#I have no earthly idea what I’m doing

[loz-and-lu-fan-blog]

A body that doesn’t feel right

Could you just imagine, a body that never fits.

-

This is just based off that idea, just how much the time traveling messed with Link view of himself and how he likely never felt at home in his body after.

Enjoy the bad comic art lol

[honeypiehotchner]

kiss her, you fool (Hotch x fem!Reader) -- one shot

Anyway I'm back in the fucking building again!!!! Listened to "Kiss Her You Fool" by Kids That Fly and had this one shot written in like an hour. The love for Aaron Hotchner never dies apparently

Summary: You're in the middle of spring cleaning when Aaron calls and says he forgot something at your place (he didn't).

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff! I just wanted to write some romance

It’s the middle of the day and you’re in the middle of a cleaning frenzy when your phone rings for what looks like the third time. It’s Aaron.

“Hey! Sorry,” you laugh, grabbing the TV remote to pause your music, phone pressed to your ear with your shoulder. “I’m spring cleaning and clearly way too far in the zone. What’s up?”

“That’s okay,” you can hear him smiling as you readjust your phone in your hand. “Would it be alright if I stopped by? I think I left something there last night.”

You furrowed your brows, spinning around the living room. You definitely would’ve noticed if he left something here last night. You’ve practically turned your entire apartment upside down to clean it.

“Are you sure?” you ask, moving to lift the couch cushions for a third time. “What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, which totally isn’t suspicious at all. “Can I just come look?”

“I mean,” you let out an awkward laugh. “I guess you can. I’ve been cleaning since this morning, though, so I think I would’ve spotted it, but—”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” he says. “If that’s okay?”

You sigh, selfishly glad you’re getting to see him again, two days in a row. It feels like you’ve hit the jackpot. “Yeah, of course it’s okay.”

“Great, see you in a few.”

“See you,” you bite back your grin, ending the call. You turn the music back on, a little lower so you’ll hear him when he knocks.

You have no earthly idea what he could’ve forgotten. He had his phone and jacket in hand when he left. He never took his wallet or keys out of his jacket pockets, so they must’ve stayed there. Unless either of them fell out, but again, you feel like you would’ve noticed.

Whatever it is, he’ll either find it or realize it isn’t here. Regardless, you’re getting to see him again, so you’ll take it.

With his job, the days that you do see Aaron are typically one long day spent together here and there. Yesterday was an exception, a rare dinner mid-work week because he happened to be done at the office early and you were free, so obviously the opportunity was taken advantage of. It’s only been a few weeks of seeing one another, so you both take any chance you can get. 

Despite this, though, things have moved…slow. Slower than you expected because, to be frank, every guy you’ve been with has been quick and to the point. Not that you always minded that. Sometimes you wanted the same thing — quick, hot, heavy. But those days have since left you, and you went through a period of seeing no one, aside from one guy who left as soon as you said you were interested in moving slowly. 

It’s nothing against Aaron, but when he first introduced himself at your local coffee shop, you kind of assumed he’d be the same. It’s hard not to assume when everyone acted that way, and when the men who frequent said coffee shop don’t exactly have the best track record for being polite and respectful.

Aaron, though, took weeks to ask for your number, let alone to join your table one morning to sip his coffee — and even then, you offered him the seat; he didn’t invite himself. That alone was enough for you to agree to give him your number, and then to an official first date.

He kissed your cheek after the first date, your forehead after the second, and kept to those areas alone. You found yourself wondering if something was wrong with you somehow, but he wasn’t disinterested. Quite the opposite, actually, from how he held your hand and kept his arms around you, how he made sure you were safely inside your apartment before heading off, how he still texted when he arrived home to ask you if you were still safely inside.

Or when he had to cancel a date last minute, and sent flowers to your apartment in lieu of his presence. He apologized over the phone, but the flowers had an apology note attached too. And another apology when he arrived at your door four days later, fresh off the plane, with a real explanation of his job and why he didn’t have time to explain it all to you before he left.

Your friends think it’s a little crazy, that it’s been almost a month of dating and there hasn’t been a single kiss — “On the cheek doesn’t count!” they argue. You think it does. If anything, you’re just happy there’s no pressure.

The underlying anxiety is there, sure, of what if it never happens? But you can’t bring yourself to entertain the thought. Mainly because you want to kiss him so bad, you’re practically going to leap onto him one of these days.

You’re mid-dance when a knock sounds on your door and you jump, having forgotten Aaron said he would be here soon. You turn the music down as you head for the door, unlocking it to let him in.

He stands there in his usual dark suit, sans tie this time so the top buttons are undone, bouquet of flowers in hand and dumb smile on his face.

“What are these for?” you ask when he hands them to you. 

He steps inside and shuts the door, pausing to press a kiss to your forehead. “Because I wanted to.”

You give him a look, cheeks feeling warm. “If you keep doing this ‘because you want to,’ I’m gonna need to open a flower truck,” you joke, gesturing to the other vase of flowers sitting in your window. And there’s another in the bathroom. And one in your bedroom. 

“Just let me know what kind of truck you want,” he teases.

You press the flowers to your nose to hide your smile. “Oh, what did you forget? You’re welcome to look for it, but—”

He lets out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I might have lied.”

“I knew you were, you idiot,” you swat playfully at his arm. You turn to head into the kitchen in search of another vase. “I got off the phone and paced around like what did he possibly leave here? I figured maybe your wallet or something, but I definitely would’ve found it earlier. You should’ve seen the living room this morning — I had the couch on its side and the coffee table in the middle of the hallway—”

You’re in the middle of rambling, digging around under the sink for a vase, when Aaron pulls you up by your hand, spinning you to face him.

“—it was a disaster trying to vacuum. Remind me never to do that unless you’re over here to lift all of it. I think I nearly—”

He’s smiling at you, and you don’t have a single moment to spare to register that he’s leaning in before his lips are on yours. 

You sigh into the kiss, pleasantly surprised to be interrupted in this way, and glad your hands are free so you can hold onto him. Maybe this is why it’s good he hadn’t kissed you yet — one second of it and you’re ready to collapse under the sweet weight of it all. His arms circle your waist to lift you up, and your arms circle his neck, keeping him close. As close as you’ve really wanted him.

When you finally break for air, it’s only to press your foreheads against one another’s, not wanting to move too far.

“Well,” you laugh.

“Technically,” he says, pausing to peck your nose, “that’s what I forgot last night.”

You roll your eyes. “You are so stupid.”

“Mm, just because it makes you smile,” he says, kissing your lips again, and again. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Ideally,” you pause, letting him kiss you again, “ordering dinner in and making out with my boyfriend until the sun rises. You?”

“You know, I was thinking about taking someone special out to dinner,” he pauses, pulling you closer again, “and then kissing her until she tells me to stop.”

“That could be forever, for all you know.”

“That’s fine with me.”

You grin and he kisses you again, pausing to say, “Sorry, I can’t help myself—”

“Trust me,” you move even closer, your eyelashes practically touching his cheeks when you blink, “you don’t need to apologize.”

He responds by kissing you some more, and more, until he’s lifting you into his arms and placing you on the kitchen counter. 

“Aaron!” you squeal, nearly crushing the bouquet. “Let me move the flowers at least!”

“I’ll buy you another,” he says, just a whisper away from kissing you again. 

“You know—” You have to pause in between words as he presses his lips to yours. “—I still have—cleaning—Aaron,” you giggle. “I need to put my apartment back together.”

“Do you?” he asks, relenting only slightly, his fingertips pressing into your lower back, keeping you against him. “Do you need help?”

“I do actually,” you chuckle, running your fingers through his hair. “The couch isn’t back where it was.”

He smirked. “I noticed.”

You tug on his hair slightly to tease him for that jab, only it lights a new spark behind his eyes. Your cheeks grow even warmer. “No, seriously,” you say. “It’ll stress me out if it’s not back in its spot, but then…”

He nods, kissing your lips. “Then we’ll get ready for dinner.”

“And then come back here for a movie?”

“We’ll see how much of the movie we actually pay attention to,” he smirks, eyes traveling all over your face. 

The urge to let him ravish you right now against the kitchen counter is so strong it nearly makes you lightheaded. But soon Aaron is helping you down, pressing another kiss to your forehead. 

“Did you get to vacuum under the couch all the way?”

“…kind of.”

“Come on,” he chuckles, pulling on your hand, leading you back into the living room. “Call me next time?”

“If I get kissed like that during spring cleaning then I’m doing it every day,” you reply, mostly joking. Kind of. “Fuck I forgot the vase for the flowers—”

Aaron kisses you to interrupt you once again. “One thing at a time,” he says.

The kissing doesn’t stop, and you never do get to vacuum under the couch. It can wait.

[evilgwrl]

Arranged marriage! With ghost where she’s from a small island and ghost comes to collect taxes well the island is just a few hundred short they can make it up next year? Right?! Nah ghosts is like mmmmm I’ll take what yall call a princess mean while she’s struggling as much as the other fokes on the island so when Simon takes her way and finds out she’s never lived the simple life he makes it his mission to show her the good that can out of this arrangement smutty if you would 😭 I’m obsessed with the arranged marriage trope with ghost he’s a cutie patootie

Arranged Marriage w/ Simon Riley

Holy moly I love this…

Thank you for this idea @creepytoes88 I hope you don’t mind that I made him a king, I just wanted it to flow with giving her a better life and the tax collection <3

King!Simon Riley x Reader

Archipelago

CW: Being sold by your family to pay off debt, sharing a bath, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm bc simon knows what to do ;)

Word Count: 2,623

Twisted fingers hooked under the bark, knees scraped with stagnant flora, coiling limbs of bushy thorns blistering around the tropical plains. There was a subtle burn that sunk through your thighs, muscles gnawing at your bones before you finally settled on a thick branch, wind hissing in your ear, almost warning you. You paid no attention.

Pupil-blown eyes stared off to the view in front of you, lapping in the vicious strain of turquoise, untouched coral glistening an array of colours under the harsh sun. There was a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of your neck, your hair thrown into a rough bun as you shielded yourself with raggedy, overworked fingers.

You watched the skerries surrounding your island, a flurry of birds swooping low before nestling down on the warmth of the rocky floor. It was a peaceful sight. Nothing but the low crash of waves to be sound, the occasional calling of a fellow Islander working its way through the palms and out of the sand, before landing in your ear.

You felt the prickle of pain shoot through your feet as you landed on the ground, the grass covered in speckles of yellow dust sticking in between your toes as you hurried down to the village. Any bit of tranquillity soon disappeared as your eyes locked into the sight of the townspeople, the Island far too small to accommodate such needing families.

“Y/N! Where have you been? The King shall be here soon and you’re off running with the fairies.”

Your Mother’s tone was harsh and reprimanding, her eyes tight with wrinkles as she scowled, chucking a makeshift broom at you. You weren’t exactly sure what the difference of you sweeping would make, the life you live here, swept or not, is strikingly different to the one of a King. No matter how beautiful your Island is, your feet are permanently stained with grains of sand, skin is littered with dull scars and fresh scratches.

You understood her worry, offering her a gentle, apologetic smile as you followed her bustle of orders. Your Father was the village Chief, a wise man who led the people to survive without the worry of advanced civilisation.

You were seen as a headcase to the others. A woman whose head wasn’t fixed well enough to her shoulders. A dreamer. Your mind was amplified by the need to do more, to see more. Untouched beauty too turns mundane when you’re not allowed to experience it.

As night fell, the waves seemed to settle, burying themselves in the crops of sand that spanned around you, 10-legged creatures hiding away in the cocoon of a cracked shell. Palms slept with the safety of coconuts that would blossom into the town’s delicacy, the meat tender on the tongues of children, the water fuel for the fishermen. There was a large bonfire lit, the earthly crackle occasionally popping as a spark flew out, hissing against the cool air before dispersing into a drag of smoke.  

Girls chattered around you, smoothing down their appearances as they used crushed berries on their lips and the apples of their cheeks. You were never fussed about the King, hardly paying attention to him on his previous arrivals if he even bothered to show up. You took note of his lack of empathy, normally sending one of his men in his place, unbothered by the Island that’s supposed to fall under his command.

You heard the ship pull up, wood striking against the ground as it split between the beach, a carved woman tangled to the figurehead, flowing hair etched between wood and a man’s knife as she breached the island. They were a loud bunch, deep voices echoing across the Isle as your father walked down to greet them formally.

The air grew silent, thick smog suffocating the air as your father appeared, his figure shaking as he hobbled towards you. Toughened hands gripped your cheeks, stroking the sun-kissed skin to comfort you.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

“We- We’re short on our taxes,” he gulped, a hand planted in your matted hair as you scrunched your brows together.

“But how? We’re sensible, we work harder- How?”

“Things happen beyond our understanding sometimes, sweetheart, just know me and your mother love you very much.”

“I know? Why are you-” you stalled “- Why are you telling me this? What’s going on?”

“The King needs a wife,” he hiccupped as realisation set in, spine snapping into a cold flush as you attempted to wriggle free from your father’s grip.

“No-“

“I have to, Y/N, I don’t have a choice!”

“A choice? There’s always a choice! How could you do this to me?” The strain of a sob wracked through your chest, your heart beating eerily slow against your rib cage as you wailed out for your mother who only walked away, her face concealed by strands of hair. Hands coiled around your biceps, dragging you towards the ship as you carried on, cementing your heels into the dirtied sand to anchor yourself.

“Stop resisting,” A harsh voice spoke into your ear, nails breaking the surface of your tender skin as you nipped at the air, wriggling. Your limbs felt mangled as you were thrown over someone’s shoulder, your stomach caving in with a penetrative force as you choked on the air, saline tears streaming down your face.

Aching skin collided with the sand as you were thrown onto the floor, leather boots staring back at you as your head cocked up. His figure was tall, dressed in all black with a row of medals displayed on his breast pocket. His stare was dark, irises the colour of burnt whiskey, pale lashes flickering down at you before looking back up. The rest of his face was covered by a woven garment, handcrafted to perfection, painted with a white skull.

“Did you find it necessary to throw her at my feet like she’s some dog?”

“Your Majesty she was res-“

“It is a yes or no question.”

His voice was thick with malt, a hidden arrogance underlying his words as his eyes spoke for him. A veiny hand was offered to you, light scars tracing his knuckles before he lifted you, admiring you for a brief second.

“She’ll do. I’ll be back in 6 months,” The King spoke roughly.

The sea breeze was tranquil given the circumstances, the ocean rocking your tears to a halt as you huddled yourself away in the captain’s quarters. Your body was trailed with layers of silk, dirtied clothes moulded to your skin as you sniffled. There was a vast smell of salt, almost suffocating you as it burnt through your nose and hair. You scrunched your skin, rubbing at your nostrils before nestling yourself into a pillow.

You awoke to the sound of commotion. You took in the handful of women surrounding you, their hair tied back in a tight bun, protected by a frilly cap. They wore black and white dresses, aprons attached to their fronts and smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, your majesty. Shall we run you a bath?”

You sat up, hands creasing against the sheets below you as your eyes adjusted to the new scenery. You weren’t on the ship anymore.

“Where am I?” You choked out, huffing your chest out to look more intimidating. In reality, you look cowered, skin droopy with betrayal, burst blood vessels evident under your eyes.

“In your private quarters, the King requested we come to you, settle you in.”

You scowled, “I just want to be alone.” They left in a hurry, feet skidding against the floor in a squeak as they shut the large oak doors behind them.

The room was one for Royalty. The large bed was dressed in golden sheets, red swirls detailing the plush headpieces, solid gold baubles along the edges as tall stakes met the ceiling, lace hanging from them for privacy. Your feet hit the polished marble floors; calloused skin not used to such luxury that you almost yelped in unfamiliarity. Glass trickled from the overhead chandelier, an arrangement of crystals advocating flickers of light across the room, an occasional rainbow seeping through like a diamond in the rough.

