they were faceless to me before

bael-bard  asked:

You are one of the few people who believes that Arya will survive and reunite with her family. Can you explain why? To me it always seemed like Arya is too damaged to live a normal life after the series ends. And there is FM problem. I doubt, that they approve of deserting, so even if Arya survives, one day they'll come for her. I always assumed that her story will be the bitter part of the ending. Dying in the North and leading the wolf pack. Long wolf dies but the pack lives. What's your take?

Damn! Am I really “one of the few people” who thinks that Arya makes it through? I am so bad at determining what the fandom thinks! Ludicrously, entertainingly bad!! Everyone watch me be bad at this!!!

Anywho. I’m sorry to be a pedantic dick about this, but: “normal life” means precisely squat. I guarantee that if I asked you to straight-up define what “normal life” means, and why those outside of it should be considered more likely to die, you wouldn’t have a coherent answer. Moreover, Arya’s a Lord Paramount’s daughter, so she was never going to live a “normal life.” This is what was going to happen to her if her father’s downfall had never happened…

“You,” Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, “will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon.”

…and that sure as shit ain’t the average experience of her time and place! (This, btw, is part of why I’m leery of interpretations of ASOIAF as a radical revolutionary text: almost all of the POVs are elites. Even Davos has been knighted by the time we meet him. Deconstructing the elite perspective is not the same as presenting the working-class perspective, and genuinely revolutionary texts tend not to grant POV status to inconveniently monstrous peasants like Chett and Varamyr. ASOIAF is a reconstructive text, not a revolutionary one.)(Hey I’m an anti-Marx leftist, can you tell??)

Anywho. If Arya was really going to succumb to the Faceless Men and/or die in their service, I don’t think GRRM would have bothered with this:

“It’s just a sword,” she said, aloud this time…

…but it wasn’t.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile. He used to mess my hair and call me “little sister,” she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

Polliver had stolen the sword from her when the Mountain’s men took her captive, but when she and the Hound walked into the inn at the crossroads, there it was. The gods wanted me to have it. Not the Seven, nor Him of Many Faces, but her father’s gods, the old gods of the north. The Many-Faced God can have the rest, she thought, but he can’t have this.

This is the ultimate thesis of Arya’s time among the Faceless Men: she is terrible at being a Faceless Man. She’s good at the mechanics of assassination, don’t get me wrong, but she’s failing utterly at the crucial ego-death part of it, because she has a pre-existing identity in which she’s still super-invested. She cannot be No One, because she is Arya Stark, and will always be Arya Stark. Her whole story hinges on that central tension: will the hell she goes through be enough to destroy her sense of self? I adamantly come down on the side of “no.” She will reclaim her identity, and like Theon, her true name will return to her chapter headings. 

Why? Because Arya Stark is the goddamn Batman (from the traumatic parent-death to the ninja training to the stubborn desire to fight for the powerless even as your world tells you to be a nihilist), and GRRM knows that Batman means nothing without Bruce Wayne. Everything about Arya’s relationship to home and her Stark identity suggests to me that this is a “pull yourself back just before you’re lost forever” story. The Faceless Men bring that struggle to the brink, because their whole thing is destroying identity in the name of a perfect death. But between Needle and Raff, Arya is clearly not passing that test. She’s still “the Ned’s girl.” Which IMO will be her triumph in the books to come–reclaiming the Stark identity that has been put in such danger. 

Now, if you were GRRM, and you wanted to spark that reclamation of self, how would you do it? Would you maybe take a girl Arya knows, and have her passed off as “Arya Stark,” and send her to Braavos to spark the true Arya’s homecoming, bringing Arya’s identity arc to a head by having her actively retake her Stark self from the young woman burdened with it? Because…I think that’s exactly what GRRM is doing! I firmly believe this is why he had Stannis send Jeyne Poole (feigned as Arya) off with Justin Massey in Theon I TWOW–to provide Arya with precisely the challenge she needs to abandon the FM and all they represent, as well as a way back home. The spectacle of someone else claiming her name will IMO be the perfect thing to bring Cat/Mercy/whatever else back to Arya Stark.

Wine {Jimin Drabble}

The sound of the alarm blaring jolts me awake and as my eyes capture the time, I spring out of bed. I probably pressed the snooze button about 8 times seeing as I’m 45 minutes late. In my rush to get dressed, I violently stub my toe against the bed while trying to hop into my jeans, wincing and cursing this wretched day before I head out into the bitter cold.

I force my bedridden hair into a ponytail, a fully wrapped energy bar clasped between my teeth as I evade the swarm of bodies on the bustling street, zigzagging through businessmen and waiters and patrons alike.

Everyone is in as much of a hurry as I am, and we’re all compelled into pause while we wait for the walk sign to switch from red to green. My feet tap impatiently against the pavement as I chew on sweetened granola and swallow, when my eyes spot plump lips sipping coffee on the opposite side of the road. I gulp, craving a cup of my own when an image flashes as quick as lightning, plump lips against a glass of aged red wine, familiar and recurring.

I’ve always had the same dream, for as long as I can remember, and last night was no exception. I am always sitting at the head of a long dining table that seats about 12; you are the only other occupant sitting across from me, smiling at me in a black frock coat and a cherry jacquard vest over a dress shirt. You’re the happiest I - the me in the dream, at least - have ever seen you, and we raise two large glasses in a congratulatory toast. Your gaze captures mine even as our glasses lower to our lips, but in the foggy transitions of dreams, faceless soldiers break in through large windows, surrounding us before we even attempt an escape. Their hands shackle my arms and legs, in order to chain you without touching you as you watch me with a contorted face. I can see you bite back a shout as they slam my head against the table, craning my neck in an angle that would give me full view to what they were about to do. There’s a quick flash of silver - and then my body jolts awake, sweat-covered and tear-stained, my throat so raw as if I’ve screamed all my life.

I gaze at you, my eyebrows knitting at the sudden surge of deja-vu as I study soft features and eyes that are slightly mismatched, the right one a bit wider than the left; an imperfect slight bump in the bridge of your nose compliments your face, and those red plump lips leaving an undetectable mark on the branded paper cup. You are familiar to me, in a way that does not even contain friends and family, in a way that shouldn’t be pertinent to a total stranger. My nervousness dips to the pit of my stomach, my eyes recognizing the person that’s haunted my dreams.

