#THEY GOT EVEN MORE TRAUMA SOMEHOW TOO

[thethiefandtheairbender]

once again i am telling jesslake infinity train fans to watch the dragon prince on netflix it's just them in a different flavour i swear

feat best quotes ever of

He's my friend. My best friend.

Rayla is kind and good. She's fearless, fast, strong...

I hope you know—I know.

Hey sad prince.

You've got to stay with me!

I would do anything for you.

It doesn't matter what you did before. I just want you to be okay again.

It means I trust her. Unconditionally.

Say the word and I'll go back into that tower with you.

[magentagalaxies]

.

[orcelito]

like ok

> has very definite Trauma Things from various times in life > has difficulty remembering some of them for Various Reasons, while others are. way way way too vivid. > has continuous difficulty sleeping, including a variety of reoccurring disturbing dreams coupled with a general apathy about them (refusal to call most of them nightmares bc most of them im not actually scared in, which kinda rly says smth about me mentally, i think) > general avoidance of Trauma Things > general negative reactions when Trauma Things r brought up

uhmmmm yea ok

[horce-divorce]

It's wild watching someone who used to be self aware (or at least, who didn't want to be like their parents) become entitled to things like avoidance. And children. Often simultaneously

[inhonoredglory]

Aziraphale’s Choice, the Job Connection, and Michael Sheen’s Morality

Update: Michael Sheen liked this post on Twitter, so I'm fairly certain there is a lot of validity to it.

I’ve had time to process Aziraphale’s choice at the end of Season 2. And I think only blaming the religious trauma misses something important in Aziraphale’s character. I think what happened was also Aziraphale’s own conscious choice––as a growth from his trauma, in fact. Hear me out.

Since November 2022 I’ve been haunted by something Michael Sheen said at the MCM London Comic Con. At the Q&A, someone asked him about which fantasy creature he enjoyed playing most and Michael (bless him, truly) veered on a tangent about angels and goodness and how, specifically,

We as a society tend to sort of undervalue goodness. It’s sort of seen as sort of somehow weak and a bit nimby and “oh it’s nice.” And I think to be good takes enormous reserves of courage and stamina. I mean, you have to look the dark in the face to be truly good and to be truly of the light…. The idea that goodness is somehow lesser and less interesting and not as kind of muscular and as passionate and as fierce as evil somehow and darkness, I think is nonsense. The idea of being able to portray an angel, a being of love. I love seeing the things people have put online about angels being ferocious creatures, and I love that. I think that’s a really good representation of what goodness can be, what it should be, I suppose.

I was looking forward to BAMF!Aziraphale all season long, and I think that’s what we got in the end. Remember Neil said that the Job minisode was important for Aziraphale’s story. Remember how Aziraphale sat on that rock and reconciled to himself that he MUST go to Hell, because he lied and thwarted the will of God. He believed that––truly, honestly, with the faith of a child, but the bravery of a soldier.

Aziraphale, a being of love with more goodness than all of Heaven combined, believed he needed to walk through the Gates of Hell because it was the Right Thing to do. (Like Job, he didn’t understand his sin but believed he needed to sacrifice his happiness to do the Right Thing.)

That’s why we saw Aziraphale as a soldier this season: the bookshop battle, the halo. But yes, the ending as well.

Because Aziraphale never wanted to go to Heaven, and he never wanted to go there without Crowley.

But it was Crowley who taught him that he could, even SHOULD, act when his moral heart told him something was wrong. While Crowley was willing to run away and let the world burn, it was Aziraphale (in that bandstand at the end of the world) who stood his ground and said No. We can make a difference. We can save everyone.

And Aziraphale knew he could not give up the ace up his sleeve (his position as an angel) to talk to God and make them see the truth in his heart.

I was messed up by Ineffable Bureaucracy (Boxfly) getting their happy ending when our Ineffable Husbands didn’t, but I see now that them running away served to prove something to Aziraphale. (And I am fully convinced that Gabriel and Beelzebub saw the example of the Ineffables at the Not-pocalypse and took inspiration from them for choosing to ditch their respective sides)

But my point is that Aziraphale saw them, and in some ways, they looked like him and Crowley. And he saw how Gabriel, the biggest bully in Heaven, was also like him in a way (a being capable of love) and also just a child when he wasn’t influenced by the poison of Heaven. Muriel, too, wasn’t a bad person. The Metatron also seemed to have grown more flexible with his morality (from Aziraphale's perspective). Like Earth, Heaven was shades of (light?) gray.

Aziraphale is too good an angel not to believe in hope. Or forgiveness (something he’s very good at it).

Aziraphale has been scarred by Heaven all his life. But with the cracks in Heaven’s armor (cracks he and Crowley helped create), Aziraphale is seeing something else. A chance to change them. They did terrible things to him, but he is better than them, and because of Crowley, he feels ready to face them.

(Will it work? Can Heaven change, institutionally? Probably not, but I can't blame Aziraphale for trying.)

At the cafe, the Metatron said something big was coming in the Great Plan. Aziraphale knows how trapped he had felt when he didn’t have God’s ear the first time something huge happened in the Big Plan. He can’t take a chance again to risk the world by not having a foot in the door of Heaven. That’s why we saw individual human deaths (or the threat of death) so much more this season: Elspeth, Wee Morag, Job’s children, the 1940s magician. Aziraphale almost killed a child when he couldn’t get through to God, and he’s not going through that again.

“We could make a difference.” We could save everyone.

Remember what Michael Sheen said about courage and doing good––and having to “look the dark in the face to be truly good.” That’s what happened when Aziraphale was willing to go to Hell for his actions. That’s what happened when he decided he had to go to Heaven, where he had been abused and belittled and made to feel small. He decided to willingly go into the Lion’s Den, to face his abusers and his anxiety, to make them better so that they would not try to destroy the world again.

Him, just one angel. He needed Crowley to be there with him, to help him be brave, to ask the questions that Heaven needed to hear, to tell them God was wrong. Crowley is the inspiration that drives Aziraphale’s change, Crowley is the engine that fuels Aziraphale’s courage.

But then Crowley tells him that going to Heaven is stupid. That they don’t need Heaven. And he’s right. Aziraphale knows he’s right.

Aziraphale doesn’t need Heaven; Heaven needs him. They just don’t know how much they need him, or how much humanity needs him there, too. (If everyone who ran for office was corrupt, how can the system change?)

Terry Pratchett (in the Discworld book, Small Gods) is scathing of God, organized religion, and the corrupt people religion empowers, but he is sympathetic to the individual who has real, pure faith and a good heart. In fact, the everyman protagonist of Small Gods is a better person than the god he serves, and in the end, he ends up changing the church to be better, more open-minded, and more humanist than god could ever do alone.

Aziraphale is willing to go to the darkest places to do the Right Thing, and Heaven is no exception. When Crowley says that Heaven is toxic, that’s exactly why Aziraphale knows he needs to go there. “You’re exactly is different from my exactly.”

____

In the aftermath of Trump's election in the US, Brexit happened in 2018. Michael Sheen felt compelled to figure out what was going on in his country after this shock. But he was living in Los Angeles with Sarah Silverman at the time, and she also wanted to become more politically active in the US.

Sheen: “I felt a responsibility to do something, but it [meant] coming back [to Britain] – which was difficult for us, because we were very important to each other. But we both acknowledge that each of us had to do what we needed to do.” In the end, they split up and Michael moved back to the UK.

Sometimes doing the Right Thing means sacrificing your own happiness. Sometimes it means going to Hell. Sometimes it means going to Heaven. Sometimes it means losing a relationship.

And that’s why what happened in the end was so difficult for Aziraphale. Because he loves Crowley desperately. He wants to be together. He wanted that kiss for thousands of years. He knows that taking command of Heaven means they would never again have to bow to the demands of a God they couldn’t understand, or run from a Hell who still came after them. They could change the rules of the game.

And he’s still going to do that. But it hurts him that he has to do that alone.

[welsknightenjoyer]

Cant wait for wc!scott to get hit by the realisation that in the time between milo's death and now, he has changed so much that he will no longer be the person milo remembers

[mrfoox]

'huh... You have abandonment issues? I thought that was usually something you got from childhood trauma. Were you abandoned as a child?'

Me, trying not to cry: haha, not in the usual sense?

[clockwayswrites]

Birdritch... something. I hurt so much. It's some number. You'll figure it out. You're smart, darlings.

masterpost over on @clockwaysadmin

Danny stayed at the back, trailing after the rambunctious flock of Waynes as they made their way behind the stage and to the other, hidden side of the theater. It made Danny smile, to see the family bumping shoulders, teasing, and laughing with each other.

His life in Gotham was something that Danny loved. He’d clawed it out from the proverbial grave of his death and everything that came with it: nearly failing high school, his failing health after, the trauma it left him with, the relationship with his parents he left behind. But he’d gotten to the surface. He got his Bachelors and Masters and PHD. He got a job that he traded for another and another until he rose up to where he worked at an amazing company and got mostly left alone to dream up new ways to make the world better.

Danny loved it.

But that didn’t mean that Danny didn’t miss the close friendships that (metaphorically and physically), Danny had moved away from to achieve what he had. Visiting Jazz and Taylor, Sam and her brood, or Tucker and his partners wasn’t the same as living with them close. He missed what the Waynes had with an ache so deep that he had to push it aside so that it didn’t swallow him whole.

“Cass!”

Tim calling his sister’s name shook Danny out of his rumination. He found a little out of the way spot of wall to lean against between some boxes and rolls of scenery.

“You were amazing, darling,” Bruce said as he leaned in to kiss Cass’ cheek.

Bruce handed over the bouquet of white roses and babies-breath that he had brought from where it had been stored in the sitting room. Cass basically buried her face in the flowers and inhaled.

“For real, little sis, your moves were amazing. You have to show me how you hold some of those poses so still,” Dick said.

“As if you could stay still,” Barbara teased with a well placed poke to Dick’s side that made him squeak and move defensively behind Cass.

“Pretty sure she beats you in flexibility now too, dickhead,” Jason said.

“It is okay, love you still,” Cass said in her soft tone. She pulled out one of the roses from the mass of flowers and tucked it behind Dick’s ear.

Dick looked momentarily torn if he should be insulted or fond, though fond quickly won out and he pressed a little kiss to the top of Cass’ head. It seemed to be a signal, somehow, and suddenly all of the family was talking to Cass or to each other. The fatigue was starting to pull too heavily on Danny for him to make out most of the chatter, so he simply closed his eyes and let the happy voices wash over him.

There was a gentle pressure on his arm. Danny blinked his eyes open to a worried Cass, dark brows furrowed above the dramatic white and glitter of her stage make up. Danny smiled, though he knew it probably looked a little drawn.

“Hello, Cass,” Danny signed.

The furrow between the bows only grew as she signed. “You okay?”

“Okay. Tired,” Danny replied before he gave up to talking verbally. The sleep clouded his mind about signs right then. He really would have to practice. “I’m just a little out of sorts, but I’m very glad I came. Thank you for inviting me. You danced absolutely wonderfully. I don’t know much about ballet, but even I could see how skilled you are.”

“Thank you. I am glad you came. Could have not,” she said.

“Of course I had to come, you invited me and it’s an important night for you. It should be!” Danny made himself stand up away from the wall and put a bit more energy into his smile. “I’m fine, really, fatigue just gets me sometimes.”

Cass turned his frown away from Danny and directed it at her father.

“I already talked Danny into letting us give him a ride home,” Bruce replied.

“I really would be fine,” Danny couldn’t help but argue. “I’ve made it home in worse states than this.”

“Oddly enough,” Jason interjected, “you really aren’t helping your case.”

