#childlike star

[magpie-trove]

The way the kids take over and leave the droid to “babysit” the adult and it’s on a planet where “the kids are treated like adults” like they want to be and that’s a ruined broken planet and they find out it’s not so great and it is kind of nice having the adult step in except on the other side there’s Neel who is Wiser in his childlike wisdom than the adults, as if maybe the solution isn’t actually to treat the kids like adults but that all the adults need to become like little children

[aventurineswife]

“I'd do whatever I could do”

Summary: Aventurine undergoes a bizarre transformation, reverting to his child form due to an inexplicable force. In this new, vulnerable state, he is found by Boothill, and you, who instinctively offers comfort and protection. Together, you three form an unlikely family, as Kakavasha, now a child, grapples with his new reality, experiencing innocence and care for the first time. Amid the chaos of the universe, they find brief solace in their newfound bond.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader x Boothill, Platonic, Transformation, Family, Unexpected Bonds, Comfort, Childlike Innocence, Humor, Surreal, Reader is called Mother but not implied female. @lavenderlovekakavasha

Warnings: Transformation (age regression), confusion, mild existential themes, emotional tension.

A/N: I'm half asleep while writing this so plz ignore any mistakes 😪

The warm glow of the sunset outside the IPC headquarters bathed the sterile interior in a soft, amber light. Aventurine leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the edges of the holographic charts laid out before him. The evening had been unusually quiet—until the unexpected wave of dizziness hit him.

"Not again..." Aventurine muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples as his vision blurred momentarily. He had always been one to trust his luck, but this felt… different. A strange sensation, something he couldn’t place, rolled through him like a tide. His body stiffened, a soft jolt running through his spine.

Before he could even register what was happening, the world around him began to warp. The walls seemed to shift, colors blending, and the floor seemed to fall away from beneath him. He gasped, feeling an overwhelming pull, and in a split second, his adult form began to shrink, his limbs dwindling down to a child’s size. His once confident stance faltered, replaced by a wobbly, unsteady posture.

Aventurine, now no longer the calculated and sophisticated man he had been moments ago, stood frozen in the middle of the room. His attire—elegant, composed—hung awkwardly around his much smaller frame, the fine materials pooling like a blanket on the floor. His golden-rimmed glasses fell from his face, and his typically calm and collected features now bore the unguarded innocence of a child.

The air was thick with confusion. Aventurine’s eyes—now large and wide—darted around in panic. His small hands trembled as he reached up to touch his now-short(?) hair. “What…?” he squeaked in a voice that was much higher than he had ever remembered it being.

Before he could further process what had happened, the door to his office slammed open, and in strode Boothill. The cyborg cowboy, tall and imposing, paused at the threshold when he saw what was unfolding before him. His mechanical eye whirred, analyzing the situation, his black pupils narrowing in confusion.

"Well, ain’t this somethin’," Boothill muttered, taking a step forward. His usual bravado faltered just a little as he looked down at the small, confused child now standing where Aventurine had once been. "Ain't no way I’m seein’ things right now..."

Aventurine—no, Baby Kakavasha—looked up at the towering cowboy. The child’s eyes were wide with fear, but there was also a glimmer of recognition. His lips parted as he searched for words, but none came.

Boothill stared at him for a long moment, his gloved hands hovering near his holstered guns as if unsure what to do next. “What in the galaxy is goin’ on here, kid?”

The air felt thick with tension. Baby Kakavasha took a hesitant step forward, his small voice trembling. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered, struggling with the unfamiliarity of his child’s body. “I didn’t do this. It wasn’t me.”

Boothill scratched his head, his mechanical parts creaking as he did so. “Kid, I ain't got the faintest clue what’s happenin', but one thing’s clear—you ain't lookin' like yourself. You a shape-shifter, or is this some kinda joke?”

“Please,” Kakavasha’s voice was softer now, more fragile than the usual sharp tone he carried as Aventurine. “Can you help me?”

Boothill exhaled slowly, his harsh features softening just a fraction. He wasn’t the sentimental type, but seeing this child—this version of Kakavasha—made his heart tug with an unfamiliar feeling. He took a step forward, crouching down to meet the small child’s gaze. “Alright, kid,” he said with a sigh. “Guess I’m gonna have to step up. I ain't got no clue how this happened, but you're not alone in this.”

