as Florence abusing him, which. What. What is happening.) Yet, despite the fact that he's softened, the other characters are even WORSE to him than usual. Florence is extremely aggressive and non-sympathetic about his mental health issues from the very start of the show (the pill stealing is just the icing on the cake) Florence straight up tells him in act two that "You're incapable of love. You can't even love yourself," which is just. In a Chess where Freddie is properly an asshole, sure, say that! In THIS? It just all hits really bad.

I also haven't dug into how Svetlana's depiction makes Anatoly even worse. He says she was spying on him, accuses her of brainwashing his children to hate him, yet when we see her, the first thing she talks about is how much of a nightmare life for the past four years has been. Molokov threatens to lock her children in an orphanage and send her to die in a Siberian gulag if she fails to bring Anatoly home. She tries so hard--and all Anatoly does is call her a liar and say she never loved him. It makes him extremely unsympathetic.

I haven't even begun to dig into the dialogue yet. Dialogue in Chess has rarely been its strong point (in all my dealings with Florence, I never once made one good move) but it's rarely been boring. Tim Rice has a very distinctive awkward janky style to his dialogue that is kinda charming, even if it's not good. Richard Nelson, the Broadway libretto writer, is genuinely excellent at expressing character with dialogue. Chess pa Svenska, which had a new Swedish libretto written by Björn Ulvaeus, Lars Rudolfsson, and Jan Mark, has a scene so good it could fully stand alone as a ten minute play. Danny Strong's dialogue however...does not work for me. Here are a couple of actual lines from Strong. These were all painstakingly transcribed by me.

The Arbiter: Welcome to the the first -- and depending on how tonight goes -- last Cold War musical. On this very stage you will encounter chess grandmasters, CIA operatives, Thai prostitutes, and Ronald Reagan. Not necessarily in that order. At times our story may seem ludicrous. Sometimes it is. After all, this is a musical. But I should warn you some of this crazy shit actually happened.

"He was a child chess prodigy by the age of eleven. Which may or may not have lead to clinical narcissism and undiagnosed bipolar disorder."

Freddie: Where have you been? I need you. I love you, and I need you. Florence: Yeah, til you're feeling normal, now take your pills! Freddie: No!

Freddie: By superior training, I'm assuming that you're referring to fact that they're snatched from their families as little kids? Then trained like rats in a cage their entire childhood? The Communist system is as cruel to its chess players as it is to its people. Florence: Come on Freddie, let's go. Freddie: No, I'm fine, I'm fine. With Anatoly Sergievsky, the KGB is going to make him disappear just like Boris Ivanovich. A grandmaster vanishes off the face of the planet, and you don't even care about it because you're too busy bashing me! (Music stops) Freddie: Sporting? Are the Communists sporting? And you call me crazy! Well fuck you! Fuck you all, big and small.

Freddie: I don't blame my father for leaving, but I still hate him for it. Anatoly: He doesn't deserve Florence, she's too good for him. Freddie: I really do love her, I just don't know how to show it. Anatoly: I wish I could feel warmth. I wish I could feel anything at all. Freddie: I'd give it all to just not have my blood race all the time, to not think the walls are being bugged, to not think the KGB is trying to blow up my plane, I can't trust anybody. Anatoly: I've been a prisoner of chess all my life. I never had a childhood. I don't want to go home because I have no home. I have no identity. Freddie: I'm not evil, she [???] I'm not a human being. Anatoly: I can't beat him, he's too good. Freddie: He can't beat me, I'm too good. Molokov: Yes Anatoly, play with his mind. Freddie: Don't fall for his cheap mindgames. Florence: Don't fall for it Freddie, he's desperate Walter: Cue the light buzzing. Freddie: Ignore the light buzzing. Anatoly: I dream of home and freedom. I dream of defecting, but I'm too much of a coward to defect. Freddie: I was the US champion at age eleven. Probably should have locked up my chessboard. I hate chess. I hate life scratching me. I wanna die. Anatoly: I wanna die. I don't know my children nor my wife, I never have, just as my parents knew me. Walter: Louder! Freddie: Buzzing. Florence: Damn it! Molokov: He made a mistake, it's working Anatoly. Walter: Louder!

Florence: I don't know, baby, I have a bad feeling about this interview. You should pull out. Anatoly: If I don't do it, it will look like I'm afraid of him. Florence: He's gonna come after you. He still wants to be in the game, even if he's not playing you, he still wants to play you. Anatoly: We both know why he's here. He wants to get you back. Florence: The last thing in the world I want is Freddie Trumper. You don't have do this interview to prove anything to me. Anatoly: I have to do this interview to prove to the world that I'm not here by a forfeit. Florence: Oh God, it's happening again! Anatoly: What is? Florence, continuing to make Choices: My life is being destroyed by chess, why can't I love a banker or a gardener or anybody else. Anatoly: You're all I want. I promise. Anddddd the championship Florence: Of course.

I just find this dialogue to be very bland, boring, and at times like a bootleg Joss Whedon. It's all kinda like this--too jokey and cynical and not genuine. I find it very jarring. Whatever Chess has been throughout its history, it has always been genuine. I feel like all these lines are written for the most immediate reaction, for the punchline, as opposed to building something true and beautiful.

Let's compare two similar sections of dialogue, one from Danny Strong, one from Richard Nelson.

Walter: It's not what I want, it's what I have to give. A video! I think you'll enjoy. Freddie: Unless it's lesbian porn, I'm not interested. vs Reporter: What a beautiful suite! What do you think of Budapest so far, Mr. Trumper? Freddie: Anyone with legs like that can call me Freddie. (She uncrosses her legs.) That’s a joke, okay? (He gets up.) Jesus Christ, you been here how long? A couple of days! And already you’ve lost your sense of humor. See what Communism does to you?

One of these is a punchline. It's a quick quip that doesn't really tell you anything more about the character. It doesn't come up again. Freddie harassing the reporter tells us a lot about him. He wants her to like him, he wants praise, he wants to be puffed up. He wants her to laugh at his jokes, and he wants to be told he's funny. He wants proof that he can get a woman after Florence walked out on him. Meanwhile, I don't think the lesbian porn moment tells us anything other than that Freddie watches lesbian porn. A lot of the moments in the show are like this. Quips are not inherently bad--but the whole show is mostly made out of quips.

I also really really really hate how this show handles politics and political humor. The 2022 Choncert leaned really hard on (now dated) political humor mostly from The Arbiter, including jokes about Freddie's last name. It had a big imbalance of jokes over drama, and they again, never felt genuine.

This show is also just extremely extremely MURICA in how it handles the Soviet Union, far more than the actual original American production literally written during the Cold War. The Soviet Union in this production is a CARTOON--Anatoly is frequently threatened or worried about being killed if he loses at chess. The Russian chess champion before him, Boris Ivanovich, is heavily implied to have been killed for losing to Trumper. Strong. Buddy. You can look up what happened to the famous 1980s Russian chess players. Most of them are still alive in Russia! Even the ones who defected didn't get disappeared! They didn't get sent to the Chess Player Vat!

The stakes also just become RIDICULOUS in this version. We begin with chess players getting murdered for being bad at chess, and we end with RUSSIA MOBILIZING THEIR MILITARY BECAUSE ANATOLY WINS THE CHAMPIONSHIP. In this universe, the outcomes of SALT II and the 1983 nuclear weapon crisis are explicitly impacted by fucking chess!! SALT II falls apart because Anatoly defects!!! It's so stupid!!!! It ends up making it so that the Soviet Union is willing to nuke the world because they lost at chess. A large part of the second act involves the US doing training exercises that the USSR see as a threat, so they demand Anatoly lose at chess, or else they mobilize. It is so stupid!!!! Just such bad history!!!