Another image flashes, red plump lips against my thighs; I am a writhing mess, and your mismatched eyes watching me hungrily as I desperately chase my high.

My head burns hot; disoriented and befuddled, I press my thighs together against unwelcome throbs of pleasure. I have to remind myself you’re a complete stranger, and I drop my gaze out of insufferable humiliation.

I’m suddenly shoved forward as the crowd stirs once the light turns green and I plunge back into the moment. I’m still late as ever, so I try to shake the odd images and sinful thoughts and nostalgia away to get on with my day. But as we cross paths, my eyes catch a long scar across the pale skin of your neck, triggering another vision.

The swift collision of sword against flesh.

             The blood spurting out like a fountain.

   Your hand reaching for my face,

                          your head falling into my lap as I press my palm

to the wound on your neck and try to stop the bleeding.

Someone’s got a strong grip on my arm, and I look up to see blurry mismatched eyes and full round lips asking if I was okay. My knees had scraped against the asphalt and I could feel the resulting graze beginning to sting; My heart’s beating erratically, quick and wild, and sweat’s forming inside my palms and neck as I try to make sense of you - actually existing, not just in my head but right here in front of me. It takes me a second to register that a few tears have marked lines down my face and I blink their remnants away..

“I-I’m fine,” I blurt as you help me up and then let go of my wrist, stepping back only slightly.

I can feel your eyes carefully watching me as I pick up my bag and half finished energy bar. I’m ready to walk away from you and go back to pretending these dreams meant nothing when you ask, “Have we met before?”

Fire Emblem IF Conquest: Kamui’s Birthday Story Track 8


Long story short: Boy’s pretty weak, Niles has way too much fun, Xander and Leo are assholes to Laslow and Odin, Kamui gives an inspirational speech, Leo gains a new retainer, all is forgiven, and Niles just doesn’t want to put his clothes back on. 

This track wasn’t actually that difficult, but there were certain parts where I had to work and rework the wording. 

ALSO. GUYS. FUDGENUGGETS980825 POSTED VIDEOS WITH THE AUDIO, USING OUR TRANSLATIONS~<3 They’re lovely, so go watch them on Youtube! She also did the first three CDs from other translators too! 

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‘Sweetheart. Pretend with me’

[Ew. I thought I’d have a free weekend. But no. I have a fuck ton of shit to do. Also next week is a no go on updates. I’m going on a school trip. So yeah, no wifi for three days. Should survive. If not, bury me with money]

Genre: Gang AU

Member: Kim Namjoon

Description: You weren’t sure what enticed you to give into the thrill of the handsome gangster crawling into your bed late at night, only to leave the next morning. All you knew was that you didn’t really want him to stop.

Warning: Suggestive Namjoon, Cursing, I don’t even know anymore.

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 6

Part 5:

It was late morning as you you awoke to the sun peaking through your light curtains, making you shield your eyes eyes with the back of your hand. 

Your alarm clock read eleven.

The Saturday morning sun loomed onto the bed sheets beside you, outlining the messy space where someone had slept. It was now empty.

You were used to this. Used to the harsh knock you had begun to expect late some nights. Used to the smirking face that would always ask.

“Did you miss me sweetheart?”

You were so used to it all, that when you found the bed empty beside you, you didn’t even blink. It was just something you expected.

It had been going on for weeks. Namjoon would arrive, in the early hours of the morning, and you would let him in. And so, the casual hook ups that lasted til the meagre hours of dawn were routine by now. You weren’t expecting anything more to come of it, you weren’t expecting cuddling and soft kisses and the three words every girl supposedly wants to hear.

No. You were much too smart to believe in fairy tales.

Namjoon wasn’t some prince or a knight in shining armour.

He was just an arrogant gangster with a god complex who just happened to be great in bed.

The truth was, you had often wondered why he kept coming after the first time.

That morning when you had reached your hand across the mattress, expecting to meet someone’s back, you had only been met with a sheet that had long gone cold. You assumed that was the last you’d ever see of him.

And then he arrived the next night. And the next. And the next.

And the thrill you got from it all was much too to throw away. Just the forbidden essence of the whole situation had your heart pounding in your chest. The adrenaline that came with the thought of his calloused hands had you reeling. It was your dirty little secret. And even that gave you a high. 

And then you had begun to wonder what he got from it all?

He had enough money to pay for any girl he wanted. And they surely knew more about what they were doing then you did. There was no doubt there was someone better suited to him. 

So you couldn’t help but wonder why the stone cold gangster kept coming back.

You tried to push these thoughts from your mind as you threw on a pair of mismatched pyjamas. Now was no time to be worrying about those things. There was coffee and Saturday morning cartoons to fret over.

Your feet padded along the small stretch of wooden floor that led out of your bedroom, and you made a B-line for the kitchen. Then you heard it.

Behind your bathroom door the sound of running water seeped through, clearing stating someone was using your shower. When it shut off suddenly you considered making a hopeless dash for the kitchen or perhaps trying to make it back to your bedroom on time to hide, but it was all too late a Namjoon stepped out of the small room, towel hanging dangerously low on his waist.

“Oh. I didn’t realize you were awake” he says, another towel in his hand, drying of his hair.

Instinctively you blocked your eyes, using one hand to hide him from you as your body pivoted sideways. The low chuckles that came from Namjoon’s mouth had you blushing like a fool.

“Come on sweetheart. It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked”

Lowering your hand after the initial shock, you gave a short sigh.

“I know, I just, well” you struggled to make sense of your thoughts as the the shirtless man in front of you waited for an answer “Well, I didn’t expect you to be, here”

He only offered a shrug as he bypassed you and carried on towards your bedroom. You had stood there for a good minute before realizing he wasn’t going to answer you. You decided to shake off the confusion and carry on with what you were going to do before.

He appeared a few minutes later, hair still wet, wearing only the jeans and t-shirt he arrived in the previous night. The suits had been discarded pretty early on. You were making coffee and he was sitting at your kitchen table watching you and the situation was so alien to you that you just had to ask.