Danny couldn’t do anything else but give an unrepentant little shrug to that. He probably wasn’t, but it was true. Besides, he had already agreed to the ride, not that he felt he had much choice. It was too easy to be swept along by the Waynes.

Barbara may be right that they did absorb people.

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 5 - Meet The Adams Family

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

The first thing you’d done when you woke up, still somehow in the Wayne manor, was pull out not-your phone and check the date. When it tells you that you are not, in fact, in some weird version of a time loop, you feel some measure of relief. The second thing you do is look your own damn name up on Google. There were over 3 million results. You have a Wikipedia page. If that hadn’t made you want to gag, the press from last night had you bumbling your way into the ensuite bathroom and puking into the toilet.

It’s still sitting on the bathroom floor, nauseous and achy and sweaty, your mouth washed out but still tasting foul, that you continue your research.

It’s just as you had suspected, your family was dead. Still dead. Well, shit. In the light of day, you supposed that made more sense. That there was no real reason to assume otherwise. You hadn’t for most of yesterday, but as soon as you’d thought that maybe there was a chance, your hopes had been dashed. Which was good, rip the bandaid off and all.

It was good. Things were good. They were fine, you were fine. You really wish you were a better liar.

Again you wash your mouth out. Root around the cabinets for some medical-grade mouthwash, do it again, and then you throw yourself into the shower. Again. You notice the soap smells like whoever’s clothes you stole. Refreshing and awakening, that mint and earth again. You think you can detect something floral in it too. It’s still masculine, but…

Wow, you are such a freak! You put down the fucking soap and manage to resist the urge to slam your head into the tiles. Your headache was bad enough already.

When you leave the bathroom, you glance at the door, and then down at your towel. Guess you’re stealing some more apparel. You find a Superman shirt, give it a judging glance, and then pick out a black T-shirt with ‘The Beatles’ across the front, and some sweatpants. You have to roll up the pant legs so you don’t trip and fall flat on your face.

One hand scrolling through Twitter and TikTok and Reddit and every single piece of social media you could find, getting the people’s source of news and you get the high overlords’ one when you turn on the huge TV attached to the wall. The remote kind of confuses you at first, but you manage to find the good ol’ Gotham news channel.

Immediately, you’re greeted by your miserable mascara-streaked face. You turn the TV off. You take a deep breath. Turn it back on. Luckily it’s not just you getting your private moment of trauma blasted open in the media. Your party had been filled with Gotham’s elite, after all. You weren’t the only rich idiot left crying by the side of the road.

You weren’t the only one who had to suffer. There had been twenty-eight casualties, in total. A small amount, considering the man behind the deaths. The Joker wasn’t known for his cleanliness. You tell yourself that, and yet still, you can’t make them just numbers. They’d been standing right next to you, after all. All in the same boat, all waiting for the axe to swing, secretly hoping you’re the one who lives to the next day. Only one of the party guests had been shot, and that’s because you think they’d personally pissed off the Joker. That’s what Twitter says, anyway. There were multiple video recordings of the altercation, and it didn’t look like he’d been the smartest banana in the bunch. The TV is a lot sweeter on the dead soul.

You feel sorry for all the dead. You still don’t think this rich heir should be the face you see, though. When you check his name, you find several forgotten assault cases. Assault, rape, just like that disappearing bastard had tried to do to you. That female janitor you’d seen shot had done more for this city than that guy ever had.

Did her family know? Did she have a family? Someone to mourn her? You’d never thought about that before. How many people out there wouldn’t have anyone to even remember them?

It’s none of your business, in the end.

After a whiles more research, you switch the TV off and tuck your cracked phone into the sweatpants. You know where your mother’s grave is, on the west side of the estate. Wikipedia knew all, which was now kind of creepy to you as it knew all about you as well. Really, you couldn’t believe it. Your mother, buried with the Waynes? You’d always thought she should find someone new, someone who’d appreciate her, unlike your father who had dipped as soon as Sam was born.

You couldn’t even remember the guy. Still, you remembered that he’d smelled bad and made your Mum do everything, and was just generally all around the worst choice for a husband.

But, Jesus Christ, Bruce Wayne? Absolute insanity. You had no idea how the two of them would’ve even met. Let alone fall in love and get married. Your mother was one of the loveliest women on earth but… they had absolutely nothing in common, other than having troublesome kids. And you hadn’t seen her getting lovey-dovey with the other PTA mums.

You walk out of the room you’ve borrowed and into the hallway. In the light of day, the Wayne manor is much less creepy, and you can find it in yourself to appreciate the antique space. Warm sunlight falls over dark oak furniture, illuminating your bare feet as you walk along the Persian rug. Your fingers trail along all the tiny little decorations, some annoying part of you demanding you leave traces of yourself behind. Your fingerprints dirty an old clock, a golden candelabra, a lamp and a tiny spinning globe.

You might’ve gotten lost in a place this huge if you couldn’t hear people’s voices floating down the halls. They were too far away for you to be able to tell what they were saying, but you could still hear them. They’re to the west, so you’re definitely going to have to go past them.

You follow the voices and eventually come to a stop in a hallway. You can smell food. Good, real food. The type that makes your instant-ramen-powered body salivate. The people are in the kitchen, right around the corner. You duck your head and quickly sneak past the mostly closed doorway. On the other side, you pause, your curious self unable to leave just yet.

“She needs help,” Bruce says, and you mentally curse. Balls. You didn’t want to hear this. You guess this was instant karma for snooping. Maybe they weren’t talking about you?

Why did that sound very unlikely…

“She went through a lot last night,” he continues, which, well, yes, you did go through a lot, “And he said that she saw a woman get shot right in front of her. It makes sense if she doesn’t want to talk yet.”

He? Who’s he? Who ratted you out? Wait, dumb question, the four other witnesses who saw the janitor get shot. You were still pretty sure the Waynes weren’t supposed to know that, but everybody knew those GCPD pigs were always just a dollar away from whatever you wanted them to do. It’s not surprising that the Waynes know details only the police should know at the moment.

…It is a bit disappointing, though. You chose to have hope in them, that they’d gotten that information legally. Your fatal obsession with the Waynes wasn’t going to disappear after one miserable party. You wished it would.

“She was acting strange before that,” Timothy Jackson Drake’s smooth voice drifts from the kitchen. You were still a little starry-eyed over him, which was… bad, you think. It’d definitely make whatever relationship the two of you had been forced into a whole lot more difficult. It did not need to be any more difficult.

“Are you accusing her of something?” Bruce Thomas Wayne’s voice is gravelly in comparison, angry, maybe. Also, ‘accusing’? What could he even be accusing you of? It was pretty obvious you weren’t capable of anything nefarious, you were far too stupid for that. You were a plastic bag drifting along the Gotham river, barely able to affect which direction you flowed in.

“God no. And I definitely wouldn’t do it with her listening, that’d be rude.”

Your breath hitches, and you push off from the wall. Busted, damn. Your face feels unbelievably hot. As you leave, you can hear Mr Wayne scolding his adopted son. You walk until you can’t hear their voices anymore, and then a little further, finding an exit door.

You stumble out onto a stone staircase, probably a servants’ one in the olden days. You move down it, hand gripping the railing. You’re barely conscious of where you’re going. There’s a path that leads away from the stone manor and further into the estate, and you follow it. When you spot a small gated area, with stone obelisks and angel statues, you veer off the path and onto the grass.

Hissing out a breath, it’s only now you realise you went outside without any shoes on. Your toes curl in the cold, wet grass. It’s a miserable feeling, and you want to walk right back inside. And then you think about the awkward conversation waiting for you, take a breath and keep going. The gates swing open easily under your hand, the golden embossed ‘W’ glinting in the light.

A guardian angel stands before you. Its stone face is disapproving, glaring down at you from above. ‘Interloper,’ it calls you, but you move past it without pausing. It’s pretty obvious which graves are the new ones and which are the old ones. They’re all clean and well-kept, but the ones to the left have dates going back hundreds of years, and the ones to the right only decades. Your eyes follow the rows of graves. Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne…

Your breath whistles out of you, nearly muffled by the grey morning wind.

And your mother. She has a different last name, now another Wayne. Your siblings don’t, which makes sense. You’re surprised to find many of your extended family also in this graveyard. Your grandmother. Your uncle and aunt. A few of your cousins.

It’s cold this morning, and you’re out here with only a thin T-shirt on. Shivering, you rub your palms against your bare arms. It doesn’t do much. Still, you don’t want to go inside yet. Instead, you crouch in front of Sam’s grave, eyes reading the tiny epitaph. It’s not the one you wrote.

‘Beloved Son and Brother.’

Simple, clean-cut, formal… unfamiliar, you suppose. Yours had been much more flowery, ‘All the colour in the world is gone without you’. It was a bit silly, but you’d never said you were a poet. You’d just known you’d wanted something that represented them, if poorly.

Sam was a beloved son and brother. But that wasn’t who he chose to be. He liked colours. He’d change his favourite every other day, so he liked everything rainbow. It made it easier to choose which one he’d like next, he said. You were always buying him more and more coloured pencils because he’d wear them all down to the tips, he dyed the cat a bright red headache, much to your mother’s horror, and considered it his personal job to make every single birthday, christmas, and easter card. He’d paint on the walls in washable markers, and you’d often been the one to volunteer to help him get it all down. In school, he always had the best art project out of the entire class, even if you were slightly biased.

He was a colourful kid. He wasn’t… a plain grey tombstone. Nothing to help remember him, because you were always losing more and more of their precious memories.

The others had similarly impersonal graves. Just what they were, not who. Mother, sister. Nothing that spoke of how they’d lived their lives, what the world had lost when they’d died. It was… you didn’t think it was right. It was a disaster, really. Even when you’d had to rely on the Wanye Foundation donations, you’d managed a better resting place than this.

You suppose you’d never gotten them into the Wayne family’s personal graveyard, though. That was a bit of an upgrade, you guess.

“You need to come back inside. You’re worrying my father.”

“Jesus Christ!” you shriek, leaping backward. Your foot catches on one of the cobblestones, and you end up tipping back farther than you mean to, your ass bruising against the ground. You bump another gravestone, and there’s a horrible moment where it gives a little and you think it’s going to knock over.

It doesn’t. A shining miracle on your day.

From your slightly wet seat on the ground, you look up, finding one such Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. His towering height is the first thing you notice, second his stunning emerald green eyes. Both were incredibly shocking in their own ways, but his height really was almost dizzying. Perfect brown skin and a stylish 'long on the top, short on the sides’ black haircut, paired with the sort of face some European model might have, all come together to make sure you feel as pathetic as possible. His posh-looking outfit doesn’t help.

Neither does the fact he just watches you. He doesn’t even pretend to bend over to help you up. Which you’re sort of grateful for, honestly. It’d just make you more embarrassed. You didn’t know if you could hold the hand of your celebrity crush and… well, be normal. Pretend to be normal. You weren’t doing a very good job of it anyway.

You have to wonder, which was the worst introduction? The drunk, the bloody, or the one where you fell on your ass? God, you really are screwing this all the way up. You wonder how you’re inevitably going to make it even worse. There’s a part of you that desperately doesn’t want to meet any of the other Waynes, even as another part of you is screaming that it needs to.

If they knew they had a fangirl in their graveyard, you’re sure they’d kick you out. That was why you were lying about everything, not because you had intimacy issues.

Stop thinking, you idiot! You’re only making things more difficult for yourself with all your worrying and fretting. And maybe you should get off the ground, you looked stupid. You push to your feet, wiping your dirtied hands on the sweats.

He still doesn’t say anything when you stand, still just staring at you. His open staring is far too intimidating, so you scrounge for something to say.

“Your father? You- Is he alright?” you stammer over your words, giving Damian Wayne an awkward smile. He doesn’t return it, instead canting his head towards one of the windows.