Just then, the door to the room slid open again, and you stepped in. Your instincts kicked in immediately, and your brow furrowed at the sight before you. Aventurine, or rather, Baby Kakavasha, looked up at you with wide, uncertain eyes, his small body trembling in confusion.

Without hesitation, you approached him, kneeling beside the child. There was no explanation for why, but an overwhelming urge to protect him, to care for him, surged through you.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently, extending your arms to comfort him. “You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”

Boothill, watching the scene unfold, couldn't help but feel a sense of protectiveness welling up in his chest. “Guess that makes me your dad then,” he remarked dryly, scratching his head. “Ain't no way this is normal, but looks like we’re a family now.”

Kakavasha blinked at Boothill, still overwhelmed by the bizarre circumstances. “Father?” he echoed, testing the word on his lips. His expression was a mix of confusion and surprise, but also... curiosity. “You’re... my dad?”

“Yeah, you heard me right. I’m your old man now,” Boothill said with a smirk, though there was a softness in his voice that he didn’t usually show. "Ain't that somethin’, kid?"

Kakavasha took a moment to absorb the idea, his little mind scrambling to make sense of the situation. His usual sharp wit was clouded by the childlike innocence that had taken over his demeanor. “So, uh... does this mean I can have cookies for breakfast now?” he asked, his small voice high-pitched but filled with a strange, hopeful tone.

Boothill blinked. "Well, uh... sure, kid. Why not?" He shook his head in bemusement. "You're supposed to be some kinda stone-cold strategist, and now you're askin' about cookies."

Kakavasha grinned widely, the simplicity of the question almost making the chaos around them feel a little more manageable. “Maybe... maybe we can even get ice cream after dinner!” he added, his face lighting up at the thought.

Boothill snorted, leaning back on his heels. “This whole thing’s a mess, kid, but sure. Ice cream it is.” He shot a glance at you. “You’re okay with that, right? I mean, we're a family now... I think?”

You chuckled softly at the absurdity of it all. "Sure, ice cream sounds good. After all, you’ve got to ease into being a kid again, right?"

Kakavasha looked up at both of you, his expression shifting from bewilderment to something softer, warmer. Despite the situation being entirely out of his control, there was a sense of comfort slowly building in him. Maybe, just maybe, this odd, unexpected family would be able to piece together a bit of stability, even if only for a moment.

“Thank you,” Kakavasha whispered, his voice now tinged with gratitude. “I... I don’t know what happened, but... I feel like I’m not alone anymore.”

Boothill’s face softened, just a little, as he placed a hand on Kakavasha’s small shoulder. “You’re not alone, kid. No matter what happens, we’ve got each other.”

The improbable new family stood there for a moment, in the midst of the swirling chaos, unsure of how or why this all came to be. But for now, Kakavasha was no longer a vengeful adult filled with hatred. He was simply a child, embraced by a new, unlikely mother and a cyborg cowboy who, in this strange turn of fate, had somehow become his father.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, the chaos of the universe outside seemed to fade away as they stood together, a family of three, with Kakavasha’s small hand resting gently in Boothill’s rough palm. The game of life had thrown them a curveball, but for now, they would face it as one.

The dawn would come for them eventually. But for now, they had each other. And cookies. And ice cream.

Very lazily written and not edited lol

Art by @Senlly_2507 on X

[janjamming]

Stargazing from hell... ⟡⊹₊⋆(ᴗ˳ᴗ) > <(ᴗ˳ᴗ)₊⋆⊹⟡

[petrow1tch]

They weren't lying, this psychological recovery journey got hands

[sentient-rift]

🍙+ a cuscuz! (or couscous)

Brazilian food time guys!

For everyone!

(Send Food Meme)

"Wow! It may not be curry, but it looks delicious!"

"Well, if you're just gonna sit there and admire how it looks, I'll just dig in without ya, Lan!"

"I'm with ya, Dex! Food is made for eating, not decoration!"