“Um, do you want coffee?” you queried, awkwardly gesturing to the jug of freshly made liquid.

A nod.

Sometimes he talked too little. Sometimes too much. You hadn’t begun to understand his reasons in the slightest.

You poured out the bitter liquid, one cup for yourself, another for him.

“What are you doing today?” he asked eventually.

It took you a second to answer, he never inquired about your life.

“Nothing really. I was gonna go shopping for groceries” 

“After that?”

“Um, I don’t know. I don’t really have much planned. I might go out”

“To a club?”

“I don’t know. My friends usually choose”

He, clearly hitting a dead end, decided to approach a new topic instead.

“What about college? Have you any projects due?”

“No. Spring Break’s just over so the terms only begun”

These mundane questions were strange. He’d been showing up at your door for so long that some people would assume you would talk like this. Ask about each others lives but you didn’t. Usually Namjoon would be gone. And you felt confused answering the sudden questions about your life.

You’d decided you’d had enough when he began enquiring about your taste in music.

“Alright Namjoon” you sighed, pressing your hands to your face before asking him “Why the sudden interest huh? I thought you didn’t want to know and didn’t care?”

He had looked at you impassively, shrugging once again.

“Can’t I just be interested” 

You wanted to strangle him. It took you a second to work up the courage to speak your mind, you didn’t know what game he was playing but you weren’t going to a be a pawn. Whatever sadistic satisfaction he got from your awkward answers wasn’t going to be tolerated.

“No Namjoon. Not really. You’re not that guy who stays till the next morning. You’re not the guy who asks about my life. You’re not any of the things you’re pretending to be now. Okay? We’re not a couple. You’ve made that perfectly clear so I’d appreciate if you stopped. Cause I’ve woken up to an empty bed too many times to believe this actually sincere”

His head hung low as you finished. His reaction came shortly.

“You don’t think I know I’m not that guy?” he chuckled bitterly.

“You don’t think I know that even coming here I’m pretending to be someone I’m not? Cause it’s true. I don’t stay till you wake up cause I know that when you see me you’ll remember who I am. What I am. So I leave. And I didn’t wanna leave this morning cause you were pretty and I was tired and maybe I’m a little fucked up and I like how for a short few hours I’m not a criminal”

“I come here cause when I do I’m not a gang leader. I’m not a wanted man. I’m not some faceless bastard the police are trying to catch. I come here and I’m just another guy, having sex with a girl who doesn’t think about what I was doing an hour before. You just take me how I am and I don’t get that so often, so I like it when you let me in each night”

“I don’t stay because when we wake up you’ll remember. And it’s not like last night you forgot, I’m the fucking asshole who threatened you after all. But it’s just nice. For a couple of hours to not have to put up a brave front and act like I know how everything is gonna turn out. To just pretend I don’t have to go back to gang fights and the constant worry my friends will turn up dead.”

“And maybe this morning I just wanted a couple more hours to pretend with you?” he finished, shrugging his shoulders for the umpteenth time.

Pretending. He just wanted to pretend. It wasn’t a lie really, he just wanted to pretend with you. And it sounded terrible, like living a lie. But the embrace of forgetting your worries and pretending like you didn’t have tons of things to do tomorrow was enticing. 

You were in too deep to start denying that you weren’t pretending all along.

It wasn’t pretedending in the sense that you were faking your answers or pretending to be a different person. It was just pretending like you were every other couple out there, who shared awkward morning’s after and bitter coffee.

“One lump or two?” your spoon hovering over the sugar bowl, a small smile gracing your lips.

The smile that spread across his face  was beautiful, genuine and amused, like he’d just won a prize. And so the bitter coffee was washed down with a sweet kiss and you decided that pretending, if even for an hour, was much better than waking up to an empty bed and the scent of cologne reminding you of who once laid their head there.

[Ew. This bordered fluff. Was this stupid? I don’t think it was that stupid.]

paradoxanomalyenigma  asked:

I had an interesting dream in which you and I were romantic intrests of each other. It was composed mostly of a dream I have had before, but until now there was only a faceless person where you were in my dream. I am curious as to what it could mean.

Hopefully not that you intend me to woo you, because I can tell you now it is a slow, uncomfortable, and bloody process.

faceless-admin  asked:

one time my friend was 'genderfluid' and told one of my other friends they were thinking of 'becoming' Agender -laughs whille staring into the camra- Also it shouldn't be so hard to know someone, if your gender constantly changes and you get pissed that someone calls you the wrong gender, that just causes a lot of stress.


when i was experiencing a lot of dysphoria before coming out as trans, i would identify as agender, just because anything else felt…. odd. but when i realised that didnt stop people from referring to me with a gender and name that caused me a lot of stress so eventually i did some reading and discovered i was trans.

i just… dont understand how genderfluidity works or how that comes into play….


thank you @c-qcat for being a beta reader to this. written as gender neutral reader but reader is DFAB because of future smut.

Part 1 (Here), Part 2


“Do the Dead Frighten You?” 1/??


You aren’t entirely sure how this came to be.

You, being the lover, but not really lover, of one of Talon’s most prized assets.

You would use the term ‘friends with benefits’, but you aren’t even sure if you would classify yourself as the friend of Reaper, otherwise known (or formerly known as, you aren’t quite sure of the distinction between the two for him if you had to be honest) as Gabriel Reyes, former Commander of Blackwatch.

Keep reading

He could smell powder, the burn of the lamps overhead, the scent of sweets and wet ice and damp boots. As before, as ever. This was the competition ring, the stage. The audience were faceless; a blurred, rippling mass not made any clearer than the contacts in his eyes. 

As he came to a stop, ice flying from his blades, he turned to gaze ahead, set his shoulders, take one of those deep, deep breaths before the plunge. Meet the eyes of the man standing at the entranceway. Composed, as ever. One of those ambiguous smiles, as ever. A wolf amongst the crowd. He could still feel the warmth of his neck against his jaw and the play of his breath at his ear. 

‘For you, I’ll become desire.’ he thought. ‘So watch me.’