You look toward where Damian Wayne gestured to, find nothing but an empty window frame, and then back to the ridiculously tall man. You swear, the guy had grown like a bean pole. He had to be something ridiculous, like 6’5, or maybe more. You were fairly certain you’d been taller than him at twelve, or thirteen, whenever it was he was first introduced to the world as Damian Wayne. Now, now… not so much.

“There’s nobody in there?” you ask, like you’re questioning your sanity. You are.

“My father’s shy,” He says, coolly shrugging one shoulder.

What. Bruce Wayne? Shy? Was he joking or something?

Damian Wayne stares down at you with narrowed green eyes, and dark brows in a harsh frown. His arms are crossed over his rich kid sweater, shiny black shoes tapping against the cobbles. That’s not the face of someone who makes jokes, you think.

You swallow, mind whirring as you try desperately to fix this conversation, “Right. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back inside, then. Sorry for bothering you guys.”

He keeps staring at you. He doesn’t seem bothered.

“Sorry for bothering him?” you correct.

Damian gives one slow, cat-like blink of his eyes, and then turns with a tsk and walks away. It takes you a moment to realise you’re meant to follow him. It takes you even longer to actually catch up with him because he’s so fucking tall.

On TV he didn’t look this tall. You feel kind of betrayed, which is weird.

As you’re walking along, getting closer back to the manor, a stick or something pokes you in the foot. You curse, grabbing your foot. Thankfully you don’t start bleeding or something. You’d already be tracking dirt all over the inside of the impeccable space, you didn’t want to bring blood in as well. It takes a moment for you to realise the sound of Damian’s footsteps crunching in the grass has stopped, and you glance up.

He’s staring right at you again. He looks even less impressed with you, raising an eyebrow and mouth ticking downward. You put your foot down and tuck your hands behind your back in a very obvious anxious display.

“You went outside not wearing any shoes?” Damian Wayne asks, incredulous.

“I was… yeah, I forgot to,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Not your best moment, but you weren’t really having any of those today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe you should stop thinking about that, actually.

“That’s disgusting,” The young Wayne sneers, and then turns and gives you his shoulder.

You think your heart maybe cracks a little. Well, they do say to never meet your idols. Maybe whoever wrote that quote had you in mind specifically, because now you were in… this situation. Ex-step-sister. If that was a thing. Your Wikipedia page said that you said that a lot, very insistent that you had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes.

…It didn’t really look like you had nothing to do with the Waynes, from an outsider's perspective. Which obviously didn’t make any sense, since you were… you. You were not an outsider, not anymore.

This was too complicated. You needed a coffee. With like, so much sugar it’ll make you bounce from the walls.

Damian strides up the side entrance’s staircase and through the door, leaving it open for you to follow through. You hesitate at the doorway, looking over your shoulder to the graveyard. The statue calls you names in the distance, and although you feel like a stranger who doesn’t belong here, you manage to step back into the house.

You force yourself to walk through the hallway and into the kitchen, fists clenched tight at your side and your shoulders bunched up to your ears. Bruce Thomas Wayne, Timothy Jackson Drake, and the butler from earlier. Damian Al Ghul Wayne steps around the trio, picking some drink from the counter and moving to sit at the dining table at the edge of the room. There’s an open book on the table that he starts flicking through, and well, apparently that’s the end of your first conversation with the youngest Wayne.

You did… well, alright might be pushing it. You're still going to say you did alright.

Tim Drake gives you a sweet smile, catching your attention. The silky raven hair of his heart-shaped fringe falls over his beautiful, pale face, and for a moment there you totally forget that he’d called you out earlier like that. Which was just, such an odd thing to do. His hand lifts to scratch at the buzz cut under the floppy strands of hair. The movement mesmerises you. You look away from his sky blue eyes, very quickly realising they’re robbing you of the few remaining brain cells you have. And you need those, damn it. Especially because you’d already made the decision to hide from all your problems like a baby. Negative, negative…

“How’re you doing today?” Tim asks you, giving you a friendly greeting. It’s a welcome olive branch.

“I’m good,” you lie like you breathe, eyes glancing around the space. Bruce Wayne has his phone out and a mug of coffee in his hands. He sips from the cup, his focus swallowed by the tiny screen. You glance back over to Damian Wayne. Huh, it really does run in the family.

Your neck prickles, and you glance back at Tim again. You get a brief vision of his tired, unsmiling expression, and then it’s back to the angelic and gentle smile. You smile back at him, a wretched, awful twisting of the lips that you hope doesn’t look like a grimace.

Tim’s smile turns into a grin. It’s really too pretty and makes you shift in your seat uncomfortably. Damn it all, look away!

“Would you like some breakfast, young miss? I’m afraid we’ve run out of pancakes, but I’d be happy to make some more for you,” the butler says in an awfully familiar British accent. You think you know this person, but you can not remember from where. Shit. Your memory was bad on the best of days, much less after… after an event like last night.

Anyway, the food from earlier had been pancakes. Despite the delicious scent, you really didn’t want to make him make any more food for you. You felt like you were intruding as it was.

“Do you have any toast, or… cereal?” you suggest instead, wondering if rich people even bother with cereal. The butler chuckles, and you think, ‘Oh, yeah, probably not’.

“We have both, miss. Master Grayson has a particular fondness for cereal, in fact,” he informs you, which, oh, cool. You did in fact know that, you stalker you. You’d totally forgotten about that weird fact or the weird fact that you knew that weird fact. Dick Grayson has an Instagram where he posts reviews of different cereals, which of course you have notifications on for.

“It’s more of an obsession,” Tim says, resting his palm in his hand as he… continues to stare at you. Nobody else thinks his ogling is strange, so you try to ignore it as well. Try is the choice word.

“I like cereal too. It’s normal,” you say in defence of Dick, a natural and instinctual urge.

And apparently, the fact that you like cereal is fucking shocking, judging from the open-mouth looks the group gives you. Oh no, you’re supposed to hate him, right? You’re supposed to hate them all, actually. What had you called him on your phone? Something about being annoying and a dickhead?

Swallowing your inner scream, you move around the counter and towards the cupboards. Whatever, they’ll have to deal with this new and improved version of you, which didn’t despise everyone in the room. Along with being a terrible liar, you were also pretty bad at keeping secrets.

You don’t want to think about that, so instead you turn to Alfred.

“So,” you start, “Can I see your cereal collection?” you ask, like a totally normal person. Man, this cupboard’s looking pretty head-smashable right now.

This family has more tact than yours did, because they all manage to put their eyes back to what they were doing and pretend you weren’t acting really, really out of character. Rich people. They’re good at overlooking the crazy.

“Of course,” the butler clears his throat, “In here, you’ll find Master Dick’s collection-” score! Not another fan can claim this right, “-and in the fridge a carton of milk. Are you sure I couldn’t serve it for you, miss? I understand you might still be a little…”

His voice trails off. Little what?

He glances at the others and then leans in close like he’s going to tell you a secret. Behind a hand, he whispers, “Hungover.”

Ah. Well, yes, but you were a big girl who could make her cereal, even on hangover days. Kind of embarrassing it was that obvious, though. You were usually better at hiding how much of a mess you were.

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” you say, and the butler nods and backs off. You’re pretty sure at this point that he was the one who called you yesterday morning, but you still couldn’t quite recall his name. When you were out of sight, you’d check your phone for his contact information.

See? You could do this. Stealthy.

As you start perusing through the cereal options, Tim gets up from his spot by the counter and comes to stand next to you at the breakfast bar. He heads straight to the coffee machine, and you glance at it longingly.

It’s one of those cafe-quality fancy espresso makers, with an Italian name embossed in silver on the top. Tim manipulates the machine like a master, which you’re very jealous of because it might as well be alien technology to you. You miss your shitty drip coffee, at least that dingy little machine was loyal to you. Better than George.

“Coffee?” Tim Drake offers, glancing at you. Ah, the starry eyes are back. While Damian Wayne had been a mildly disappointing introduction, Mr. Drake was just reinforcing your celebrity worship. And of course, because your brain works against you, his offer reminds you of the daydreams you’d had on your first twenty-first birthday. Coffee shop au real person fiction- a new low, even for you.

Flustered, you look up at the ceiling. The old mansion is decorated in every single available corner, the plaster above spreading across the entire surface with delicate filigree and pretty curling patterns. It’s gorgeous, absolutely entrancing. That’s what you tell yourself at least.

“Please,” you say, your voice just the slightest bit too quiet. He hears you anyway.

It’s surprisingly domestic. Of course, you don’t know any of these people past face value and Wired YouTube interviews, but… it’s quite indulgent. This is sort of your dream, isn’t it? A full house of people enjoying their morning together. Peaceful bird song drifting in through open windows. The comfort of being around people you trust, not having to perform or put on a show. Well, you are very much putting on a show right now. It’s the thought that counts, or whatever.

“What would you like in it? We have sugar, milk, oat milk, and I like having a few syrups on hand,” Tim chatters excitedly, listing off the different ingredients he has on offer. Your poor ass stares at his rich one, and you are very rudely reminded these people live in different tax brackets than you.

Who the fuck had coffee syrups in their house? You could barely afford the little treats of caramel syrup you get every couple of months. The disappearance of the middle class was one you had witnessed personally.

You rattle off a very basic, bland order. Tim looks sort of disappointed in you which… well, you could be a coffee snob. You just didn’t have the time, usually. A flat white kept you going through the day, you didn’t need anything else. And so, Tim hands you a very bland coffee, and it is god sent. You can’t imagine how good it would be if you had mustered up your courage and asked for some caramel syrup.

Huh, you could be a coffee snob. You could be anything you wanted, really. And your first thought is being a coffee snob. Good God.

“Are you going to be staying?“ Bruce Wayne asks, immediately putting you on the spot. You weren’t ready for this, you were thinking about the coffees you could buy. Oh no, you really aren’t ready for this.

“At least for now, right?” Tim Drake says, just making it all the more stressful. You let out an awkward chuckle, fingers tight around your drink.

“Oh, I don’t want to be an inconvenience-”

Damian Wayne slams his mug down on the table, so hard a crack splinters up its side. He picks the cup up, strides across the kitchen, narrowed green eyes meeting yours for a second, and then he dumps the cup in a secret rubbish can. He murmurs an apology to the butler and then is out of the room.

Okay, well, you certainly feel like an inconvenience.

The butler clears his throat, and says, “Please forgive young master Damian. He’s been having a difficult time recently, I hope you can understand.”

And you think, ‘bitch, a difficult time?! He’s not the one who almost died last night!’ but what you say is, “Of course, I completely understand. I don’t want to bother him anymore so I’d really like to leave today.”

Mr. Wayne laces his fingers together, blue eyes giving you an assessing look.

“Stay for the day, and you can leave tonight. I want to make sure you’re truly alright,” he eventually says, and the mere presence of the man has you yielding to his commands. Didn’t really matter you were an adult who’d managed to survive this long on your own, you were listening to the big scary guy when he told you what to do.

Well, that’s that! You make your cereal and have a very quiet breakfast. You can’t tell if they’re being quiet because you’re here, or if mornings are usually like this. You hope they’re usually like this. Once you’ve finished your very nice cereal (one of the highest rated on Dick’s Instagram) you place the bowl by the sink. You want to wash it, but when you ask Alfred he gives you a look like you kicked his dog. Okay, you’ll just go then.

You’re about to sneak away, when you realise Tim’s staring at you… again…? But this time he seems quite focused on your clothing. His eyes follow the double lines on the side of your sweatpants, before settling on the Beatles logo on your shirt. He hums at it. Raises his brows.