"You two better not hog it all up! I want some, too!"

"Man, that really looks good. Makes me wish I had the ability to eat..."

"I'll put taste bud simulation programs on my to-do list of inventions."

"Awesome! You're the best, dad!"

"Wow! This stuff is great!"

"Um... Pardon me for only taking a little. I can't consume too much regular food without getting sick, no matter how delicious it is. It's a plant thing..."

"I'm sure she'll understand, Cosmo. At least you're able to taste it, right?"

"DESIRE LEVELS FOR ABILITY TO EAT, RISING."

"Better put that taste bud invention as priority number one..."

"Thank you so much for this! I hope you don't mind if I ask for the recipe. I'd love to put cuscuz on our food court menu."

Looks like everyone's enjoying the cuscuz.

[somenteniki]

🎀((o(*>ω<*)o))��☆૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

୭ 🧷 ✧ ˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀🦴🎀

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚:¨ ·.· ¨:

` · ‌‌ ౨ৎ

[jake-g-lockley]

Bought a whole pad of Star Wars stickers and when I was at the train station, I had a whole ass conversation with an uncle about my sticker pad and I’ve never been happier 🥺❤️

[kyeterna]

"Warm", from Glow's poem collection

"I walk under the sky and under the sun"

"It's bright and sunny"

"And I feel warm for the first time"

"I smile when the wind blows"

"the sun doesn't hurt"

"So I feel warm for the first time"

Next poem | All poems

[imaswellkid]

You know what, recently, I was talking with an irl friend I had just met about Star Wars. He likes Star Wars too, since he was a kid, just like me, but he was telling me "I never say I'm a Star Wars fan, especially being a man, because the fandom is so toxic." And we agreed that, to us, any Star Wars content is good! Anything Star Wars makes us happy! Because we get to experience that childlike wonder we felt when we discovered this universe over 30 years ago, and it's wonderful, it's magical, and it's enough to make us happy! This far away, long ago galaxy is my favourite place to escape my reality. I don't care if you think those Jedi are not canon or a black woman shouldn't be in Star Wars, you're a fucking prick, you don't deserve to enjoy Star Wars, and let me tell you what? I'M GLAD YOU DON'T. But don't get my shows cancelled. You asshole.

I’m so sad.

[offthewall1979]

OK ABOUT MICHAEL REFUSING TO SWEAR INTO ADULTHOOD. i wonder what that had to do with.... religion, maybe, partially. but what EYE think. as a youngest child. is that he was the baby and he never made a normal transition into adulthood. can happen to anyone for a lot of reasons, but everything was x100 for him. i still barely swear in front of my family bc idk i'm just the youngest. i wonder if that's partially the reason for michael too? (obligatory I Know he wasn't the YOUNGEST youngest. but, of the j5)

[kittyhawkbombardier-bitch]

Teehehehehehheehhheheheh I am sad

I used these coping mechanisms when that painful stuff happened a couple weeks ago, I still use them, mostly to keep my mind off it and let myself recover you might be able to use them too ; becoming obsessed with Star Wars ( mostly 1-6 but - the empire strikes back ), trying to beat my grandma’s 200 lb leg press and Isla’s strong strong swimmers arms by going to the gym, painting my rooms walls, cooking and baking, listening to lots of Chappell Roan and doing lots of makeup looks inspired by her, hiking a lot and trying to find my childlike wonder in nature again, sitting in the sun in the morning before it gets hot, playing with my calico critters, curling up with my parents on the couch and watching cooking shows with them, spending time being obsessed with taking care of myself, like painting all my nails, taking baths, brushing my hair out, I made mint water for myself to enjoy, gave myself a scalp massage, took my meds because they make me feel better, etc. i like to listen to Alex g when I’m sad, draw Star Wars fan art, typing essays about topics that are pretty niche, talking to friends over text & discord and giving them compliments and discussing topics, telling myself I love myself even though I’m sad and feeling inadequate, listening to bands like bikini kill, cheap perfume, the dollyrots, Jack off Jill and mommy long legs to feel somewhat empowered . I hope you can use these too bestie @urlocalnonbinarybastard in my experience, you have to choose to stay kind, to yourself and others like Ponyboy

[sentient-rift]

Why are the girls so beautiful?