A bit of a companion piece to this.

I can't lose you

Prompt: You protect Will in the Upside Down and when you get back your best friend Jonathan explains that he’s in love with you.

Request: “An imagine request for Jonathan . Where you were best friends and went missing as a kid , you come back the same time as Will and you and Jon meet up and tell your feelings for one another and if you could make it as fluffy as possible that would be amazing ! Thanks in advance - I hope this is alright xx” - @phan—anime

Note: I changed a bit of this. It made more sense for me to make you go missing a week before Will does.

All you felt was coldness. All you say was darkness. All you felt was loneliness apart from the faceless creatures that roamed around trying to kill you. That was until Will Byers showed up.

You were best friends with Will’s brother Jonathan so you were pretty close with Will too. When he showed up, you promised yourself you’d protect him.

You sprung up from the ground, gasping for air. Tears started to stream down your face, you were terrified.

“Will?” You shouted your throat raw from the tube. You were still in the Upside Down.

“Honey, honey! Sh, he’s right here. Sh.” Joyce reassured you.

“We have to get out of here.” You tell them. And that’s what you did.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You opened your eyes and noticed you were in a hospital bed. You looked around the room to notice Will was in a bed on the other side of the room. You ripped the tubes and other things attached to you off you and got up. As soon as you stood up you started to fall, but Jon caught you before you could hit the ground.

“Is Will okay? I-I tried to protect him from that creature, but it got him anyway. Is he okay?” You ask him, brows knitted together in concern.

“He’s fine, he hasn’t woken up yet. You need to get back in bed.” He told you.

“No, get me a chair. I’ll sit with you guys.” Referring to him and Joyce.

A month later you had recovered and had gone back home, but you spent the holiday at the Byers house. You had become close with Will, him having looked up to you like a big sister and closer with Jonathan, whom you had realized your true feeling towards.

Will and Jon walked through the door and Jon went straight to you.

“Can we talk?” He asked you.

You grew nervous by his words, but replied, “Yeah sure.” You followed Jon to his room and sat next to him on his bed.

“I, uh, I wanted to tell you this for awhile now. Before you went missing actually, but I was too scared. You have alway been my best friend and I didn’t want to lose you, but then I almost lost you. I could stop thinking about you… and Will, of course, but I was, I was upset that you didn’t know how I really feel about you.” He rambles, fidgeting with his shaking hands. You place your hand in his and look him the eyes.

“What are trying to say?” You ask him.

“I’m trying to say that I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for awhile and you should know that.” He tells you.

You smile at him. “I’m in love you too. I alway have been Jonathan.”

Nohrian Festival: Xander and Arthur Conversation Pt. 1 & 2

In which Arthur accidentally sexually harasses Xander, sets himself on fire, and it ends with Xander offering to teach him how to cook without blowing himself up. 

Xander’s a good cook, from what I’ve seen in the Mess Hall (quite a few unexpected people are good cooks when they don’t screw things up; Laslow, Mitama, and Anna to name a few). 

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anonymous asked:

ryuji, arsene, takemi?

Ryuji: Favorite Quote? : “How many dreams did you exchange for riches?” - Yusuke during his awakening.

This phrase sent a chill down my spine when I first heard it. Between Mercer’s excellent voice acting, the intensity of the scene, and Madarame’s evil beard stroke, I think that this was when it really struck home for me just how horrible Madarame’s actions were.

Arsene: Favorite awakening scene?: It’s a tie between Ann and Yusuke. I loved Yusuke’s dramatic speech before he decimated the shadows, and the drums as Goemon materialized. 

Ann’s was just pure badass. I mean, she kicked a sword out of a shadow’s hand and killed her cognitive self. I kinda wished she used swords she looked so good with one and that pose as she stood up from killing the fake asdffdsaf

Takemi: Favorite NPC?: I’m just going to be talking about the faceless people that you can talk to, not Confidants because there’s already an ask for them. 

The drunken souse near Leblanc is always fun to talk to. His lines are comedy gold. 

I also really like the newspaper club member? It might be kinda weird i admire how she doesn’t give up on getting scoops even tho she’s the only one left?

Shoutout to the foreign barker. Keep on keeping on dude.

  • Thurid Guild: There is no doubt in my mind that Crux is the best man for the job. I know him and I trust him.
  • Skulduggery Pleasant: And how many more people have to die before you realise your mistake?
  • Thurid Guild: You can't help yourself, can you? You come here, begging for your old job back, and even now you can't help but be insolent, Apparently, the only lesson you've learned since you were last here is how to shut that girl up.
  • Valkyrie Cain: Bite me.

“I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

This was the last round of photographs before the magazine went to press and we returned to Tulsa or Biloxi or Teaneck or Coos Bay or wherever we’d come from, and we were supposed to be photographed with props to show what we wanted to be.

Betsy held an ear of corn to show she wanted to be a farmer’s wife, and Hilda held the bald, faceless head of a hatmaker’s dummy to show she wanted to design hats, and Doreen held a gold-embroidered sari to show she wanted to be a social worker in India (she didn’t really, she told me, she only wanted to get her hands on a sari).

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.

‘Oh, sure you know,’ the photographer said.

'She wants,’ said Jay Cee wittily, 'to be everything.’

I said I wanted to be a poet.

Then they scouted about for something for me to hold.

Jay Cee suggested a book of poems, but the photographer said no, that was too obvious. It should be something that showed what inspired the poems. Finally Jay Cee undipped the single, long-stemmed paper rose from her latest hat.

The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. 'Show how happy it makes you to write a poem.’

I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee’s window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.

I felt it was very important to keep the line of my mouth level.

'Give us a smile.’

At last, obediently, like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy, my own mouth started to quirk up.

'Hey,’ the photographer protested, with sudden foreboding, 'you look like you’re going to cry.’”

-Sylvia Plath, THE BELL JAR

Caught in the Act: Draco Malfoy X Reader X Harry Potter

Request: can you make a draco x reader imagine where the reader cheat on draco with harry and they make out and draco finds them? thank ya.  you can choose the ending, but can she ends up with harry? it will be cool if you can do this.