“I’m sorry, I borrowed this because I didn’t have any other clothes. Is there something wrong with me wearing this?” you ask, and then experience a moment of horror, “This doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

“Hmm?” Tim chirps, “Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

And then he turns away from you in a very clear dismissal. Nice, you really wanted to go hide for an hour or two. With one last awkward wave to Bruce Thomas Wayne, you scurry out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom you’d started thinking of as yours. You need to figure out how you're going to handle all this, and you're going to do it alone. Maybe with some dessert, if you can find it. You wouldn't say you think better with sugar running in your veins, but it definitely makes you more willing to deal with the bullshit that is your life. Hopefully it'd work in your new one, too.

-

Tim listens to your retreating footsteps, waiting till you’re far enough away to begin talking to Bruce. Humans were creatures of habit, so you’d probably be going back to the same room you slept in last night. He thinks Damian and him were the only ones who noticed whose shirt you were wearing, B’s off his game today. You’ve really managed to mess him up, to Tim’s delight.

“See? Dames was totally fine with her being here,” Tim says, cheerily enjoying his youngest sibling’s suffering. Bruce sighs, witheringly, lifting his hand to rub against the headache he always has. He’s probably noticed the excited, slightly fanatic gleam that’s entered into Tim’s eyes.

It was sort of obvious. This was all so exciting! You’d come back, sporting absolutely none of the defensive vitriol you usually have, and ate breakfast together. You took a coffee out of Tim’s hands. You’d willingly spoken to the devil, who everybody in the family knew hated you as much as you hated him, and even more than that-

You’d spoken to Bruce. Tim was sporting the idea that you’d gotten head trauma, at this point in time.

“Okay, fine. You get the mission, but-” Tim has to resist the urge to clap his hands together like a gleeful child “-but no extra cameras. I’m serious, Tim, if I find out you’ve invaded her privacy just after she’s starting to warm up to us again-”

“She wouldn’t know,” Tim complains, cutting the Bat off with a roll of his eyes.

“She’s smarter than you’d think,” Bruce shakes his head. Tim has to disagree, after the catastrophe that was last night. Unless of course, you were just playing with them all. So many options, it’s dizzying.

“We’ll shelve that argument for later. So, I want full control of the case, and in turn, I’ll do another two weeks as CEO,” Tim waves off Bruce’s complaints, going straight into haggling. The CEO position was tossed between the two of them like a hot potato, and it was one of Tim’s favourite bargaining tools.

“I am absolutely not agreeing to that, a month and nothing less.”

“This is why half your children don’t talk to you, but sure, whatever. Chase away your last, loyal loving son-”

“My God, Tim. Three fucking weeks, and if I hear another word I will hand this matter over to Grayson,” Bruce sighs, sounding a bit defeated.

Tim gives an offended gasp, placing his hand against his chest. And then he realises Bruce might actually be serious, and freaks out a bit.

“He’d be bad for it. Far too personally involved. You definitely don’t want to do that,” he says, leg bouncing under the table. Of course, the Bat notices, but he doesn’t mention it. He wouldn’t take this from Tim, they both knew he was getting too frazzled around the edges. He needed something to focus on, to ground him.

You were the perfect project. He loved his projects.

“I am aware. But the girls are out of town, and uncontactable. And I think if I gave Damian this assignment the two of them would kill each other.”

“No Jason option, sir?” Tim says because he’s a shit-stirrer and wants to get to work.

Tim succeeds in chasing Bruce away. He’s left to have his coffee in peace as the old man quickly flees the room at the mention of the son he's on the worst terms with. For the next few hours, Tim taps away on his computer, enjoying his time.

And when the front doors open, his ears prick, and a decidedly evil grin spreads on his face.

“I’m home!” Dick calls out, words travelling through the grand manor.

Tim gets up from his seat and wanders leisurely to the main hall, where Dick stands. He’s got a suitcase by his side, filled with all the things he’s brought up from the Blud. When he spots Tim, Dick’s face spreads in a familiar sunny smile. He quickly rushes to Tim’s side, swallowing the younger brother in a hug. Tim groans at the tight squeezing.

Despite his clinginess, it was good to see him. His tanned skin glowed healthily, and his curly black hair was messy over his brow. Sapphire blue eyes sparkled. He was happy to be home, despite everything that was going on. Dick always looked like he’d just gotten back from a run because he usually had. It was hard to get the guy to sit still for even a minute, much less stop parkouring over every imaginable surface.

“Tim! How’s it been? Ah, it’s so good to be home,” Dick starts, and again, Tim groans. When Dick starts yammering he never stops.

“I’m good, man. We can talk later, you should go put your things away before Alfred does,” Tim reminds Dick, and Dick pouts. It was a general rule that unless it was cooking, the family wasn’t supposed to rely on Alfred for everything.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be down in a minute! I have so much to tell you,” Dick relents, hand lifting to mess with his hair. Tim pushes him off, glaring at the man, and Dick laughs.

Tim gives Dick a tired wave as the gymnast bounds up the stairs to his bedroom. Tim watches him disappear down the hallways, and thinks, ‘I wish I could see this happen.’ He sighs, guess he’ll just have to hear Dick retell the story later. The distant sound of your shrieking voice has him chuckling. Yeah, he’ll hear about it later, he’s sure.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[princessbrunette]

⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … REACH OUT AND TOUCH FAITH ♡

we often talk about jj and lamb!reader, and how those interactions go down. but we forget that rafe too has his feet planted firmly in the equation.

he’s so much worse. so much more manipulative. whilst jj drives you away from those toxic idealisms the strict church that raised you had you believing, rafe leans right into them. upon limbreys request he’s up early every sunday no matter what coke-fuelled-party he found himself at on saturday night to drive you all the way to church, the kook poster boy ushering you inside whilst you wear those pretty little pastel dresses— often getting through the service by wondering just what you’ve got on underneath. ♱ ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

tw: dark themes! blasphemy, catholicism, rafe disrespecting readers faith. i have catholic trauma so this was healing in a weird way to write — but don’t read if you feel you are to be bothered by this content. you are responsible for your own media consumption.

in moments of silence amongst rafes mental spiralling — he’d come to the conclusion that you were sent to save him like an angel. he’d done so many bad things, lead astray by his father and the pogues and whatever else he could blame. but you, you were pure and untouched by this cursed island. if he had you by his side, he’d be forgiven for all the bad he’d done before.

that being said, he couldn’t help his lecherous gaze. his boyish tendencies and moments of self indulgence unsurprising to the addict himself. he wanted to see you on your knees and no not before a wooden pew — wet mouth and cross necklace glistening as you look up to the only lord you should know and worship. him.

there was so much that went over your head he found himself having fun with it. pretending he’s helping out around the house by leaning against your doorway and watching you organise your dresser for a moment before speaking.

“hey, uh— m’doing the laundry for your mom. gimme those.” he nods to your white tights and you furrow your brows.

“my tights?” you feel a little flushed at the mere mention of them. you might have scoffed if it were one of those pogues, but rafe was a good boy— he did good by you, that’s what your mother always told you anyway.

“yeah.” he nods like it’s obvious and you’re silly for even asking. “hand ‘em over already.”

a silence washes over the room, and you timidly slip them down beneath your thin little dress. rafe presses a tongue between his lips as if to act as some kind of glue to stop him from smiling but he does so anyway, scratching his cheek before stepping into the room with his hand extended to retrieve them. you keep eye contact with him the whole time too, you teasing little thing. it must’ve been a respect thing. you were raised that way. always look someone in the eye. it’s polite, and you’re a polite young girl.

he crowds your space before you’d even gotten them off, looming over you when you place the limp hanging fabric into his outstretched palm. he’s insatiable and he hasn’t pushed it far enough, so with his other hand he hungrily approaches once more. “yeah uh, look. m’washing all the delicates here so uhh… i’m gonna need…” he lowers his tone into a raspy drawl as a hand disappears up the hem of your dress to find the waistband of your panties, rubbing a thumb between the space that connected your skin and lace. he wishes he could play the shudder you let out on repeat. “these.”

you make no move to remove them, so being the kindhearted citizen that rafe cameron notoriously is— he stares right down into your eyes as he pulls them down for you slowly, lowering himself just enough so you can step out of them. “theres a good girl.” he praises and somehow it feels dirty and rude. you frown, because you hate the way it makes you clench around nothing though you knew he was somehow probably insulting you. he’s smirking obnoxiously when he backs up, looking down at the girly panties in his hand before walking out.

and of course he does wash them for you, but not after he’s jerked himself raw into the lace of your gusset.

another day rafe is around at the house, this time helping your mother with things regarding this magical cross that held the cure to her illness. it almost felt too good to be true, and you knew for a fact rafe felt that way too — but you defended her with each slight remark he’d make about it, as you felt it was your duty. who were you to believe rafe cameron over the lord himself?

one of limbreys wealthy friends arrives bearing gifts, and hands you holy water from a far away church she visited on her travels. it was packaged in a glittering cross bottle, and you marvelled at its beauty— vowing to save it for when you really felt you needed it.

of course, rafe had already come up with ways to mess with you regarding the gift. the two of you are left alone in the living room while your mother fills her friend in on all the exciting life updates she had to share.

“you know, uh— the most effective way to feel god… inside you and stuff, is to ingest the holy water.” rafe wanders around the table to you casually, reaching and gently grasping the bottle in your hand. “give it.” he orders quietly and you let go on instinct, turning to look at him.

“thats mine.” you argue and he scoffs out a chuckle at your childishness as he uncaps the lid.

“cant believe you didn’t know this.”

“thats not how holy water works, you’re just making things up.” your voice raises in pitch as you watch him pour some into the lid like he was pouring a shot of vodka. your brows are all pinched and he thinks it’s adorable how worked up you get about these things.

“yeah?” he smirks, dipping two fingers into the water before setting it down to grasp your jaw with his hand, gently prying it open. “open.” he demands, and once more you can’t help it. weak in the knees, you fall submissive to his commands and open your mouth, feeling the liquid coating your tongue through his coarse fingers. he rubs your tongue in circles and you suck off the water, hating any to go to waste. your eyes flutter like his touch is addictive.

he’s enjoying himself too much, dips his fingers again and stuffs them back in— and you’re just as hungry, grasping his wrist and letting out a greedy little groan as he strokes your tongue and stuffs his digits further until you gag. there’s drool on your chin and he’s chuckling now, giving it one last go before he’s pulling back to the sound of approaching footsteps. he doesn’t seem as frantic as you when you’re wiping your mouth free of drool, in fact— he openly laughs. “bet you feel Him in you now, huh?”

the final straw comes when the ever trusting limbrey asks rafe to stay with you whilst she’s off chasing whatever with big john routledge. you’d already told her you didn’t need a babysitter — coming up with just about every excuse to not be left alone with the cameron boy. you weren’t scared of what he’d do, no — he was predictable. you knew what he had planned. you were scared that you’d give in, unable to resist temptation.

only three days in and he’s cracked you, something about him having spoken to a priest who told rafe to pass on the message that you must cure him of his devious ways by sharing your body with him. it sounds bad when it’s put simply like that, but it was a whole thing — rafe can be super persuasive. you started off in outright refusal, but he kept chipping away at you until he was slowly approaching you with a trusting smile and a hand undoing his thick leather belt, and soon you were mushy in the brain. too mushy to deny him any longer.

before the end of the week he’s got you brainless and well trained, milking him of every last drop of the devil until you’re limp on the bed — legs over his shoulders. you were doing this for him. you were doing this for him.

plap, plap, plap — the sound of your sticky walls swallowing his cock with each full thrust harmonises perfectly with the sound of each creak your wooden bed frame makes. you’d never heard your bed make so much noise, probably because it’s never seen so much activity in your whole life. rafes above you now, hands gripping on your tits and rolling his thumbs over the nipples and you truly can’t see how that’s supposed to be helpful to the cause— but can’t bring yourself to care with how good it feels.

you’ve made a milky ring around his tip, so soaked with your own completion from his relentless thrusting that it’s created a puddle beneath your ass on the bed. you couldn’t believe yourself, if your mother could see you now she would surely disown you.