Oil paintings hung from the walls, detailed gold wrapping around them as the figurines stared at you dauntingly. A plethora of books rested on shelves, a comforting sofa tucked away in the corner, highlights of red bursting through the stuffed pillows, plucked by the finest of feathers.

The room felt suffocating, the air a terminal sickness that wove into your lungs as you realised the severity of the situation. Your father – your parents, had sold you away to the King to pay for lost taxes. You were a miserable sight as you huddled over onto the floor, chest collapsing with cries as you attempted to grip the material beneath your knees, desperate for the sensation of sand.

Simon watched you intently from the door as he cracked it open, a deafening cough sounding from him as you looked up at him, bewildered.

“I understand the circumstances aren’t the best, but your people owed me, and they chose you as collateral.”

“I want to go home,” you hiccupped, facing away from him in humiliation. His leather shoes hit the floor, striding up to you in only a few steps.

“This is your home now, and in a few weeks, we shall be wedded. Whether or not you choose to invite your family is up to you, but I shall not tolerate disrespect. If you didn’t want the maids to tend to you, that’s fine, but I will.”

You watched his stalking figure disappear into another room attached to your quarters, the heavy pour of water indicating that he was running you a bath. You rose to your feet anxiously, popping your head around the corner as you took in the room. A large tub was carved with porcelain, wide in size with golden feet, bubbles guzzling under the powerful stream as the scent of lavender filled the air.

“Undress,” He spoke as you cocked a brow.

“In front of you?” You scoffed.

“You didn’t want the maids, now you have me. Undress.”

Your clothes itched as they were ridden from your skin, bare body flushed under the light as you attempted to conceal yourself from his bruising vision. The water scolded you as you sunk in, muscles relaxing instantly under the soothing oil. It was an irregular feeling.

You heard him shuffle behind you as you turned, eyes gawking wide as you took in his naked figure, cock resting low against his thigh. A squeak slipped through your lips as you turned around in a fluster.

His mask was off, his face a welcoming surprise. His brows were thick, bulging above slit frames, his nose slightly crooked with a masculine appeal to him.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, chest tight, eyes bulging.

“Bathing,” he practically snarled, “move over.”

Your belly felt hot, the unknowing feeling of arousal seeping through your pores as you adjusted in the water, the liquid rising as he stepped in before you were pulled back against him, bottom flushed against his thighs. You were tense.

“Relax, it’s just a bath. We will not do anything until you’re ready but after marriage, I will need heirs.”

“Heirs? I don’t even know your name!”

A hand coiled around your waist, tugging at the tender skin for a moment before it rested, settling at your upper thigh.

“It’s Simon, Y/N.”

“How do you- “

“What kind of King would I be if I didn’t even know the name of the woman I’m marrying?”

The air was hazy with steam, almost suffocating you as you felt yourself relax against his hard chest, delicate twirls of hair tickling against your spine. As your body settled, Simon washed you, entwined rag lubed with delicate soap as he massaged it into the crevices of your skin, any dirt seeping into the water. His fingers were long as they massaged against your scalp, digging any knots out with a gentle force before rinsing it.

You found yourself refreshed as you settled into the sheets once more, body fresh with a floral scent, skin drenched in almond oil, the glistening reflecting against the flame of the fireplace. The bed sunk in as Simon crawled in next to you, menacing frame wracking against yours. It was silent, the usual sound of waves and birds no longer hushing you to sleep.

Your fingers twitched as you played with the hem of your nightgown, letting out a low, exhausted breath.

“I shall not hurt you for as long as you are mine, Y/N. I hope you grow to trust me and understand that I am a man of my word. If you allow me, I would like to show you who I am and the life you can have here.”

You swallowed. There was an itch inside you that couldn’t be scratched, his words only adding fuel to an uncontrollable flame as you turned to face him, cocked up on one arm. Your gown hung low, strap dangerously low on your shoulder as he adjusted his vision back to your face, lips parted with a flushed manner.

“I’ve never experienced anything before.” Your voice was low, an evident streak of self-consciousness staining it as you averted your gaze.

“Let me help you.”

Rugged fingers lifted your gown up, silk resting against your stomach in a hunched manner as Simon gripped at your thighs, spreading them lewdly. He huffed out a hum of appreciation as you jolted in embarrassment. You were so open, so exposed to fresh eyes.

“No one’s ever touched you here?” He asked. You shook your head, gazing down at him with an unspoken innocence. You felt his lips curl against your thigh as he placed a gentle kiss to it, letting it rest against the warm skin before two fingers pulled apart your lips, glistening folds presented before him.

You felt pleasure tickle up your spine as the King placed a small kiss against your clit, a mewl escaping you as you instinctively attempted to press your thighs together. He let out a tsk as he looked up at you, amused by your reaction.

“Relax for me,” he said, arms flushed around your thighs before his tongue soaked up the middle, your juices drenching his lips as you squealed, your fingers wrapping into his dusty hair as he ravaged the taste of you.

The noises you made were wanton, slopping breaths soaking the air as he worked against you, slurping you into his mouth with an aggravated need for you. His teeth grazed against your sensitive clit, wrapping his lips around it before sucking, an obscene scream sounding from you as he continued the assault.

“Taste so fucking good,” he quipped, holding your belly down in place as your hips lifted, clit overstimulated by the amount of pleasure it only just began receiving.

“Sim-Simon, I feel strange- somethings happening,” you croaked, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stop him.

“Let it happen,” he growled, his tongue thrusting against your entrance as a finger pressed against your nub, rubbing it in circular motions as you began to hold your breath.

The pressure in your belly was turmoil like an unknown danger was approaching. Simon didn’t stop, the sound of your breath hicking stirring something primal inside of him as he held you down before the pressure inside you popped, a broken whine piercing the air as you came, hips rocking desperately against the King’s face as he growled against your heat.

He pulled away, spit slick against his chin, cocky smile on his face as you panted, chest rising and falling in a synchronised fashion. Your legs closed instinctively, wetness seeping between your bottom as you shivered, satisfied clit throbbing.

“I’m not done yet, sweetheart.”

[biceratops7]

I’m gonna SCREAM-

We’ve already established as a fandom that Metatron could teach a masterclass on gas lighting, but I wanna talk about how he specifically validates the things Aziraphale cares for while simultaneously devaluing them under the surface.

First off, this moment?

Tells us everything we need to know. It sets the scene for exactly the games Metatron is playing. He makes Muriel feel important while openly insulting them (flat out calling them stupid), aka seamlessly reinforcing the idea that they’re less than to both them and anyone else in the room. He knows he can get away with this easily, he knows that Muriel, lonely, overlooked little Muriel, will be completely distracted by the fact that someone so important is taking an interest in them.

This is already horribly clever, but then later on you realize it’s doing even MORE heavy lifting when he appoints Muriel to run the bookshop. “See? What’s important to you is what’s important to me! I’ve graciously taken the time to ensure your beloved shop is looked after by Muriel. You know, the dim one!” …let’s suffice it to say he’s ensnared too birds with one net for this one, and that a pattern is already starting to arise.

So when Metatron says Gabriel came to Aziraphale because he’s a “natural leader” and “doesn’t just tell people what they wanna hear”? Yah he’s full of shit. Aziraphale struggles with his sense of purpose when he doesn’t have someone or something guiding him, and for thousands of years he’s been terrified of sharing his true feelings and opinions to 90% of people he’s known. Completely just trying to butter him up. Wanna know the real reason Gabriel seeks asylum with Aziraphale?

Exactly this. Gabriel just says so point blank. It’s not because Aziraphale is this person for him, it’s because despite knowing nothing, he has this instinct that Aziraphale is the only one who can possibly understand why Gabriel did what he did. He is, I mean as far as we know, the only other angel who has fallen in love. (In general, let alone with a demon.)

But nope, can’t have that. We can throw the promise of restoring Crowley in the mix to sweeten the pot, but we can’t acknowledge why he’d want that so badly in the first place. So now it’s cause they work so well together. We can praise the angel for the fallen archangel Gabriel himself coming to him protection and guidance, give him a gold star. But we couldn’t DARE imply that it was by virtue of Aziraphale’s courage to choose earthly love over heavenly. How Gabriel didn’t need a leader, but a friend who’s truly known the joys of adoring that “particular person” and the pain of needing to hide it.

Cause then Aziraphale would start getting crazy ideas, like that his silly little human feelings have a great deal of worth. That they have the power to inspire, form cracks in the institution, fundamentally weaken what has controlled and harmed him. We wouldn’t want him to know the true value of the cards he holds when he has the ace in a match against you, now would we? After all…

Metatron uses this ingeniously sinister tactic of taking away Aziraphale’s choice while giving the illusion that he’s actually opening up doors. Notice how he tells Aziraphale he would have the authority to do something as extraordinary as turn a demon into an angel, yet he never once puts the much simpler alternative of just working with a demon on the table? The sleight of hand here is that he’s being offered the opportunity to freely be with Crowley… but he’s already freely with him as is, no bargain to be made. In fact he fought to be. Metatron disappears this accomplishment right before our eyes, while seamlessly maintaining the illusion to Aziraphale that he (Zira) is in control.

He sets Aziraphale up for failure by only providing the option he knows Crowley will not only decline but be deeply hurt by. It’s all so cleverly planned. Once this plays out exactly how he wants, he delivers the finishing blow by diminishing Crowley and his “damned fool questions”. Suddenly doing a complete 180 and emphasizing how foolish and troublesome he is. Metatron was offering Crowley by Aziraphale’s side as The Carrot. Now he’s telling Aziraphale it was stupid of him to want The Carrot, un-heavenly.

Aziraphale’s life, love, happiness, it’s all not only a massive inconvenience for Metatron but a liability. He has successfully taken a weapon from Aziraphale’s hands he didn’t even know he had. Metatron sees the writing on the wall, and he wants it contained.

[eringobragh420]

🖤 Pairing: Damian Priest x f!Reader 🖤 Summary: Damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. (Part 2/5) 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 🛑 Warnings: Head injury, hospital setting, mention of oral (f receiving) 🖤 Taglist: In the comments. If you’d like to be added, please click here!  🖤 MASTERLIST

DAY ONE

You awoke slowly, eyelids weighing at least a thousand pounds when you tried to lift them. Eventually they opened, though it took a few more blinks to clear your vision and realize you had no earthly idea where you were. The light above your head, the blood pressure cuff constricting around one arm and an IV in the other, it was fairly easy to deduce you were in a hospital. You sighed, remembering the night before—how much of it, you weren’t sure—but then you remembered that you couldn’t remember everything last night and it was still true today. You didn't know your name or what you had been doing to get injured in the first place. But you knew what a hospital was, and a BP cuff and an IV … why were your memories selective? Had you literally hit your head in such a spot to dislodge only certain memories and not others? Was that even possible? Would you ever know?

Turning your head, the man from the night before—Damian Priest, you remembered, though as your fiancé, you recalled nothing—was asleep beside you, still in the same chair. His head was slumped, chin resting against his shoulder, one of his hands covering yours on the bed, feet propped on another chair. He'd stayed, and he was bound to be incredibly sore when he woke up, and your heart swelled anyway. He must really love you, you thought, and your swollen heart deflated like one of Tom Brady’s footballs. This handsome—quit trying to downplay how sexy he is just because you can’t remember him—man was doing his absolute best to take care of you and be there for you, and you had not one single fucking recollection of him. And because of this reason, you couldn’t ignore the slight discomfort of having his hand over yours. Last night you’d craved contact, now all you seemed to want was distance. Unfortunately, as soon as you slipped your hand out from under his, the big man jumped awake, his now empty hand clenching around nothing.

“Sorry,” he rasped, scrubbing that hand over his face. “Are you okay?” Your eyes slid to his, and you didn’t have to tell him that there had been no change from the night before. It was fleeting, so fast you weren’t positive you saw it, but devastation swept across his features before he replaced it with a forced smile. “It’s alright,” he said, but the tears were already spilling onto your cheeks, and before you could tend to them, Damian was cupping your face, his thumbs wiping the tiny rivers from your skin. “It’s only been a day,” he reminded you, leaning forward so it was easier for you to meet his gaze comfortably. “You gotta give yourself some time. Okay?” You sniffed miserably, nodding in his grasp, and when he was sure you were finished crying, he severed your physical connection, however reluctant he was to do so. “I’m gonna go find your doctor,” he said, standing from the chair. “See if I can take you home today.” You swallowed, nodding, though a myriad of new fears squeezed around your heart.

After Damian closed the door behind him, your head fell back against the pillow, and you winced at the soreness. He wanted to take you home. Of course he did. Where else would you go but home? But you were scared to see more things or people you didn’t recognize. Would you be able to handle it, or would your brain simply melt under its burning efforts to remember the life you had forgotten? On the other hand, maybe seeing your home and your stuff, smelling the smells and touching the surfaces, sleeping in your own bed, would jog your memory. You had to at least try, you knew that, but the sheer terror of being more confused than ever still loomed heavily over you.

Outside your door, Damian leaned against the wall and rubbed his forehead, then his stiff neck, and his eyes squeezed shut. He hadn’t actually admitted it to himself, but somewhere deep inside, he’d expected you to be his same old fiancée when you woke up. You’d thank him for staying with you and you’d kiss and everything would be fine. But you still didn’t know him. There’d been no reason to ask—he could see it in your eyes. The devastation, the fear, the confusion—all still present and accounted for, like a perfect attendance record for students of Trauma. As much as he knew it pained you, he felt like he was dying. He’d seen love and adoration and joy in your beautiful eyes for so long, and the shock still hadn’t worn off from seeing the emptiness there last night. The light, your light, that he’d fallen in love with had been extinguished, and he didn’t know if it would ever be relit.

The doctor from the night prior was no longer on duty, so Damian spoke to someone else. The new doctor reviewed your chart, then Damian followed them into your room so they could perform a series of neurological tests, which you passed, aside from still not knowing the answer to the Big Three: your name, the year, or the President of the United States. Aside from the amnesia and concussion, you were healthy and granted permission to not only head home, but board a plane to get there. You hadn’t even considered that you weren’t in your hometown, and now you would have to navigate an airport with memory loss and a head injury?

As if reading your thoughts, Damian hooked his pinky around yours. You looked down at your fingers on the bed, assuming this should mean something to you, but your mind was blank, so you lifted your eyes to his. “Don’t worry,” he said, the intense timbre causing your thighs to unceremoniously clench. “I’ll be right there.” You smiled, feeling comforted, though not as much as you probably would have been if you actually knew who the fuck he was.

You were given a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both your size, but you didn’t recognize them, as well as a pair of sneakers, also your size. Apparently some friends of yours had brought you these items the night before while you slept, the name’s Rhea and Jey filling you with just as much curiosity as the name Damian Priest. Once dressed, you were forced into a wheelchair despite your protestations that your head was injured and not your legs or feet, and Damian was the one to carry the bag which contained the costume you’d been wearing when you’d fallen, as well as the boots, while pushing you toward the exit. Your own personal Superman, and you couldn’t even remember how you’d met.

He helped you into the backseat of a sleek, black vehicle that had been sent by the WWE, tossed your stuff in the trunk, and somehow folded his humongous frame into the seat beside you. As the driver chauffeured you back to the hotel you were told you were staying at, every now and then, if the car hit a bump, Damian’s arm would lift like he would protect you from being jolted forward, much like the intended use of the seatbelt buckled around you, and it was the most endearing and annoying thing in the world.

“I’m okay,” you said, and he looked at you. “I mean, I can’t remember … anything, but … I’m okay otherwise. I can handle a few potholes.”

Damian’s smirk grew slowly. “Fair enough,” he said, glancing out the window. A moment later, he looked back at you. “But when I do it again—”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see it.” The smile you shared felt special, but it didn’t go much further than that.