"B-beautiful...? You really think so?"

"Awww, that's so sweet of you to say, Super Sentai Fan."

"Well, it's not too much of a mystery. I was created to be beautiful."

"Miss Ring, remember what Tenguman said about pride..."

"Hey, I'm just stating a fact! It's not my fault it's true."

"Hey! Excuse my cameo to add that Nana's beautiful because she's an angel!"

"Well... I wouldn't say I'm an angel... But thank you Teseo."

"Sure, Nana. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to the Dreadnought before Slur yells at me again."

Teseo went back to @fallen-symphony soon after.

"...You sure Teseo's a villain, Gunvolt?"

"If anything, he's the world's most dangerous internet troll who becomes even more dangerous when he gets angry or serious. But with all the interactions we had lately... Calling him a villain is... Questionable."

[promptedwordsmith]

When you make their favourite meal

Caleb

The moment Caleb stepped through the door, the rich, savory scent of braised chicken wings filled the air, stopping him in his tracks. His sharp purple eyes flickered with curiosity before settling on you, standing in the kitchen with a proud yet slightly nervous smile. His gaze softened immediately.

“You made this?” he asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it from you.

You nodded, wiping your hands on a kitchen towel. “I know you’ve been busy, so I thought… well, you always cook for me. I wanted to return the favor.”

Caleb was quiet for a moment, taking it all in—the warm, homey smell, the sight of you standing there, the effort you’d put in just for him. A slow smile curved his lips, something rare and unguarded.

He stepped forward, slipping an arm around your waist as he pressed a slow kiss to your temple. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “I hope you made extra, because I’m eating all of it.”

The table was already set, and as soon as you placed the plate in front of him, Caleb wasted no time. He took the first bite, and the instant satisfaction in his expression made you grin. His usual composed demeanor cracked, revealing something far more open, more boyish—genuine delight.

“This is perfect,” he said between bites, barely pausing. “I mean it. The sauce, the seasoning—you got it all right.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You really like it?”

He glanced up at you, giving you a look that said, Are you seriously asking me that? He reached for another wing, effortlessly devouring it before shaking his head with a smirk.

“Like it?” He gestured to his nearly empty plate. “I love it. Is there more?”

You laughed, already reaching for the extra batch you had set aside. “You’re unbelievable.”

Caleb’s eyes gleamed as he accepted the second helping, his expression unreadable for a moment—until he spoke, his voice quieter this time. “You didn’t have to do this… but you did.” He met your gaze, his usual intensity softened by something else. “I like taking care of you. But it feels nice… being taken care of too.”

You squeezed his hand, and in that simple moment, Caleb understood—this was love, given back in the way he understood best.

Rafayel

The moment Rafayel stepped through the door, his nose twitched, and his eyes widened in delighted surprise. The scent of his favorite meal filled the air, rich and warm, something he hadn’t had in far too long. His usual languid grace disappeared in an instant—he was at your side within seconds, arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

"You made this for me?" he asked, voice muffled slightly against your shoulder. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with something almost childlike. "You really made this?"

You laughed, pressing a hand against his chest to push him toward the table. "Of course I did. Now sit down before it gets cold!"

He obeyed—mostly—but not without making a show of dragging his chair closer, his expression full of mischief as he picked up his fork. He scooped up a bite, inspecting it dramatically, as if he were a food critic about to judge a five-star meal.

The second it touched his tongue, his face twisted.

"Did you… mix the salt and sugar up again?" he asked, setting his fork down with an exaggerated frown.

Your heart dropped. "What?! No, I— I was so careful this time—!"

His lips twitched. A telltale smirk flickered at the edges of his mouth before fully blooming into his usual grin.

You gaped at him, realization dawning, and then slumped back against the counter in relief. "You’re awful!" you groaned, throwing a napkin at him.

Rafayel merely laughed, catching it mid-air, before promptly ignoring it in favor of shoveling another bite into his mouth—then another, and another, eating like he’d been starved for weeks. "It’s perfect," he admitted between bites, his words slightly muffled. "Seriously, I could eat this every day. You should make it again. Like, tomorrow. And the day after."

