#he's just kind of.. there to me compared to how i deeply love or at least really enjoy so many of the other characters

[sskk-manifesto]

(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[saph-yells-into-the-void]

i know n*gisagi has its fans and while for the longest time I've considered myself neutral towards it, I think I'm realizing that this is the only ship in bllk that truly gives me the ick

which is weird bc platonically, I actually fw it pretty hard. romantically though....

[5sospenguinqueen]

Forgetful Flirtation - Toto Wolff x Wife! Reader

Summary: A heavy celebration leads to a husband forgetting his wife. And a team who won't let him forget it.

Warnings: Fluff. Swearing. Slight age gap.

Requested: Yes by anon.

F1 Masterlist

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mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by kimi.antonelli, valterribottas and others

mercedesamgf1 LEWIS HAMILTON WINS THE BRITISH GRAND PRIX 🇬🇧

13,331 comments

totowolff you did us proud. you deserved this, lewis. enjoy 

landonorris congrats mate

yn_wolff oh, lewis, what an amazing drive. well deserved. i’m so happy for you 

→ mercedesamgf1 we can confirm that she cried 

→ lewishamilton 🫶🏾

pierregasly congrats champ! 

roscoelovescoco well’s done’s dad’s 

→ yn_wolff it was the luck of roscoe in the garage. maybe we should have him every weekend

→ mercedesamgf1 we agree

georgerussell63 you deserve it, mate 🍾 i’ll buy you a round later

→ user1 are they going out together later?

→ user2 wouldn’t surprise me if the whole team celebrated this win

yn_wolff just posted

liked by iamrebeccad, carmenmmundt and others

yn_wolff team dinner to celebrate hubby’s, and especially lewis’, success 

3,644 comments 

totowolff meine schöne frau

→ yn_wolff i love you

francisca.cgomes oh okay so we’re dressing hot tonight?

→ yn_wolff i know you’re complimenting me but don’t make it sound like we didn’t compare outfits for tonight. you even know what kind of underwear i’m wearing! 

→ francisca.cgomes i enjoyed those pictures 

→ pierregasly pardon?

→ user3 yn is such a girl’s girl 

user4 that hand placement though 🤤

→ user5 she’s really not good for toto’s reputation

→ user6 she’s making it look like he’s groping her

→ user7 can you blame him? look at her. she’s hot liked by yn_wolff

user8 um, anyone else find it really unprofessional that she’s publicly admitting to sending images of her underwear to people?

→ francisca.cgomes one person, and i’m her friend?

→ user8 it just reflects badly on her husband who has an image to maintain 

→ totowolff no, it doesn’t. she is her own person

user9 unlike you crying bitches, i love that toto is married to someone slightly younger so that we get this content 

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Weaving through the throng of bodies, you scowled as you dodged another couple gyrating against each other near the entrance to the VIP section. Your glass was empty and your shoes kept sticking to the floor, tacky from a cocktail of spilled drinks. Scanning the crowd, you scowled as you made your way over to the bar. How was it possible to lose a 6’5 billionaire in a crowd of shorter drivers?

Gesturing wildly to a crowd of people, the man of the day caught your eye and you hurried over to him. 

“Lewis, have you seen Toto anywhere? I can’t find him.” You nibbled anxiously at your bottom lip. 

“Last I saw, he was with Bono asking the DJ to play 80s music,” laughed Lewis, recalling the image of his team principal and engineer swaying together, a feather boa draped across the pair of them. 

You thanked him before turning and continuing on your crusade. All around you, familiar faces were wrapped around their partner’s (or women they had just met), dancing to the music or whispering in their ears. Alcohol had been flowing freely for the past three hours and the majority of the people in the club were more than inebriated. The hours had passed and you were ready for a warm shower and for your husband to tuck you into bed. Yet, he had decided to elude you.

Toto’s dress shirt hung loosely off your frame, having been draped around you earlier whilst you stood outside for some fresh air. You had simply rubbed a hand down your arm, trying to dispel the goosebumps that appeared, and there he was, bundling you up. That had been an hour ago and you hadn’t seen him since. Inhaling deeply, his scent surrounded you. The only comfort you had as you began to wonder whether he’d left you here in his drunken state.

Lando was up on the platform flapping his arms in a dramatic manner and messing around with the decks, directing you to where you thought you’d spotted a tall figure shrouded in the shadows. 

“Yn!” Bono greeted, beaming at you through the pink feathers enveloping his face. 

“Having a good night, Bono?” You asked, smiling at the sight of him. “Toto, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” 

“Well, hello there,” your husband drawled, peering down at you with a heated gaze. “Come here often?” 

“What?” You laughed, leaning closer to hear him over the music. Surely you had misheard. 

“I would’ve remembered seeing a woman as beautiful as you before.” 

Beside you, Bono was shaking with silent laughter, gesturing wildly at someone in the distance. Probably summoning more people to bear witness to the peculiarity happening before you. Sidling up to him, you wrapped a hand around his bicep under the guise of stabilising yourself. You felt the muscle under your hand flex.