Even though you’d arrived at a hotel instead of your home, the respite you felt was boundless. No beeping machines or BP cuffs or IV stands or intrusive nurses and doctors existed in this room. Just you, a stranger, and eventually your things—you and Damian had evidently taken all of your belongings to the arena where you’d had your accident, the idea being you would head straight for the airport after the show. And since you’d gone to the hospital instead, Damian had paid for the room last night and tonight to give you some time to rest and relax before having to deal with traveling.

“So listen,” Damian’s smoke-on-velvet voice permeated your thoughts, and you turned to him, “Rhea and Jey grabbed all our stuff from the arena, so I’m gonna go get it before they take off. Will you be okay alone for a few minutes? I can ask them to bring it here—” Which was something he actually did not want to do, considering a specific item he had to make sure was in its rightful spot amongst your things.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, attempting a smile, but you weren’t sure how it came across.

Damian nodded, waited a beat, and reached into the back pocket of his fitted blue jeans. And when you noticed his jeans were so tight and mostly left nothing to the imagination, you began noticing other things: his perfectly toned and tattooed arms, broad chest and shoulders, and those legs of his went on for days. If you really had landed this Adonis of a man, surely you deserved some sort of award or medal. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, the case protecting it obnoxiously colorful and glittery, and you instantly knew it was yours. Now what the fuck? you complained. I know that’s my phone, but I don’t know that’s my man? Or my own damn name? You wondered what you’d done so terribly in the life before this one to receive such cruel punishment. “This is yours,” Damian went on, closing the space between the two of you. “Uh … your whole life is on there. Our whole life, really. Pictures, videos, text messages, social media … but I have to warn you.” Your gaze lifted to his, and while he was deadly serious about what he was about to say, you still spotted a bit of devilry in those mahogany eyes. “You and I have a … very physical relationship.” He scratched at the back of his neck, cheeks tinging just a hint of pink, smiling awkwardly.

You blinked up at him. “You mean we fuck a lot?” you deadpanned. It was an honest question until you both realized the way you’d worded it, and you shared a few chuckles.

“Uh, exactly,” Damian confirmed. “So those pictures and videos and texts between us will probably be about 90% sexual.” Made sense—look at the man. “Same with the gallery, and … you know what? Just browse at your own risk.” Another collective giggle. “I’ll be right back. Do you need anything?”

You shook your head and shrugged. “I mean, if you find my memory out there …” It was a cheesy thing to say, and suddenly you were embarrassed because, also suddenly, you had a strong desire to impress Damian. What if your memory never came back and the two of you had to start all over? Would he even want that? Would you?

Great, the relaxation from before was now circling the drain. You took the phone from Damian, the screen coming to life. He’d warned you about everything but the wallpaper on the phone—Damian stood in the middle of a ring, and you were in his arms, shimmering boots wrapped around his waist, your lips pressed together, and the two of you were silhouetted against a spotlight trained directly on you. You stared at it a moment, taking in every detail, hoping something would trigger inside your brain. Nothing.

“The passcode—” Damian started, but your thumb swept across four numbers without even a thought, and the phone blinked to life, ready for use. You looked up at him, anxiety shooting through the roof, tears welling in your eyes. “It’s okay,” he said, placing his hands on your shoulders and gently squeezing. 

“I can remember my fucking passcode, but not my fiancé?” you wailed.

“Listen,” Damian hollered over you, and your mouth clamped closed. “That doesn’t mean you remember the code. It could just as easily have been muscle memory.”

“But—”

“Do the numbers mean anything to you?” Actually, thinking about it, you couldn’t recall the numbers you’d punched in not seconds beforehand. You shook your head, and Damian couldn’t hide the grief as it tugged at the corners of his mouth and eyes, though he tried to smile to camouflage the hurt. “It’s my birthday.” And now you wanted to die. “So you didn’t remember it, okay? It was all muscle memory.”

“Right,” you nodded, though it was difficult to believe it. And either way, you lost, so it didn’t matter—it was muscle memory and not real memory, or you remembered the numbers but not their significance. Your classic lose-lose.

Damian sighed. “I’ll be right back, mi vida.” He pushed down the handle on the door.

“Wait,” you called after him. He turned. “What does that mean?”

“Mi vida?” You nodded. Damian’s smile was small. “It means, uh … my life.” You gazed at him for a few seconds, hoping, wishing, praying, that you could remember him or the words. You nodded again, choosing not to speak in case you erupted into sobs.

Damian left the room, clicking the door softly closed behind him. He headed down the hall toward the elevator, but became dizzy and lightheaded, and he reached out for the nearest wall to steady his large body. He shook his head, trying to jostle the sudden ailments free from his brain, because this is the last thing he needed right now. He had to take care of you—he didn’t have the time or energy to tend to himself as well. After a few deep breaths, he boarded the elevator for Rhea and Jey’s floor, barely making it to their door without collapsing from fatigue.

“How is she?” Rhea greeted upon opening the door. Jey was sitting in the chair, holding his phone between his knees.

“Uh, no change,” Damian replied. “My fiancée has no idea who the hell I am.”

“Well, they said that was temporary, didn’t they?” Rhea asked, concerned, crossing her arms.

Damian nodded, not really wanting to have this conversation right now. They were going to ask things he didn’t have the answers to, and he didn’t want that either. He busied himself gathering your suitcase and his, followed by your respective duffel bags. He unzipped yours and rummaged around until he came to the item he’d been the most focused on—the teal Tiffany’s box that contained your engagement ring. You never wore it during matches, instead nestling it back in the box it had been presented to you in, which you then tucked safely into your bag. Watching it sparkle in even the dull light of the hotel room, Damian remembered every moment of proposing to you—the salt in the air, the crashing waves of the ocean, the sand beneath his feet, and your dress fluttering in the wind as you held a hand over your mouth, capable of only nodding when asked if you would marry him. He gazed down at the ring for a long moment before closing the box and packing it into his duffel bag instead of yours. He didn’t want you to see it and feel obligated to wear it if you weren’t comfortable doing so, so he decided to avoid the conversation altogether—provided you never asked where your engagement ring was.

At the same time, you crawled into bed with the messy covers, briefly wondering if you had a side and which one it might be, but then you smelled Damian on one of many pillows. Your body slid across the mattress of its own accord, your mind not even thinking about it, and you snuggled into the scent of the man you loved but didn’t know. You entered the passcode on your phone—muscle memory—looking for a moment at the wallpaper and the triple digit notifications for both missed calls and text messages, before tapping on the Gallery. Too many folders to count popped up, and you tapped the one that caught your eye first—Movies. You chose a random video and pressed play.

The video was dark to begin with, but the quality cleared, and you were able to see a pair of legs—your legs, you knew somehow—in stockings, the lacy tops of the stockings visible because of a short dress made even shorter by bunching it around your hips. The camera zoomed out to show your legs were stretched over the center console of some expensive vehicle, your feet in Damian’s lap. His hair was pulled back into a high bun, he was dressed in a suit, and one of his hands controlled the steering wheel while the other snuck under one of your heels to rub your foot. You moaned on screen, and Damian smirked. He removed the heel altogether and, not knowing what else to do with it, hooked it to the top of the steering wheel so he could better massage your foot.

“I love you, baby,” you said through the phone, and your voice sounded familiar, but the huskiness and sheer obsession in your tone surprised you.

“I love you, querida,” Damian rumbled, glancing at you to wink before returning his eyes to the road. Your heart shriveled within your chest and there was that feeling of wanting to die again.

“I’m gonna ride you when we get home,” you sing-songed from behind the camera.

You tapped the Back button on the phone to stop and minimize the video. You had an idea of where it was going, and you knew the stars of the show were yourself and Damian, but since you couldn’t remember anything about this night, it felt almost like you were invading someone else’s privacy. Scrolling down, a curious thumbnail caught your eye, and though you knew better, your thumb tapped on it regardless.

Whoever was behind the phone had the lens trained on a big screen TV, which was playing some movie you may have recognized but couldn’t think of the name of. The rest of the room appeared to be a cozy living area with dimmed lights and modern decor.

“My fiancé promised we were going to actually Netflix and chill after a travel day, but this motherfucker …” And the camera lowered until all you could see were a pair of thighs—your thighs—on either side of Damian’s head, his mouth buried in your pussy as he knelt in front of you on the couch. “Fuck, Papi,” you moaned through the phone’s speakers, your hand entering the frame as you wrapped your fingers around his ponytail.

You punched the Home button several times before tossing the phone face down on the bed. You buried your face in the pillow that smelled like Papi and you wanted to cry, had the urge to cry, your eyes and nose burned like you were going to cry, but no tears came. Had you already cried them all?

You heard the key card slip into place, followed by a click, and the hotel room door opened. You looked over your shoulder and watched as Damian struggled to bring in all the luggage. Lifting the blankets, you started out of bed to help, but Damian put his hand up, smiled, and told you to relax and that he had everything under control. Another forced smile from him, and it was getting easier for you to tell.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Damian placed the luggage and bags in the closet area before crossing the room and taking a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “For everything.” The smile from him this time was more genuine. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“Mi amor, nothing about you has been easy since the day we met,” Damian grinned. You smirked, looking away. “You turned me down at least … a hundred times.”

“That seems like an exaggeration,” you said, brows rising.

Damian shrugged, scooting back against the headboard as he kicked his shoes off before crossing one ankle over the other on the bed. It wasn’t lost on you how close to the edge he was seated. “Maybe just a few times,” he admitted fondly, gazing up at the ceiling as he remembered each interaction.

“Why did I say no? Looking through my phone, you and I are … pretty compatible.” You could easily see the burning desire in his eyes to ask what exactly you’d looked at.

“You didn't wanna date someone you worked with,” he shrugged. 

You nodded. “So what made me say yes?”

Damian’s grin this time could have lit up the room. “You didn't,” he said. “At the time, on NXT, we were running a few mixed tag matches. That's where—”

“I know what it means,” you interrupted, trying to train yourself not to wonder why you were remembering some things, unimportant things, and not the things that mattered most. You would also have to start paying attention to your attitude toward Damian when you were frustrated with your own brain.

Damian looked at you a moment, eyes narrowed, but he let it go and continued. “Anyway, after we won our first match, you just kinda … jumped into my arms.” He gestured with his big hands. “And then you kissed me.” Your brows rose. “The wallpaper on your phone? That’s that kiss.”

You smirked, rubbing your lips together. “We’re so cute, it almost makes me sick,” you joked.

Damian guffawed, hand over his chest. “Yeah, we hear that a lot.” A yawn overtook you, and your eyes watered from the effort. “You should sleep,” he offered, now yawning himself.

You nodded. “You’re not … leaving, though, are you?” you asked.

Damian shook his head. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I mean—” You looked at the bed.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he repeated.

The distance you’d wanted before? Well, you still wanted it, but you couldn’t have him too far away, either, so on the other side of the bed was perfect, and you started to crawl back under the blankets.

“Wait,” you said, sitting up. “This is your side, isn’t it?”

Your fiancé smiled. “Yeah, but—”

“Let’s switch sides,” you interjected. “I want everything as normal as … I can handle.” You hoped Damian was picking up what you were putting down as he stood up. You crawled to the other side, your side, tucking your legs under the covers again. Damian rounded the bed, crossing his arms before grabbing the bottom of his shirt, lifting it over his head, and he shook his ponytail out from a bun as he tossed the shirt onto a nearby chair. It was completely out of habit, it was easy to tell, but you hadn’t been prepared for it. Your eyes grew as they searched every tattoo and each chiseled muscle, and you were too focused on him to even notice when you licked your lips and sucked the bottom one into your mouth. You had to be the luckiest woman on the face of the planet to have such a delectable man climbing into bed with you.

“Sorry,” Damian said. “I can put it back on …”

“No!” you exclaimed, and your cheeks were set ablaze, and you placed a hand over your eyes like it would magically make you invisible. 

“Man, it’s been a minute since I made you blush like that,” Damian chuckled, falling into bed. And he had known your meaning from before—he stayed on his side, maybe closer to the edge than he needed to be—respecting your need for space and his presence at the same time.

[sylvestris123]

What does the pre-Fall scene actually mean?

I’ve been thinking about that first scene, with pre-Fall Crowley. We are all swooning over how sweet and innocent Angel!Crowley is, and how smitten Aziraphale is, but on reflection there is something odd about this scene.

The action takes place before the rebellion, before the Fall, when bad things hadn’t even been invented yet. So why is Aziraphale already worried about Angel!Crowley getting into trouble for asking questions? Shouldn’t he also be a cute innocent bundle of fluff without a care in the world?

There is a meta that examines this (sorry, I can’t find it, I’m useless at this), which comes to the conclusion that Aziraphale later on is suffering from guilt (that he might have unwittingly prompted Crowley to seek answers and hence fall), but this still doesn’t explain why Aziraphale knows that asking questions might be a Bad Idea, and Angel!Crowley doesn’t. After all, Angel!Crowley has apparently been working “very closely with Upstairs”.  Shouldn’t he be a bit more clued up?

This leads me to think that there are 2 possible explanations for this.

1. Angel!Crowley has been so far out of things playing with stars that he really is clueless about everything (possible but doesn’t really match up to the Crowley that we know today).

2. This is not a true record of events.

Either: it is one of Aziraphale’s memories, but coloured by what he knows today, so the conversation that actually occurred might have been quite different. Maybe it is because of Aziraphale’s less than perfect recall, or maybe the memory was tweaked (e.g. by the Metatron) to emphasize the innocence of Angel!Crowley and the injustice of his later fall.

Or: IT NEVER EVEN HAPPENED AT ALL. Their true first meeting was as S1, on the walls of Eden, and it is all a false memory planted by the Metatron. (This could also explain why we don’t get to hear Angel!Crowley’s name. It’s not actually known, so can’t be added to the ‘memory’). Why would he do this? It could be to make Aziraphale think that Angel!Crowley was so full of joy that he should be reinstated to recapture that innocence.

There are plenty of theories about the other flashback episodes in the series, all of which could be interpreted as showing off Crowley’s 'good' side, to make the thought of his reinstatement as an angel more plausible or even necessary to right an ancient wrong.

If any or all of this is the Metatron’s doing, what is the motive? He clearly loathes Crowley. Maybe reinstatement as an angel would automatically wipe out his memories of being Crowley and all of his Earthly experience, so you would end up with a cute innocent (and ultimately useless) angel with no memories of his friendship with Aziraphale. Or perhaps it was a way to get him to come up to Heaven where he could be ambushed and imprisoned.

Or maybe the Metatron always knew that the very concept would go down like a lead balloon and that its aim was to make Aziraphale and Crowley part in such a way that they would be less likely to try to contact each other later.

There are so many pieces to this puzzle. Just when I think that a couple might go together I find others that don’t fit with the patterns already made, and which sometimes seem to belong to a different puzzle altogether. I’m sure that I already have 5 corner pieces.

[halemerry]

On the Bookshop, the Concept of Home, and Going Too Fast

So, weirdly enough, I want to start with a scene that has very little to do with the actual Bookshop: 1967. We get Crowley planning a heist and being interrupted by an angel clutching a thermos full of holy water and promising that someday, maybe, they could let themselves have the life they want together. And we get that line. You know the one. You go too fast for me.

This one line of dialogue went a very long way to cementing the fanon perception of their roles in the relationship as we've largely been shown them - Crowley gently pushes and gives Aziraphale space to slowly feel comfortable setting his own boundaries or adjusting his worldview. And I’m not saying this is wrong - it’s definitely what we're primed to expect in their pattern - but I do think it ignores a fairly common variation of their pattern. See, sometimes, Aziraphale is actually the faster of the two of them - he's just not quite as flashy about it.