The timeline and characters of the show are also negatively impacted by the increased focus on politics! We now have a four year time gap over intermission, from 1979 to 1983, and it sure doesn't feel like it with the characters. It's jarring because with the emotional state of the characters, it feels like it's been a couple months, not four years. And a couple months can work in Chess! But not if it's really four years, and we haven't put in the work to understand how the characters would necessarily change because of it. Molokov is now really high up in the KGB, and he's just a cartoon. Walter comes across as a better person because he is the one in the Waltokov relationship going "holy shit let's not blow up the world because of chess." The dynamic of the KGB and CIA being equally bad is utterly lost. Politics take focus over people in this Chess, and not for the better in the slightest.

Especially because Florence gets her dad back??? It's so so so jarring because it's a really out of place happy ending, and her father was not a focus for this Florence. Long Beach Chess made Florence getting her dad back work, but that was with very specific choices. This Chess has not made those choices. We also just do not have any emotional attachment to her father, so this big happy ending just falls utterly flat.

Now we get to the part of the show that makes me actually angry. The depiction of mental illness with Freddie Trumper. Everything else, I do not like, but it just makes me roll my eyes. The mental illness stuff makes me blindingly angry. By giving Freddie a diagnosed, specific illness, now it comes across like his asshole behavior is exclusively because of that illness, that Florence is right to leave her mentally ill partner who can barely function without her. He loses the first match because of sensory issues (he can't focus with the lights buzzing.) His medication is treated as a magic trick that automatically fixes him (he takes his pills and instantly calms down.)

And again!!! Florence steals his pills!!! She takes his vital medication from him!!! Here is a video of that.

https://www.tumblr.com/hellyrigs/703555453692624896/another-bad-moment-from-chess-dec-12-2022-no?source=share

Also the two productions thus far have alternatively described him as bipolar or schizophrenic, and they write him the exact same with both, so they're just flat up conflating two different mental illnesses without any care.

Danny Strong won an Emmy for Dopesick; listening to his Chess, it's hard to believe he knows how drugs work.

There are a few things I like in Strong Chess. Opening with US vs USSR is a striking choice, certainly better than starting with Story of Chess. Freddie hitting Florence with "Do you wanna fuck him?" right before Budapest is Rising is effective. Florence risking getting deported if she doesn't keep Freddie in line has the potential to be compelling.

However, I just hate it. I don't like it. I wish it wasn't the book for the revival. Again, they could fix it, it could be better. But here are my reservations as of now. I also worry that this will become the New Fandom Chess, or that this version could replace previous productions in licensing. I doubt those things would happen, but I still fear them.

But fundamentally, we'll just have to see what happens!

#Chess #Chess the musical #Chess musical #long post #asks

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prophecyofwinter · 1 year ago

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Se Rĩna Qilōni Iprattan Se Jēdar | I

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary | Saera Targaryen daughter of Jaehaerys I ran away from Westeros to escape her fate. 45 years later her daughter Y/N Targaryen, with invitation from King Viserys wishes to go back.

Tags | TargCest, Smut, Standard ASOIAF content, I wanted to write something raunchy with plot, Aemond and Reader are First Cousins Once Removed.

Prologue | Chapter 2 | Masterlist

Chapter I | The Rest and More

With lots of persuasion from you and lady-lessons from your mother, she deemed you fit enough to sail to King's Landing. However she would not send you alone, she entrusted your safety to your slightly elder brother Vaegon.

He had trained for years in the Temple of Light to become a swordsman, and a fine swordsman he was. Brother or not he really did piss you off most of the time, now more than ever. Once he learned of your impending betrothal to the Targaryen Prince he soured up more than normal. He berated your Mother for days on how she could ever allow this.

He would of course still be a bastard even if you were legitimate, this was only so you could marry Aemond.

“What if he is ghastly! You know someone being unmarried for this long most likely means it’s for a reason!”

You weren’t sure what stick Vaegon had up his ass but you wouldn’t let him ruin this for you, this voyage was bad enough. Perhaps you’d be able to claim a dragon, there are plenty laying around on Dragonstone…

“I am sure I will be able to handle whatever Prince Aemonds complexion is, especially having to witness you for the past 19 years.”

————

“In King’s Landing you can’t wear these kinds of fabrics, these are a whores garments there.”

Your mother threw your old clothes to the side and motioned for you to turn around. She put a thick and hard piece of material around your waist and tied up the back.

“Alright my sweet, breathe in and-“

Suddenly all the air in your lungs was forced out in a shriek as your whole rib cage was crushed under the pressure of whatever the absolute hells this was.

“This is beauty in King’s landing! This will become your life, remember this is what you wanted.”

—————

You’d be at sea for about a month or less depending on the winds. You craved to be back on solid ground, your stomach was not agreeing with you. Sleep escaped you night after night, only catching small power naps multiple times a day before the rocking of the ship would wake you once again.

The tight clothes and strict codes for ladies your mother had laid upon you for survival in Westeros weighed in your head. You hoped your husband would not be as overbearing as you’ve heard of Westerosi men to be.

—————

Your mother had called some of her top prostitutes to come in and teach you the rules and ropes of intercourse.

“The merchants from Westeros really enjoy the girls who act sweet and innocent. You will be expected to provide as much as he pleases, and you mustn’t bore him.”

The brunette climbs on top of you and places her hips between yours, both of you fully clothed doesn’t make the moment less intimate than what you’ve had.

“Now, let’s act out how you cry out for mercy, how you beg for him to be gentle on your body.”

She begins to mimic the motions of intercourse to test and see if you are ready for what she claims will become of your life. A weird sense of embarrassment stings throughout your body, you weren’t expecting this kind of training. You didn’t know there needed to be this kind of training.

“Come on my lady, let's hear you!” She taunts you with a laugh, she grabs your wrists and pins them to the bed to really get it out of you.

——————

You could only spend most of your time reading, reading history books and other stories from Westeros. You could speak the language fluently enough, but you will get it fully soon.

Hopefully you won’t have to give up your favorite foods, the Targaryens should be rich enough to import all the finest things from Essos. Pomegranates, Watermelon, Blackberry Wine, Duck and the list goes on…

The salty air fills your nose, it would be lovely if you weren’t seasick constantly. Reading distracts your mind enough to forget your current feelings.

You haven’t heard anything about the other Targaryens outside of the history books, you don’t even know what the current ones are like…

Your mother doesn’t have good views of, well, anyone. She told you to expect the worst from most of them, if they were anything like her father then you should be watching your back at all times.

Amongst all things and her dislike for Westeros, she wanted to see you happy the most. She said time and time again she would allow you to come back no matter what.

She was sweet and kind where a mother should be.

——————

“What if I claimed a dragon? I could visit you at any time I wanted to, right?”

You asked your mother over morning tea, you were to set sail later today. This would be the last time you would see your mother for the foreseeable future.

Saera rubbed her aging finger over the rim of her cup and laughed to herself a little.

“A dragon isn’t something you can promise, most of my siblings never claimed a dragon in their lifetime.”

You huffed and pouted, your motivation to claim a dragon only increased tenfold. Ever since you were a child when you were told you couldn’t do something it would only make you want it more.

“However, if you were to claim a beast… you would fancy Silverwing I believe. Or if you seek to be bitter, my father would roll in his grave if he knew my child claimed Vermithor…”

Saera laughed to herself heartily, entertaining her child’s wild ideas. She doesn’t doubt you would attempt to claim but she doesnt be believe it would be successful.

——————

Viserys was not expecting Saera to accept his proposal. So he was shocked when Alicent burst into his chambers with a letter in and holding it out to him in anger.