A/N: Hope this is what you had in mind! Also, it’s five minutes past midnight, but hopefully that still counts for two imagines in the same night! :^) 


Originally posted by malfoysface

Draco felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest at the sight before him. Looking into the fogged up window of Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop only to see you and Potter, cuddled up in a booth together. Harry’s hand held yours on top of the table, a gentle caress that tore Draco apart inside. 

He had told you he couldn’t go to Hogsmeade, hoping to surprise you with his presence, giving you the necklace he had so carefully picked out for you as an early anniversary present to top it all off. But now he knew, as he looked in on you and Harry sitting so happily together in the romantic cafe, that you had been nothing but happy that he wouldn’t be there- it was the perfect opportunity for you to spend the time with Potter.

It all made sense, the more Draco turned the new information over in his mind. Potter was the reason you were always busy, Potter was the one you were hoping to see when you’d wait so suspiciously outside of the Gryffindor common room. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it before. All those times he would catch you eyeing the dark haired boy across the classroom, all the times he figured you were just looking on his with disdain, the courteous thing to do considering you had a boyfriend who despised him so much.

How could he have mistaken those looks of desire and longing for looks of hatred? How could he have been so blind?

He exhaled, breath shaking from resentment as a cloud of white smoke appeared in the cold air in front of him. Still watching from the window, he saw as you leaned up to kiss Harry, watching as you gave him a kiss like the ones you would give Draco everyday.

How long had he been kissing the same lips as his enemy?

He decided he’d seen enough. The door opened with a modest slam when he opened it, but it still wasn’t enough to tear your attention away from Harry. Draco stormed over to your table, but only when he was directly in front of you did you notice him.

“Draco!” you exclaimed. He locked eyes with a triumphant looking Harry before looking to you.

“How could you?” he snapped, voice cracking slightly. He wanted to be mad, he wanted to yell and make you feel terrible for what you’d done to him. Leading him on and betraying his trust like he was some kind of fool. But the sadness was overpowering his anger as he looked at the girl he thought he loved, the girl he thought loved him, sitting in the arms of another boy.

Did it even matter that it was Potter? Would it have stung less if it were someone else? Some faceless, nameless boy he’d never seen before? Draco wasn’t sure it would’ve made a difference at all. You had cheated on him, regardless of who it was with.

“How could you do this to me?” he asked again, voice rising with emotions he almost couldn’t comprehend. Surrounding couples looked on at the scene but Draco didn’t care. His heart was broken and he felt like a laughingstock for not realizing it sooner.

“Draco I-” you tried to explain yourself, but what could you say? Would sorry cover the emotional scars that betrayal caused? Would telling him you didn’t mean for it to happen undo the last few months you’d been sneaking around, deceiving Draco into believing that you were loyal, that you loved him enough to not make such a reckless and heartless choice?

“I have loved you,” Draco declared, voice trembling, “I’ve given you my time and my efforts, and this is how I’m rewarded? Seeing you in the arms of someone else?”

Your stomach dropped as you heard the pain in his voice, a lump forming in your throat when you realized there were tears in Draco’s eyes. In all your time with the boy, you had never seen him cry before, and you hated yourself for letting it be you who brought him to tears in the end.

“While my thoughts have been wasted on you, yours have been for him. All the time I’ve spent, thinking about you…only to have you run off with someone else?”

“I’m sorry Draco,” you pleaded, voice hoarse from holding back tears.

“Not as sorry as I am for thinking you ever loved me-”

“I did! Draco I do!” you cut him off, not knowing how to explain your emotions to him when you barely understood them yourself.

“Don’t you dare say that!” he yelled, and you flinched at the sudden harshness of his voice. “Don’t you dare tell me you loved me at all! Loved me enough to throw everything we had away, loved me enough to sneak around with someone else, loved me enough to lie straight to my face. Yeah, you really loved me, didn’t you?”

“Draco,” you cried, tears slipping out uncontrollably, wanting to somehow take back the pain you were causing him.

“I loved you. I cared for you deeply; I was loyal to you. This,” he gestured to you and Harry, “is not something you do when you love someone. I would never have done this to you.”

You stayed silent, knowing that Draco was right. The guilt for what you had done had never been stronger than at that moment.

“Well I hope you’re happy. You and Potter can be together for the rest of your lives as much as I care. But don’t ever expect me to talk to you, don’t even expect me to be able to look at you anymore. Because I really did love you, (Y/N).” With that he turned from the table, ignoring the eyes of customers and employees who seemed to freeze in their places as they watched the scene unfold.

He felt embarrassed of the disturbance he’d caused, but it was nothing compared to the pain he felt from having lost the one he’d loved, long before he’d even realized it.

It was three years ago, in the fall. The political science department had welcomed me with open arms and it was like being granted asylum. The department staff recognized me from frequent, friendly meetings with their specialists and I had made it through judicial process and politics, arguably the toughest undergraduate course in the department, owing to the professor. His name was so infamous that four years ago, at Bahama Breeze, I asked the server, a political science senior, which professors I should look for. “Definitely don’t take him.”

But I did, and being treated like a law student by an attorney, the experience of getting cold-called and answering each time, was one of the best things that happened to me.

Even with that, though, political science was something of a faceless major because the courses were so spread out between concentrations – American politics, international relations, political theory – that you shared maybe two courses with someone before never seeing them again.

It was a hot afternoon when I went to the contemporary democratic theory course for the second time. I rushed back from a late lunch with Jen, there was a great deal at an ichiban place with maybe twenty pieces of shrimp tempura sushi. We also had sake, so I got to class a bit buzzed.

The greatest fault of that course was that it took two weeks to get through introductions. The professor insisted on them, getting to know one another. It was thoughtful but you could tell who liked hearing their own voice and there was one guy who insisted on talking about his AP courses. It could make your blood boil. Luckily, I sat in the back with a few people who had a good sense of humor, and they became friends I would keep in contact with after graduation.

That gave a semblance of balance between friends and academics, so I didn’t go partying as much with dorm acquaintances I made. Ann was still working on getting to London then, and everything felt up in the air, but love can very much be a matter of hope.