Crowley very rarely actually does any pushing without getting some kind of signal from Aziraphale first. Aziraphale, whether consciously or otherwise, quite frequently is the player making the first move on their metaphorical chess board. We see that he's the first to push for them to work together in the story of Job. We see that he's the first to invite Crowley to socialize together in Rome. We see as early as the Globe that Aziraphale has discovered and weaponized how to ask Crowley for things with a simple look and that Crowley has gotten very good at reading those asks. We actually see this dynamic in real time as Aziraphale drops signals to Crowley on how he should form his deception of the angels in the Book of Job. Even the Arrangement itself is something Crowley doesn't push for until he knows explicitly that Aziraphale isn't happy with the terms of his work. In other words, Aziraphale sets a cue, Crowley picks up on it and adapts.

So what does this have to do with the Bookshop?

Well. The Bookshop is a prime example of Aziraphale getting there faster. Because the bookshop, whether he knows it at the time or not, is absolutely a nest.

Nesting is behavior typically associated with birds, but is actually something lots of animals do. Even humans exhibit this behavior to some degree. It’s functionally gathering a bunch of stuff to create a safe, comfortable place, typically constructed for the purpose of raising children or attracting a mate. In other words: the creation of a home.

Because the Bookshop is their home. It is their safe space and sanctuary. It is a space for them to meet and just Exist without worrying about being seen. A home base where they can just Be themselves. It’s a constant in a world ever shifting around them. It’s a place for them to come back to. A place that will always be waiting for them both. And a place that they both have to be able to check in on each other. This is why the Bookshop burning hit as hard as it did. Their home was destroyed in fire and flame. And they both know it. Every expression and shift in tone when they talk about it speaks to the gravity of that loss - even if it was only temporary. And I think it was always intended to be just that on some level from the very start.

So timeline wise the closest scene we know about to Aziraphale starting his plans for the shop is the scene at the Globe. This takes place in 1601 and features the two of them being very conscious of being seen and the potential consequences thereof. They pick going to the Globe expecting it to be busy enough to blend into the crowd and Aziraphale's objection re the Arrangement has shifted onto the idea of Hell destroying Crowley.

It is less than a century later that Aziraphale buys the land that will eventually become the bookshop. In 1630 he purchases the land with his own money. That’s his money. Money that he made mostly the human way. Although this space would eventually become an embassy to Heaven it was made via earthly means. It’s his, not Heaven’s. Less than 30 years after we first see them express concern for how dangerous it would be to be seen Aziraphale starts making a space for them to retreat to.

And he does it slowly. He spends decades slowly buying up the land in the area. In fact, it’s nearly 200 years before the Bookshop will be ready to open. By the time we hit the Bastille, he’s clearly decided on a bookshop and has clearly told Crowley all about it. They’re comfortable with each other and already trust each other to a frankly absurd degree. Aziraphale risks discorporation on the sure thing that Crowley will know he’s in danger and come save him just because he wants to see him. In other words, by the time they’re at the point where they’re making elaborate excuses to see each other, Aziraphale is less than a decade away from naming the home he has been carefully making for himself A.Z. Fell and Co.

The and Co is important here for obvious reasons. We all know there’s only one person that it could be referring to. Even as Aziraphale is still denying that they are friends, he is plastering the idea that they are a unit all over the front door of his home long before even he realizes that what he is feeling for Crowley is love.

This is part of why the conversation about ‘our car, our bookshop’ comes much easier to Aziraphale. And it is an easier jump for him to make. He's the one that brings it up and he does it quite casually. He's testing the waters a bit, but is confident the conversation will go his way. Of course we have a car. Just as we have a bookshop.

The thing is I don't think Crowley ever really got that memo on a conscious level. We can see his relationship to the shop shift in the way he moves around the shop shifts over time. The earliest we see him in the shop itself is 1941. It's night time which gives the whole thing a bit of clandestine air, which is fitting for where they're at on the timeline. He stays mostly in one spot in his shots here, sort of hovering about the shop not getting too close to Aziraphale but not drifting out on his own either. He also stays as close to sitting normally as we tend to see Crowley ever sit and his glasses stay on. Which that's not to say he doesn't relax at all. He takes off his hat and make himself comfortable and, most telling, doesn't bother with fixing his glasses when they slip off his nose. He's comfortable and familiar here but it's in a strained sort of distant way. There's trust there, for sure, but he is clearly a visitor in this space.

The next we see of Crowley in the shop is the mid 2000s. It's still night time. His glasses stay on until he's drunk and the he takes them off of his own accord. He moves about the shop, touching various objects and leaning against various pillars and shelves and furniture. He's more comfortable here, but he still he needs a bit of alcohol in his system to get there.

We then see him briefly in the daytime after they realize they have lost the Anti-Christ. The glasses stay on here and alcohol is notably present. And then we do not see him in the shop again until it is burning. All and all most our shots of the bookshop from season one are Aziraphale alone moving about his space. We know Crowley's there enough that his smell lingers in the place, but we don't actually see that much of it beyond those first tom scenes.

Season 2 couldn't be more different in this regard.

Crowley moves in and out of the bookshop as it suits him. At one point he wanders off in the middle of Aziraphale zoning out in a memory without bothering to shake Aziraphale out of it. We even get him doing what is functionally a bird courtship dance right here in the middle of the shop. Aziraphale in turn takes active steps to get Crowley into the shop whether it's leaving him to watch it while he's gone or suggesting that Crowley likes waiting in the shop for him - a thing Crowley does not outright deny beyond objecting to Gabriel's presence there.

And we get a lot of Crowley in the shop this season- both with and without Aziraphale. And regardless of Aziraphale's presence, Crowley's behavior doesn't really shift too much. He's moving around the shop far more that we've ever seen him historically and he spends half that time sprawling on the furniture like it's his.

And, of course, nearly every time we see him enter the Bookshop to engage with Aziraphale, the glasses come off.

He lets his face stay exposed in the shop, even eventually in front of Gabriel. The only other place we've ever seen him take his sunglasses off by his own choice are in his own flat or when he's trying to make a point about his own nature. Even when he's engaging with Hell, so long as he's not grabbed unexpectedly, he has them on. Crowley wears them around people well before sunglasses had technically even been invented. But not here. Not anymore. Not in this story that is framing the bookshop as a literal safe haven.

Even the palette for the Bookshop this season speaks volumes. Now Season 1 in general is a little grayer than Season 2 (this is in part because of the general aesthetics of when they were made and in part because of the difference in tone between the two seasons) and it's very very noticeable in the shop itself. Here's some side by sides of similar areas of the shops between two seasons, I bet you could guess which was which based on the colors themselves.

The palette season 1 suits Aziraphale just fine. It's more neutral tones like he tends to favor on himself. It's still cozy but in a dusty sort of way. The palette of season 2 is warmer. Less white and more orange to the point where even the pillars holding up the bookshop are more vibrant. There's more natural light and we see it more often during the day. It's a warm, shared, space now. They both get plenty of use out of it.

And Crowley now looks like he fits there too. The shift in his palette makes him feel in conversation with the bookshop in a way his season 1 red can't quite mesh with the more washed out palette. I won't repost all these images I was going feral over last night but you can find a lot of shots of him in the shop windows here that really show the ways he works with the colors of the shop.

So why hasn't Crowley moved in officially if he's practically done so already?

Because this is their whole problem in a nutshell. It's a prime example of the way their pattern doesn't work anymore. It's not built for a world like this. Its built for a world where they have to hide and make excuses. And while being free of that is objectively good it also means they have none of that to hide behind anymore. Subtext doesn't have to be subtext anymore and that can be as scary as it can be exciting. Freedom from things like Heaven and Hell can be hard when that's all you've ever known. This is all new territory for them. The meaning of what home can be to them shifts a lot in a space where they can more or less do as they like.

Aziraphale doesn't need to be indirect about what he wants anymore but can't quite figure out how to be more direct in the asking. He's ready but can't quite parse how to say that out loud. Or why he would even need to when he's been saying it quietly for more than a century. He built a shop full of human knowledge into a safe haven for the demon that fell for asking questions. He invited Crowley into the shop on day one, just like everything else he loves. He's already left the door open for Crowley to come and go as he pleases and as far as he's concerned Crowley has already half moved in anyway. From his perspective he's already set a large blinking neon sign up that says 'this is your home too'.

Crowley, for his part, can't read this cue. Not without thinking about going to fast or starting a battle with his own sense of self worth. He's been in keep them alive mode for so long I'm not even sure he really knows how to let himself have needs outside of that on any conscious sort of level. There's nowhere to push if you don't have an endgame. And even if he did have one the last explicit boundary he had established by Aziraphale was telling him to slow down.

But I do think they both realize this. Crowley grumbles about what's the point from the start of his first scene and of course eventually does take a shot at expressing his wants. Aziraphale's fixation on the Ball comes into play here too. He says they allow humans to realize they have misunderstood each other and that they're actually in love. Which is just flat out their whole problem summarized for us nice and neatly.

They're not understanding each other. They haven't had the conversations they need to have. But they are trying. They still trying, even if they don't understand the ways each other is doing so. And at the end of this season even as they are separated again, the nest still stands. And, maybe the next time we get to see them, they'll decide it's in good hands right now and start building another nest together in in South Downs, but, no matter what, the shop is still home. And even if it is a place they have lost each other twice, there is no doubt in my mind that it is a place they will find each other again.

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

from the flames | b. blake

masterlist

summary: season three — to signify the newly recognised alliance between the sky people and the grounders, a celebration is held within polis’ market square. a bonfire, alcohol, and the bawdy pulsation of drums is a sure-fire recipe for a stimulating night. add a watchful bellamy blake and his dancing muse into the mix, and, well… i’ll show you the consequences of such a potent combination.

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption/intoxication, sensual dancing, jealousy, sexual desecration??, mild possessiveness, arguments, bellamy speaking in trigedaslang (giggling and kicking my feet), dialogue-heavy, manhandling, mild angst, smut, unprotected p in v (do not), reader is short because i’m short, deal with it <3

notes: i haven’t recently been watching the 100 so the timeline and characterisation may be a little off. also, ik this took me a long ass time, but i’m gonna try and make sure the next two parts come out a little quicker <3 i love y’all!

word count: 2.5k

“People of Kongeda and Skaikru, tonight we gather as one, united by a common purpose and a shared future of alliance. Before us, this bonfire symbolises more than just a flame; it is a beacon of hope, an opportunity to cleanse old grudges and pain that has divided us for far too long.

“Let this fire signify a new beginning and serve as a reminder that unity is not our weakness, but our strength. Let it be known that from this day, we join not as enemies, but as allies, and anyone set upon spilling the blood of our allies is spilling the blood of us all. Let it be known: Jus drein, jus daun!”

“Jus drein, jus daun!”

As much as Lexa’s words intended to inspire harmony, the crowd massed below the second-floor balcony of the dominating tower she resided on reacted in any way but. Fierce declarations of worship were cried out; large fists were pumped in celebration; and misty clouds of brew and saliva were sprayed into the tepid night air.

All was well, for the first time since we landed on Earth.

“Happy Unity Day,” I murmured to myself, taking a sip from the metal cup in my hand. I was standing on the outer edges of the unruly crowd of dark, rugged figures, who were surrounding an unlit wooden mountain and raving as it abruptly burst into vociferous flames.

The monstrous tepee of sticks was raging at the centre of Polis’ trading square, an open area bordered with stalls and operating food vendors that infused the air with a salivating meaty aroma. Glimmers of light chipped away into the familiar starry night above and an orange ambience was cast throughout the square, seeming to blaze beneath the skin of those who orbited the fire.

It was a somewhat perplexing scene: to be together as one people, celebratingratherthan being at war with one another.

A pensive mechanic stepped in beside me, eyeing the mixed crowd of Grounders and Sky People.

Raven folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t you think the fact that the Ark originally had thirteen stations and the coalition now has thirteen clans is kind of…”

“Unsettling?” I finished for her. “Yeah. Probably best not tell these guys the story of how Polaris got blown out of the sky. Don’t want to give them any ideas.”

“Polaris… Polis…” she continued contemplating. “Think there’s anything equally unsettling about that?”

I looked at Raven. She looked back at me.

I sucked in a sharp breath—“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation”—and tipped the harsh contents of my cup down my throat. The liquid was molten in both its ferocity and colour and was infused with some potent earthly spice; it was a blow to the stomach upon consumption.

“Is that such a good idea?” Raven asked, judging me as my head craned back to capture the last few drops of throat-scorching goodness. “I’m all for pouring a glass when the occasion calls for it, but these people have stomachs lined with steel—what do you think yours is made of?”

I grimaced at the taste. “You tell me. You’re the genius.”

The roll of her eyes was deafening. “I’m just saying, they’ve probably spent decades perfecting their drinks to suit them, to match their tolerances. I mean, even that human fountain over there couldn’t handle it.” She nodded towards a cluster of barrels where a titan of a man wearing armoured shoulder pads and breastplates was hunched over, violently emptying his stomach onto the cobbled ground.

I swallowed my own stomach at the sight.

“I just assumed you wanted to spend the night somewhat differently,” she said, a sweet undertone of provocation twisting her words.

My brows furrowed, and I turned to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her lips twitched at the corners—never a good sign.

The thing was, I knew exactly what she meant. Her unspoken words had already been circling my mind for days, weeks, months even, increasingly accumulating with both heat and fervour.

As ironic as it was, I think it’s fitting to compare my situation to that of a star’s formation.

There I was, a delinquent sitting stagnant in a cold nebula of misery in the Sky Box, parted from my family and friends, sent hurtling to Earth to die, only then to have my cold, miserable cloud intruded upon by a fiery presence, a head of tousled brown waves and a pair of rich, dark chocolate eyes.

An awakener. An activator.

This intruder began filling my head with his words, his laughter, his brooding stare. The weight of his presence began to grow; thoughts of him consumed me. From the most surprisingly vulnerable conversations to even the tensest arguments, he had a heat inside me swirling and it was sweltering to unfathomable heights. It showed no signs of stopping.

Raven’s malevolent brown eyes were pointing plainly at something far behind me as if to answer my question. I knew what I would see even before turning around to look, but moronic as I was, I looked anyway.

Chin hovering over my shoulder, my eyes wandered through the scattered crowd of Grounders and Sky People alike that loitered the bonfire’s outskirts. There, sandwiched between Lincoln and an unoccupied trading stall, was a face that not only had my stomach contents lodged in my throat, but my heart as well.

Bellamy.

He was standing with his arms crossed, each one concealed beneath his distressed guard jacket. And although his stance screamed ‘Don’t talk to me,’ his face said otherwise. He and Lincoln were engaged in some high-spirited conversation, much unlike themselves (although the supply of drinks may have been to blame). Bellamy was speaking through one of his overconfident half-grins while alternating between gesturing to-and-fro with a single hand and tucking it back under his opposing bicep.

My chest was burning; the bonfire somehow must’ve seeped into my heart.

It should be stated here that when a nebula accumulates enough particles, it turns into a protostar—not a main sequence star like our sun, but something that holds the potential to be. At this point, the formation is at its most precarious. If a sufficient amount of mass is not acquired, the protostar will fail to stabilise and will cool into a brown dwarf, forever existing in the cold, lonely expansion of space as a reminder of what it could have been.

Bellamy’s head gravitated in my direction. Our eyes met through the asteroid belt of rugged figures between us. My breath caught in my throat, and I turned back around.

A reminder of what it could have been.

Sometimes I worry my insufficiency has damned me already.

“Oh, my god.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my god, Raven, why would you put me through that?”

“In the hopes that you’ll finally grow a pair and do something about it,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink to conceal her smirk.

“About what?” Now I was just being evasive.

She let out a frustrated huff and folded her arms over one another. Her countenance was a reflection of impatience: the raised eyebrows, the slight downward tilt of her head, the pursed lips. I almost laughed at her theatricality; then again, I almost cried because I didn’t want the reason behind it to be true.

I wanted Bellamy Blake.

The confession was boiling inside me; it was burning the tip of my tongue, and I knew I had to let it out to cool. And if the words were never spoken to him, then they at least had to be expressed to someone else, even if I never admitted them in the exactness I felt, for the exact words would be so heinous, so—hedonistic, that if anyone were to hear them, I’d be thrown into lock-up for the rest of my days.