“What is this?! You offer Aemonds hand to the daughter of a whore?! What were you thinking!”

He left out a guttural cough into the fabric of his handkerchief. The unexpected stress of Alicents

rage seething onto him, he was gonna tell her… eventually.

“He is my son too, I must leave no Targaryen unaccounted for. I cannot die in peace knowing there is a- a good Targaryen across the sea. You have been trying to get Aemond wed for years, it- it is the best choice.”

Alicent braces herself on a wooden chair and lets out a deep breath with her head down. Her husband is a fool, he will look like a fool to the seven kingdoms and this girl is proven to be used.

The Queen remembers how she would read to King Jaehaerys on his deathbed and he would mistake her for Saera. He would reach out to her and ask for forgiveness, the guilt would eat at her because it was not hers to give. Until the day his body gave out and he couldn’t muster words anymore he would ask for Saera.

To Alicent, Saera had made her choices and she wanted to be where she was. To bring her bastards into it was too far, she had no choice in the matter. Being the Queen didn’t matter if the King already made up his mind.

“You will force me to greet her I presume. You are far too ill to make it to the port.”

Gods, Viserys already fell back to sleep. Rotted skin exposed and clearly pain stricken. Alicent sighed out loud in frustration and stormed out of the room, guards opening and closing the doors for her.

While she would like to think she knows how Aemond will feel about such an arrangement. He has been without betrothal for all his life and the ladies of the court actively avoid him. Perhaps this is something he needs.

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #house of the dragon

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witchthewriter · 2 years ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: nsfw included

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

INFJ

Slytherin

Chaotic Neutral > Good

Gemini Sun, Leo Moon, Cancer Rising

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・Loki loves you no matter what size you are or how you look on the outside

・Even though your insecurities are valid, it doesn’t mean Loki sees them as such. They know how much your thoughts affect you. So they do the best they can, to make you feel comfortable in your own skin

・In different cultures beauty is recognised differently.

・What is known as "beautiful" on Earth, isn't the same everywhere else (hell, even different countries have a different view on beauty).

・And with Loki who has seen many things over the course of his life, what he deems as attractive is different to what others may.

・So when he saw you, he thought you were one of the most beautiful people in the universe.

・You didn't believe him at first, when he gave you compliments here and there. After all, he was evil in your eyes.

・You thought he was making fun of you, trying to manipulate you. It's just what you automatically thought - as you it's what you were told.

・Time had changed him, experiences and circumstances turned him from self-centred to compassionate.

・And so you were shocked when you overheard him defend you one afternoon

・You didn't believe in soulmates, it didn't make sense to have one perfect person

・But you felt it. That pull towards him, like a tether, or a piece of string.

・No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, you couldn't stop the gut feeling of needing to be around him

・Your relationship slowly started to turn when he asked about your interests

・And when you found something in common, you spent so much time together.

・One night, after spending all day together, he said something that solidified your relationship as a romantic one

"Y/n, I don't think I could live this life without you. But if this is all I get, this time we have spent together -then I am glad to have it." His voice wavered, and he whispered, "I would die a happy man."

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

What We Thought Was Hate Was Actually Just Deep-Seeded Love

Beauty and the Beast

Soulmates

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Enemies to Lovers

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

The Crown of Jaehaerys by Ramin Djawadi

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, I bloody mean it.

・Loves when you sit on his face. Just having your whole weight smothering him, surrounding him... the thought turns him on, on the spot

・A lot of the time it's Loki initiating intimacy. There's an insatiable need that he has for you.

・When you become comfortable in the relationship, Loki would open up about his fantasies.

・His biggest ones are actually very different. He still has a deep desire to be in charge; to sit on a throne and be worshipped

・And then his other is to be the worshipper, to be on his knees and told what to do

・Loves having his hair pulled. The feeling of fingers grabbing at his scalp, forcing him to look into your eyes.

・He needs to hear your moans, especially when it's his name

・Loki is ... quite a few years older than you. Which means he has a lot of experience. During those years, Loki was constantly trying to find the right person, but he soon found out that they didn't exist. Until he met you. Now everyone else is forgettable

・Intimate moments always have an element of playfulness. Loki's smirk is never too far away

・Loki also likes eating ass and having his ass ... ate

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bluebellhairpin · 9 months ago

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Harwin Strong X f!Reader

Summary: Years have passed since your wedding to Harwin, and now it's Rhaenyra's turn to be wed. With her happiness at the forefront of your mind, you soon make a deal with your husband.

Warnings: Pregnancy. Blood + gore. Reader is fem bodied + called wife/mother/sister + wears a dress. Infidelity/cheating but not really bc it's all consensual. (We're moving slowly into a sort-of polycule.)

Listening to: 'The Green Dress' by Ramin Djawadi

Series Masterlist || AO3 Link || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

A lot had happened in the years since you married Harwin Strong.

To the realms, a war raged on in the Stepsons, one Lord Corlys was trying to fight, and one that Daemon Targaryen had done his best to help win. Viserys had three new children, two sons, Aegon II and Aemond, and a sweet daughter, Helaena.

To you though, the most important thing had been your husband.

As the days after your wedding night turned into weeks, he urged you to open up more. He wasn’t just handsome and brave and brutal enough to gain the nickname ‘Breakbones’, but he was kind.

He drew you away from your beloved books and needlework - the hobbies acceptable for a woman in King’s Landing - even though, you found, he loved having you read to him, or sit next to you by the fire and keep you company as you avoided pricking your fingers.

He took you on walks where he had the time, so you could talk, and where he couldn’t he urged you instead to watch him train - you had to admit to him how hot and bothered it made you, to see him so confident with a sword, and being so strong of an opponent against his assigned enemy, or enemies. He only teased you when you told him - something he did often just to see you flustered - and insisted you come watch him more often.

You came to love him dearly, and how he adored you in return. His Lady Wife - and as the weeks turned into years - the mother of his children.

Prior to telling him you were with child, Harwin spent far too much of his spare time by your side, but it seemed like he spent all of it with you when you were pregnant. Even when you thought he was away working, Harwin always seemed to be just where you needed him, as if waiting around every corner for the moment you sent for him. As the days passed on, oh how you needed him. When he was around no one else came to your aid faster when your nausea got the better of you - and he never once shied away from it - nor was he shy to demand the quick gathering of your food cravings, which too often consisted of heavily salted potatoes and clay dirt.

You could see in his eyes that he saw no sense in it, but whatever you wanted, you got. You almost could bet he’d get the blood of a Lannister for you if you told him that was what you craved as a drink.

But what touched you the most was the evenings you spent together. What used to be a time reserved for just the both of you felt as if there were now three. When an unmistakable new bump began to form, Harwin spent his evenings laid face down between your legs, cradling your torso between his warm palms, and talking to your tummy about anything and everything. From childhood stories to how his day went, no subject went untouched when he was trying to speak to your baby.

He called it a privilege to care for you while you solely cared for your baby, a baby who was now in the world wholly, and had just passed his second name day.

Your son kept you busy, and Harwin adored him. He’d hoped for a daughter, more often than not speaking to your belly as if a girl laid there, but your boy wasn’t any less loved for it. He was doted on more by Harwin than any other father and son you knew. Nor was he any less needed - from his first breath he was Larys Strong, second to his name and newest heir in line to inherit Harrenhal.

But Harwin’s heart was set on a daughter. You barely had to tell Harwin the Maester’s said your body was properly recovered before he enthusiastically offered to try for another. You simply replied that the time spent with one child was to be cherished - and you planned to do just that. You were thankful when Harwin replied again in turn with kindness, saying he hadn’t considered it but understood what you meant. He said he’d wait until you were ready, and in the meantime threw himself headfirst into being little Larys’ father.