"You’re insufferable," you muttered, though warmth bloomed in your chest at his obvious delight.

He only grinned wider, reaching over to tug you down onto the chair beside him. "Maybe," he teased, bumping his knee against yours, "but I’m your problem."

You rolled your eyes, but as you watched him happily devour every bite, you couldn’t help but think—if he wanted this every day, you’d be more than happy to make it for him.

Sylus

Sylus doesn’t look up immediately when you enter his office, his focus still locked onto the documents in front of him. He’s been working for hours, lost in his endless calculations and strategies, barely acknowledging anything outside of his own mind. But when you set the tray down in front of him, the scent of the meal catches his attention. His crimson gaze flicks up, sharp as ever, and then his brow raises—not in judgment, but in surprise.

“You made this?” His voice is smooth, laced with intrigue.

You nod, feeling slightly self-conscious under the weight of his gaze. You could have ordered something, could have asked one of his many personal chefs to prepare his favorite meal, but instead, you went out of your way to make it yourself. The effort shows—not just in the careful arrangement of the dish, but in the tiny smear of sauce on your jaw, evidence of your time spent in the kitchen.

Sylus leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk, his eyes locked onto yours. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he reaches out, taking your face in his hand. His fingers are cool against your warm skin, his grip firm yet careful. You freeze under his touch as his thumb brushes against your jawline, wiping away the stray bit of sauce.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he brings his thumb to his lips and licks it off.

Your breath catches. Heat floods your face, a reaction that only seems to amuse him further. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, deep and rich with satisfaction.

“How sweet,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, watching the way you squirm under his gaze. “You went through all this trouble for me?”

You swallow, trying to find your voice. “Of course.”

Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something softer beneath the usual arrogance. Without another word, he picks up the tray and sets his paperwork aside entirely, pushing it away as if it no longer matters.

He takes his first bite, savoring it, eyes flicking up to you once more. His smirk is subtle, but there’s a rare sincerity behind it.

"It’s good," he murmurs, voice laced with something softer, something real. "You have my full attention now, darling. Tell me—what else do I owe you for such a thoughtful gift?"

Xavier

When you arrive home after a busy day of shopping with Tara, the apartment feels unusually quiet. You make your way through the entryway, setting down your bags, and catch sight of Xavier asleep on the couch, his silver hair spread out messily across the cushion.

It’s rare for him to be so still, especially after such a long day, but he hasn’t stirred even when you entered. He’s usually alert—always on guard, always prepared—but today, he looks like he’s finally let himself rest. His chest rises and falls steadily, the soft sound of his breath filling the room.

You smile softly, your heart tugging at the sight. He’s worked so hard lately, his missions never-ending, always pushing himself past his limits. You’ve been wanting to do something nice for him—something small to show your appreciation for how much he does, for how much he means to you.

You quietly slip into the kitchen, putting your shopping bags aside, and start preparing his favorite meal. The scent of cooked food soon fills the air—the warmth of it feels comforting, almost like the home you’ve built together. The process feels like an act of love, each step taken with care.

When it’s ready, you pause and take a breath before returning to the living room. Xavier is still asleep, his expression serene. You walk over to him, crouching beside the couch and pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Then another on his jaw, and one more on his forehead, each kiss soft, careful, trying to wake him without startling him.

His eyelids flutter, and soon, he blinks up at you with groggy blue eyes, trying to make sense of the moment. “Mmm…?” His voice is rough, and he yawns, reaching out with a half-smile that says more than words could.

You lean in and give him one last kiss before pulling away, quick and playful. He reaches for you, his arms still heavy with sleep, but you’re already standing, laughing as you help him up and gently push him to the table.

He sits down with a smile, his eyes still sleepy but grateful. You place the plate in front of him, and when he picks up his fork, he takes the first bite, savoring it as though it’s the most important meal of his life. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and his smile deepens.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice warm, eyes glimmering. “You’re so good to me, you know that?”

You smile back, heart swelling with affection as you sit beside him, happy to see him so content.