“Fine, I guess I’m… attracted to Bellamy,” I spoke slowly, cringing at my own words. Raven’s face immediately lit up like an overzealous Christmas tree, her smugly curved lips parting to no doubt release an incongruous stew of condemnation and encouragement, which I stopped before it could even start. “Anattraction that I am not going to act on, Raven; our friendship is rocky enough as it is. I mean,” I scoffed, “have I even told how we first met? I held a pocketknife to his neck our second night on the ground because he threatened to pry off my wristband in my sleep. And he actually tried! You know that tiny scar he has on his cheek? That was from me!”

“Yeah, sometimes I forget how much of a self-righteous dick he was for a while there,” Raven mused. Her face then screwed with confusion. “Wait, how did you two even become friends? Because when I came down, you were at each other’s throats every single day over one thing or another, and then out of nowhere, it was as if the slate had been wiped clean.”

Ah.

The day the slate had been wiped clean.

A thick blurriness blanketed my vision as my mind withdrew from the present. You know when you get run down with some kind of sickness and your mind gets all scrambled and foggy? Like a fever dream? That’s what that day seemed like to me. Too many unimaginable things had happened, too many emotions and losses were felt, and I’d only shared them with one person before.

“You still there?”

My gaze flickered to Raven momentarily. She was staring at me, half with impatience, half with concern. “Just—” I raised my hand slightly in front of me “—give me a second.”

I inhaled. One, two, three. And I exhaled. Three, two, one.

A vulnerable creature of some sort nestled in my brain, softening the tone of my voice as I hesitantly began, “It was the, uh, the day the Exodus Ship crashed. My dad was on it,” I said, my last words barely audible. “Knowing that he was gone was one thing, but watching the ship crash? That messed me up for a good while.”

Raven, taken aback, muttered her apologies. I just shook my head in return. I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing the memory into the cobwebbed corners of my mind, and then continued, “Bellamy had found me in the woods that night. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. I think that seeing me in such a vulnerable state forced him to set aside his asshole-ry for a while because he actually managed to… comfort me.”

I remembered the tone of his voice, so shockingly gentle yet hardened in his trademarked sort of way as he reassured me endlessly that I would be okay. I remembered the warmth of his body as I lay crumpled and sobbing in his lap on the forest floor, clinging onto his arm as if it kept me from plummeting into a bottomless pit. I remembered his hands, swiping away the thousands of tears that streaked my face, the hair from my eyes.

I remembered our brief conversation as we walked back to camp: “I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” he had said, to which I whispered, “Thank you,” and after a short pause, he spoke again, “We all need someone sometimes. I know we don’t have the best history together but… I can be that someone if you ever need,” and then, once more, with an unwelcome flutter in my stomach, I whispered, “Thank you.”

A small, bittersweet smile lifted my lips. My voice sounded distant to my ears as I continued speaking. “We still nicked at each other here and there after that—that tension between us has never really disappeared—but there was also this new mutual understanding. And somewhere from mutual understanding came a rough-around-the-edges friendship, and then friendship turned into something else.” I paused to recollect my thoughts. “Well, for me, at least.”

Between the moment I started speaking to the moment I stopped, my gaze had wandered sheepishly to the toes of my boots. I felt so exposed, like the outer layers of my being had been cracked open to reveal a part of my soul to a girl I hadn’t even known existed until two months ago. Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t drink often.

I stood awkwardly, waiting. The weight of my confession and vulnerability were looming above us.

Raven was quiet; she made no witty remark or tease. Her eyes had only softened with understanding, shifting back and forth as my words were mulled over in her brain. And it was only from her foreign silence that I realised what her next question could be: why don’t you just tell him?

I began, “I don’t want to ruin—"

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she finally interrupted, shaking her head as if to dismiss my unspoken sentiment. “The age-old ‘I don’t want to ruin what we have right now’. But what exactly is that?” Her eyes once again interrogated mine. “Because I’ll make it clear to you right now and say that what you two have is not just friendship. Come on. You and Bellamy?” She shifted her head to catch my drifting gaze. “Anyone with eyes can see something is there, but clearly, neither of you have a pair.”

Talk about tough love.

A harsh outflow of air exited my nose, and I pushed my hair back out of my face. Everything was much more complicated than I thought it was. Was I really as blind as Raven said? I would have already seen what she does if it were true, right? Did Bellamy really feel the same?

Am I drunk?

I glanced behind me once more, catching a glimpse of Bellamy tilting his head back to finish his drink, exposing the sculptured column of his neck. Heat flushed through my cheeks.

Christ. I couldn’t let this one go. There wasn’t a chance.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, still watching him.

An uproar of hoots and howls exploded throughout the square as the sound of drums and horns began to play, bringing my attention to the second-floor balcony of the Commander’s Tower where the noise floated down from. Drums pulsed with bawdy rhythm; horns bellowed with lewd backbone; a woman purred tribal vocalisations.

Bodies began swaying in disharmonious synchronisation around the bonfire, in pairs, in groups, individually. What tethered them was the raunchiness of their movements and the subtle carnality of their interactions with one another. I’d never seen anything like it; as I looked over at Raven and saw her similar intrigue, I knew she hadn’t either.

That was my mistake—to even acknowledge her in such a moment, especially after speaking about our previous topic. Her lips began stretching and stretching into a particularly wicked grin, and she turned to me. The devil was burning in her dark eyes.

Her answer to my question: “Give his eyes something to look at.”

part two

[witchthewriter]

𝐆𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

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

a/n: I watched the new season of The Witcher and somehow Geralt got even hotter??? Anyway, he has dilf energy and I'm in love

Warnings: family abuse, curse previously put on reader

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ        

・He had saved you, and yet, your family still did not want you.

・Geralt found out that it was your own father who cursed you

・A noble family that saw you as less than. And they banished you from their land, not wanting you anywhere near them.

・And when Geralt spoke on your behalf, asking what you were supposed to do, your father shrugged his shoulders and ignored the Witcher.

"You won't even keep y/n on as ... as anything?" The Witcher was disgusted when your father kept on ignoring him. It got to the point where Geralt threw a golden plate just above your father's head and his attention snapped to the white-haired man.

"I could have your head for that." Your father's voice was cold, it was always cold.

"And I could have yours," snarled Geralt, whose eyes were ablaze. But he knew he couldn't do anything about your family. Only about you.

・So, Geralt couldn't leave you to fend for yourself. And he didn't.

・Besides, you had no idea how to look after yourself. You had been a monster, trapped inside a form that was not yours for 7 years

・You were filthy, tired, and utterly defenseless.

・And even though Witcher's weren't known for their grace nor kindness, Geralt was different.

・He took you with him, damning your family for casting you out. Promising that you would rise above what they had done to you.

・But for now, he had to clean you up and ... catch you up on life.

- ✦ -

・Geralt sat you in front of him, Roach slightly grumpy with the extra weight. But once you reached Geralt's destination, he rewarded the steed with extra food

"Thank you, old friend," he whispered into the horses' ear.

・Helping you inside, he had arranged a room that had a bathing chamber

・The water ran hot as Geralt added in oils and different kinds of herbs

・It was an odd situation, yes, helping a stranger clean themselves.

・But Geralt couldn't live with the knowledge of you being left on your own. The possibility of so much danger. Of being taken advantage of.

・Helping you undress was slightly embarrassing, for the both of you. Your body was still getting used to its original form. Your balance was off, and your posture wasn’t very good. Geralt had to keep on correcting it.

・Easing you into the bath, he grabbed a cloth and started gently rubbing the grime from your body. The dirt, sweat and mud that caked your body

・Even when you transformed back into your normal form, the dirt still remained, as did the torn clothes that you had worn before being cursed into a great beast

・Speaking was difficult as well, but it was becoming easier with time. Even though not much had passed.

・The bath was the best thing you had felt in 7 whole goddamn years.

・Hot; like it was ridding you of all the hurt that built over time

・You swished your fingers through the water, delighting in the ripples they made. Such a small happiness. Yet you found glee in small things now. Grateful for a second chance.

・Geralt kept on scrubbing at your skin, using a bristled brush on some areas, careful not to be too rough or stay in one spot for too long

・Next he used this delicious smelling soap. Your knowledge of herbs was next to nothing, due to a lack in education, but you thought it smelt homely, earthly and calming. Lathering it in his hands and massaging it onto your own, you both worked the soap into different areas of your skin

“I’m going to wash your hair now,” he said. Voice soft yet still rough, like he wasn’t used to being kind to others. If that were true, you wondered why he was doing this for you.

“But first we need to brush it,” his eyes squinted at the tangled mess but started on it nonetheless.

・It hurt at first, but you knew Geralt was being as gentle as he could be, but there were so many knots.

“What do you think about cutting it?” You shook your head. Your hair was one of the only things that made you feel … beautiful.

“Ugh, fine. But this is going to take a while.”

・You shrugged your shoulders and happily kept on sitting in the tub, taking over some of the scrubbing, especially your feet, which felt so sensitive.

・Once they were large and clawed, now … they were human

・Your eyes stilled as the water reflected the glow of the candles around the room

・And you sighed. Not in sadness, or pain, or grief. But with the knowledge that you no longer had to be someone that you were not. Whether that was a beast or playing a role in your family that you didn’t want to have to play.

“You alright?” Geralt had made significant process, practically finished with your hair. And he grabbed a bucket and told you to lean back as he poured the water onto your hair.

・Geralt grabbed a different kind of soap and placed it in your hair, massaging and rubbing it, making sure there wasn’t a spot unwashed.

・You weren’t used to the sensation and let out a laugh. It tickled a tiny bit, especially when he rubbed behind your ears

・Unbeknownst to you, Geralt was slightly smiling. He enjoyed seeing you experience some happiness.

・After he had washed your hair a total of three times, he stood back satisfied with your appearance and held out a towel for you to wrap yourself in.

・Helping you out of the bath, he set down a pair of clean clothes on your bed and said he would be back in a few minutes.

・He wanted to give your privacy, while also wanting to check on Roach.

・The clothes were a big pair of brown pants and a long white shirt. They were a fresh pair from the Innkeeper's husband, who had recently passed away. Geralt had paid extra for them.

・After twenty minutes, Geralt came back into the room to find you asleep on the floor. The usual place you slept.

・A place you had slept for 7 years.

・7 years without a bed. Without a blanket or pillows. Nor were you given any sort of comfort.

・A rage so hot spread through Geralt that it practically radiated off of him.

・In that moment he swore you would have a better life, the best he could find … or give you.

[misstycloud]

Just thinking about a darling who loves the idea of aliens and the thought of life somewhere else. But unfortunately their knowledge doesn’t extend beyond the classical little green creatures with big eyes and heads.

An alien of the species X is traveling through hundreds of galaxies and dimensions in search of a perfect mate. They suddenly get the urge to travel in a specific direction.

Eldritch alien: Earth? Is my mate really from such an unadvanced planet?

They decide to land anyway and is unimpressed with what they see. They decide to use their super technology to disguise themself to what is considered an anarage human. They walk around town and believes the trip was a waste of time, until they see darling for the first time.

Their mind is blown. Darling is the cutest thing they’ve ever laid their eyes on! Immediately they feel the pull and start stalking them. They learn everything they can about darling, food preferences, what they like to do for fun, and even what they like in partners.

Imagine the euphoria they feel when they find out darling is into the idea of aliens! Things might be rough in the beginning of taking darling, but things will surely clear up when they tell them they’re not from earth.

-

Darling, woken up by strange sounds outside their house and goes to check it out, even though it’s against every horror movie rule.

As soon as they walk into the kitchen they see a large shadow standing there. Before they manage to get a sound out, the creature pounds on them and keeps them from screaming.

Eldritch alien: shhhh, little mate. Don’t be scared, I’m not here to hurt you.

Darling sensing the large frame and tentacles definitely doesn’t belong to an earthly creature: what are you? What do you want from me?

Eldritch alien: I’m your mate and I’m going to take you away on my ship. As to what I am, I am part of species X, of course. I am what you would call an alien.

Darling: …….. No you’re not.

Eldritch alien: ……?

Darling managing to loosen the aliens grip on them: I’ve seen aliens before in comics, and you certainly doesn’t fit the picture.

Eldritch alien: ????

Darling: I mean, no offense, but look at you. You’re all tentacles and you’re head isn’t that big either too be honest.

Eldritch alien: ??!!

Darling: soooooo, you come from the forest or something?

Eldritch alien having no clue what’s happening: please, I promise I’m an alien *sob sob* I’ll even show you how to suck up cows with my ship.

[eli0004]

Ever wondered where the Veterans would take you on a date?

Contains: Erwin Smith, Levi Ackerman, Hange Zoe

Synopsis: brief Headcannons about where the Vets would take you on a date

Warnings: None

Erwin smith? Applebee’s💀

lmfao I’m joking, but the way i see it, Erwin strikes me as the goofy, endearingly cringy, single dad type of guy that really believes Applebee’s is the epitome of fine dining. Thankfully, he listens when Levi tells him to have a little class💀

In all seriousness, I think he’d be the type to take you wine tasting, go to see live music performances at local venues, or browsing a cute little craft market on a crisp spring morning.

He’d clean up nice beforehand, probably wear some jeans and a button up shirt, and this man would smell…so…fucking…good😩 like fresh powdery cologne and spearmint gum. You’d get in his car and he’d already have your favorite coffee order in the cupholder waiting for you. Omg i love him

Levi Ackerman? Tea shops, local bakeries, art museums, bookstores, theater.

Levi has a love for the arts, and anything intellectually stimulating. He likes to take his time getting to know the person he’s interested in, so he wouldn’t want to do any kind of activity he couldn’t talk during. It’s a common headcannon among us Levi lovers that he’s an acts of service kind of guy, so you know he’ll be always observing what kind of pastries you order, what kind of tea you like, or your favorite genre of book.

When Levi takes interest in someone, he doesn’t take them for granted. He’s always perusing, always chasing, always loving, so diligently. Gas will never be an issue, this man will drive you across town and back 4 times if you asked him to. He plans dates ahead of time, and always comes prepared, with a wallet full of cash and a tank full of gas, and If he ends the night empty handed, he’ll call it a job well done.

Hange Zoe? Hikes, smoke sesh on the roof, metaphysical shops, farmers markets, picnics, nature walks, the zoo.

Hange is one of those earthly granola people. They’re 100% vegan, grounded to the world around them, and a huge animal lover, so i love the idea that they’ll want to go on a hike to bird watch or pet some moss. Just imagine how cute it would be, you’re both walking around in a stream in the woods, pant legs hiked up around your calves, looking for pretty colored stones for your collection. The sun is peaking through the tree line and you both smell like sweat and sunscreen and earth. Hange finds a turtle or a small frog and catches it to show you🥹 they make me so soft. They’ll also 100% get sunburnt on their nose and cheeks because they can’t ever remember to apply sunscreen there.

Hange is the type to love taking photos of you on dates, and add them to the photo wall in their apartment. If you go to visit, the two of you will pack a bowl and laugh about the memories you have together as you look over the pictures, some kind of cozy music playing in the background.

[giggle-guru]

Movie Night

So I learned today that I passed two of my four exams that I’ve had so far (woo!) and I celebrated by taking a study break to work on the fanfics I’ve got lined up. And then I got side tracked…and then I worked on this for the last little while…so surprise!

I’ve never done anything as either of them, so this was my first go at it. Just sort of playing around with levels to see what worked. As always, thanks for listening lovelies! Virtually hugging every single one of you that listens to these silly little things I post.

Background: Stolas decides to change things up for his annual visit with Blitzø in hopes of showing him he cares, leading to a playful moment between the two.