It made your heart melt completely - and now it was going to happen all over again. Even if the news of another babe wasn’t enough to usurp an upcoming wedding, Harwin certainly acted like it was. The news couldn’t have spread across the Red Keep faster even if crows and rats carried the message to every nook and cranny - your husband wouldn’t have been able to keep it a secret if he tried.

But right now, at the forefront of everything in your mind, wasn’t the second child being carried within your womb - it was your Princess, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and the fact that the wedding to be held within the next few days was going to be hers.

The princess had taken it upon herself to visit you daily, whenever she could spare the time, and you were grateful - you believed she needed a distraction, and she was one of the few women around your age in the whole city who you could stand (the other being Alicent, however you weren’t going to be telling either about your friendship with the other). She was also a good distraction to you from the coming and going sickness the child brought with it.

“His little girl.” You said to Rhaenyra. “He’s so sure it’s going to be a daughter.”

“If I remember correctly, he thought that last time too.” Rhaenyra said, “And what do you think?” She asked, leaning forward on an elbow with a childlike sparkle in her eyes. She was fond of children, or so you assumed from how she was around your son - and her half-siblings too when she got the rare chance.

“I think it’s far too soon to tell.” you replied, a small smile on your face as you grasp your hand over your stomach.

“Oh wouldn’t it be amusing though, the great ‘breakbones’ running around after a daughter.” She said, talking into a raised glass of wine.

“There is a certain humor to it, sure.” You both caught eyes and smiled as she put down the cup she was drinking from.

“You will still come to the dinner, won't you?” Rhaenyra asked, changing the subject skillfully, as her look changed from sly to hopeful. “I know we won’t get much time together, and I know how tired you get at the moment, but I just have to know I’ll see your face in the crowd.” Your lips twitched up, amused.

“Is the heir to the iron throne asking me personally to go to her wedding feast?”

“It will be good for strengthening ties.” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

“Going to a wedding feast?”

“Indeed.”

“Ah sorry Princess, but the only ties being strengthened there are those of both families getting married. However, my experience says a joyous party and a hearty meal is good for morale all around.” A new voice joined in at the open door.

“Ser Harwin.” Rhaenyra said, turning in her seat with a smile to greet your husband.

“And please be sure to provide peanuts,” Harwin continued as he dipped his head to the Princess and made his way to your side, “They seem to be the only thing this little one is letting her mother keep down.”

“Harwin!” you hissed.

“Shells and all, she likes how it crunches.” You smacked his arm - or the parts of it that weren’t still covered in metal armor - and he let out a half chuckle. “Alright, alright. I was only coming in to check you weren’t lonely, and it seems like the Princess is doing a fine job of that.”

“Of course I am. I do a good job of everything.”

“Indeed.” Harwin agreed, then turned to you. He kissed your forehead and cheek before pressing his thumb to your chin. “I’d better be on, I’ll be back soon to prepare for dinner.” He kissed your hand, a final farewell, before doing the same to Rhaenyra. “Princess.” He said.

You saw how their eyes caught, and something about it sparked a thought inside you. The thought that there was a slight lingering of something going on between them both. You were not sure what. For some reason the fluttering in your heart had you breaking into a calm smile more than an anxious sweat. Some part of it was reassuring - even if any other woman might’ve thought otherwise. Perhaps it was how much you trusted Harwin, perhaps how much you liked Rhaenyra.

You weren’t unfamiliar with the rumors behind a hasty wedding to her cousin Laenor (nor the rumors behind Laenor himself). You also weren’t unfamiliar with how stifling living in your fathers home could be - and he was a lord, let alone a king. You didn’t blame either of them for acting the way they did, to take bits of freedom when it wasn’t being given to them. You pitied Laenor, but Rhaenyra? If anyone asked you honestly, you’d day you mourned for her.

Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding feast, at the very least, was eventful. Far more so than your own - and for that you weren’t entirely envious.

You arrived, paid your dues to the royal family along with those of House Strong who came - Harwin and his father and brother, along with his sisters, Pacey and Raechel, and a few more distant relations - and were seated - all without problems. Laenor and his family arrived, and were seated alongside Rhaenyra and Viserys - again, without problems. King Viserys began his speech without a hitch - however it didn’t finish in the same way.

The moment you saw his eyes and voice catch and pause, you were searching for a reason why. When your eyes cast to the doors, you could see the reason clearly yourself.

In another life, one where you were still young and foolish, all you would’ve seen would be Queen Alicent in a pretty green dress. But now being seasoned in Red Keep socialites and dramatics, you weren’t so young and foolish to not realize what it meant.

“The king won’t be happy, right in the middle of his speech.” Harwin murmured, a hand resting on the one you had in the crook on his arm. Larys stood on his other side, leaning down on the table. House Strong prided itself on its courage, but there was something about the cunning the younger Strong brother had that you admired - it was one of the reasons why you agreed to Harwin naming your son after him, the thought that a smart mind might be passed down through name alone. Time would tell if that was the right choice or not.

“The beacon on the high tower, do you know what color it glows when Oldtown calls its banners to war?” he asked quietly.

“Green?” you whispered. When your eyes flickered off Alicent to Larys, he nodded - even if you weren’t so sure before you were now. Harwin’s hand squeezed your fingers, and as Alicent sat at the table ahead everything settled. Calm, normal once again. Tension raised off the air like a mist in Blackwater Bay.

Until later.

The feast had really begun, the dancing started, and as everyone got to the celebrations, you were beginning to feel sick. Not enough to warrant telling Harwin (he’d have you both leave in a heartbeat, you didn’t doubt that for a second), but enough that there was no way you were getting up to dance.

“Harwin,” you said, and he leant in from where he had his arm around the back of your chair, ready to ask what was wrong, “Go get a dance with the Princess, congratulate her for us.” You finished with a pat to his chest, a dismissal and ‘get to it’ if there ever was one. He didn’t need further pushing. Some might chastise him for being so obedient to his wife, but you know he’d only say they were jealous.

With Harwin gone, and the other seat beside you also unoccupied since Harwin’s sister, Raechel, had gone off to dance with a pretty young Lord, you slid over to occupy the seat beside Larys.

“How are you feeling this evening, sister?” He asked, observant, and voice soft as ever despite the noise of the crowded room.

“In all truth my stomach feels like it’s in knots.” you replied, sighing through a smile, “But I dare not leave. I do like being around everyone when they’re having such fun.”

“I could walk you to your room, if you’d like?” he offered, and it made your smile widen.

“No, please. There’s no need for that.” you replied, head turning so your eyes could filter about the room, “It’s not a sickly kind of knot. For some reason I’m feeling quite nervous. Besides, I can see how you enjoy people watching the same as I do, I wouldn’t want to take you away from it.”

“Ah,” he said, hand playing with a cloth napkin on the table, “I see I haven’t been as careful about what I do in my spare time as I should’ve been.”

“You know there’s nothing wrong with being able to see everything.” you said, turning to him with a wide smile, “Just make sure you don’t go around telling everyone what you see. Or worse, the wrong people.” His hand clenched around the cloth, before releasing. He smiled.

“Clever as ever, my sister. Spoken with the wisdom of a mother.”

Larys barely finished speaking when your attention was taken away. A shout, unlike others tonight, followed by more, along with a visible disruption to the dancing. Something was going on. It made the knots in your stomach tighten, the hair on your arms stand on end. Suddenly the air didn’t feel as clear as it did moments before.

Between the influx of people moving away, and those moving in, you lost sight of the Princess and your husband - the latter of which was by then dancing with someone else. When you stood from your seat and finally caught sight of him in the crowd, his look told you to stay back out of trouble, to say your side of the dinner table. You stayed carefully watching him though, saw him hold a silent conversation with his father, then watched as he moved. With Rhaenyra nowhere in sight, and direction from the new Hand of the King, you didn’t doubt you knew what he was doing.