@midumatsu tyrant oso au! A gift for her that she asked to make public! So here you go my dear~


The ceremony was grand. Every inch of the room decked out in red.

“How does it feel to finally be king brother?” Karamatsu clapped his brother on the shoulder. They were looking in a full body mirror. 2 same faces. For some reason, Osomatsu wasn’t smiling as wide as Karamatsu thought he would be.

“Osomatsu, are you still thinking of our father? It was a tragic accident… But it’s your day today!”

Osomatsu closed his eyes, then smiled at Karamatsu.
“No, it’s just that I won’t get to goof off with you anymore. Thats such a shame.”

“Hmph! With great power comes great responsibility my brother!!” Karamatsu smiled while holding a dazzling pose.

“Never change, Karamatsu.”

“Hm~ the ceremony is about to begin brother!” He held the door open for his king. “My lord” he bowed low.

“Don’t be so dramatic Karamatsu. I’m only becoming king. I’ll just be taller than you now” Osomatsu teased.

“Crowns don’t count as height!” Karamatsu said while taking off after Osomatsu.

The crowd cheered as their new kind emerged from the doors. They put a crown on his head but all Osomatsu could feel was dead weight. All he could hear was white noise. All he could see before him, were grey, faceless people.

Evil. They were all evil. They all wanted to get him and…

Karamatsu was smiling right at him. Blazing colour in his monochrome world. He wanted to protect that innocence. That smile that made his heart race. That laughter that gave him life.

He wouldn’t let that colour be washed out. No matter what.

Never change, Karamatsu.

boy king.
the word drips with scorn 
whispered from their pale, bloodless lips
they all hiss, specters clawing at his midnight curls and 
scratching at the constellations in his cheeks,
look at what you have done to us.

boy king, 
you have failed at playing king you have failed at
being an adult you have failed your people you have
failed because you pretended to be someone you
are not and caused everyone
oh so much pain in the process.

boy king,
do you not see the red spilling
from your mouth as you command your troops
do you not see the crumbling ruins and
faceless skeletons that were once people
you leave in your wake?

boy king, 
there have been others like you before
in the history of mankind,
other boy kings who were given a mighty power
too young and it left them gasping 
reeling with the shock of it all the burden settled heavily 
it nearly crushed their mortal shoulders –
they are not atlas,
and neither are you.

tell me, boy king -
you out of all of people should know what
boy kings are only good at one thing:
dying young.

—  RINSE, WASH, REPEAT || k.t.
An Open Letter

This is an open letter to both the Stand with Ward/Ward Warriors/Grantstanders as well as their opposition.  This letter isn’t meant to settle any debate, let alone start one, it’s an effort to describe why it is that I “stand with Ward”

First, a little background.  I’m 33, married, and have two beautiful children.  I know a lot of people feel people stand with Ward due to the attractiveness of Brett Dalton, the actor who portrays Ward on TV, and yes, I’m confident enough in my sexuality to say he’s an attractive man, but that’s not the reason I’m able to identify with and like the character.  And yes, I’m able to separate the actor from the character.

I stand with Ward because I do identify with the character.  I grew up in a similar situation that included physical, mental, and sexual abuse.  I don’t know how many people in either camp have dealt with abuse, but it totally colors the way you see the world and how you interact with it. Decades separated from my abuse, it still affects what I do, how I interact with people, and how I deal with my emotions.  The most important thing to keep in mind is that it severely limits your ability to form connections to people.  At least in my case it did.

I’ve struggled my whole life to just simply connect to other humans.  This isn’t to say I can’t and I haven’t, it just seems incredibly difficult for me.  At times, I’ve been in wholly unhealthy relationships because I had convinced myself that I had finally connected to someone.  I said and did things that were not me, trying to please someone else, worried that they would leave if I didn’t do and say what I thought they wanted, and then I’d find myself alone again.  I see that in the Ward character.  After being abused and neglected for years at the hands of his family, he finally found someone he connected to, Garrett.  He was desperate to not lose that connection, so did anything he could to please him.  People who have not been abused can’t understand the depths of loneliness abused people go through.  Being abused by family makes it even more difficult to connect with and open up to people.  If the group of people that are supposed to love, accept, and care for you are the one’s abusing you, how do you ever open yourself up to a stranger?  I got lucky and found friends who accepted me for me and I’ve been able to recover some.  I’m never going to be completely healthy, but I’m better.  In Ward’s case, the person he connected to turned out to be an abuser as well.  Someone who just wanted to exploit and use Ward for his skills.  An asset.  To Garrett, Ward was like a fast car or accurate gun.  A tool to be used in certain situations.  But that’s not how Ward saw Garrett.  Garrett was a lifeline.  Someone to pull Grant out of the darkness and to give him a life of his own  He was too close to the previous abuse to realize he was being abused again.  

And then he was planted on Coulson’s team.  At first he was there, just doing his job.  Trying to make Garrett, the one that had rescued him, happy.  But he started forming connections with the team.  He got to know them, and little by little, he let them in as well.  He formed connections, which is the hardest thing for him to do.  Something that, according to him, is a weakness.  That’s why he couldn’t kill buddy, (according to Brett Dalton, he doesn’t think Ward killed Buddy), that why he didn’t kill Fitz and Simmons, that’s why he says he doesn’t regret the things he did and the people he hurt, he regrets disrupting the team.  He was the one that sabotaged his own connections, and felt that pain more acutely than any others.  But he did it because he felt he owed Garrett for rescuing him.

Once Garret took the GH 325 and began losing his mind, Ward got scared.  He had relied on this person to lead him, to give him orders, as he stated, because he had never been able to do that by himself before.  He had been molded to do what he had been told since he was old enough to understand words.   He wasn’t sci-fi TV brainwashed, but he was brainwashed by the years of torment he had endured.  Ask a battered wife why she doesn’t leave.  She just can’t.  She’s not her own person and can’t make it on her own without a solid support group.  It’s similar here.  Ward had no idea what to do after he was freed from Garrett.  He had no direction.  