Script is below the cut for anyone interested! I thought it would be fun to add little notes of what I would envision happening but of course feel free to listen how you want hehe

[Sound Effects: Walking outdoors]

Blitzo: [grumbling] Alright, Blitz, another Grimoire night. Just get in, get out, same routine, no weird feelings, no mushy talk, just…ugh… Why does he always have to make this complicated? Stupid sexy ass bird.

[Sound Effects: Knock, opening door]

[Visual Note: Stolas lounging elegantly in a massive bed. Flickering light from the television illuminates the room casting a warm glow throughout it.

Stolas: [bright] Ah, Blitzy! Right on time, as always! Come in, darling.

Blitzo: [grumbling] Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get this over with so I can head outta here before midnight.

Stolas: [ignoring comment] Why don’t you come in bed and join me? I picked out a movie I think you’d enjoy.

Blitzo: [pause] A movie? What? No freaky bird stuff tonight?

Stolas: [soft/sincere]: Not tonight, Blitzy. I thought that tonight we could perhaps just…relax? No strings attached. [stammering] Because I am sure you’ve had quite the exhausting journey over here and today has been quite busy for me personally and I’m not sure if I’m in the mood-

Blitzo: [grumbling to mask surprise] Okay. Fine. This better not be one of those stupid fucking chick flicks you’re always watching.

Stolas: [awkward laugh] No! No. This is an old film I’ve located within the castle for you, I believe it was some earthly animated series. It has something to do with horses-

Blitzo: [hidden excitement] I said I’d watch it.

[Sound effect: Bed movement, mumbling]

[Visual Note: Solas pats the bed with a gentle smile. Blitzo reluctantly climbs up to nestle himself against the plush pillows.]

Stolas: There we are. You look quite comfortable. I promise I wish for nothing other than to spend time with you tonight. I could fetch us some popcorn if you’re feeling peckish.

Blitzo [satisfied hum] Peckish? You and your fancy ass words. I’m not hungry, maybe later.

Stolas: [soft chuckle] Alright. I do hope I selected the proper genre. Horses seem to be something you appreciate, aren’t they?

Blitzo: [masking eagerness] Yeah, well, don’t read into it.

[A few moments of silence. The movie begins, a soft movie playing in the background.]

Stolas: [enthusiastically] The craftsmanship is quite remarkable, isn’t it?

Blitzo: [gruffly, leaning closer to the screen] Yeah, yeah, whatever. I mean, it’s alright, I guess. For something old.

Stolas: [with a knowing smile] Ah, but look a t you, already leaning in. I’d say you’re quite captivated.

Blitzo: [snorting] Pfft. Don’t flatter yourself. I just think the animation’s… decent. That’s all.

[Visual note: Stolas moves to wrap his arm around Blitz causing feathers to brush against his neck.]

Blitzo: [flinches slightly, growling under his breath] Hey! Watch it with the feathers near the neck, bird brain.

Stolas: [chuckling softly] Oh, does it now? I had no idea you were so... sensitive there.

Blitzo: [defensively] I’m not sensitive! You’re just... annoying. Now shut up and watch the stupid movie.

Stolas: [playful tone] As you wish, darling. Though, I must say, you’re rather cute when you’re flustered.

Blitzo: [grumbling] I’m not flustered. You’re flustered. Just keep your fancy feathers to yourself.

[Visual note: Stolas repeats his actions, however, continues moving his feathers purposely]

[Sound effect: Movie fade]

Blitzo: [snapping quietly] H-Hey! Will you quit it? You trying to start something, or what?

Stolas: [grinning mischievously] Oh, Blitzy, I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s just... you make the most delightful sounds when you’re caught off guard.

Blitzo: [deadpan] You’re seriously testing my patience tonight.

Stolas: [teasingly] Testing? Oh, Blitzy, I’m merely... observing. It’s fascinating, really. I never knew you could be so—[pauses dramatically]—ticklish.

Blitzo: [growling through clenched teeth] I’m not ticklish! You’re just being a pain in the ass, as usual!

[Visual Note: Stolas leans in slightly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as he subtly shifts closer to Blitzo.]

Stolas: [innocently] Oh, really? Not ticklish, you say? Then surely you wouldn’t mind if I... tested that theory.

Blitzo: [struggling to maintain composure, voice rising slightly] S-Stolas, knock it off! I’m warning you!

Stolas: [grinning slyly, his voice dripping with amusement] Warning me, darling? Oh, but I thought you weren’t ticklish. I’m simply... proving a point.

[Sound effect: Bed movement]

[Visual Note: More rustling as Stolas reaches out, gently brushing his feathers consistently against Blitzo’s ribs, earning a sharp, involuntary yelp.]

Blitzo: [bursting out] Stolas, I swear to—! [cuts off with a surprised laugh as he squirms] You little—! Stop it!

Stolas: [laughing melodiously himself, clearly enjoying the moment] Oh, Blitzy, your laugh is simply enchanting! I must admit, I’ve never seen you quite like this.

Blitzo: [gasping between laughs, struggling to grab Stolas’s wrists] Y-you’re insane! I mean it! I’ll—I’ll kill you if you don’t quit!

Stolas: [mock gasp, clearly unfazed] Oh, dear! Such violent threats! But I think you’re having far too much fun to follow through. Now, let’s see. If your neck happens to be sensitive, there must be other spots on your body. Let’s experiment shall we? Starting with your…ribs!

Blitzo: [gasping] S-Stolas, I swear to—oh, fuck! You big beaked bitch! [giggling]

[Visual note: Blitzo squirms, trying to move out of range, but Stolas’ claws expertly follow him, holding him in place as he moves to put his face near his stomach.]

Stolas: [amused] Oh, quite the attempt at an insult, Blitzy. However, you’ve given me a fantastic idea. Let’s see how you react when I utilize this ‘big beak’ against your little stomach.

Blitzo: [sputtering and laughing harder] S-Stolas—oh, shit! I’m gonna—I’m gonna die!

Slotas: [chuckling] Always one for the dramatics. You must be enjoying this, look at your tail! It’s practically wagging. I wonder…

[Visual note: Stolas begins to hold his tail in place carefully while purposely trailing his feathers along his tail.]

Blitzo: [desperately, voice tinged with helplessness] Noooo, not the tail! Anywhere but there! I can’t—

Stolas: [laughing lightly] Oh, I do believe I found the spot! Right here, isn’t it? My feathers along your tail is something you simply cannot stand!

Blitzo: [laughing, struggling to hold his ground] N-no! S-stop! Fuck you—ah! You dick!

Stolas: [laughing melodiously, leaning in closer] Oh, Blitzy, this is far too entertaining. I can’t possibly stop now. Look at you squirming—positively adorable!

Blitzo: [giggling helplessly] Shut up! You’re such a damn—tease! Just— stop! I can’t take anymore!

Stolas: [soft, gentle] Alright, fine, Blitzy. I’m done for tonight. But you have to admit... I was right, wasn’t I? You’re positively ticklish.

Blitzo: [glaring, still breathless] Fine. I’ll admit it, but you’re gonna pay for that, feather brain.

[Visual Note: Blitzo suddenly lunges, catching Stolas off guard and flipping the tables. He digs his fingers into Stolas’s sides with a devilish grin, eliciting a surprised shriek.]

[Sound effect: Continued bed movement]

Stolas: [laughing uncontrollably, wings flapping wildly] B-Blitzy! H-how dare you! This is—highly inappropriate behavior for a royal guest!

Blitzo: [smirking, thoroughly enjoying himself now] Oh, what’s the matter, your highness? You’re just as ticklish as I am!

Stolas: [gasping between laughs] B-Blitzy, stop this instant! I—I demand it as your prince! [bursts into uncontrollable giggles as Blitzo finds a particularly sensitive spot near his ribs] N-Not there, you little fiend!

Blitzo: [grinning mischievously, thoroughly enjoying the reversal of roles] Oh, you can’t make any demands like this, Stols. Keep trying though.

[Visual Note: Blitzo straddles Stolas’s lap to keep him pinned, his fingers darting with surprising precision up to his underarms. Stolas writhes beneath him, his feathers flaring and fluffing up.]

Stolas: [laughing breathlessly] Blitzy! P-Please, I can’t—! Have mercy, darling!

Blitzo: [mocking in a sing-song tone] Oh, mercy, is it? Where was your mercy when you had me in stitches, huh? Let’s see just how ticklish a royal pain in the ass can be! [his hands move to scribble along his underarms]

Stolas: [flailing weakly, feathers ruffling everywhere] I’ll—I’ll do anything! Just stop! Blitzy, you—you devilish imp!

Blitzo: [chuckling wickedly] Damn right, I’m a devil. And you’re getting exactly what you deserve, feather butt! And I know exactly where to go to get you to surrender-

[Visual Note: Blitzo leans closer, his devilish grin widening as he moves his hands lower, inching toward Stolas's hips. Stolas’s eyes widen in panic as he realizes where Blitzo is heading.]

Stolas: [voice pitching higher, laughing nervously] N-no, Blitzy, not there! I-I mean it! That’s—that’s absolutely off-limits!

Blitzo: [mocking] Oh, off-limits? You mean right here? [His digs and circles his thumbs into his hips earning an immediate burst of uncontrollable laughter.]

Stolas: [screaming through laughter, writhing wildly] B-Blitzy! I c-can’t—! I’ll—I’ll fall apart at this rate!

Blitzo: [laughing along with him, his hands darting playfully along Stolas’s sensitive hips] Fall apart? Good! Maybe then you’ll think twice before tickling me to death! This is justice, bird brain!

Stolas: [still laughing, his voice hoarse] Blitzy, I—I beg you! Please, spare me! I’ll do anything you want—just stop tickling me, you ruthless imp!

[Visual Note: Blitzo finally relents, sitting back with a triumphant smirk as Stolas collapses onto the bed, a panting, disheveled mess. His feathers are ruffled beyond recognition.]

Blitzo: [grinning, arms crossed] Now that’s more like it. See, Stolas? That’s what happens when you mess with me.

Stolas: [gasping for air, still snickering weakly] Oh, Blitzy… You’re insufferable…But I must admit, that was… quite a turn of events.

Blitzo: [smirking, thoroughly enjoying the moment] Yeah, yeah. I told you I’d get you back. You think you can just tickle me like that and get away with it?

Stolas: [pushing himself up slightly] Well, I… I certainly didn’t expect you to be so… ruthless. You’re a force to be reckoned with, Blitzy.

Blitzo: [shrugging nonchalantly] I’m full of surprises. You should’ve known better than to mess with me. Anyway, we gonna actually finish that movie or what?

Stolas: [grinning, though still catching his breath] Of course, of course. But I think I’ll need a moment to recover from…from that ‘justice’ you administered.

Blitzo: [settling back down on the bed, crossing his arms] Take all the time you need. But I’m not gonna let you forget this anytime soon.

Stolas: [teasingly] Oh, I’m sure you won’t.

[Visual Note: They both settle back into the bed, the playful tension easing into a rare moment of comfort. The movie continues, unnoticed for a moment as they exchange small, knowing smiles.]

Stolas: [softly, after a pause] Thank you, Blitzy. For indulging me tonight.

Blitzo: [trying to hide his previous vulnerability] Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all mushy on me, alright? Let’s just watch the damn horses.

[Sound Effects: Movie plays on.]

[rosyandraw]

Please write the damen thesis

I fucking love a good Captive Prince meta and as you didn’t give me any direction or specific topic that you wanted to see I’m just going to have a play around with the narrative themes and Damen's arc, so here’s a 3k late night caffeine induced ramble about Damen that might not be 100% coherent:

Damen and the Sword of Damocles or: The Burden of Duty.

In the legend Damocles made the mistake of commenting about the apparent happiness of the tyrant king Dionysus. Dionysus who, in actuality, is terrible and a big fat emo, figured he’d invite Damocles to dinner where Damocles was pampered, spoilt, and treated to a good time. However, Dionysus had hung a big ass sword over Damocles, hanging by a single hair and it could fall at any moment. Once Damocles noticed, he realised he couldn’t enjoy any of the dinner any more or any of the amazing things happening to him and around him.

The sword of Damocles has come to mean imminent danger. In the legend it was a symbol of the price of power. Power is a burden and as long as you have it you must constantly be vigilante, no desire or earthly pleasure will come without the knowledge that at any moment it can disappear, it might even mean very little because of it. Almost as if the ultimate price of power is the sacrifice of the things you might want.

And therein lies the central themes of Captive Prince: power, and duty vs desire.

Damen, much like Damocles in the beginning of his tale with Dionysus, was completely blind to the danger that was hanging over him. Damen didn’t so much notice the sword hanging over him as Jokaste pointed a big neon flashing sign at it in all its horrendous glory.

Damen is, for the first time, confronted by the idea that power is not a stable or steady notion. Or state of being. And he had, until this point, taken it for granted. Blind to the reality of what it meant and the sword hanging over him.

That’s not to say I think Damen is completely naïve. He knows power has costs, but his own specific psychology allows it be far away, it just is what it is for him. Something he just has to do and so locks it away. It’s the battle at Marlas: a job to be done. It’s being separate from others both personally and professionally (separate from his men, separated from Nikandros and not being able to serve at the Kings Meet, no close connections etc), it’s having to be perfect (clearly extensively trained and educated) and working hard and duty above all. But the threat?

The throne lies in the shadow of the gallows and Damen is for the first time recognising how precarious power is, how poisonous, how close the threat can fester.

Damen’s entire journey from then on, he is in a continued state of fight or flight, and that sword hanging over him does not get any lighter or any less perilous. (I could likewise talk about Damen and Laurent’s super interesting fight or flight reactions but that is a topic for another time lmao)

Damen’s journey, and his arc throughout the trilogy, can be stripped back to the notion of power and his attempt to regain his own. It’s loss, it’s meaning, how he defines himself and the world and what he understands of it: all of these relate to Damen’s understanding of, and struggle with, his own power. In its most basic form Damen loses his crown and his journey is about retaking it. The crown, we know, is the ultimate symbol of power. It’s all very blatant. Especially when coupled together with power in its most physical sense as one of Damen’s most frequented attributes from scene to scene. Damen is powerful, strong, and wilful, people listen to him, he has an unshakeable determination and has a pretty astounding effect on those around him even when he is unaware of it. Damen, we are told, is a King. Not just by birthright but in action. He has all the makings and markings of a leader. Because of this Damen always has some sense of power.

We see it over and over in a myriad of different scenes: Damen’s true sense of power is innate to himself and his abilities. Especially with a sword in hand. Damen is all wrapped up quite obviously in the theme.

However, though Damen’s journey to regain his power is the main focus of the narrative, it’s not his arc. Damen’s real journey, his internal struggle, is all about his identity.

Again, at its most basic, it seems heavy handed to say so: Damen spends the mass majority of the books hiding his identity after all, so of course it’s a theme, of course his slow decisive fight for his own power walks hand in hand with clawing back his identity. However, as we know, by the end of the trilogy we are very much aware that Damen’s identity journey was never about the crown. It was never about coming clean or using his real name and title. It was never about the unveiling of himself to all of those around him to be known. It was about discovering himself. Damen the man and not Damianos the prince.

And this dichotomy sets the stage for the real journey of Captive Prince: duty vs desire.

Damianos of Akielos: the rightful king, the son and heir, The Noble Man. He is the consummate Crown Prince, a military commander, an astute -almost legendary- warrior. The Perfect Son. The man who cares what people see of him, who is bound by tradition and expectation. The face of power and duty.

Damen the man: gives no fucks what people see of him, desperate for affection but afraid to ask for it, lost and full of doubt, empty no matter how he indulges himself. Almost self destructive and negligent with his own safety as if he has something to prove, as if he’s always striving for something, mad at his father, confused by his brother, indulgent of his own wants without thought because it’s easier than questioning. His dead mother’s son, his father’s hope. Compassionate and protective and innately aware of other peoples vulnerability. This is his internal face, the man and not the crown. Full of desire and emotionally broken.