Zayne

The day had been longer than usual for Zayne. His normally composed demeanor had been tinged with a faint weariness, the weight of the long hours spent at the hospital starting to show in the slight furrow of his brow. You noticed it—how he seemed a little more quiet than usual, how he sighed a little more heavily when he sat down, how his eyes lingered a moment longer on the clock than on the charts in front of him.

You knew exactly what you had to do.

When you heard that his shift was nearing its end, you slipped into the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for his favorite meal—a dish you knew would comfort him, a warm, homey meal he rarely had time to enjoy. The scent of simmering broth and spices filled the air as you worked, each movement deliberate, each step taken with the intent of giving him a small moment of respite.

By the time the meal was ready, the sun was just beginning to set, casting a soft orange glow over the city. You packed it carefully in containers, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you imagined his reaction.

You arrived at the hospital just as Zayne’s day was coming to a close. His office door was slightly ajar, and you knocked softly before stepping inside. He looked up in surprise, clearly caught off guard by your presence.

“Hey,” you said, your voice light, but there was warmth in it. “I brought you something.”

He blinked, his stoic expression softening as he stood up to meet you. “You didn’t have to,” he said, his usual calm demeanor laced with genuine surprise.

When you revealed the meal, his lips curved into a small but pleased smile, a chuckle escaping him. “Well, this is a first,” he teased, eyeing the carefully packed containers. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring me dinner at work.”

You laughed, feeling the tension in your chest ease. "I hope it’s as good as you remember," you said, waiting for his verdict.

He opened the containers, his eyes lighting up with the familiar sight of his favorite dish. “You even got it right,” he murmured, impressed. Then, his teasing nature returned as he looked at you with an exaggerated frown. “But no utensils?”

You hissed in realization, scrambling for something to use, but Zayne just chuckled. “It’s fine,” he said, reaching into one of his desk drawers and pulling out a pair of disposable chopsticks. “These will do just fine.”

He dug in, the first bite making him pause for a moment, savoring the taste. “This is... perfect,” he said between bites, his eyes softening as he glanced at you. “Thank you.”

He offered you some of the meal, but you waved it off. “I already ate,” you said with a smile.

As he finished his meal, he stood and leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “I really appreciate this,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet sincerity. “I’ll see you soon.”

And with that, he was off, rushing once again to tend to a patient, but not before giving you one last glance—his eyes filled with a warmth that stayed long after he had left.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

the look of love ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

how are their eyes when they’re in love?

ft; isagi, rin, barou

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

isagi’s eyes light up when he’s in love.

whenever he looks at you, his eyes always brighten. his eyes glimmer as if the stars and sun itself are in his eyes. and when you smile, it’s like his eyes are reflecting off of your perfect bright smile. that passionate gleam in his eyes when isagi is in love is only rivaled when isagi is playing soccer. truly, when isagi falls in love, the sun isn’t the center of the solar system: your eyes are, and isagi’s eyes will always reflect the shining light that you emit.

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

rin’s pupils dilate when he’s in love.

pupils dilate by 45% when they see something that they love, and rin’s are no exception to that. the only thing is…his dilation is painfully obvious. rin’s eyes nearly automatically turn into boba eyes whenever you’re around—eyes becoming rounder, more childlike, more lovely. whenever you’re around, his eyes are always on you. you once joked that the reason his pupils dilate so much whenever you’re around is because his eyes need to be on you no matter what. you meant it as a joke, but rin thinks that what you say is the truth.

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

barou’s eyes soften when he’s in love.

when he looks at you, his sharp and intimidating eyes always turn oddly gentle, his red irises going from the color of blood to the color of rubies. according to isagi and bachira, they will never forget the time when barou was threatening to kill the two of them one second, and then the next second when barou saw you, barou’s gaze just softened instantly—almost as if he just saw an angel, and barou stopped his threats.

[starry-bi-sky]

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Belly Bulge

A/N: So. You may or may not know this about me, but I have a size kink. One of my favorite tropes to write and read is tiny woman/big man. And with that information in mind, I give you something called Belly Bulge. Pretty self-explanatory, right? // As with my other Smut Drabbles (*we're still under 1k, baby, this is a drabble!), you can imagine any character here, or just keep it neutral/anonymous, whatever you like! Warnings for this one are: (obviously) size difference, unprotected sex, choking and I guess breeding kink if you squint.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 825 // AO3

She stares at the little bulge with childlike fascination.

