GREETINGS!! was wondering if you feel up for it if you could do a tyrion x autistic reader? idk how you could make autism fit into the GoT world but I always feel like an outsider even in the real world and i feel tyrion would be one of the few who'd actually be accepting and not judgemental
A Kitty Cat in the Lion’s Den
Tyrion Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader
(Feat.) Tywin Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader
CONTENT: Autistic meltdown, small! Mention of blood/ injury, self-deprecation, the Lannisters are their own warning
Word count: 1.5k (lil pookie bear)
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Hi, beautiful. I absolutely loved this request !! This was only semi triggering to write, and I hope you like it. <3
I’ve just started back at college, so the drip might be dry (not that it wasn’t to begin with). I may or may not have published this during a Free Study period…
This is proof I don’t just write Gregor Clegane fics. But I do love big squishy man and his cock.
I think I probably need to make a masterlist..
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(A teeny PSA before we begin- I, unsurprisingly given the shit I upload on here, am autistic. I’ve struggled with it my whole life, and this is an interpretation of my own experience with autism. ASD is, as the name suggests, a spectrum, so this can’t really be a generalised fic. I put my own personal experiences with my condition into this, so if you’re also autistic/ otherwise neurodivergent and this doesn’t fit your vibes, that’s why. I can’t really explain it any other way, so yeah, here you go.)
Your entire life has served as a reminder that, whether by your own fault or some cruel will of the Gods, you are not wanted. You are the outsider, the youngest Lannister, not beautiful enough to marry off young and, decidedly, not male. Lord Tywin is consistently busy with his duties as the Hand, Tyrion hides with his wines and his whores, and Jaime has his own place in the Red Keep. You are forced to sit with your sister and her ladies, who talk too loudly and prattle on about nonsense.
Cersei, you have long established, does not like you. You aren’t really sure anyone likes you, in the traditional sense, but you know that your sister only keeps you around for fear of Tywin’s wrath. There is something in the back of your mind that remembers a younger, softer Cersei putting you in her lap, of brushing your hair and putting it in gold bows. But, that was before. Before you could walk or talk properly, before you spouted random facts on unasked for topics, before she realised you were different.
Everyone knows you are different, and no one can explain why. Not even you. All they know is to stay away from you, all they know is they’ll never understand how your little mind works.
So, you sit as nicely as you can on the outside of Cersei’s circle of ladies, and you try to focus on your sewing. You don’t like sewing, but it’s what all of the noblewomen do to pass the time, and all you want is to fit in.
“Your sewing is coming on well, my lady.”
The septa tilts your sewing slightly to look at it just a little more. It’s supposed to be a gift for your father, and it is not good. You see every uneven stitch, all of the oddities and bumps in your work that make it so you can hardly look at it. You hate it, and you hate that you can’t even sew properly.
“The stitching is all wrong…”
She takes your hands as you try, again, to pick out your newest stitch, a learned behaviour with you. Despite being with you near your whole life, since you weaned off of your nurse, you aren’t sure the septa completely understands your fascination of perfection,
“It is fine,” Her voice is soft, but you can feel her disappointment, “you are still learning, my lady, some mistakes are natural. You do not need to pull it apart- again.”
You jump when Cersei’s ladies giggle at some joke you haven’t heard, the woman beside you takes your hand, and you are reminded why you keep her so close. At least, in some way, she understands what you like and what upsets you.
Tea is served for the ladies. They give you what Cersei likes, what her ladies eat, green and red things that squish and squelch in your mouth and taste like you’ve eaten rags. And the queen sees you push them around your plate, and scoffs.
“At least try it, sister,” She sips from her wine. You feel each of her noblewomen shift, in turn, to look at you, “a Lannister lady can’t just survive off of the children’s food you eat, we can’t all eat nothing but cakes and plain bread all day.”
But you don’t, and you starve. Tywin will get you something later, you’re sure of it, as he sighs, and gently suggests you’ll need a more varied diet if you’re to marry a good husband.
The women’s giggles practically turn to cackles, which do not stop for what feels like hours. You wish they’d stop, or that you could understand what they find so utterly hilarious, so at least you may join their hysteria. You’ve put your sewing down in your lap, and you fiddle with your hair. The sept doesn’t like that, she guides your work back into your hands.
“Your father doesn’t like it if you mess your hair, sweet girl, you know that,” Her hands find your hair, carefully untangling the knots you’ve made, “try a few more stitches.”
And then, inevitably, it happens. You prick your finger on your needle, and a soft ruby comes from your noble, incomprehensible skin.
Throwing your project to the ground, you rush off as fast as your legs can manage. No one comes to find you.
You are long practised with the subtle art of trying not to cry. You pace back and forth, away from anything and everything, your hands in your hair as you do. The tears in your eyes hurt, they make you tired, and only add to your humiliation. You can do nothing right, why can you do nothing right?
You think of your sister, of perfect, beautiful, poised Cersei- She has a gaggle of women to do her bidding she is loved, and desires and you doubt she paces the halls trying not to cry. She is the lion queen, and you are her kitty-cat of a sister.
And then, you hear your name called. Followed by hurried footsteps toward you. Tyrion takes your hands in his, but you cannot even look at him.
“Has someone upset you? Cersei?”
All you can do is give him whines in response. You feel a sob bubbling in your throat, and you cannot give him the satisfaction of seeing you weak.
“Tell me.”
So you look down, you watch his eyes change from confusion, to the pity you are so used to seeing. But he is your older brother, and you know he won’t run back to Cersei, like Jaime would.