Damen has, for a long time, kept himself at arms-length. Nikandros is his only real friendship, his tragic family life is nothing but duty and trauma. His love life is full of sex and no emotional intimacy. He never, not once, considered Jokaste as anything but his mistress. It wasn’t Jokaste that broke his heart, it was Kastor. She is explicitly his mistress; someone he is intimate with only during sex. She’s not his future and she knows this. She will never be Damen’s queen; it never even crosses his mind.

I assume Damen, like most princes, thought he’d marry for duty. A political marriage that would ultimately not be his choice, so why bother getting close?

This is where the masculine culture of Akielos would come into play and we could spend hours here playing around with the heteronormative aspects of both Akielos and Vere (normalised queer sexual relationships aside there are deep underlying mentalities here surrounding the themes of submission and masculinity and what is Acceptable. I liken it to Rome in this respect: totally cool to stick your dick wherever if you are a citizen, not so cool to take a dick unless you are in a category Roman's viewed as inferior, but that's an entire essay unto it self). This is yet one more place wherein Damen struggles and where his wants don't necessarily align with the expectation of him. Bottom line: Damen doesn't really personally give a shit, but Damianos does. And we see this by the Akielon (Nikandros and Makedon) reaction to Damen's cuffs, scars and circumstance and how Damen reacts to these things both as his own person, and as a man who knows how Akielos will perceive it.

Segregation, compartmentalisation, and separation. These three are the main components of Damen’s trauma manifesting in his personality. I could talk about his psychology, his trauma, how and why this happened. But that is a different discussion for a different day. Right now, all we need to be aware of is that Damen does this in every single aspect of his being and within the narrative.

He does it with sex (separating the physical and the emotional), his trauma (stowing it away and dismissing it instead of feeling it, as if acknowledging and feeling were one and the same), with politics (slavery, Akielos vs Vere), with his father (the king vs the man), with his brother (the resentment he is aware of vs the desperate want of his brother), what he thinks he needs vs what he wants.

Damen never sees himself as a slave. Never not once, does he doubt himself in this regard. He doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t allow himself to feel it. Not truly, there is never a breakdown, never a moment in the first two books where this terrible tragic traumatic thing gets the better of him.

This is because Damen has always split himself in half this way. We see it again and again, explicitly, and implicitly, Damen is a man of two faces.

Damianos the Crown and Damen the man. This is how he keeps himself so separate from the shackles he finds himself in. Because it’s not him, not really, and only someone used to compartmentalising aspects of themselves could do what Damen does in Vere as easily as he does.

It is no surprise that the real meeting of those two faces is what causes Damen to (finally) spiral. Not well, of course, Damen’s too controlled to spiral fully, but Damen only loses his shit a handful of times in all 3 books (and considering his chronic fight or flight is popping the fuck off it's actually super impressive but I digress).

I’m talking the out-of-control kind of loses his shit, and almost all of them are for Laurent. These are: the kidnappers in Vask when they lay suggestive hands on Laurent and Damen reacts to Laurent’s innate sense of vulnerability in this regard, it’s not jealousy, it’s because Damen is, at heart, a protector.

The Kings Meet, where Damen’s rage for Laurent sees him absolutely lose it at one of his Kingdoms most sacred places. Again, it’s not jealousy, it’s not even something he digests because fundamentally Damen already knew. He just hadn’t confronted it, allowed himself to think of it, so when it’s spelled out for him he doesn’t question, he just reacts. With rage. For Laurent.

There are only 2 other times Damen really loses it on page where it comes out as pure Viking Berserker rage: Charcy and with Makedon. Both of these times he has been pushed to the end of his emotional tether and he snaps.

Which is odd for Damen, who has so much control. It’s no surprise these things occur after the clash of his two faces when Nikandros and an Akielon army kneels for him at Ravenel. Charcy, where the man in love is determined and worried and willing to hope for Laurent. Where the Rightful King is very fucking aware that he should be heading south and this battle is not tactically something he needs to do or even that he should do and that his men are certainly not on board with.

Makedon, we know, is a target for Damen’s rage because he is there. But he’s not really attacking Makedon, it’s everything, the accumulation of hit after hit that breaks because, again, Damen is at the absolute end of his emotional tether. With Laurent, with Kastor, with Jokaste, with his position, with the future opening up before him where he knows he can’t win the way he wants. Because at that point, his real wants are impossible. And the prospect opening up before him is cold and empty and a crown he should never have had to fight for, against a man he loves even now despite everything. Abusers, we know, are good at getting that response from their victims.

If Damen had had those two aspects of himself confronted before he fell in love with Laurent then nothing would have changed. He could have walked away safe and sound and kept his world view and his deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms entirely intact.

But that’s not what happens. Damianos the Crown and Damen the man can no longer hide from each other by the time reality comes calling at Ravenel.

Because he does fall for Laurent and he recognises that it is directly in conflict with his mission, with his duty and his crown. Damen’s narrative journey to regain his own power is tied explicitly and irrevocably to his identity struggle and his love story. His love for Laurent is the trigger that bursts the dam in his head and he sees himself, finally, as a man split in half. Is forced to confront the dissonance within himself as Laurent’s lover and as his own man.

In the end of the legend Damocles decided he would never want to trade places with the King, realising that power was, in fact, a burden, and he would rather enjoy his life.

But Damen is the King. Unlike Damocles he already has power. His struggle then, is not only about recognising the burden that comes with power, but reconciling his world view to include the sword he had been fortunate enough to never really notice.

It becomes a struggle between the opposing wants within Damen: duty and power vs love and desire and how to reconcile them.

In other words: A kingdom, or this?

Damen, like Damocles, learns his lesson. Hard and fast but it takes a while for him to frame that in his reality. More importantly, to frame Laurent in that reality.

Because Laurent is not blind to that sword. He has been painfully aware of that sword for a long time. His though, his less of a burden and more of a threat, he lets the sword hang or he dies. There is no alternative for Laurent.

Laurent’s struggle, similar and yet so contrasting to Damen, is that he has ignored the feast entirely. He indulged once, saw the sword and concentrated on nothing else from then on. Laurent’s reconciliation between duty and desire is not the same as Damen’s, in fact it is much more blatant. He doesn’t let himself feel desire but for life (power) to mean anything he has to let it in eventually or else it’s empty. Nothing but the constant anxious vigilance of waiting for danger and despair.

It's no life.

A kingdom or this then, duty vs love, becomes a motif for Damen reconciling the parts of himself that are newly discovered to him with the man his father, Nikandros, Akielos, wants or needs him to be. To Damen, duty and his fight for the crown is Damianos the prince. It’s his birth right, it’s who he is, who he was raised to be and Akielos is his home. His everything. Except Damen, the man, knows that it’s empty, that being perfect meant nothing in the end and as a man, he wants love. Would throw everything else away for it.

Reconciling those two opposing but equally as devastatingly consuming wants becomes the focal point of King’s Rising.

The merging, of course, narratively, comes at Ravenel. When Damen watches Nikandros and his men go to their knees for Damianos. The internal merging however, the reconciliation, comes at Karthas. With Laurent, when he uses, for the first time, both of Damen’s names in bed. That is the moment we see Damen stitch himself together, realign himself, a camera coming into focus. Damianos the King, the representation of duty, meeting Damen the man and the representation of desire. Quite literally, coming together.

We know this is the moment for Laurent too, for vastly different reasons, but Laurent makes his choices here too. He already knows what he’s going to do here, and so does Damen. The choice has been made, the stage is set, the final ball is in motion.

The readers are, of course, rooting for both. For Damen to win his crown and keep Laurent. We know there will be a choice now and when it does finally come to that choice Damen and Laurent are on the same page and make the same choices. Winning their crowns was a happy accident. Because they both choose this.

Laurent gave himself up for Damen without hesitation. He chose love. Damen throws himself on the mercy of the court knowing he was likely going to die just so that Laurent would not be alone. Those are not the choices of Kings. It’s not duty. Those are the choices made with love and with little regard for anything but that love.

Laurent, we know, knows that Damen can beat the Regent. The Regent has not won against him yet. It’s somewhat tactical but it’s hypothetical, a conciliation or justification of the sacrifice he’s making. Getting the Regent out of Akielos, giving himself up, makes Damen safer, because Laurent knows that Damen retaking the throne in Akielos is a matter of time, they won’t stand against him for long, he knows this. The Regent muddies the waters. But Damen is, canonically, the only person who has baffled and beat the Regent from day one. Laurent is that confident in Damen. But, as I said, those are his justifications. Not his reasons.

Damen doesn’t even try to justify it; he goes so that Laurent is not alone. That’s his choice. Winning their crowns was an afterthought.

Damen doesn’t do it blindingly, he is painfully aware of the sword hanging over him, the consequences of those choices, but it is the moment where Damen decides that the feast in front of him is still worth it. If the sword falls it falls. It doesn’t matter what he does, if it’s going to fall it will fall regardless but if he doesn’t take what’s in front of him then the rest will mean absolutely fucking nothing. It is, for them both, a very conscious decision.

It does, of course, end with the bells. A two-fold symbol we all have been conditioned to accept as an ending: a Disney inspired Pavlovian response. It’s the hero’s arc complete, it’s the journey’s end, the signal of both a victory, and in every fairy-tale ever: a wedding.

Or: a kingdom and this, the real merging.

So there we go, hope you like it dear. You're lucky it was this and not word vomit about the sword throw scene because it very nearly was my dude.

[jennifer-jeong]

Fluff + Angst | Wanderer x GN!Reader Human

SUMMARY You make him feel human.

CONTENT Angst to fluff, mentions of Wanderer's trauma, mentions of suicidal ideation, he's kinda mean to you at first, CHARACTERS ARE 18+

AUTHOUR'S NOTE THIS IS WAS INSPIRED BY YOU MY POOKIE @thepurestgirll TY FOR BEING SO SWEET ESP BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE MANY MOOTS JFKDS;LAJ I love your fics and aesthetic and I hope to continue to see your content because I will always be here to love and support it >:)

WORD COUNT: 854

Quiet sobs rack through the empty metal chamber. In the middle sits a man puppet of a man. Clutching the electro gnosis to his chest as his tears pelt the cold floor. Wasn’t this all he ever wanted? He finally has a “heart,” he should feel human, loved, and fit in now, right? But why is he crying? Why does he still feel hollow? Why does he want to give it all up to just be a normal human? Why did his mother create him this way just to throw him aside and make him suffer even more? Why not just have killed him long ago? Should he do it himself? Be free of this wretched body? Be free of all the earthly pain?

So many questions swirled in his mind. His gentle soul has been beat and battered to the point where he doesn’t know the meaning of peace anymore. He’s been alive for so long, chasing the same answer, the same goal. Yet, here he is. So many questions and not a single fucking answer.

Even after all that extra bullshit with Nahida, the traveler, and Irminsul, he only got bits and pieces of answers he needed. He was still lost and hurting, not that he’d ever admit that. So naturally he’s a complete ass to you when all you’re trying to do is help. You’re another adventurer and you often help the traveler when needed. You witnessed a good amount of Wanderer’s tragic journey in Sumeru and afterwards asked Nahida (his mom) if it would be a good idea to try to talk to him. She said yes but that it’d be quite… difficult.

You persevered, though. Through every insult thrown your way, all the times he ignored you, and even the times his attitude almost got you hurt when adventuring. After weeks of it, he found himself here, crying, but this time, in your arms.

He was yelling at you like he usually does but this time it was because you almost got crushed by debris while you two were out on combat commissions. He was telling you how stupid you were, how it would’ve gotten you killed, and how he… couldn’t let it happen. You smiled at him, hearing him say something caring for the first time since you started this whole mission of yours. You walk towards him slowly as he continues to insult you.

“You stupid humans, you never think before you act. Imagine what would’ve happened if I didn’t call out to you to warn you. You-… You’d be dead! I’d spite you because of it! You and your human body, so fucking fragile. Why did I ever want to be like your kind anyways?”

As you close the distance, he gets panicked and confused, shouting at you.

“Why are you even still here anyways?! Isn’t all this too much for you? Why would you want to help someone like me? Don’t you know I’m not human? Why would you want me here? Why would you want to stay? W-why…”

You reach out your arms to slowly envelop him in a hug as his tears well in his eyes. He puts his hands on your shoulders to push you back lightly as if he didn’t want the contact, but he was barely putting up a fight. You both knew that if he didn’t want you to touch him, you wouldn’t even be able to.

“Why… do you even care about me,” he croaked out as his voice started to crack.

“Because I see all the good in you, and I want you to let others see it as well,” you say gently as you pull him close, arms around his waist.

He feels his emotions finally boil over as waves of sadness wash over him. His legs fail under him and you lower the two of you to the grass. He buries his head into your shoulder, sobbing harder as your warmth permeates his body that has only known the cold for so so many years. His arms clutch your head as he stains your shoulder with tears.

You feel so warm. You feel so human. It makes him feel human.

You’ve been taking such good care of him and he doesn’t think he deserves it, but he doesn’t voice it to you, at least not now. You let him cry it out while patting his back. You imagine he hasn’t ever been comforted while crying before and it’s what’s making him cry harder.

You two end the afternoon with him exhausted and you offer to let him rest his head on your legs. You pat his hair as he drifts into sleep, feeling safe for the first time in a long while. The sun warms both your bodies and you bask in it.

You two probably have a lot to talk about when he wakes up. But you stay silent for now. Enjoying the peace that he rarely gets to have. It’s a long healing journey ahead of you two but this puppet man knows that he wouldn’t rather embark on it with anyone else.

|| MASTERLIST ♡ || Thank you for reading! ||

[christinebloodwrittings]

Dream a little dream of me.

Request: I had an idea for you to accept yourself and feel comfortable doing so, of course! 💕

Well, what if the reader was a human from an alternate universe who fell into the world of Hazbin... And the reader has a secret, that she can use magic, but refuses to use her unique magic, until the day of war. .. The reader hates wars and seeing her friends getting hurt, so use her unique magic, where she summons magical flowers that cause drowsiness, and with that, making everyone in hell and the angels sleep peacefully and as a bonus, healing everyone who are suffering while they sleep (The reader's plan is to make everyone sleep until the extermination time ends, so that no one gets hurt or dies)... And in their dreams, people would be living their greatest desires and dreams come true, having and discovering what they really want, even if they refuse to admit it when they're awake...

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader Summary: A decision made in between desperation and love, to protect everyone reader makes everyone sleep, while she made sure everyone was taken care of. Warnings: Blood, violence.

(The real ones will acknowledge 2 references) Also I tried, but I simply can't write yandere characters XD it came out cringy.

You felt a slight distant feeling in the spirits surrounding the hotel. A battle was coming, not quite a war, but no less deadly. You sat in the windowsill, watching the red city thrive with life and evil, unaware of the affairs dealt within the hotel’s walls.

Sorrow was not an emotion you would attach to a situation quite like that one, but thinking in all the princess has done for you, and how open minded she was of your condition and your posture against violence, you couldn’t help to feel a great deal of sadness, contemplating an untimely death for everyone inside.

“Y/n, I know you had told me before, but would you please consider changing your mind?” earlier, the princess pleaded, her hand caressing your arm. Your dexterous ability with magic was clear to her, so she tried to bend your arm – figuratively – to get you to join the battle.

“I’m sorry princess, I cannot” you watched the sadness wash over her eyes. Her girlfriend offered some reassurance after she walked away from you, not wishing to press the matter onto you any further.

“What was it like, in your dimension?” Husk asked, not looking up from the glass he was cleaning. “Violent, dark, strict” as if you could describe your birthplace, not quite like a home but a prison, a place that seemed like hell, just with a tad of more fire.

“I dare bet that you used to be an angel, dearest” the radio demon slid onto a barstool, taking the one closest to you. “What makes you say that?” he took your hand off your drink, rising it to his lips, feeling each and every single one of the cold scales on your knuckles against his skin. “There’s not a single demon in hell with your capabilities, specially those to resist the call to freely infringe pain” in another life, maybe, but seeing what your anger could do, you simply couldn’t.