Moving her hands over her flat stomach, fingers shaking slightly, she presses down gently. A gasp escapes her when he moves behind her, his big hands on her small breasts, cupping them completely, squeezing, kneading, calloused palms rubbing over her hard nipples. His wide body beneath her, her cushioned rear squished to his lower stomach, shoulders pressing into his chest, his cock so deep inside her she can feel it prodding against her soft skin, literally stretching her limits.

The couch creaks beneath them as he starts thrusting upwards, his strong thighs moving against her feet that are tucked under his legs, her own spread almost painfully wide to give him better access. She watches him slide in and out, her hands rubbing down her mound, fingertips brushing against her clit, sending jolts of pleasure through her body, her folds parting wide with every deep plunge.

She moans, throwing her head back against his shoulder, when his thick cockhead scrapes over that sweet spot, almost rams into it in that position, before slipping deeper, denting her belly from within. She feels it against her palms, the constant nudging that drives her crazy. And the stretch. How he carves his way into her small body, presses between her tight muscles, molding her to his size.

When he had put his length onto her stomach to show her how far he would reach inside her, she had thought it was impossible to fit all of him into her tiny pussy, but he had made it work, inch by hard inch, with shallow snaps of his hips, as he went deeper and deeper, and while she thought the pain would split her in two as he pushed hard against her resisting muscles, she had adjusted, surprisingly quick. Mostly because of his whispered words, his hot breath on her ear, as he encouraged her.

“Shh, it'll be alright, baby. It'll fit. I'll make it fit. You were made for this. You were made for me! Look how well you can take me, all of me... every... single... inch...”

His voice has lulled her, and now his rapid breaths and quiet groans fill her head, his clenched jaw rubbing against her temple as he keeps groping her chest whilst ramming up into her, finding space within her, stretching her, filling her, taking root inside her. He grunts when she presses down on her stomach, meeting his tip as it dents her from within, and it encourages him to move faster, his thigh muscles tensing while he pushes harder, maybe even deeper, slam after slam, nudge after nudge.

She howls and whines, mewls and moans, the sensation almost too much for her to handle. His hands leave her breasts, letting them bounce with every upward thrust; his long fingers move to her throat, curling around her slender neck, applying just enough pressure that she gasps while her eyes roll back; his other hand moves down to join hers, one large palm pressing down hard, forcing her to feel more of him through her soft flesh.

Hammering into her with fervor, his breaths grow ragged while her own quiet down, silenced by how he squeezes her throat. She's seeing stars now, her mouth wide open, saliva gathering in the corners, some dripping down her chin, as he holds her, pushing her towards the edge and far beyond, and she feels her body convulsing, thighs twitching, that tension in her stomach, hot and tight, pushed aside by his large cock hitting all the right spots.

She's already floating, but then his hand leaves her stomach and teases her clit, rough fingertips rubbing hard and fast circles as he keeps pounding into her from beneath, skin slapping against skin, every rapid plunge causing her wetness to squelch out, obscenely loud, a cacophony of sounds that make her head spin even more.

And then she comes, muscles contracting, clamping down on him hard, the wet heat that has built up within her forcing out of her. She cries out soundlessly, eyelids fluttering open, body contorting into an arc that lifts her slightly off him, causing him to sink deeper, making the bulge even bigger, and he stills, an animalistic growl leaving his parted lips as he follows her over the edge, cock twitching, balls tight and pumping, and he grabs her hand and presses it onto her stomach, feeling how he fills her up with spurt after spurt of hot cum.

His other hand eases its grip on her throat, and she gasps, falling against him, panting, head completely empty, while her belly feels so full. His warm lips brush against her sweaty forehead, a tender kiss to calm her down even more. She smiles tiredly before she closes her eyes, her palm over her womb as he pumps it full of him, marking her, breeding her, finding a place for himself deep within her.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A steamy shower

Toy

Car Inspection

Tension Relief

Sleepy

On the edge