“ra—rafey!” you hiccup, grasping at his broad shoulders when it gets all too much.

“yeah— hey, shut up okay? you’re okay.” he pants, trying his hardest to be sweet and keep up the act still, quickly silencing you by cupping your clammy cheek and slowing down his thrusts. “you’re fine.”

“this isn’t right.” you’re incoherent, and it takes rafe a moment to figure out what you even said.

“oh yeah?” he asks, uninterested as he rolls his hips. he glances up at you, lips parted and wet from your greedy kisses. “that why you just locked your legs round me? huh?” he teases, carelessly and you whine, throwing your head back petulantly.

“uh huh. y’know why you get so — so fuckin’ wet? huh? s’because you’ve been holding out on me. why the hell would god create this fuckin’ perfect body if it wasn’t meant to be used by me, huh? answer me that.”

“i cant!” you cry, no— sob, because you couldn’t argue. rafe was too clever for your arguments, a rebuttal to every worry in your head. it still felt wrong and dirty, but yet you clung to him— indulging in your pleasure as you fall hopelessly towards another orgasm from the way his pelvis scrapes your exposed clit.

“shit… yeah, y’cant.” he’s close too— and when he leans down close to you, he wraps his fingers around the glittering cross necklace that lies against your breast, lifting it and pressing a kiss to the centre, before bringing it to your own lips. you weakly kiss it, struggling to keep your eyes open on his and he hums in approval, dropping his hands back down either side of your head to work on fucking you quicker. “should be worshipping me, kid.” he speaks between grit teeth.

you think he might be right.

[lemonhemlock]

the reason why i don't think blood & cheese works without maelor is because it undermines the gravity of helaena's choice

in the books, as we all know, she has to choose which son to sacrifice. blood & cheese are going to kill one either way, so, whatever happens, if you want to get cynical about it, aegon will still be left with a male heir of his body. no, the horribleness of the choice lies not really in dynastic matters, but in basic humanity: which of your children are you willing to condemn to death? and helaena truly does try to make the best out of a bad situation, she picks not because she loves jaehaerys more, but because maelor is so tiny that she hopes he won't understand what's going to happen to him.

and she absolutely has to choose, because b&c threaten to rape her daughter if she doesn't. it's psychological torture. b&c just want to fuck her up in the head as much as possible and helaena tries her goddamnest to minimize the harm done to her family. to further compound on the tragedy, b&c kill the opposite child, so now she has to live out the rest of her days knowing that the son left alive is the son SHE herself marked for the axe. which is what understandably drives her to lose her mind

now, in the show, the "problem" blood & cheese have doesn't exist at all: that they can't supposedly tell the twins apart. but (as awful as it sounds, since it involves sexual assault) they could very easily check which child has male genitalia and be done with it. it's a "problem" that takes literal seconds to solve. they don't need helaena at all! it becomes irrelevant which child she points towards - b&c can always just check! she can't save jaehaerys in this situation no matter what she does, because b&c were never interested in jaehaera in the first place. in the books, she has the ability to save one child and this exact horrible "agency" bestowed on her torments her for the rest of her days. in the show, even had she pointed towards jaehaera, it would have been a narrative plot hole for the writers to have killed her without checking

likewise, in the books, she begs them to kill her instead, but, in the show, she offers them a necklace? you can't deny that the dramatic stakes are lowered substantially by making that change. which one of these options would have been more filled with pathos? personally, it just feels like this was phia's moment to shine and, while she did a good job with what she had, every narrative choice was somehow made to subdue this horrible event and left her only crumbs to work with. cinematically-speaking, this scene (as it was executed) does not even come close to the iconic moments that cemented GoT into the collective consciousness, which is very strange, as the subject matter is anything but mediocre

and that's not even getting into the rest of the plot holes that others have already pointed out, like:

- why are there no guards at helaena's door or anywhere else for that matter? not just on that hallway, but on many other hallways, she has to run quite a lot to get to alicent's chambers

- why is her room unlocked at the very least

- why is ALICENT's room unlocked, for that matter? she is having secret guilty sex with criston and she forgets to lock her door in a castle full of spies? anyone could have walked in

- not even getting into this whole thing just being one huge misunderstanding + minimizing daemon's and mysaria's roles :))

- NOT EVEN mentioning removing the trauma of alicent witnessing all of this, gagged and bound on her own bed, not being able to help or intervene in any way

i can understand the likelihood of these elements happening sometimes (maybe someone does forget to lock their door from time to time, maybe a guard does shirk their duties from time to time), but you can't write all of them at once without it turning all looney tunes. if you introduce too many aspects that defy logic in your story, it ceases to be believable and just becomes bad writing

___________________________________________

also, "they killed <the boy>"? not "my son" or "jaehaerys"? it sounds so removed, don't you think? helaena out there on her mother's floor dropping exposition for the audience 🥲

[vroomvroomwee]

Aziraphale's vest

I'd like to take a second and talk about his vest because I think it's a really good metaphor for Aziraphale's internal feelings.

At first glance it's obvious the vest is quite old. Really old in fact if you note the way it's practically disintegrating.

And it got me thinking a bit. The way the white practically bleeds from the edges of the neck, shoulders and buttons, going further and further, one day if he's persistent enough to wear it, it might even take over the entire vest. You could say that that, somehow, mirrors Heavens influence over Aziraphale. Slowly, slowly, biding their time, until it has completely ridden him of any colour. Until it has completely washed him of his identity, of his originality, of his character.

Take a look at his clothing when he's up in Heaven.

Completely and utterly white. Every piece of clothing he's wearing is pure and untarnished white. Upon entering Heaven, against his own accord, it has stripped him of his uniqueness, of anything that might distinguish him from any other angel who blindly follows orders and who's sole purpose is to do Heavens bidding.

Now, he could miracle the white patches on the vest away easily. But he doesn't want to.

The thing is. He likes the imperfect. He likes partaking in human activities and pleasures, like food, music, etc. Likes to indulge himself in earthly things Heaven would label as sinful or "sullying." And as someone who bas been on the receiving end of Heavens ridicule and passive aggression for millenia, as someone who for centuries has been told that he's underperforming and needs to do better, as someone who is all too aware of his own impurity by the standards an angel should hold and of the quite frankly unholy behaviour in performing immoral temptations and directly going against Heavens orders no more than a few times throughout the eras, it's no wonder he finds comfort in the imperfect.

He keeps the deteriorating edges because they are a perfect representation of his own internal feelings and image. After all, there's no rule that says he can't. And a big kudos to the costume department, for the patches perfectly encapsulate his religious trauma. Without it, he would probably be a very different person. He wouldn't be the same Aziraphale we know and love. The same way he likes being old-fashioned with his clothes and how that is a part of who he is, his trauma is a part of him as well, along with Heavens influence that has shaped him into who he is today, whether he likes it or not.

Every part of the vest illustrates Aziraphale's character and internal feelings, which brings me to another point I want to draw attention to, and that is the BACK of the vest.

It's DARK. And I don't think I'm mistaken when I say that most of us didn't expect it to look like that from behind. We all just assumed that it would be the same beige colour as the front, which is in tune with the rest of his attire. After all, seeing him wearing a dozen different outfits all throughout history, all of them some shade of white, it was the logical conclusion.

But no.

It's not white. It's a dark, slightly viridian or a dark blue colour. "Dark blue suggests a more mysterious depth or ominous quality. Power and authority: Dark blue signifies power and responsibility. "

Not what we would have expected that colour at all. Similarly to how one wouldn't expect an angel to perform temptations or be gluttonous, or envious, or slothful, or hedonistic. Not at first glance anyway.

Not unless you look carefully.

Not unless you know him.

The coat almost acts like a cover. The light over the dark. Almost as if it's trying to hide something. The only times we see Aziraphale not wearing the coat is in his bookshop. Which is logical, of course. You wouldn't wear a coat indoors, obviously. Except he DOES. He wears the coat when he and Crowley are drunk, he wears it when he's reading Agnes Nutter, he wears it when Gabriel and Sandalphon pop in, he wears it when he's talking to the Metatron, he wears it when he's listening to Shostakovich, he even wears it at the Ritz where it would be custom to take off your coat while dining. And it's worth noting that during the events happening (at least in the first season), the season is summer. Which would make it quite ridiculous to be wearing so many layers everywhere you go and therefore risk boiling. But he still wears the coat.

The only times he doesn't wear it is in the first episode after the sushi, when he's all ALONE, and in season 2 at the bookshop when Crowley comes back and in 1941.

And there's something oh so personal about that.

I don't think it's a coincidence that the darker part is specifically the back of the vest. There's always been this natural human instinct to protect yourself by never ever turning your back on a foe. And I don't think this is a conscious effort on Aziraphale's part, but rather genius writing, directing and costume design, and anyone who's watched and read Good Omens knows that almost nothing is coincidental.

Note this is probably the first time Aziraphale has called Crowley his friend, seeing how uncertain and doubtful he was to even say the word in this scene and how quick he was to deny their friendship in the Shakespeare scene. And the camera immediately cuts from Crowley to Aziraphale, who is turned away, whose back is turned to Crowley oh so casually without a care in the world. Just before he calls him his friend. His back is turned, and so is the dark part of his vest.

The dark part he only shows in his bookshop, when he's alone and there's no one there. The part that he now only shows to Crowley as well. Crowley who knows him so well and who's been with him through everything. "I won't tell anyone if you won't." And "you said trust me""and you did". Just this small motion of Aziraphale depicts exactly how much trust he has in Crowley not only that he'll keep him safe and protected but to accept him just as he is, to not judge him, to not demean him for his imperfections as an angel. Practically mirroring Crowley's self-protection mechanism that is reflected in his motions to hide his eyes with his sunglasses (there's a wonderful meta on this by @simply-brightly-zee here )

And it might just be clothing, or it might just be genius symbolism, but note how self-aware Aziraphale is of his looks when Gabriel pops up.

The desire to impress is almost unconscious in this scene, and how does he go about doing it? By making sure he looks presentable. Presentable, despite the white patches and the vest that is falling apart, he doesn't even realise it. Therefore, it's clear Aziraphale puts thought into his clothes, whether consciously or unconsciously.

I personally dont think any of this (the coat, the patches, the way he turns his back, when, where and around who he's most comfortable) is a deliberate and intentional act on Aziraphales part but rather creative brilliance from the directors and producers. So him being shown to expose the back of the vest only in scenes with Crowley (and the one in s2 infront of an amnesiac Gabriel with the intelligence and awareness of a squirrel) is a master move on the costume department's part. The symbolusm being so small and imperceptible, but holding so much meaning. This small metaphor shows how much Aziraphale trusts Crowley and how comfortable he is around him. Crowley who knows about Aziraphale's transgressions, sins, unholy behaviours, lack of interest and dedication to his job, and overall "incompetence" as Aziraphale might put it and how he's "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing". Crowley, who will accept him and love him no matter what. Not despite those things, but because of those things.

They have found their "own side".

Edit: Not that important, but I just want to mention how, despite being tattered and falling apart, the vest is still in perfectly good condition. No matter the white seeping in and draining its colour, the vest doesn't have a single seam torn, not a button lost, perfect as the day it was bought. No matter what it's been put through, it's still kicking, whether by miracle or sheer willpower. Very much like the person wearing it.

[stxneflxwers]

off-colored.