It comes in one, huge splurge, as tears fall against your skin and ruin the pretty powders your maids spent so long putting on you this morning,
“I- Was making a gift for Father-” You gasp, “And they didn’t give me anything to eat, and- and the sewing was terrible, but Septa is lying and saying it’s good and-” Another. “And I cut myself!”
His arms wrap around you, and he puts his head against you. Though much smaller than you, it offers greater comfort than he knows it does. All you can do is sob. You feel like a child.
No words are spoken as he takes you down to the kitchens, and puts you at the staff table. You are given something you eat with relish, and get a plate of pudding for your effort. There is no need for you to have any medical attention for your injury, but he has it wrapped anyway. A psychological comfort, if nothing else.
Tyrion helps you into bed, letting you reach out for the rag dolls your sister claims you’re too old for. You want your father, you want him to go and tell off Cersei, but you have your brother instead, and he at least semi-understands what it’s like to be different.
“I’m sorry,” you turn and look up at him,
“Sorry?”
He stands, walking to your window to look out at the courtyard below.
“When you look at me, what do you see?”
Tyrion is going somewhere with this, you know that much, but what, you are left wondering,
“I see… my brother.”
“Yes, you do. But the world? What does the world see? They see a drunk, lustful little man with a lion on his chest he doesn’t deserve.”
Something in you knows that it’s true. Tyrion is nothing more than his condition to the eyes of most in the Keep, most of the kingdom.
“You, you look like a Lannister. Your brokenness is inside. And I wish I could understand it.”
“It’s alright-” You sit up, clutching your doll, “It’s just… what it is. I have you, I have Father.”
Tyrion almost scoffs, he comes back from the window, passing you your water,
“Yes, you get Father, but that’s because you are utterly adorable.”
“I am adorable, aren’t I?”
“And humble, it appears.”
When Tyrion leaves, he kisses your forehead, and you know he is going to tell Father. You are the one thing they share something of a common interest in, and you suspect Tywin will make an appearance at some point. You’re right, of course.
It is Tywin’s heartbeat you listen to to calm yourself down for sleep. Your father strokes your hair, half-dozing himself. A soft, sweet moment that you are reminded Tyrion doesn’t have the privilege of.
Cersei is no longer allowed to be your main caretaker, you spend your afternoons out in the gardens, or sit entertaining yourself in Tywin’s solar. Tyrion takes you on walks, and there is something of a peaceful normality brought about.
You are still terribly disappointed in how Tywin’s gift turns out, it looks like a child made it, and when you become obviously quite upset over the manner, you have the Old Lion and his younger son to calm you. He loves it, he assures you, and Tyrion is so enamoured by it he requests his own. You know they are simply making you feel better, but you let it happen anyway.
And, perhaps, life is not so bad after all.
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perhaps i'm being very autistic about this, but trying to figure out where i can contribute my time and energy is so hard because there's so many actually important issues. actually important ones. spreading yourself thin isn't helpful, but even if you tune out the roar of people demanding that you care about every last thing, the tug on my heart is still strong. probably another lie capitalism has pounded deep into our minds, that we have to do it *all* even. even knowing that many of these issues are inter-related, and doing the things you *can* is what's important and contribute to unraveling the greater fabric of bad shit. how on earth do you find that spot though? where you don't go mad going in mental circles about what you're *not* doing? idk i can't be alone in this?
I have an instagram post about this with regard to donating to Gazan fundraisers that you can read here.
Here's my take: when we get swept up in not being able to "do it all" or freeze up with complete inability to choose any cause to work toward because we can't decide which one is the most worthy, we are operating out of a highly individualistic framework that positions the self as the agent of change.
It might not feel like it is a self-centered perspective, but it's exactly the kind of isolated, self-as-savior, systems-ignoring outlook that a culture of capitalism and rampant Christian moral Puritanism conditions us to adopt (even if you're not Christian). I have a whole book about this btw.
I have felt overwhelmed with my inability to "help everyone" or address every cause before, and frankly the solution was to get over myself and realize that I have a very limited ability to make a difference and that simply doing my part is my only duty, not doing it "all". I have to trust that I am but one small, relatively insignificant human and that I am surrounded by literally millions of other humans who care and will pick up their small part of the work as well.
it doesn't matter that i select the absolute optimal ideal cause or place into which to put my energy, because frankly i am not important. i just need to show up and pick up some work. there will be plenty of work left for the next person to pick up.
It was absurd main character energy to expect myself to do everything or to be able to "save" people. And yet that was exactly the kind of moral burden I was putting on myself for a very long time. And it led to overcommitment followed by burnout, spreading myself thin, and most crucially failing to make any my efforts part of the work of an enduring, tightly knit COMMUNITY.
A focus on individual effort makes us neurotic, alienated, self-focused, lonely, confused, conflicted, and forever putting our energies into initiatives of limited value with limited potential for payoff. instead, choosing one little lane to do our own bit of work in -- literally ANY lane, so long as it is accessible and motivating to us and plays to our strengths -- will mean that we are actually making a difference consistently and connecting to others who are taking part in the work too.
we must do this work not to morally purify ourselves, which is not possible, but because we see something worth doing and we decide to get up and do it. the arena in which you choose to make a difference can be literally anything from donating to people's gofundmes to sharing other people's fundraisers to feeding your neighbors to blowing up a pipeline. it literally does not matter which particular choice you, specifically, make, only that you do something and keep at it at the pace that is sustainable for you. and trust that literally millions of other people are all around you doing their tiny tiny part too.
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