It was nice to know that both you and your father-in-law had the belief that Harwin could rescue a Princess from a crowd of frightened and rowdy party-goers.

If anything the prowess Harwin had in retrieving Rhaenyra filled you with an impressed sense of pride - ‘that was the man you married’. Before he was your husband, he was a knight, and honestly if you were a man like him you would’ve wanted to do the exact same thing in helping Rhaenyra. If not you, at least it was him. Hence you paid it no mind when he disappeared from the room with her over his shoulder.

Once he was gone though, Rhaenyra safely out of trouble, your attention was drawn to something far less pleasing.

On the floor beyond the table was a man. He wore house Velaryon’s colors, and had half his face beaten into the stone floor. The carnage of bone and muscle, and the blood seeping into the stone below was enough to make your usually strong stomach churn. It was as if half of him had melted into the floor. One of your hands moved over your bump, while the other held your fingertips over your lips - both in an effort to ease the nausea growing in your throat, in hopes to not throw up everywhere.

“Larys, I believe I can take you up on a nice slow walk back to my room now.” You whispered. He heard you, because of course he already could see how visibly sick you looked now, and quickly reached for his cane.

“Of course.” he said, letting you rest a hand on his arm as you both turned away to join those leaving. He only spoke again after you reached the quieter halls of the Keep. “Will you be alright?”

“I believe so, it’s just been quite a day.” you said, looking down at your skirts as they slowly swished across your legs as you walked. It was a simple thing really, the way it moved, but as far as a distraction went it was as good as any. “I’ve seen worse things in my life and yet I’ve found myself quite shaken. It seems that as the babe grows in size, my strength leaves me, both physically and emotionally.”

“As long as you both end up healthy in the end, it doesn’t matter so much how you feel now.” he said after a few steps. You nodded as you swayed a little. “Your constitution will return.”

“I suppose so.” you agreed, “Though still it would be nice if it weren’t so much trouble right now.”

“All paths in life have troubles sister, whether you chose to be a mother or silent sister. We just need to make sure paths we have no control over do not become too much trouble.” Larys said as you both slowed as your room door approached. “And if they do, surround ourselves with people to help keep them in line.”

“I’d be happy enough just to have someone help walk the path with me.”

As you both said goodnight, his words stuck with you. You always found his words needed to be thought about more than most - apparently his half sister Alys was quite the same, worse even, although you’d yet to meet her yourself.

Suni came to your room briefly to help you get ready for bed, but conversation didn’t come to you that night. No doubt word spread about what happened at dinner, she’d have known you’d seen it surely, and you hoped that was a good enough excuse to not be in the mood to talk.

She had gone, you’d tucked yourself into bed, and a few bare candles were all that was left alight when Harwin finally joined you in your bedchambers. He was quiet too as he got ready for bed, only sparing glances at you as you watched him through the dark. Only after he was under the covers and sat back against the headboard beside you did he speak.

“The Princess and Laenor have been wed.” he said. His words, spoken like a hushed whisper, had you sitting bolt upright from where you once laid.

“What?”

“King Viserys ordered they be married immediately.” Harwin said, taking your hand as if to coax you back, but you didn’t move. “I cannot admit to understanding why.”

“Why? I can tell you why,” you said, whispering loudly into the dark, “The rumors around Rhaenyra, and then what has happened tonight are founded on acts of love. Love that is seen as improper, misbehavior. To reign it all in and prevent more reputational damages, both the Princess and her now husband have had to be placed into boxes.”

You huffed, shuffling back into a place at Harwin’s side under his waiting arm. You reached to the hand that laid across your shoulder and toyed with his fingers, venting your frustration with fidgeting, then he spoke.

“More like coffins.” Harwin mumbled into your hair. “Can’t help but feel sorry for them. For loving who they wish, in return they get paid a place in the world where neither will find real love.”

Harwin’s words made you frown. It wasn’t fair - you knew life rarely was. But if the Old and New God’s were kind enough to give you a husband like Harwin, why would they deny Rhaenyra that happiness too? Deny her the chance to be loved? It wasn’t right. It was cruel. Both to her and Laenor. They would struggle through their marriage - Laenor likely finding love elsewhere, and where would that leave Rhaenyra? Alone, and loveless. You wished you could help her. You wished you knew someone who could help her.

Then, like a flash of lightning, you had what could very well be the worst idea of your entire life.

“What’s wrong? I can feel you thinking.” Harwin said, “Stressing even. Stress is no good for the daughter you’re guarding.” He shifted beneath you, leaning more on his elbow as his other palm came to rest on your stomach.

“How sorry do you feel for them?” you asked suddenly. Through the darkness you could see his brows frown.

“What do you mean?”

“If you could help them, would you?” you repeated, softer, almost as if you weren’t speaking at all. His eyes studied your face carefully, as if trying to read the lines on your face to gauge what you were leaving unsaid.

“Rhaenyra is the Princess.” Harwin started, “A dear friend of yours too, which makes her mine - I have to admit to still feeling like I have a duty to the vow I took when entering knighthood. That I must do all in my power to keep her happy, even if now her happiness is second to yours.”

His words trailed off into silence, for a moment all you could hear was your breathing and the fire crackle in its hearth across the room. You decided then at the very least to be honest with Harwin - to voice your idea, as mad as it sounded.

“I need to be honest with you, just for a moment, while it’s just us here alone together. Free of judgement.” you said. Harwin’s reply was virtually instant.

“Of course.”

“Do you love me?” His reply to that came even faster than the first.

“I love you.” Harwin said, holding your head in his hands, almost sounding worried. “More than anything.”

“If I asked you to lie with her to keep her happy, would you do it?” you asked. Then the silence was loud. A pin could drop outside in the hall and you could’ve heard it. “As a favor.” Even with your addition, Harwin stayed quiet. If you didn’t know him better, you’d say he was too quiet.

But you knew him better than that. Harwin, despite his reputation as the more brutal of him and his brother, was a good thinker. Yes he acted in the heat of the moment on occasion, sometimes for the worst, but when given the chance? If his blood wasn’t pushed to pumping? Level headed, considerate, and wise - that was what you’d come to know Harwin Strong as. It's what made him such a good father.

You could see it in his eyes, him thinking. Weighing the options, listing pros and cons. Considering that this wasn’t simply being asked to whore himself out to Rhaenyra for the sake of it - this was you requesting him to do a favor for your friend.

“In another life, perhaps I might’ve done so anyway.” Harwin finally mused. His hands still held your head, and he never once broke away from looking at you. He was so intense sometimes, now was no exception. He was speaking of Rhaenyra, but it was like he wasn’t even thinking of her at all. “But in this life, it will be as a favor to you. Nothing more.”

tagging: @potionpeddlerpatchy | @pockcock

#harwin strong x fem reader #harwin strong x reader #harwin x reader #ser harwin x reader #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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seb-in-the-shadows · 4 months ago

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❄️🍓Falling for you... Literally🍓❄️

It’s here! Finally lmao 😭 Aria x Sebastian fluff!

Valentines Day fic several days late but shhh

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (minor cursing, mature themes) Characters are 7th years.

Tags: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF, Mutual Pining, Sexual & Romantic tension. The love is requited they’re both just idiots. LOVEEE BITCH! Confessions and first kisses - featuring a cheeky 4th wall break referencing, if you know you know ;)) pahaha sry im so unserious lol

A/N: Special thank you to @butternutt613 and @mrsgoofygracie for your help with inspiration, proof reading and for supporting me! I really appreciate it a lot and it helped me finish it! 🤗 ❤️✨and it helped me get confidence to post

I love music to my fics atm and I literally agonised over so many great choices, but ultimately landed on these two - in order of how the fic turns out, should you wish to add to the experience by listening! 🥰 I hope you enjoy, and ofc, Happy Belated Valentines Day!