“I’ll take that as a compliment Radio Demon” he made a static sound as he chuckled, finding your cheekiness adorable. “Wasn’t it?” he still held your hand in his, enjoying the ridges on the back of your hand. “In your tongue? No” you made your scales stand in point, prickling one of Alastor’s fingers, which made him wince and hiss.

“I wish you bests of lucks, Alastor. May fortune be on your hand when you slay that ignorant so-called angel” you saluted him as you would do to a soldier or a knight. He watched you go up the stairs, his favorite time of the day was when he could just watch you flee.

The gentle sway of your hips had a vice grasp on his sanity. Your eyes were those of a snake, captivating and mysterious, with the most beautiful color he had ever seen, such combination couldn’t have an earthly name, he once thought. Your skin seemed soft and undamaged, yet it hid millions of little scales that shined subtly with the fire’s light.

If it weren’t for your black crooked horns that made a crown at the height of your temple, and the black bat-wings that you dragged behind on back, you could be mistaken for a divine creation. Alastor knows he made that mistake upon first meeting you.

How easy was for you to make his powers flee him, and a chill to travel up his spine to the tip of his prongs. He not only met arousal for the first time, but also attraction.

You are intelligent, Alastor was aware of that from moment one. That's why he knew that you would never choose a sinner of his level as a life partner, you were made for greatness, for something far out of his reach to become. If his pride didn't get in the way, he would easily kneel at your feet, and make you his, even if he had to beg you for it. But his pride and denial of his own feelings was as big and vast as hell.

But oh, how he loved to see you go. It was a spell itself, the way you took his breath away as you disappeared inside the corridor.

The next day, the battle was freely fought in the front garden of the hotel. In your room you kept the little creatures safe, while you kept yourself safe. But there's only so much a person can take, so much explosion and dismemberment, it made you jump out of your hiding place and take to the field.

“ENOUGH!” you hit the earth with your fist, not breaking it, but your green power made grass grow up from the dry and dead soil of hell. Then, red little flowers bloomed, the spores made everyone who smelled it fall asleep, including Alastor and Adam on the ceiling.

“What is this magic?” Lute remained on the sky, covering her mouth with a cloth. “Poppies, they’re just asleep” you flew to meet her level, she didn’t take that too nicely since she rushed to attack you with her sword, “So you can kill us faster?”, you were quick to avoid her advances.

“Not at all, please pick up your wounded sisters and leave” you gave her the chance, “Why, what makes you believe I will-” you summoned your spear, made of dark magic, and pointed her neck with it.

“If you fall to your blinded nonsense and attack me once more, I will retaliate” you mere poked her crown with the flat blade before making it go away, “If I do you will be the last one to die” the aura surrounding you, made her wings twitch. “Let’s see about that” was what she muttered before launching herself at you.

One of the properties of the sleeping poppies, was that they provide whoever that smell them a pleasing slumber, dreaming with what they desire the most.

For Charlie it was the hotel finally working.

For Vaggie, it was Charlie happily married to her.

For Angel Dust, it was to be free of Valentino’s grasp. Husk shared that exact vision.

Everything was dark. Guided by the smell of humidity and damp earth, Alastor walked blindly, the only sound was his own footsteps and his heart beating in his ears.

He felt short of breath when he heard a second pair of footsteps behind him. He quickly ran, spotting a light between the trees, without knowing why, he followed it. His chest was heaving painfully, and each gulp of air felt like fire down his throat.

When he reached the light, he felt himself fall, and when he opened his eyes Alastor was laying on his back, green grass under him, and a cool refreshing breeze softly moving the tuffs of hair on top of his ears. He hadn’t seen a blue sky in a century, he didn’t even remembered he missed the feeling of the sun on his brow. But he did.

“Earth to Alastor!” he looked to his right, and there you were, “Hey mon cher, penny for your thoughts?” you had a fork on your hand with a strawberry on it. The intimate gesture of you feeding him something seemed surreal, but he neverminded, opened his mouth and relished in the sweetness, even though he wasn’t a fan of sweets.

“It’s a lovely day” he was unsure of what to say, one moment he was with Adam, and in a blink of an eye, you were with him. “It sure is, we haven’t had one like this in a while, huh?” he pressed his hand on your cheek, not believing for a second this fake sense of peace in the air.

“This isn’t real” he whispered for himself, but you caught on his words nonetheless. “Wasn’t trying to convince you otherwise” your voice was so gentle, had you always been like this?, “Then, where are we?” he felt a tug on his face, his smile, he didn’t noticed he wasn’t smiling.

“You tell me, my spell reflects the desires of the person in their dreams, so where are we?”  he didn’t recognized the place, It could well have been some postcard image, he liked to see them on the way to the studio, but he wasn't sure.

“On a hill…wait a dream, what about the battle?” what about his body? Although, everything was so idyllic, but in no way did he, after being killed in battle, ascend to heaven. It didn't even cross his mind.

“I’m taking care of everyone as we speak, I’ll be done in a minute” Outside, you were flying over the battlefield, while looking for a way to immobilize Lute without killing her, she made it hard to do so by moving a lot, and attacking you.

Alastor sensed your eyes and your mind were far away, given the stare into nothingness you had. “We lost?” he startled you, so you gave him a rushed answer, entering a separate state of mind connected to his dream.

“No” he was confused, why would you put everyone to sleep after denying the use of your powers? What was the reason of the change of heart?. “Then?” he tried searching in your face, any sign of anything, his ego was dying to know if he managed to kill the winged-wretch of Adam.  

“I heard all the screaming, then…your voice, I just couldn’t anymore” You couldn't handle the thought of losing more people, and dammed as he could be, you had taking a liking over the radio demon’s antiques and old personality.

Your face contorted into a grimace of pain, all of a sudden Lute had attempted to plunge her blade into you, but failed only by a few inches, making a piercing wound on your torso nonetheless, but not in the way she wanted.

“What is going on?” The cuts, given Lute’s advances, were starting to reflect on your skin, staining your white sundress. “I got distracted, is all” you did your best to disregard your situation, making a cover that soon was shattered by another whimper of pain on your part.

Your handle on the situation grew weaker by the minute, until one of her movements graced your wing, forcing you to land forcefully on the Hotel’s ceiling. “I'm going to take advantage of your curse, and when I'm done killing everyone here, I'll come for you” she laughed with a sinister tone.

There was so much hatred in the heart of that angel, it surprised you, you even wondered if he shared the sky in your world with this one, and I hope that's not the case. You were surprised at how cruel a divine being could be.

A ravenous roar echoed through the air; you were immediately held by a huge hand with enormous claws. You looked down in search of Alastor, who had been asleep for a while in a bed made of poppies, but he was not there, and in his place was the beast with red hair, huge jaws, and eyes like...radio dials.

“Holy fucking hell, Alastor!?” the beast took one look at you before pressing you near his wounded chest, as if he was trying to shield you. Lute had to fly backwards, because of Alastor and also because Lucifer made it to the scene.

Seeing his daughter on the ground made him think the worse and he took it on not-so-poor Lute, killing her after a lot of punches. “Ah, sir?” the king of hell took a side look at you, his blood pumping with raw anger, “It’s a sleeping spell, she’s asleep” as if nothing happened, Lucifer’s mood shifted like a light switch, “Could you undo it?” his tone was a bit too stern despite his much better mood, which caused Alastor to growl in warning.

“Relax Albert, I’m not gonna hurt your girl” due to Lucifer's inappropriate insinuating gesture, Alastor tried to crush him with his free hand, failing due to the obvious advantages of the fallen angel, but he still received the message.

After waking everyone up, kicking Adam's ass back to heaven, and a quick remodel of the Hotel, everyone was able to return to their respective rooms to tend to their injuries. Alastor was the first to move towards his room, with you still in his hand.

Still in his large, demonic appearance he entered the room. You didn't remember him having a bed the last time you saw his room, and yet there was one, with red satin sheets, in which he was kind enough to gently place you on.

“Alastor, are you alright?” His size became more normal as he walked to the bathroom, as he did so his fur also began to dissipate, and if it hadn't been for his adorable little tail, you would’ve seen his full naked ass on his way to hide in the bathroom.

“Is your wing alright?” he asked, out of breath and seemingly upset, but it was hard to know from your distance. “I asked first” a robe few from the closet to the bathroom, then Alastor walked back into the room.

“I’m fine, your turn” you knew damn sure he was not okay, but you weren’t going to press the matter, yet. “It’s not bleeding anymore” you showed him the cut on your extended wing, his eye twitched then proceeded to ask, “And your body?” given the extensive cuts on your cheek, arms and legs.

“Alastor what the hell happened back there? I appreciate you getting defensive, it was a bit attractive, not going to lie- I mean, how the fuck did you woke up?!” It hit you harder than a train when you put two and two together.

"I don't know, I just did" the fact that his dream started out as a nightmare, the scenario similar to how he died, and then there was you. It was unconscious to wake up and transform, but the fact that he took you in his hands and had the intention to protect you was not only visceral but also something that he felt was right.

“That’s impossible” he shook his head at your words, "Listen, in your spell, was it my head making you talk or...were you really there?" He sat in front of you, bandages in hand that he magically made appear, ready to tend to your wounds. "What do you think?" he took your hand, watching your inky black blood coloring your skin, you were an enigma to him.

"I heard you calling me" when you said that, his ears twitched. Your spells are accurate, but people's wishes are not written in stone, they change, grow and are full of life. Alastor was calling to you, whatever that reason was, it was strong, enough to split your subconscious to be with him.

You knew, just by seeing the relief in his eyes upon seeing you, that even without calling you, your image would have been reflected in his dream.

“I…I want you to stay” he brushed up your wing, to put a large band aid on the cut, his face close to yours. “I’m not going anywhere” you whispered close to his lips, “I mean–” you pecked his lips, “I know what you mean, I’m not going anywhere” his hand caressed your cheek, passing your pointy ears and down to your neck.

After a light tug he pressed his lips onto yours.

An electric feeling ran through his body, inside his pants his little tail was wagging because of how happy he finally felt with the truth on the table. To think that his heart fluttered in his chest at the thought of losing you in battle, he simply couldn't have lived with that.

“I will finish this up, you did a great work with my wound by the way” he kissed your cheek, sighing onto your soft skin.

After leaving you to be more of a bandage than a person, Alastor opened his heart to say something he hadn't said since his mother passed away. "Y/n, I think that, more than just a desire, I feel like I can't breathe properly if you're not present. The idea that you could have died yesterday filled me with rage, I couldn't tolerate the image in my head” he took your hands in his, they were shaking.

“I think that I love you, but I also feel that that term falls short, and I’m afraid I don’t understand it very well either, or you for that matter” Alastor hadn't felt this nervous since the first time he auditioned to be the new voice of the radio, and being a man of color, damn he was nervous.

Fun fact, he was less afraid when fighting Adam.

“Well, I have no desire to come back to my home-world, so we have time” a genuine smile painted his face, as he slowly pressed his lips back to yours, “You’re magical” he sighed, taking you into his arms, no matter how much it hurt post-war.

"I don't understand it either, but once I had a dream of you Alastor, similar to this"

"When?"

"Half a century before we met"

"Destined to be, then?"

"Yeah, feels like it"

"You know this means I won't let you go, right?"

"I was counting on that"

[edges-of-night]

Hi! I'm sure everyone tells you this, but I absolutely love your writing. Seeing your new posts always brightens my day :) It's a silly request, but could I ask for the elves reacting to a reader who's a Starfleet officer/from the Star Trek universe? TYSM and sorry if this isn't what you usually do

Thank you for your kind words, anon! It always brightens my day to hear that this blog brings people joy ♡

As for your request: People who’ve seen my main blog will know I’m a Trekkie, so I couldn’t let this classic fandom crossover slide haha! I’ve turned Reader into a Vulcan working as a Starfleet officer who ends up in Middle-Earth by accident (damned transporter interference…)

Enjoy the read and – of course – live long and prosper!

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Arwen is probably one of the best inhabitants of Middle-Earth to run into if you’re stranded in an unknown place. Whether you get beamed into Rivendell or to the riverbends of the Bruinen, the Elven lady is quick on her feet and recognises you as someone in need of help – especially when others speak of you with great suspicion. “Do not listen to their words. They have no meaning where my heart is concerned.”

Arwen is kind and curious, making it increasingly hard for you to follow the Prime Directive. She must not know about your starship, but of course it is senseless to try and hide your worries from her attentive gaze. Though she might not know of your dilemma exactly, she promises to help you find your way back home and always wants to make sure you’re comfortable in this strange world, being openly affectionate and sometimes even touchy with you – until she sensed that holding hands meant a bit more to you than an Elf… ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

The Lord of Rivendell, Elrond, works almost as logically as a Vulcan, which impresses you. He is a master of knowledge and a lore expert with a vast collection of literature at his disposal. I like the idea that maybe the Prime Directive would not even concern him because he has heard of star-faring people but always considered them legends, until he met you.

Not only is Elrond an intelligent conversationalist – he is also the most considerate and kind host you could have wished for. He respects your drive for finding a solution to your problem but also endows you with comfortable quarters to retreat into, as well as a vegetarian menu to eat. To further help you clear your mind, he’d invite you to a session of harp playing. The music is soothing, not too different from your Vulcan lute – and yet entirely new – fascinating!

.

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

The Lady of Light knows of your presence in Middle-Earth even before you yourself do. She immediately senses that something is off and delights when she finally gets to meet you. “How nice to have a face to the stranger on our earthly shores,” she’d whisper in your head. Her fascination with you is intense and maybe even scaring you a bit. However, logic suggests you have nothing to fear of her.

Galadriel’s resources and ancient knowledge, as well as the futility of upholding the Prime Directive, make the search for a way back to your ship easy. Before you go, however, Galadriel would ask you to join her telepathic palace – which you agree to. Her mind meld is more powerful than any you have ever performed before. It gives you a glimpse into her internal lights that are eons olds and yet young and beautiful. To remember it, Galadriel would give you a strand of her legendary hair as a parting gift ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Honestly? Haldir running into a Vulcan might be the funniest combination in this post – the stone faces would be off the charts! At first, the beautiful Elf and his ability to hide his emotions (minus his thinly veiled contempt) would fascinate you, as well as his matter-of-factly duty of keeping you out of Lothlórien. Maybe you’d point out, “It would seem we are both simply following our orders.” – “Indeed.”

However, you can be just as silent and stubborn as Haldir, so the two of you would probably spend an entire night just staring each other down, until he has had enough and finally escorts you to his Lady to make you her problem instead of yours. It is obvious to him that you do not belong here, so his sense of duty makes him care for you – which he would never admit to, of course!

.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

Initially, Legolas would think of you as a fellow Elf lost in Mirkwood, which is good for the Prime Directive but bad for someone as untalented with lying as you. Eventually, you’ll informed him of your suspicion that the two of you belonged to entirely different species. He would ask you about your body then, as well as your workplace and perhaps your family. But after the friendly ‘getting to know you phase’, Legolas knows your weaknesses and will try to mess with you – in a playful and non-hostile but all-too Human way, testing your patience and logic alike.

That said, he will do what he can to help you get back to your world and ask many questions about it. “What is it like? To fare the stars as if they were islands in an ocean? What does the moon look like up close? Oh, there is no moon in your world? There hasn’t always been one here, either. Look that way… up, silly, not at me! You see it…?” ♡

By the way: The young Romulan warrior Elnor, a main character from Star Trek: Picard, has an Elvish name according to the showrunners. One meaning of “el” (as in the names of Elrond and Elros, for example) is star, and “nor” means run. In both Sindarin and Quenya, dear Elnor’s name roughly translates to “Star Trek”!

Being candid and brash, a skilled fighter and absolute sweetheart, I think he’d get along splendidly with dear Legolas, for example...