After Garrett’s death, Ward realized what had happened.  He was taken by Coulson’s team and kept locked in solitary confinement for months.  He then attempted suicide on multiple occasions.  It’s understandable.  He was betrayed by every person he had been connected to.  His family, Garrett, Coulson’s team.  Granted, he did do bad things, but no one ever tried to help him.  As soon as his abuser (Garrett) was killed, he was immediately captured and tortured by S.H.I.E.L.D.  His entire life has been one abuse after another.  And as soon as S.H.I.E.L.D found someone that was of more use, they immediately hand Ward over to a previous abuser.  Is there any wonder at all why Ward lashed out?  He had been abused, neglected, and tormented his entire life. He watched every single person that had done evil things get their shot to be redeemed by Coulson (Mike Peterson being a prime example) but instead of trying to help Ward, Coulson turned Ward over to someone Ward had escaped from.   So Ward started living his own life.  Even still, he tried helping the team; turning Bakshi over, trying to reunite sky with her father, etc…  these were not things that benefited him, he was trying to make amends in the only way he knew how.  Even after being betrayed (yes, he betrayed them first, but only because of Garrett’s influence) he was trying to make it up to Coulson and his team.  And he did everything he could.  He never lied to them, he did everything in his power to keep his promises.  he did take Skye to her father, did not let the Hydra jets shoot down the bus after Whitehall had ordered just that.  He was still protecting the team.  

And then came Kara (agent 33).  He saw in her what he saw in himself.  Someone damaged, someone that needed direction, someone who had been taken outside of themselves and molded to be someone else’s tool.  He formed another connection.  What he did then was for her benefit, not for his.  He tried to help her overcome her past.  Yes, it was in a twisted way, but the motives were pure.  And how can we judge his methods?  He has no idea what healthy relationships look like. EVERY person he has cared about has tried to kill him up until this point.  So he does what he can, what he thinks is best, to help someone that he sees himself in.   Even Brett Dalton himself admits that Ward’s motives were to help Kara   Ward wasn’t using her or manipulating her.  Ward was trying to help her.  His entire life was dedicated to helping others.  The only times he was selfish is when he disobeyed orders and let his friends live.   Not killing buddy, not killing FitzSimmons, not letting Whitehall blow up the bus.  Every other time was him trying to make other people happy.

So let’s look at Ward’s body count then.  The only people he’s killed that haven’t been bad guys were Koenig, who was about to expose him, Hand, who everyone hated and thought was Hydra until the episode she died in, and Kara.  Everyone else was either evil, or a nameless/faceless S.H.I.E.L.D agent.  The only two here that are truly regrettable are Koenig, but he was still under the thrall of Garrett, and Kara.  I don’t understand Kara’s death, even still.  Ward trying to kill May didn’t make any sense to me.  He had actively gone out of his way to protect team members before so this seemed way out of character.  The trap was set I don’t know why they didn’t just leave.  

All this being said, I’m glad Ward wasn’t redeemed at the end of season 2. He would have been lost in the shuffle just rejoining the team.   Accepting Tahiti would have undermined who he is as well.  Saying that the only way to get over your past is to erase it is both dismissive and insulting to anyone who has a past. I love the potential of this story arc.  For the first time in his life, Ward is doing something for himself.  Taking over Hydra may be the healthiest thing he’s ever done. He’s finally in control of his own destiny.  He finally has a chance to find himself and come to terms with who he is and what he’s done.  It’s a fine line to walk.  I hope they take their time and develop this fully.  I hope he isn’t turned into the cliche mustache twirling baddy. I want him to be ambiguous.  Dark gray at first.  Trying to process his pain and gradually discovering who he is.  Eventually that gray lightens and he becomes an anti-hero or something of that like.  

I’m not saying Ward is a good person or his misdeeds need to be ignored.   I’m saying that he’s never truly been allowed to be his own person.   Grant Ward himself doesn’t know who or what he is because he’s been manipulated for as long as he can remember.  Redemption isn’t just given.  It has to be earned.  I hope the writers at Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D give Ward that chance.

I Stand With Ward because I can empathize with this character and what he’s gone through. I believe there is good in him and want Ward to find that good in himself

“Child,” he said, “come sit with me. I have a tale to tell you.”
“What kind of tale?” she asked, wary.
“The tale of our beginnings. If you would be one of us, you had best know who we are and how we came to be. Men may whisper of the Faceless Men of Braavos, but we are older than the Secret City. Before the Titan rose, before the Unmasking of Uthero, before the Founding, we were. We have flowered in Braavos amongst these northern fogs, but we first took root in Valyria, amongst the wretched slaves who toiled in the deep mines beneath the Fourteen Flames that lit the Freehold’s nights of old. Most mines are dank and chilly places, cut from cold dead stone, but the Fourteen Flames were living mountains with veins of molten rock and hearts of fire. So the mines of old Valyria were always hot, and they grew hotter as the shafts were driven deeper, ever deeper. The slaves toiled in an oven. The rocks around them were too hot to touch. The air stank of brimstone and would sear their lungs as they breathed it. The soles of their feet would burn and blister, even through the thickest sandals. Sometimes, when they broke through a wall in search of gold, they would find steam instead, or boiling water, or molten rock. Certain shafts were cut so low that the slaves could not stand upright, but had to crawl or bend. And there were wyrms in that red darkness too.”
“Earthworms?” she asked, frowning.
“Firewyrms. Some say they are akin to dragons, for wyrms breathe fire too. Instead of soaring through the sky, they bore through stone and soil. If the old tales can be believed, there were wyrms amongst the Fourteen Flames even before the dragons came. The young ones are no larger than that skinny arm of yours, but they can grow to monstrous size and have no love for men.”
“Did they kill the slaves?”
“Burnt and blackened corpses were oft found in shafts where the rocks were cracked or full of holes. Yet still the mines drove deeper. Slaves perished by the score, but their masters did not care. Red gold and yellow gold and silver were reckoned to be more precious than the lives of slaves, for slaves were cheap in the old Freehold. During war, the Valyrians took them by the thousands. In times of peace they bred them, though only the worst were sent down to die in the red darkness.”
“Didn’t the slaves rise up and fight?”
“Some did,” he said. “Revolts were common in the mines, but few accomplished much. The dragonlords of the old Freehold were strong in sorcery, and lesser men defied them at their peril. The first Faceless Man was one who did.”
“Who was he?” Arya blurted, before she stopped to think.
“No one,” he answered. “Some say he was a slave himself. Others insist he was a freeholder’s son, born of noble stock. Some will even tell you he was an overseer who took pity on his charges. The truth is, no one knows. Whoever he was, he moved amongst the slaves and would hear them at their prayers. Men of a hundred different nations labored in the mines, and each prayed to his own god in his own tongue, yet all were praying for the same thing. It was release they asked for, an end to pain. A small thing, and simple. Yet their gods made no answer, and their suffering went on. Are their gods all deaf? he wondered… until a realization came upon him, one night in the red darkness.
“All gods have their instruments, men and women who serve them and help to work their will on earth. The slaves were not crying out to a hundred different gods, as it seemed, but to one god with a hundred different faces… and he was that god’s instrument. That very night he chose the most wretched of the slaves, the one who had prayed most earnestly for release, and freed him from his bondage. The first gift had been given.”
Arya drew back from him. “He killed the slave?” That did not sound right. “He should have killed the masters!”
 “He would bring the gift to them as well… but that is a tale for another day, one best shared with no one.” He cocked his head. “And who are you, child?”
“No one.”
“A lie.”