⋯⁂ summary. Aventurine woke up sick, now you're full of determination to keep him home – the place where he's allowed to be himself (and so you can take care of him.)

⋯⁂ a/n. barely edited lol. i wrote this in the tumblr post editor... :') anyway. SICK FIC TIME!!!!! I WANNA BABY HIM GRRRR

⋯⁂ characters. aventurine. gn reader.

⋯⁂ w.c. 971.

⋯⁂ cw. fluff/hurt comfort. established relationship. sickness and its side dishes. all lowercase. mentions of nudity. mentions of past trauma. (both are non-descriptive).

aventurine.

🌌 needless to say, he's not exactly thrilled to be sick – if anything, it makes his heart jump into his throat (and subsequently make him cough and choke on his own saliva even more).

🌌 for a split second, he thinks he's dying – but no, all that happened was him rolling off the bed and crashing to the floor with the blanket tangled around him. and then promptly getting thrown into a violent coughing fit.

🌌 you were, for a split moment, considering getting on his case for hogging the blanket again – and then you heard him hacking away for a solid few moments before he releases a very loud, stuffy sigh. uh oh, you think, that last long mission he had must've gotten him sick.

🌌 but then... you realize how you can take advantage of this and force him to stay home for once (definitely not because you want more time with him or anything. totally not.) you grin to yourself, believing it's your turn to win for once – he's hardly a sore loser when it comes to you.

you roll to his side of the bed and peek over the edge, "you sound sick." you blurt out – soft, unimposing.

"huh? uh... nuh uh!" he then sneezes behind his clothed arm after barely managing to detangle himself from the blanket.

"yeah, sure, totally and completely not sick at all. i definitely believe you." you scowl, although it's more playful than genuine.

"but... i've got work today–"

"you say that every day."

"but it's true!" he sniffles and wipes at his nose with the back of his black fabric sleeve.

"yeah, well, too bad!" you say and hop to your feet, already feeling excited over the notion of babying him all day. "you're staying home – coworkers and boss be damned."

he whines your name pathetically, "pleaaaaase..."

"no."

"pretty please?"

"no!"

"...with a cherry on top–"

"oh, shush. and don't you try to sneak out of the house." you cross your arms with an atmosphere of determination – all to make sure he gets better soon, instead of exacerbating any pain and malaise.

"haha..." he chuckles weakly (and dryly from his parched throat), "alright, you win."

"yay!" you cheer and help him sit on the edge of the mattress (that will certainly need to have its sheets changed soon), "good boy." you pat his head with such soft and slow strokes that he can feel the love melt into his bones and heart.

"aw... you just wanted to hear me say that you win, huh?" he teases – despite his ailed state – and smiles up at you, somehow even more charmingly than usual. "sure, sure, take advantage of the sick guy–"

"shush, you! it's not such a bad thing to have you home with me for once, anyway..." you sigh, a soft pout protruding from your bottom lip – your hand stills for a fleeting moment, making his heart lurch right back into his throat again.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry – don't be mad–" he pleads, something he rarely does, but you've dealt with a sick kakavasha once before, you can do it as many times as you need to.

you smile sadly, your eyes pinching with apology, "don't worry – i'm not upset at all. i've just...missed you more than words can describe." you resume petting his soft hair – he's always taken such good care of his pretty blonde locks.

"i...i missed you too, babe." he sighs in relief, his heart settling back into its rightful place.

🌌 he's surprisingly compliant for the rest of the day – of course, he has his playful and teasing comebacks, but he never truly puts up a fight. even if he felt capable enough, he still wouldn't – not against you.

🌌 you do just about anything for him as he recovers – to drive home the point that you love him dearly and deeply. he barely asks for anything, though, so you end up going above and beyond for him – as a part of some weird, personal gamble with yourself. has he been rubbing off on you? you're not sure.

🌌 one of the worst (read: most difficult) parts of taking care of him is making him eat. he'll complain with a whine or groan and try to hide under a pillow or blanket. you're not sure if it's trauma-related or him just being a big baby over some minor nausea, but no worries, you've got it handled.

🌌 after a bit of half-hearted arguing, he succumbs to your demands and eats at least half of what you made him. he has an arguably small appetite and stomach due to his past, so you let him eat as much as he's comfortable with – as long as he actually eats.

🌌 one of the other worst parts of taking care of him is getting him to bathe with you helping him. he insists he won't fall asleep in the bath, but you don't trust his awkward laugh and blatant lie (or his half-asleep expression). once you've pulled your final straw, you give him a hard, long stare until he finally puts up his white flag and – yet again – succumbs to letting you help him out.

🌌 he's very shy when you're naked around each other – it immediately makes his whole face red, his blush even reaching his neck and upper chest. you giggle a little at him and he pouts, all you do is pinch his burning, red cheek. yet your gentle, loving teasing eases his aversion to any and all vulnerability. he, from thereon, complies with the rest of the bathing process.

🌌 when night falls upon your shared home, he's practically dead asleep. you feel fulfilled. and he's already looking better than he did this morning – the color in his skin slowly returning.

yeah, you definitely won.

[m00nlight-ramblings]

Touch Me

Repulsed by touch due to years of trauma, Astarion now wears gloves in his every day life. But once he starts to adventure with you, he slowly starts to rebuild his trust in others, when one night, he can't bare to not touch you any longer.

Pairings: Astarion x fem reader

Warnings: SMUT, p in v, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, light discussion of trauma, swearing, fluff. 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 4.5k

Requested: yes

A/N: Okay so I got carried away with this one lol. Happy to be back writing some good ole BG3 smut teehee. Graphic made by me, I don't give permission for my work (graphic or writing) to be shared without my consent.

You hadn’t really noticed Astarion’s gloves before, for the first few days of adventuring. You figured that they were just for defense, to help keep his body safe in combat along the journey. You were also far too busy trying to figure out the whole tadpole-in-your-brain problem, along with the myriad of enemies seemingly popping out of nowhere, to be concerned with your camp companions’ fashion senses.

But one evening, when you were headed to the nearby creek to quickly wash yourself in a moment of calm, you stumbled upon a rock, covered in familiar looking clothing.

Astarion’s clothing.

His gloves laid on top of the bundle of clothes, the brown leather muted in the soft moonlight. You paused for a moment and turned to look out into the deep creek, and not even five feet away, Astarion stood.

You realized he was fully nude so you shrieked and turned around. “Sorry! I didn’t realize you were here!” You apologized profusely. You heard Astarion gasp behind you and the motion of water, feet padding over to the rock. Clothes started to shuffle and you heard Astarion murmur under his breath.

“…completely nude, as if my clothes on the rock weren’t a dead giveaway that I would be naked! Trying to bathe and have peace and quiet for one second this entire journey…”

“Look, I said I was sorry-” Without thinking you turned, but luckily Astarion was fully clothed, except for his gloves. He seemed more concerned with fixing his outfit than what you were saying, so you gently reached out to touch his wrist to get his attention. “I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t see anything, anyway-”

The second your fingers touched Astarion’s wrist, he shouted, ripping his arm back as if you had just shocked him.

“Don’t touch me!” He bellowed, his voice dark. It scared you for a moment and you stood absolutely still, silence hanging between you. Astarion didn’t even look at you, just down at his wrist, as if he had been burned.

“What…I’m sorry? Did something happen-”

“Just…don’t touch me,” His cool demeanor was back as he gracefully slid the gloves on, “Alright? Just…don’t.” He had finally looked up at you, his ruby eyes shimmering. His expression was unreadable, but you nodded slowly.

“Alright…I won’t.”

You stared at him for a bit longer, trying to understand what was going on in his head. Was it…fear? Rage? You weren’t quite sure…all you knew was that without meaning to, you had somehow crossed a boundary with Astarion, who was already like a vault.

Without another word, Astarion walked back to camp. You sighed heavily and eventually bathed, but the entire encounter was so odd that you didn’t quite know how to move forward with it.

The next morning, while the sun was still rising, Astarion found you by the campfire as you cooked your breakfast. Uncomfortably clearing his throat behind you, he seemed a bit sheepish. Wringing his wrists (clad in the gloves), he shifted the weight on his feet in his graceful, Astarion way.

“May I speak with you for a moment?” He asked. Nodding, you stood, wiping off your pants. Astarion stared at you for a minute, his eyes darting back and forth between yours. It was increasingly apparent that he didn’t know how to start the conversation, but you waited patiently, afraid you’d somehow set him off again.

“I…want to apologize for last night,” He eventually said, “The whole…situation…with my gloves, I mean. I…” He sighed, searching for words, “I have a hard time with touch. I have for a bit…because of my past with Cazador. When I woke up, thrown from that Nautiloid, I realized gloves made me feel better because I technically don’t have to touch someone when I…well, when I touch them. And since I was no longer under Cazador’s thumb, I snagged the first pair I could find off of…well…some poor dead body on the beach and it’s been better ever since.”

Taking in what he was saying, you nodded, staying quiet. “So…you wear gloves. Because you don’t like touch.”

“Quite frankly, I’m repulsed by touch,” He calmly replied, throwing a hand back, “200 years in a body that I had no control over will do that to you, I suppose.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” You said plainly, forking a piece of pork belly into your mouth.

Astarion tilted his head, confused. “It does?”

“Yes. I mean…I believe you, and everything.”

“You do.” He stated, but it sounded like more of a question, like he didn’t understand.

Shrugging, you nodded, “Cazador forced you to use your body against your will to do his tidings, and now that you have the ability to act for your own for the first time in a very long time, you realize that there are boundaries that make you feel more comfortable. It makes perfect sense.”

Astarion opened his mouth to say something, but immediately shut it. “Well…look at you. Knowing so much about me.”

“That’s what friends are for,” You smiled and pat his shoulder gently, “Thank you for sharing that with me. I understand…and will be aware of it.” You go to walk away, but turn and look at Astarion, “I know what you’ve been through was unbelievably awful, so you don’t have to…but if you ever feel the need to talk to someone about it, I’m here for you.”

Astarion stood, frozen. He nodded so small that if you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it.

“Thank you.” He eventually said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were locked on the ground. In a flash, he was striding towards his tent, his hands behind his back, as if the conversation never happened. Watching him walk to his tent, you shook his head.

You knew Astarion was full of secrets, but you weren’t quite sure how deep those secrets went.

The following weeks had tore through your body harder than any training you had been through. Every night when you went to bed, it seemed like a body part you didn’t even know you had was aching.

Currently, you were a little way away from camp, leaning against a tree, trying to get any semblance of reprieve that you could. Your eyes were closed, but you were nowhere near sleep, as the crickets chirped around you.

“Darling?” Astarion’s voice called out gently. You waved your hand in the air so he could track you down.

“Over here.” You mumbled, your arm feeling like it was 600 pounds. You brought it back down to your side and sighed heavily. Suddenly, you smelled chicken. Opening your eyes slowly, you saw a plate of food in front of you. You followed the arm holding the food and saw that Astarion had knelt beside you, presenting the food.

“Dinner,” He spoke plainly, “Gale just finished cooking. I thought you could use some help since your ass was devilishly kicked by those goblins earlier today, so I brought dinner to you while you were resting.” He smirked as you took the plate of food, barking out a laugh.

“Funny that you just had to bring up the fact that I didn’t perform my best today.” You started to slowly bring the food to your mouth, the taste melting on your tongue. You moaned softly in pleasure – he never shut up, but gods, Gale cooked a good meal.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t perform my best, either.” Astarion sat beside you now, his back resting against the large tree. He sighed as well, leaning his head back.

In the past few weeks, ever since the evening you had accidentally touched his wrist, you two had become closer. You were the only one to know his secret, a vulnerable piece of the Astarion puzzle. He trusted you to keep his secrets safe, and you did – like you had said, that’s what friends were for.