Hogsmeade had transformed into a winter wonderland, draped in a thick blanket of snow. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, settling in Sebastian’s dark curls and clinging to the collar of his coat. The village glowed warmly in the soft twilight, golden light spilling from shop windows, enchanted lanterns floating overhead, and heart-shaped charms gently pulsing with a rosy hue.

Hogsmeade was alive with the gentle hum of chatter, couples strolling hand-in-hand in the snow and shop windows decorated with enchanted hearts that pulsed with their soft, rosy glow.

The whole village had fallen into a picturesque winter’s day—a perfect setting for Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day.

A day Sebastian would rather not acknowledge.

No, Sebastian was far too occupied to notice any of it.

Not because he didn’t enjoy it. Not because he was bitter about the sight of couples walking hand-in-hand, their soft laughter floating through the air.

No. He didn’t care about any of that.

What made it unbearable—what made his stomach twist every damn time this holiday rolled around—was the fact that he wasn’t celebrating it with Aria.

Aria was standing in front of him, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her eyes shimmering with awe. So, they were just… walking together. Like always.

Like they weren’t each other’s first thought every morning and last thought every night. Like they weren’t utterly, hopelessly in love with each other, just too stubborn to admit it.

At least, he was.

Aria, on the other hand, was entirely unbothered, beaming up at the snow falling around them, utterly oblivious to the way his heart clenched just looking at her.

“Look at this place,” she sighed, tilting her head back to admire the lights. “Hogsmeade really outdid itself this year.”

Sebastian shoved his hands into his coat pockets, glancing at a particularly obnoxious floating heart nearby.

“Mm. Nothing says ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ like enchanted decorations reminding you that you’re single.”

Aria snorted. “Oh, shut up. It’s sweet. Besides, if you weren’t so picky, you wouldn’t be single.”

Sebastian stiffened. “Excuse me?”

She grinned, nudging his side playfully with a bitten smile.

“You heard me. You could’ve gone with Anne when she tried setting you up last month.”

Sebastian scowled. “That was an absolute disaster.”

“She said the girl was lovely.”

“She called me Sebby.”

Aria howled with laughter, grabbing his arm for support. “Oh, no. Not Sebby!”

Sebastian groaned. “She said it three times, Aria. I barely escaped with my life.”

“Well, at least you’ve got me,” she teased, flashing him a grin.

Sebastian’s heart lurched.

You have no idea how much I wish that were true.

Instead of answering, he shook his head, desperately trying to ignore the warmth of her arm still looped through his.

“I heard some friends call you ‘Sebby Chicken’ last week, I must say I’m rather taken with the colourful moniker ~”

He rolled his eyes with a groan as she barely bit back her utterly enchanting and infectious laughter.

“I hate all of you.”

“Oh, look!” Aria suddenly gasped, cutting off her cheeky bitten smile at her teasing of him, her eyes lighting up as she pointed to the quaint stalls. Her other arm tightening around his with her excitement.

“They’ve got a cart selling chocolate-covered strawberries! Seb, we have to.”

Sebastian smirked. “You’re aware those are traditionally for couples, yes?”

Aria shrugged with a playful scoff.

“So? It’s chocolate.”

Sebastian chuckled.

“Well, when you put it like that.”

Within minutes, Aria was holding a skewer of fresh, warm strawberries, the chocolate melting slightly off of them even in the winter air.

Aria took a bite, humming happily with an appreciative groan. “Oh, these are absolutely sinful.”

Sebastian watched as she licked a stray drop of chocolate from her plush glossed lip, his stomach twisting violently. As if the moment were wading in water, the way her lips closed around the sweet treat…

This was torture.

“Seb?”

He blinked, suddenly realizing he’d been staring a little too hard. “Huh?”

Aria held up her skewer with a mischievous smile, was he imagining that? “Want one?”

Sebastian hesitated for half a second too long, glancing between her sparkling eyes and the sweet treat on the skewer in her hands, before drawing in and taking a bite. Sinking his teeth into the sweet flesh of the strawberry, the warm chocolate eliciting a soft hum of appreciation himself.

Aria didn’t move her hand away in time, meaning his lips just barely grazed her fingertips. Her breath hitched, though he wasn’t sure if he’d misheard that.

The moment stretched, silent, charged, tense.

Aria swallowed, blinking at him. “That was—”

“Delicious,” Sebastian cut in quickly, forcing himself to step back with a tense laugh before he did something stupid. Like kiss her senseless.

Aria cleared her throat, shifting awkwardly with a flushed smile. “Right. Yeah. Delicious...”

Sebastian wanted to scream.

After a very tense few minutes, Aria seemed to decide that the best way to break the tension was through violence, of course.

Which was why Sebastian found himself abruptly pelted in the back of the head with a snowball.

He stopped mid-stride. Slowly turned.

Aria stood a few feet away, smirking that tongue toothed smile that winded him, a second snowball already in hand. Looking like a bird ready to take flight at any given moment.

Sebastian exhaled through his nose, unable to hide his widening grin as his heart raced. “You little menace.”

Aria grinned wider, Sebastian bent down to grab a handful of snow—

“NOPE—”

Aria bolted. Darting behind a stall. Sebastian chased her immediately, laughing as she shrieked and darted and weaved between streetlamps and benches, narrowly avoiding his attacks with utterly bubbling laughter.

“Sebastian, I swear if you throw that at me—”

The snowball hit her square in the chest with a thud.

There was a heartbeat of silence as Aria slowly looked down at the splattered mess of snow on her coat, then up at him, her eyes disbelieving.

Sebastian grinned. “Happy Valentine’s Day~”

Aria blinked before smirking. “You little shit -“

Before he could move, a well-aimed snowball smacked against his shoulder, knocking his smugness down a peg.

“Oh, you wound me,” he said, dramatically clutching his chest. “How will I ever recover?”

“You won’t~” Aria teased before launching another snowball.

Sebastian barely had time to dodge, laughing as he ducked behind a bench. Aria was relentless—which he loved about her—but he wasn’t going to lose a snowball fight without giving as good as he gets.

The war waged on, sending handfuls of snow flying as the two of them chased each other through the snowy village, giggling like children. More than one onlooker shook their heads fondly at their antics.

Finally, after several failed attempts, he lunged, catching her by the wrist and spinning her into him.

She collided right into his broad chest with a small “Oof!”

Aria had inadvertently managed to tackle him unawares onto the ground. Tumbling into a particularly soft snowbank, sending them both toppling over in a mess of limbs and laughter.

Sebastian groaned as he found himself lying on his back, Aria practically sprawled on top of him.

He blinked up at her, his hands instinctively settling on her waist. She was so close—lips parted, breath warm against his cold skin, snowflakes caught in her eyelashes. His heart, already pounding from their chase, stuttered for an entirely different reason.

“You’ve… you’ve got snow in your hair,” Aria murmured, reaching up to brush some of the melting flakes away without thought.

Sebastian swallowed. She was breathtaking.

The laughter between them had died instantly as the world narrowed down to just this—her body pressed against his, her hands clutching his snow sodden coat, his strong arms locked firmly around her waist. Both softly panting from running, staring into each other’s eyes with tender smiles and rosy cheeks.

Seb peered up at her, relishing in the feeling of her in his arms this way. How natural it had felt to be pressed against her, holding her steady on top of him.