There are a few things that pop out to me about this passage:

Arya’s concern for the slaves appears multiple times:

“Did they kill the slaves?”

“Didn’t the slaves rise up and fight?”

“He killed the slave?” That did not sound right. “He should have killed the masters!”

Now, obviously the Kindly Man is framing this story about slaves, so her asking after them is hardly surprising, but it’s also important to note that Arya has always cared about those society has left behind, beginning with Jon, then Mycah, then Gendry, Hot Pie, Lommy Greenhands, and Weasel.  (This is something that later reappears when she “becomes” Cat of the Canals.)  I think this is in no small part because she’s often felt pushed out of traditional society since she never found that it allowed space for her.  But I also think there’s an element of identifying with the slaves here: for the majority of her time in A Clash of Kings, Arya was a slave.  She is never called so explicitly, but being abducted and forced (violently, and through fear of pain and death) to serve and without any compensation is slavery.  Regardless of that fact, their pain is an important part of this story, and Arya feels that acutely.

Furthermore, when she asks “Didn’t the slaves rise up and fight?” she’s given the answer that she wants: 

“Some did,” he said. “Revolts were common in the mines, but few accomplished much. The dragonlords of the old Freehold were strong in sorcery, and lesser men defied them at their peril. The first Faceless Man was one who did.”

And of course, she’s excited about this.  It’s what she wants to hear, and he’s framing this story so that she will have the answer she wants, a champion of the people who will come and lead them to freedom. (Remember the girl who idolized Nymeria when she was young, a warrior queen who brought her people away from danger–the danger of these same dragon lords.)

And this first Faceless Man is everything that Arya wants him to be.

“Who was he?” Arya blurted, before she stopped to think.
“No one,” he answered. “Some say he was a slave himself. Others insist he was a freeholder’s son, born of noble stock. 

Interesting that these are both points that Arya can identify with–someone who has been forced into slavery and someone who was “born of noble stock.”  (Though I think the “noble stock” would obvi trump the former in Arya’s case.)  Nonetheless, she sees herself in this champion, which is part of her excitement at his existence, excitement which might then flow over into this organization that was of his making.

Some will even tell you he was an overseer who took pity on his charges. The truth is, no one knows. Whoever he was, he moved amongst the slaves and would hear them at their prayers. 

Again–Arya as someone who, as Sansa said in A Game of Thrones “would make friends with anybody” (Mycah, Gendry, Hot Pie, Lommy, Weasel, Denyo, and later on the commons of Braavos) is going to identify with this.  Arya’s brand of friendship consists very much of empathizing with the struggles of her friends when she learns of them.

Men of a hundred different nations labored in the mines, and each prayed to his own god in his own tongue, yet all were praying for the same thing. It was release they asked for, an end to pain. A small thing, and simple. Yet their gods made no answer, and their suffering went on. 

And, of course, Arya has her own disappointed experience with the Gods not hearing her prayers–another point of identity (or perhaps me just doing my wild-extrapolation thing):

Her hand slid beneath her cloak and found Needle in its sheath.  She tightened her fingers around the grip, squeezing as hard as she had ever squeezed anything.  Please, gods, keep him safe, she prayed.  Don’t let them hurt my father. (A Game of Thrones)

Was that enough?  Maybe she should pray aloud if she wanted the old gods to hear.  Maybe she should pray longer.  Sometimes her father had prayed a long time, she remembered.  But the old gods had never helped him.  Remembering that made her angry.  “You should have saved him,” she scolded the tree. “He prayed to you all the time.  I don’t care if you help me or not.  I don’t think you could even if you wanted to.” (A Clash of Kings)

In any event, you have Arya all jazzed up and excited and then there’s the twist: 

Arya drew back from him. “He killed the slave?” That did not sound right. 

Of course it didn’t–this is Ned Stark’s Little Girl, who even when trying to cope with her own abuse and trauma instills a sense of justice for wrongs done (to her and just as often to others) in her kill list.  The fact of someone turning on the powerless and killing them, rather than saving them, goes against everything that Arya believes to be true–that sense of righteousness that she learned at her father’s table and which she has not shed in her heart of hearts because even as the world falls apart around her, she still has a sense of how goodness is supposed to be.  And someone hearing prayers that ask for “release” and interpreting that release as “death” is not how Arya sees the end of this story going.

“He should have killed the masters!”

(See what I mean?)

“He would bring the gift to them as well… but that is a tale for another day, one best shared with no one.”
He cocked his head. “And who are you, child?”
“No one.”
“A lie.”

Both a secret for the depths of the order and one that undoubtedly would mean death to the one who spread it.  And as much as Arya wants to know that story, so long as she casts moral judgement on the choice of this first Faceless Men, applying her own code of justice to his actions, she isn’t going to hear it.  Arya’s ideals, her code of justice do not and will not ever line up with that of the faceless men.