You ate in a comfortable silence as Astarion stared up at the moon, his face gleaming in the soft glow. Though you two were friends, he was undeniably handsome – you found yourself looking at him longer than necessary, butterflies popping up in your stomach when he would come into your tent to just converse, or when he was next to you in battle. You didn’t know when it started to change, but slowly, your feelings had deepened, which scared the shit out of you. Even now, with no words exchanged, your head felt light as he sat beside you, his familiar scent comforting you.

“Beautiful moon out tonight.” Astarion commented softly. You murmured in agreement, placing the plate and fork next to you now that you were done eating.

“Were you able to hunt tonight?” You asked Astarion.

He chuckled, “Always looking out for me,” He spoke gently. He then turned to look at you, his face soft, “Yes. I did…earlier. Thank you for your concern.”

You laughed softly and shrugged, even though it took all of your effort. You closed your eyes again, “You know me. I need to make sure everyone eats, even if your version of eating is slurping up some boar blood somewhere-”

Suddenly, your hand felt like it was enveloped, and chilled to the bone. Your eyes sprung open and you looked down. Astarion was holding your hand in your lap.

Without his glove.

Your mouth parted in surprise as you looked at him in shock. “Astarion-”

“I know.” He interrupted, smiling proudly.

“You’re…holding my hand.”

“I know.”

“Without your glove!”

“I know.”

You smiled back at him. Both of you sat there in silence, smiling at each other like two goons. You didn’t know what to say, so you started to stutter.

“But…how? When? You’re…feeling-”

“Not with everyone,” He said, “But with you…it’s different. I went to bed last night, thinking about how I wanted to…feel you. Touch you. Really feel you…hold your hand. With mine. Skin on skin,” Suddenly, he turned sheepish and looked down, “I hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind?!” You sat on your heels, gripping his hand tighter, “Of course I don’t! I’m…excited for you! Proud of you! Hells, I-”

Suddenly, Astarion’s lips were on yours. Cold, but gentle – he pressed lightly and pulled away almost as fast. As he pulled away, he looked at you, his eyes uncertain.

“I hope…you didn’t mind that, either.”

A deep blush grew on your cheeks as you smiled and shook your head, “Definitely didn’t mind that.” Your voice was low, quiet. You knew this moment, though on the outside seemed so insignificant, was a monumental moment for Astarion.

He smirked and nodded, “Good. Because when I was thinking about how I wanted to hold your hand, I was also thinking about how I wanted to kiss you, as well.”

You leaned into him and kissed him, pressing your lips on his a little firmer than last time. Smiling, you pulled away slightly, “I like when you think like that.”

Astarion chuckled, his bare hand moving up the sleeve of your blouse, “Good to know. I’ll have to keep that mind next time I start thinking.”

The Shadowlands had boasted not only the worst atmosphere you had ever experienced, but also the worst sounds to ever grace your ears. It seemed like every time you heard a bird squawk, or a bush rustle, you jumped 10 feet in the air. You were thankful that you had Astarion by your side at night, otherwise, you weren’t completely sure if you’d get any rest at all.

Your nights with Astarion could only be described as wholesome, for the most part. Though his gloves were now off in the presence of your tent – his comfortability of touching you without them pretty much 100% - he still couldn’t get past his history when it came to sex. The moaning in each other’s mouths as your tongues danced with each other only amplified how desperate you were for each other, but every time, it wasn’t right. And that was okay.

But gods, did you yearn for him in every way.

Astarion was currently holding you, as you read on your side. You could tell he was sneaking peeks at your book because every so often, there was a “humph” or gasp coming from his lips softly. And when you tried to turn the page too fast, Astarion would gently touch the corner of the book, preventing you from moving to the next page.

“I can let you borrow the book when I’m finished, you know.” You said, giggling in his arms. He smirked and kissed your neck, his breath hot in your ear.

“But isn’t this much more fun, darling?”

You dog-eared the page and put the book down, turning in Astarion’s arms so you were facing him. You gently placed your hands on his chest, looking up at him. Every time you touched him with skin-on-skin contact, you made sure he was comfortable. Astarion smiled and nodded, placing a peck on your forehead. Slowly, he kissed down your temple, to your cheek, and to your jawline. You sighed heavily, your arms wrapping around his neck. He hummed as he kissed along your jaw.

"Astarion..." You breathed. Your hands found their way into his hair, and when you started running your fingers through it, he moaned slightly.

Suddenly, gently, Astarion's cold hand had found it's way in between your legs, tentatively pressing against your clit through your underwear. You gasped at the sudden sensation, pulling back. Looking at him confused, he blushed slightly.

"I need you," He murmured quietly, brushing a lock of your hair back, "I need to feel you. All of you. I want to take you...desperately."

You smiled and slowly rolled your hips forward, towards his fingers. The pressure made you moan, and you tried your hardest to not roll your eyes back.

"Are you sure?"

Astarion nodded. His hand quickly pulled back and found it's way by his side, "But...I may...um..." His gaze followed where his gloves lay on the table near your bed. You followed his eyes, and looked at the gloves. You smiled and kissed him.

"Put them on."

"Are you sure? It's just that...well, I don't need them to touch you anymore, obviously, but when I think about making love, it can get overwhelming-"

"Astarion," You cut him off gently, staring into his eyes, "If you need to wear your gloves to feel comfortable making love to me, then you can wear 30,000 pairs at the same time. As long as you feel comfortable doing it," You kissed him quickly, "And can still take off my pants."

Astarion laughed and reached behind you, slipping the gloves on. His bashful look gave way to a smile, his eyes darkening in a way that you hadn't seen before. He enveloped you in a kiss, grabbing hold of your body around your waist.

"I am going to fuck you until you see stars." He grumbled, pressing his erection into you. Capturing your lips in a rough kiss, you moaned into it, the sudden portrayal of Astarion’s arousal sending heat to your belly. He gently guided you on your back as he straddled you, never breaking the kiss. Finally he leaned back, staring into your eyes.

He was truly a captivating sight - his fair, taught body seemed to glow in the light of your oil lamp. His eyes - usually a bright ruby - were now almost so dark they were onyx. He smiled at you, causing you to turn bashful under his gaze. You felt his hands make quick work of your pants, pushing them down to your ankles. You aided him by kicking them off your feet, your heart racing.

Was this finally happening - were you finally going to make love with Astarion? Your head swam as his gloved hands glided down your sides, taking in every inch of you. He shook his head, still smiling.

“You are the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.” He whispered, his eyes inching towards your (now soaking) center. Gracefully, he slid down the bed, not breaking eye contact with you. Achingly slow, he spread your legs. Settling on his belly, his head dipped to your core, his nose so close it tickled the hair that encased it.

“Astarion…” You murmured, your hand resting on his head. You watched him lick his lips before he lightly pressed his tongue to your clit, sending a wave of pleasure through your whole body. You physically felt like your senses were on overdrive - every muscle was tightened, anxiously awaiting his touch.

“You can’t rush perfection, darling,” He purred, one of his fingers finding their way to your clit. He gently rubbed the finger over your bulge, teasing you, the leather of the gloves an icy contrast to your growing heat. “I’m going to savor this moment. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.”

He was staring at you; a moment suspended in time. The only sound in the tent was your whimpers, trying to muffle it so the others didn’t hear you. Astarion’s signature smirk never left his mouth - he was the notorious tease, so why would he be any different in bed?

Suddenly, his tongue delved into you, immediately lapping up your juices, causing you to gasp in pleasure. Your hands found his head, desperate to grip anything in their path. Once you felt his hair you couldn’t help but give a tight tug, to which he groaned into your cunt, the vibrations driving you crazy.

“You like that, don’t you?” He teased, pulling back slightly to speak. He still smirked, his tongue softly darting back to your clit. You bit your lip and nodded, the only way you could currently respond without screaming in pleasure. He dove back in, sending waves of sensation through your body - the coil in your belly started to tighten as Astarion took your clit in his mouth, sucking gently.

Shifting your head to the side of the bed, you pressed your mouth into the pillow, yelping in pleasure. Suddenly, you felt the leather of Astarion’s glove grabbing your cheeks, forcing your head forward. When you opened your eyes you saw him hovering over you, body slightly raised from your pussy.

“Don’t,” He commanded, the other hand working circles on your clit, “I want everyone to hear. I want the whole world to hear how good I love you.”

“Astarion…” You whimpered, your voice trailing off as he was back in between your legs, licking you into another dimension. You did as you were told, your head lolling back on to the pillow so you were looking at the ceiling of your tent, your vision going fuzzy. Your orgasm was quickly approaching, your muscles so tight you felt like you had to jump out of your skin. You knew Astarion sensed it - he slipped one arm underneath you to give himself better leverage, and was now lapping at you roughly, hungrily.

“I-I…I’m going to come,” You breathed, your strength failing you to use your full voice. You looked down and saw Astarion smiling into your cunt, the vibrations on your clit causing your legs to shake around his head. He stared at you from his position, which was just the push your body needed to reach ecstasy.

Your orgasm washed over you as your back involuntarily arched, a hand gripping so hard on to Astarion’s head you’re surprised you didn’t hurt him. His voice was screamed from your lips - definitely heard by everyone in camp - and you couldn’t think of anything else as you saw stars. Your chest felt like it was on fire as you heaved, trying to get control of your breathing. Astarion lapped at you for a few moments more as you felt your orgasm, finally pulling back to give you a moment to breathe. He stood on his knees and wiped his mouth, the smirk never leaving his face.

“You taste incredible.” He said, slowly raising himself from the bed. He undid the strings of his pants and pulled them down, his erection popping out. Leaking with wetness already, you couldn’t help but stare - this was the first time you were fully seeing him naked, and you were in awe of his form. Just seeing him fully aroused was enough to get you going again, and once he crawled back on top of you, you immediately spread your legs for him. He kissed you, and the faint taste of yourself made you moan into the kiss - his tongue was sloppily dancing in your mouth, all sense of romantic etiquette out the window. He was needy, whimpering into the kiss.

You felt him align himself with your entrance and you pressed one of your hands to his cheek, causing him to look up. You smiled softly.

“Are you sure?” You asked gently, delicately cradling his trauma in your hands. Your heart was racing in your chest - out of all the lovers in the land, you couldn’t believe that Astarion had felt comfortable with only you.

He smiled and nodded, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, “I’ve never been more sure of anything else in my entire life, darling. All 200 years of it,” You felt him adjust himself on top of you and he smiled, his eyes darkening again, “Now; stop being so nice so I can ravage you so good you can’t walk tomorrow.”

You both chuckled as he pressed himself into you, your laughter giving way to a low hiss as he immediately filled your aching entrance. Your pussy was begging for a break since you had just orgasmed mere moments ago, but the ache felt so good, you couldn’t help but moan. Astarion maintained eye contact with you, his mouth slightly parted, as he slowly began to rock into you, his hips falling into a rhythm.

“Gods, you are so fucking tight,” He spoke through gritted teeth, “Make my cock feel so good.”

Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead as he rocked quicker into you, his eyes falling heavy. You moved your hips upwards, gaining better leverage so he could go deeper. When he hit your spot, you both moaned in pleasure, and you gripped the sheets next to you.

“Astarion-” You groaned, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You dug your nails into his back and pulled him closer to you, “Fuck! You make me feel so good!” Your breasts bounced with every thrust and you arched your back, “Harder, please!” You whined.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He mumbled in your ear, his words hot on your face, “You’d like me to fuck you ‘till we broke this bed, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” You gasped, digging your nails harder into his back, “Please, please - give it to me!”