The way the frost nipped at her soft cheeks, he couldn’t help pretend she was flushed from being together this way. Her eyes lidded with a snatched breath as they met his lips, before peering into his brown eyes again. Plush lips softly parted. He’d felt instantly jealous of that fucking chocolate strawberry from earlier…

Sebastian swallowed hard.

Aria wasn’t laughing, as he’d might have expected.

Her eyes searched the depths of his, her lips parted as if there were a million things she wanted to say, but couldn’t.

And Sebastian - bloody fool that he was - could only lie there, his heart hammering painfully, his hands aching to pull her even closer. Fingers flexing slightly at her waist, itching to be closer.

Much like her, without thought, he’d caught a stray golden strand from hovering over her eyes. Gently tucking it behind her ear with the reverence of a lover. Aria’s lips parted softly, barely able to breathe.

His chest tightened as he could have sworn Aria leant into him. That she drew nearer with bated breath, her eyes loving. His heart was exploding in his chest as he moved to draw in towards her soft lips.

But then—

“Oi! No snogging in the street!”

Gareth’s voice rang out from somewhere nearby, alongside their friends in the winding streets of Hogsmeade. Breaking the spell instantly.

“This is a family place, eh? Keep it in your pants, Sallow~”

Aria jumped off of him with such force she almost stumbled back right onto her arse in the snow. Her cheeks flaming with a wave of embarrassment.

“We weren’t—! I mean—”

Sebastian cleared his throat with a dark growl. “Bloody Weasley.” As she slowly rose to his feet and dusted off the snow with a dark glare shot his way for interrupting them.

Aria laughed, but it was nervous, breathless. Smoothing down her coat with an emphatic clear of her throat as her eyes darted everywhere BUT Sebastian.

“I, uh… should probably head back soon.”

Sebastian forced a smirk.

“Afraid of losing another fight?”

Aria snorted. “You didn’t win, Sallow.”

He quirked a brow. “I had you in my arms. That’s a victory.”

Aria’s eyes softened, just a fraction, before she looked away. Her voice smaller than before.

“Come on, then,” she murmured, nudging his side. “Let’s go home.”

Sebastian followed without protest.

Because one day—one day soon—he was going to gather every ounce of Gryffindor courage in him, pull her into his arms, and tell her the truth.

That she was his home.

And that he’d been in love with her for years.

Hogsmeade grew smaller as the two wandered the snowy grounds back to Hogwarts. Despite Gareth’s untimely interruption, Sebastian and Aria had not spoken about what had almost happened.

They’d walked in near silence, the weight of something unspoken, something monumental crackling in the air between them.

Sebastian itched to touch her, hold her hand, link their arms, anything.

Sebastian’s heart hadn’t stopped racing since he had her in his arms. Oh Merlin.. And he knew—he knew—he couldn’t let this night end without saying something.

The walk home felt torturously long. Sebastian was unsure whether he’d have strength enough to find the words.

Should he have gotten her a gift? Unapologetically proclaiming his unwavering love for her that grew stronger each passing day?

When they reached the castle gates, Aria hesitated. Pulling him irrevocably from his thoughts.

“Hey…” she murmured, not looking at him, but at the snow by their feet.

Sebastian tensed, though his tone was gentle. Hopeful. “Yeah?”

She fidgeted with her gloves, her breath visible in the cold air. Finally meeting his eyes.

“Come with me to the Astronomy Tower?”

Sebastian blinked, his heart skipping a beat.

“You’re not dragging me up there to push me off, are you?”

Aria huffed a soft laugh through her nose, playfully rolling her eyes. Before teasing with a wicked smirk,

“I’d have done that ages ago if I wanted to, Sallow~”

Sebastian smirked, clutching his chest in feigned indignation,

“Wicked woman~”

They laughed, and he of course followed without protest.

The tower was quiet when they arrived, the usual student stargazers absent due to the cold. The wind bit at their skin, but the sky above was stunning—crisp, endless, and dusted with glistening stars.

Aria shivered. She smiled up at the wondrous sky despite it.

Without thinking, Sebastian shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

Aria startled slightly, blinking up at him.

Sebastian shrugged with a tender smile. “You’re freezing.”

Aria swallowed. Something changed in her expression. Her eyes were glistening again as they had twice before that day. When they shared the strawberries, and after their snowball fight right before -

She pulled the cloak tighter around herself, eyes flickering away with a soft breath of a laugh.

“You’re always looking after me, you know.”

Something warm in her eyes as she seemed far away in thought, glancing up at the vastness of the starlit sky. Whilst she kept her eyes skyward, his were trained on her. The curves and contours of her striking features. As though memorising her in this moment.

Sebastian exhaled a laugh, his fingers flexing at his sides with a playful roll of his eyes.

“Well, someone’s got to look after you. You’re reckless, practically a walking hazard.”

She nudged his ribs with a barely suppressed smirk,

“You’re one to talk~”

After their quiet laughter, she quieted.

And suddenly, the weight of years of something just out of reach seemed to settle between them.

“Sebastian…” she whispered into a soft cloud of warm breath in the frozen air.

His breath caught. The way she said his name..

She turned fully to face him now, clutching the edges of his coat around herself shoulders, as though gathering her courage.

“I—I need to know,” she murmured.

Eyes imploring.

“Tonight… Back there…”

She swallowed,

“Was I imagining it?”

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Because—Merlin’s sake.

Was she seriously asking if she’d imagined it?

The way he’d ached for her? The way he’d starved for her, year after year, hiding it behind smirks and playful jabs?

She had no idea at all, did she?

His silence must have made her nervous, because she shifted, chewing her lip.

“…Forget it,” she mumbled, moving to step away.

Sebastian caught her wrist. She stilled.

Sebastian swallowed hard, voice fervent. “You weren’t imagining it.”

Aria’s breath hitched. She turned back to him, hope and hesitation warring in her expression. In her beautiful, starlit eyes.

Sebastian stepped closer, calloused fingertips reaching for her spare hand, encasing them in his own for warmth.

“You never have.”

Aria’s fingers trembled where they clutched his coat, and then within his warm, safe grasp.

“…Then why have you never—?”

“I was a coward,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we had. Didn’t want to lose you if I got it wrong.”

Aria stared at him, snowflakes softly starting to catch in her long lashes.

Then, very softly, she asked,

“…And now?”

Sebastian’s pulse roared in his ears.

He lifted a hand, grazing his knuckles along her cheek with a touch lighter than a moth’s wing.

“Now,” he breathed, “I don’t want to waste another bloody second.”

Aria’s lips parted—just before Sebastian closed the space between them, and kissed her.

It was soft at first, hesitant—like they were both testing the waters of something they’d spent years pretending wasn’t there. Soft sighs and feeling tasered by the other’s tantalising lips. Something settling in the pit of their stomachs when Aria kissed him back.

A quiet, desperate sound left her as she fisted her hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper—and Sebastian was undone.

He let out a shaky breath, tilting his head to devour her properly. His strong hands shifted to sweep her stray golden curls from her eyes as he met her lips in a tantalising kiss. Unhurried and teasing, before gently swiping his tongue across her lips for permission.

With a soft gasp she parted her lips, fingers threading through his hair as he messaged her tongue with his. His hands slid down her arms, around her back to pull her flush against his chest with a low groan. His arms locking tightly around her waist as though afraid she’d disappear. She let out a sweet sigh against his lips.

Aria melted against him, her hands slipping back into his hair, gripping tight as though she, too, had waited years for this. Arching her back into him as she chased his touch and feelings she’d waited years to act on.

The Astronomy Tower was silent but for their ragged breaths, the sound of lips parting and meeting again, the way his name left her in a breathless whisper between kisses.

Sebastian was dizzy.

They finally, finally broke apart, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the cold air as they parted just to catch their breath.