“Careful, Mr Wolff. If you keep being nice to me, I might have to take you home.”

His arms wrapped around your lower back, pulling you close against him. A heart stopping smile filled his face. “I don’t think I’d object to that. I would, however, like your name first.” 

“Is he being serious?” Somebody whispered behind you, earning a wave of raucous laughter from the Mercedes team that had gathered. 

“You smell nice.” Toto continued, nose nuzzling into the ticklish spot under your ear. You arched against his touch. He may not remember your marriage certificate but he clearly knew where best to tease you. 

Running your fingers down his arm, you grabbed his left hand, tracing circles across the back of it. His wedding ring - part of a matching set - glistened in the strobe lighting. Fiddling with his fingers, you raised your hand up to your face, pulling it into his periphery. You twisted the band around his finger, letting it catch the light and his eye. 

“I’m sorry but I don’t date married men.”

You dropped your husband’s hand, sliding out from his hold. Turning away from him, you snaked through the crowd and away from him. Dazed, Toto looked at his left hand in bewilderment. He slid the band off his finger, looking at the date engraved inside. Opposite him, his team continued to cackle at his misfortune. He was in so much trouble tomorrow. 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_wolff added to her story

liked by mercedesamgf1, francisca.cgomes and others

georgerussell63 replied to slide 2 at least he remembers you there → yn_wolff you keep teasing him about that and you might seriously find yourself without a seat next season → georgerussell63 don’t say that. i know you’d protect me  → yn_wolff don’t push your luck → i’ll see you for dinner on thursday though? → georgerussell63 wouldn’t miss it

francisca.cgomes replied to slide 3 how are you awake enough to do all that? → i feel like i’ve died. pierre keeps bringing me cups of tea but i can’t even lift my head to drink them  → yn_wolff tbf, kiks, you drank far more than i did 😂 → plus toto has been doing everything for me despite looking like death himself → i think he feels bad for forgetting i was his wife → francisca.cgomes at least you know even drunk you’re the only woman he wants? 

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mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and others

mercedesamgf1 the silver arrows know how to party

4,463 comments

georgerussell63 yeah and our team principal knows how to forget his wife 

→ totowolff george, would you like to stay with mercedes next season?

→ yn_wolff don’t threaten your drivers online, dear

→ georgerussell63 i’m only speaking the truth

→ user10 george, you don’t look like you were in any state to remember things either

yn_wolff can somebody blow that photo up and print it off for me. i think i need it in my bedroom

→ user11 you get to go home with the real thing, leave the photo for us 

→ yn_wolff i almost didn’t

→ totowolff not you as well, liebling

→ user12 what does this mean? 

lewishamilton hell of a party 

pierregasly maybe don’t let your team principal join next time

alex_albon happy wife happy life probably isn’t working for toto right now 

maxverstappen1 i think we should get toto drunk before race weekends, maybe he’ll forget his strategies 

→ user13 what does this mean? let us innnnn

totowolff i’ll be speaking to all your team principals tomorrow about your behaviour 

→ charles_leclerc yes, dad 

→ landonorris oh, no. now we’ve done it 

→ georgerussell63 who do you talk to about mine?

yn_wolff you forgot your wife, mein herz, i don’t think your scary boss act is going to work today 

→ user14 he did what?!

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Requests open for smau's

Tag list

@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119 @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[itsnesss]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐮𝐦 | oscar piastri × fem!reader

summary | after winning the saudi arabian grand prix, oscar searches for only one thing amid the chaos: you

warnings | fluff, romantic intensity, kissing

word counter | 1.0 k

🖇 more op81 🖇 f1 masterlis

You're standing in the middle of the paddock crowd, but everything feels distant, blurry—like you're watching the world through a haze of adrenaline and pride. The air smells of fuel, burnt rubber, and celebration… but none of that compares to the scent you crave most: his.

Oscar.

He just won. Not just a race—he beat Verstappen. He beat the odds, the weight of expectations, the pressure of legacy. And he did it with that calm precision he's known for. But you know that beneath the helmet, there’s a whole universe only you get to see. A fragile, beautiful world that only opens up when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

You stay behind the cameras and the reporters, not wanting to steal his moment. This is his. And yet, when he lifts the trophy, you feel like a part of you is up there with him.

And then it happens—his eyes find yours.

Not the crowd. Not the photographers. You.

Your breath hitches. Your knees go weak. Because in a moment where the entire world is watching, all he wants is to look at you.

That moment is yours. Only yours.

You’re not sure how you made it into the McLaren hospitality suite. Someone waved you in without hesitation. Maybe it was Zak Brown. Maybe one of the mechanics who knows what you mean to Oscar. It doesn’t matter.

The trophy is already there, sitting on a table.

And then you see him.

He walks toward you still half in his race suit, the zipper down to his waist, revealing a sweat-soaked black shirt clinging to his chest. His hair is messy. His face, flushed with effort. But his eyes… his eyes burn.

“You’re here,” he says, like he needs to make sure you’re real.

You nod, barely able to speak. Your throat is tight, clogged with everything you feel and can’t say.