Astarion started to slam his hips against yours, the wet sounds of skin filling the tent. With every thrust, he groaned, his face becoming slightly red. A gloved hand appeared around your neck, and he stared into your eyes. You smiled slightly and nodded, and only with your consent did he start to squeeze, holding you in place as he fucked you.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Hells, Astarion! You make me feel so good,” You screamed, both of your hands going to his around your neck, “Please, don’t ever stop fucking me.”

Your voice was a whine, desperate for sweet release of your impending orgasm. If your first one was intense, this one was indescribable - Astarion’s cock slammed into you in a rhythm he was slowly losing control of. He took his hand off of your throat and held on to your hips, trying to gain control of his thrusts as he closed in on his own orgasm.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours!” You screamed immediately, your hands wrapping around his neck again, “I’m yours! This pussy is yours - forever! I’m yours forever.”

Astarion smirked as he looked into your eyes, “Good girl.” He whispered, leaning down to kiss you. He bit down on your bottom lip hard and as he pulled away, he licked away the tiny bit of blood that had sprouted.

Suddenly, his expression changed as the trusts fell out of time. He became sloppy, his mouth open, his eyes closed. His climax was close, so you wrapped your legs around him, drawing his cock closer into your aching cunt. Slick with both of your juices, Astarion’s cock slid in and out of you, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Darling, I’m close,” He breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, staring into yours, “You’re going to make me come.”

“Come for me,” You said bringing your hands to the sides of his face. Your own orgasm was close - you were sure that if you felt him spill inside of you, you would tip over the edge for the second time that night. You smiled, tears of pleasure threatening to fall from your eyes as your body was being pounded into the bed, “Fill me.”

Astarion rested his forehead on yours. With a loud moan of your name, his entire body tensed, his climax spilling into you. His gloved hands dug into the side of your hips and suddenly your orgasm appeared, washing over you all at once. You pressed your body into his, screaming his name, your bodies close enough to feel as one.

As your bodies spasmed together, you saw Astarion smile. He peppered a gently kiss onto your lips, a soft moan escaping into your mouth.

“My darling,” He whispered, his body still on top of you, “That was…divine.” He was out of breath, his voice ragged. As he slowly moved to your side, still inside of you, you nuzzled into his chest, trying to steady your own breathing.

“Thank you,” You whispered, sighing contently, “For trusting me enough to be able to do that with me.”

Astarion tutted and started to stroke your hair, “Thank you for being the person that you are…so that I can feel safe enough to trust you.” He looked down at you and kissed you.

Sleep crept upon both of you; and neither you nor Astarion made a move to clean up the sticky aftermath between both of your legs. As you drifted off to sleep, still naked in Astarion’s arms, he whispered sweet nothings in your ear. You smiled contently - you could get used to this. It seemed the whole world was in your arms as you both held on tightly to one another, an unspoken bond between the two of you grown stronger.

Astarion slid his gloves off before he fell asleep.

---

A/N: I had a blast writing this one...please reblog if you liked it! Comments mean the world to me! :)

[marvelfanfics1]

Hi! Could you do a Rafe x Little!Reader where it is the readers first time being little around Rafe and the reader is very shy and emotional and it’s just all cute and fluffy please?

I totally get it if you can’t!

Btw, I absolutely loved your Moody Princess one shot, thank you so much for writing it!

Baby's Safe Space

Pairing: daddy!rafe x pogue!little!reader

Warnings: age regression, small mentions of past abuse, soft!rafe, fluff

A/n: Thank you lovely! I hope I made the request justice and that you like how it came out 🫣🫶🏻

⭒𖥸⭒

It took Rafe some time to understand the aspects of regressing but after you explained it to him he started to do more research on his own, and maybe buying some stuff online he thought you would like, to show his support.

You told Rafe that regressing is just how you cope with past trauma you endured during your childhood.

He understood how important it is for your little self to feel safe and protected, knowing it's not for everyone to see and felt honored that you finally got the courage to talk about it with him. That you feel safe enough in his presence to show your most vulnerable side.

Growing up at the cut with abusive parents took quite a tool on you and as you found out about the term age regression it was clear to you it's what you needed to cope or what you deserved to have.

Rafe was beyond anxious that he somehow mess things up by saying or doing the wrong thing that it results in you being little by yourself again.

He felt bad knowing you probably were only little when he would have busy work days or a business trip.

It was a little into the afternoon and you just got out of the bathroom after doing your skincare and Rafe instantly noticed the pastel colored jammies that had little bunnies printed all over them.

He smiled at you softly, internally excited as hell to finally see that side of you and even curious as to how different your behavior is now in this state.

He noticed at the way you fiddled with the hem of your shirt that you're probably even more nervous than him right now, which is totally understandable.

It was already a hard challenge for you to even tell him about it.

Putting his phone aside he waved you over to him.

"Come here, baby. Promise I won't bite ya." He smirked and to see you smile a little was already a triumph to him.

Shyly you shuffled over to the bed, climbing your way up to snuggle into Rafe's side and grasping his shirt in one of your hands.

He wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head when suddenly he remembered what he had hidden under the bed. "Ah- wait a second..."

He reached beside under the bed to pull out a white box with a rather big red ribbon on top of it. You sat up straight when he placed it between you both. "I- uh...thought you might like it and if not that's totally fine."

You haven't even opened it yet but Rafe certainly knew you cherish absolutely anything he gifted you.

He was just afraid he would go too far with what he bought you but the sparkle in your eyes already eased his nerves a little.

You slowly took of the lid and gasped. There was a lamb stuffie, color books with crayons, and some obviously custom made pacis in your favorite colors you had been dreaming of getting for yourself for a while now.

You instantly teared up, scaring Rafe beyond belief. "Hey, hey...what's wrong kid?" He asked reaching out to cup your face in his large palms, his thumb swiping away the tears that slipped before asking. "Was it too much at once?"

You quickly shook your head which was a little hard with him holding your face. You placed your hands over his, smiling at him. "Dey are happy tears."

"Really? You don't have to say that just to-" you silenced him by leaning forward to peck his lips.

"fank you, Rafey..." You whispered and he pressed his forehead against yours.

"Not for that, baby. I'd do anything to make you happy."

After your sweet moment you only pulled out the stuffie and a paci, placing the box on the ground beside the bed and snuggled back into Rafe's side. You popped in your paci and had the lamb held snugly under your chin while he turned on the TV and looked through Netflix for a movie that suited your headspace, yet he had some difficulty.

"Can you tell me how old you're feeling right now?" He asked and you held up three fingers. After a moment of looking through the kids section he stopped when you squealed quietly and pointed your finger at the screen at seeing your favorite cartoon making Rafe chuckle slightly. "Alright, guess it's gonna be this one."

He put the cartoon on play, an arm wrapping around you to keep you close and kissing your head.

You sighed contently, mumbling sleepily from behind your paci. "Lub you Rafey..."

"I love you more, baby."

                                       ⭒𖥸⭒

Taglist

for everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @devilslilbabysblog @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @wandaslittlewhore @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @aagn360 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @fluffyblanketgecko @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse @kissforvoid

Crossed out are the ones I somehow can't tag!

[homeslices]

Euphoria (Azriel x pregnant!reader)

Summary: You and Azriel find out you’re pregnant.

A/N: Thought his idea was cute and I’m thinking about making this an entire series of dad!Azriel. Also I’m sorry if this isn’t good, it’s my first time writing anything for acotar, but I do really like it so I plan on writing more in the future.

Pairings: Azriel x pregnant!Reader

Warnings: suggests smut, slight angst about not being able to conceive a baby (fluff to make up)

Word Count: 1.0k

Azriel and you had been trying to have a babe for a while. While the only people in the Inner Circle who had a child was Rhys and Feyre, you have been mated for hundreds of years and were beyond ready. 

Having children was something you had to have many lengthy discussions about first. Azriel’s trauma with his family as a child and your own trauma being an Illyrian women whose wings got clipped before being cast out of your home only too be found and taken in by Rhys’s his mother, were all things you both had to think about before even considering bringing a babe in this world. That’s not even mentioning the war you and all of your loved ones fought in and somehow survived. However, seeing Feyre and Rhy being amazing parents to their son, and just seeing Nyx in general, has confirmed what you both have wanted for a while. 

But, as much as you both wanted a child, it just did not happen. It’s been years since you started trying, and as much as you love to be with Azriel intimately, it started to feel more like a task rather than something fun. There have been a few nights that Azriel has woken up because you forgot to close the bond and was flooded with your feelings of self-loathing. All he could do was cup your tearstained face and whisper reassuring and loving words to you. You blamed yourself and as much as Azriel denied it, those thoughts just didn’t go away.

After the third night of that happening, both you and Azriel decided to just stop trying. Of course you both would continue to not take the tonic, but your goal while being intimate was no longer having a baby, it was to enjoy each other. After a time, sex was pleasurable again, your mindset improved, and while you did have moments of self doubt, Azriel was always there for you as you were for him. Similarly, your family was amazing the entire time. While Azriel and you were fairly private about the situation, you didn’t hide what was going on with them. Their support helped you heal, both of you. It’s been a few years since then, Nyx was now six and it is true that time heals all wounds. 

Azriel was the one who noticed it first. The sun was starting to rise, light beginning to stream through the window of Azriel and your shared bedroom. It was one of those rare occasions that neither of you had to go anywhere that morning, however, Azriel was so used to being up before the sun that he was already awake. Your face was peaceful as you slept, your bare figure tangled in the sheets, and the only noise heard was your soft breathing. His hazel eyes watched your calm face, all the while having his shadows watch both of your surroundings. Weirdly enough, his shadows also kept brushing over you, almost like they were scared to let you out of their grip. It reminded him of when you first mated, at least one of his shadows had to be with you at all times once both of you got out of the frenzy.

There was something different, something unusual that Azriel could sense that made him feel uneasy, but not on edge. It bothered him, however, as your eyes fluttered open and you shifted your body to face your mate, it hit him. Well, your scent hit him. Before, the room smelled of the previous night’s activities, but with your change in position, he could now make out that your scent has changed. It was subtle, but the slight sweetness in the air was all that was needed to figure out what was so strange. 

Azriel’s face was the first thing you saw as you woke up. Despite being able to mask how he’s feeling extremely well, his slightly widened eyes, along with the millions of thoughts running rampant behind them, were all telltale signs that he was in shock. 

You hum curiously before speaking.

“What is it?” you question while reaching up to cup the side of his face, rubbing your thumb along his cheek. You could feel the coolness of his shadows brushing all over your body, it was comforting yet slightly unusual to wake up to. 

“You're pregnant.” 

Sitting up suddenly, as if a bucket of ice water had been spilt on you, you look at him bewildered.

“I’m sorry, what?” 

A grin filled with pure joy took over his face as he answered you once again. 

“You’re pregnant.”

All you could feel was disbelief and elation. You could now tell that your scent was different and all you could do was look at your husband, your mate, incredulously. His deep laugh fills the room, only further showing his happiness. You beam at him as he lifts you in his arms and settles you on his lap. His bare skin felt warm against yours, and the chill that continued to brush over you from the shadows felt perfect against you. The only time you’ve felt this overjoyed was when you found out you were mated to Azriel. You brush your lips against his as he cups your face, brushing away the tears you didn’t know were falling. 

You knew things were going to change from that point on. You knew how male got when their mate was pregnant, how protective they became. You saw first hand when Feyre was pregnant with Nyx, she could never move more than a few feet away before Rhys was next to her once again, and if a stranger came up to her, everyone could feel the power he unleashed to get them away. Rhys had mentioned it was similar to how males are after first being mated, but also said that that is nothing compared to how protective he felt of his mate carrying his child. 

You knew that this was only the beginning of troubles you would face. But at this point in time, wrapped in one another’s embrace, tenderly kissing tears of joy off each other's face while the morning light poured in, all you could feel was euphoria.