Aria laughed softly, a bit breathless, a bit dazed. Biting her lip on her smile.

Sebastian grinned with a light tease. “That good, huh?”

She rolled her eyes but beamed at him, cheeks flushed. “Oh shut up~”

Then, quieter, softer she murmured lovingly,

“…Happy Valentine’s Day, Seb.”

Sebastian exhaled a laugh, pressing his lips to her forehead as he cupped her cheeks. As though she were precious and beloved, and he could finally admit to it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hl #valentines day #fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #sebastian x aria #sebastian x oc #fluff #sebastian sallow fluff #TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF TO BATTLE THE SADS #honestly idec if therr are mistakes this took me so long to do man lmao #hogwarts legacy fandom #my gifs #my gif edit #Sebby Chicken returns! lmao

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inappropriatestork · 1 month ago

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Saw Les Mis today in Columbia. Dragged my aunt along for a matinee because I'm running out of people to coerce into seeing it with me.

I can never remember what I liked/disliked from show to show so here's my rambling, mostly for my own future reference.

I saw the touring show twice in 2023 (in Charlotte and Greensboro), haven't seen it since then. I always write up my thoughts because my memory is crap. (Which is also why my memories and comparisons between this time and previous shows might be entirely wrong, as I may have definitely seen something before but forgotten or not noticed!)

Cast: Nick Cartell (JVJ), Nick Rehberger (Javert), Juliette Redden (Fantine), Delaney Guyer (Cosette), Mya Rena Hunter (Eponine), Christian Mark Gibbs (Enjolras), Jake David Smith (Marius), Kyle Adams (Grantaire), Matt Crowle & Victoria Huston-Elem (Thendardiers)

I admit, I was *kinda* hoping since it's the last day of the run and a matinee, they'd give Nick Cartell the final show and give us Randy Jeter as JVJ like they did last time I saw it. Which is nothing at all against Nick Cartell - he's excellent - but Randy Jeter was *incredible* last time.

Cartell was excellent, though, and no complaints about anyone.

It was the same Thenardier as the two times I saw it in 2023 but I seem to have liked him better this time. Last time I found the Thenardiers a little gratingly American and overly goofy, but they didn't bother me this time.

(Speaking of gratingly American, I still hate "sitting flat on your ASS doesn't buy any bread." Surely Americans know what "bum" means. And the alliteration of "bum" and "buy" and "bread!")

This was a different Javert than before and he was *very* good. I liked the last one, Preston Truman Boyd, but Nick Rehberger may have been *just* a bit better. Can't tell if he's actually older, but he reads a little older than Boyd and his voice was very nice and deep and a bit growly, *and* he was sufficiently desperate and despairing during Javert's Soliloquy. Reminded me a bit of Michael Ball (whose Javert I am slightly obsessed with).

Jake David Smith was good as Marius, though I didn't love him quite as much as Gregory Lee Rodriguez last time. Rodriguez gave Marius just a hint of humor and made him somehow more likeable and then *killed* Empty Chairs.

Christian Mark Gibbs was very good as Enjolras overall, though I didn't love all the acting choices (IDK how much of that is direction vs the actor's decisions).

Which, okay, it was mainly Drink With Me, which I am very opinionated about. An unsympathetic Enjolras might be more canon, IDK, but I like to see him show a little humanity. I'm not asking for David Thaxton or Ramin and Hadley, but a *little* acknowledgement?? This Enjolras came down off the barricade during Grantaire's verse, but then, when Grantaire stepped closer to sing "Is your life just one more lie?" he just kind of stared him down a little coldly, and then Grantaire stumbled away, getting a few comforting clasps on the shoulder from other guys and then collapsing against the wall obviously distraught, where only Gavroche comforted him. Like, could you not pat him on the shoulder real quick or something?

To be fair, Enjolras did show Grantaire a little sympathy later.

Momentary aside to rave *yet again* about Kyle Adams' Grantaire. He was Grantaire both times I saw it in 2023 too and he's SO INCREDIBLY GOOD. I've raved about him in more detail before but it's mostly subtle stuff that you wouldn't even really notice if you don't know Grantaire's story, but he's clearly put a lot of thought into tiny nuances that add so much to his portrayal (and/or gotten very good direction, probably both!). Like he doesn't get that many lines but I end up watching him during every Amis scene more than anyone else, because there's so many tiny details of his interactions with the others, his expressions and mannerisms, everything, that are just spot on.

Anyway, Enjolras did give him a comforting shoulder clasp after Gavroche's death. And I'm pretty sure Enjolras' death was staged a bit different this time? According to my notes last time, anyway.

This time, just after Gavroche's death, Enjolras and Grantaire have a little moment of sympathy, then I think kind of exchanged nods like maybe affirming Grantaire still with him to the end, despite his cynicism? Last time I'm pretty sure Enjolras stood sort of defiantly at the top center of the barricade and then fell to the far side, out of sight, when shot and Grantaire sort of scrambled after him but couldn't reach him before he fell. This time Enjolras was more to one side, and fell on the visible side of the barricade, and *Grantaire* after seeing him fall, was the one to climb to the top and stand defiantly, brandishing his bottle furiously/threateningly at the soldiers before falling near Enjolras.

I definitely don't remember that defiant Grantaire moment before, but I did like this staging, and that little "this is it"/"I'm with you" moment beforehand, which is closer to the canon "do you permit it?" than I remember seeing before.

Other minor things:

-I don't recall noticing this before, but partway through A Little Fall of Rain one of the revolutionaries brought the captive Javert back onstage? It was enough of a kerfuffle of him being manhandled a bit at one side of the stage to be slightly distracting from Marius and Eponine, which made it noticeable. I can't recall if he's normally brought in or already there or what, but it's interesting. It was also enough of a kerfuffle and dark enough that I couldn't entirely follow Javert's movements and expression. I think he seemed to sort of stop struggling and went still and kind of sober when he realized what was happening? I wish I'd had binoculars.

Not sure how to read it, but it seemed perhaps connected to his little moment of grief when he sees Gavroche's body and kneels to check his pulse and then bows his head and crosses himself. Like perhaps in the face of actual death (or innocents dying? though Eponine and Gavroche both eagerly involved themselves in the rebellion, if not to the extent of the students) his certainty of right and wrong and good and evil is maybe beginning to waver slightly even before Valjean frees him? IDK. I can't recall where he normally is for that scene, but the way he was brought onstage was conspicuous and interesting. It seems conceivable that he might, perhaps unwillingly or unconsciously, feel some hint of sympathy for these kids from the gutter like him, maybe?

-I've never seen any Valjean moment (other than perhaps when negotiating with the Thenardiers where Mme Thenardier is aggressively flirting with him or something) played for laughs, but when he was reading Marius's letter to Cosette, he went "now that I know that you love me as...well??" as if shocked (understandably, as he was more concerned about avoiding Javert during the three (3) seconds it took Marius and Cosette to fall irrevocably in love) and got a laugh from the audience.

-Extremely minor but neat: never noticed before during Who Am I, they lit Valjean so he cast two shadows, one to each side, which is perfect symbolism for that scene.

Anyway, it was wonderful as always. Les Mis genuinely is one of my very favorite things in the whole world.

I'm *kinda* considering driving 2+ hours to Charlotte or Charleston just to see it again while it's nearby.

Currently debating whether to watch either the 25th (Ramin and Hadley!) or the Staged Concert (Michael Ball!) before bed. Or possibly read my all time favorite Valvert fic. Or maybe both.

#/happy sigh #i really am tempted to drive 2 hours to see it again #charleston even had $30 tickets on the 30th but only for weeknight shows #which didn't really work for me #alas #les mis #les miserables

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