He doesn’t wait another second. Two steps and you’re in his arms. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s anchoring himself to you because nothing else feels real anymore.

“You have no idea how much I needed to see you,” he murmurs against your neck. “Every damn lap, I thought of you. Your hands. Your voice. What it would feel like to win and see your face after.”

“You did it, Oscar,” you whisper, your fingers trailing down his back. “I was just watching… like always.”

He pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes.

“No. You’re wrong. I’m nothing without you.”

Then he kisses you.

Slowly. Deeply. Like he’s tasting something he thought he’d never have again. Like your lips are the real finish line.

You laugh between tears when he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re crying,” he whispers.

“So are you,” you reply, and he chuckles.

There’s a pause. A quiet kind of peace that wraps around you both.

“Can I make you a promise?” he asks, voice low, intimate.

“Always.”

“I don’t want to win another podium without you down there, waiting for me. I don’t want a championship if I can’t celebrate it with you. You’re my finish line.”

Your heart nearly stops.

“That was insanely cheesy,” you tease, your voice trembling.

“I’m being honest,” he says. “Today, I didn’t just win a race. I realized you… you’re home.”

He kisses you again. This time deeper, hungrier. Like he’s been holding it back for weeks. His hands slide to your waist, then your back, pulling you closer, closer still. You tangle your fingers in his damp hair, grounding yourself in him.

“I love you,” he says, voice husky, breathless. “I was too much of an idiot to say it before, but—”

“I love you too,” you interrupt. “Since the first time you told me you were scared of wet tracks.”

Oscar laughs into your mouth. Pulls back just enough to look at you.

“That was two years ago.”

“And I’ve loved you ever since,” you say.

That night, there’s no wild party. No flashing lights or loud music. Just the two of you, under the soft lights of the motorhome, sharing leftover snacks from the fridge, laughing, kissing, looking at each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Oscar falls asleep with his head on your lap, his fingers laced with yours.

And just before closing his eyes, he murmurs:

“Promise me you’ll always be down there, when I look from the podium.”

You kiss his forehead and whisper back:

“Always.”

The next morning, you wake up before he does.

The early light filters in through the blinds of the motorhome, casting soft golden lines across his bare shoulders. He’s still holding your hand, even in sleep—like letting go might mean waking up from a dream.

You watch him for a moment, the rise and fall of his chest, the slow flutter of his lashes. There’s something so sacred about this peace. Like the chaos of yesterday, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the world—it all melted away the second he fell asleep next to you.

You lean down and press a soft kiss to his temple. He stirs, sighs, then turns his head, nuzzling against your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles, voice still heavy with sleep.

“I’m allowed,” you whisper. “You won.”

He chuckles, eyes still closed. “So now I’m a trophy?”

“You’ve always been my favorite prize,” you say with a smile.

That makes him open his eyes. Just barely. Just enough to find you again.

“I meant what I said last night,” he murmurs, pulling you gently down until your foreheads touch again. “All of it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to cross any finish line without you.”

“I’ll be there,” you say. “Always.”

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter I)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta’s eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it’s common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon, violence, blood

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

"No vow of chastity or sacred duty could restrain him who deemed himself a god, for he believed himself above the laws that bind mere mortals."

-Decimus Rufus, Gods Among Men: The Erosion of Roman Law.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

"This is wrong!" Livia protested, though her outrage came more from personal feeling than from a desire to argue with her mentor. "There are countless priests for that!"

Caesonia, her sworn sister, was ten years older, but always so gentle and easy to talk to that Livia could be honest with her. As long as no one else found out.

"You know how things are," Caesonia said, her voice flat with boredom as she absentmindedly smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her snow-white tunic, making it clear that the matter was settled. "The emperors want to win back the people’s love, and what does the crowd love more than the games?"

"Let them win it without us! Only love for the immortal gods and my homeland make me happy, not mortals who crave power over everything!" She didn’t even understand why she was so passionately opposed, but she couldn’t hold back her fiery outburst.

"Careful, sister," Caesonia warned, her brow furrowing. "You speak of sacred love, but the fathers of Rome are sacred too. Besides, love comes in many forms. Doesn’t love for your family, your loved ones, mean anything to you?"

Livia flinched, her gray eyes drifting into the distance, her lips trembling.

"I don’t know that kind of love," she replied quietly. "I loved my father, my sisters, but that love doesn’t compare to what I feel for the great teachings of Vesta. My father, my mother, my sister—they’re all gone, gone forever, and the gods are eternal. Immortal."

Caesonia sighed deeply, rising from her seat. She tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears and walked over to Livia, gently taking her hands and looking straight into her eyes.

"You didn’t grieve properly, I understand…"

"I don’t need grief," Livia cut in quickly, though her voice trembled. The older Vestal always said Livia was too emotional and fiery. "I only need repentance and service."

"Then serve! The Emperor is the embodiment of Jupiter, Rome itself. And now we have two of them—twice the work, right?" she giggled. Livia, giving in, smiled in response. "Or should I say, the embodiment of Romulus and Remus?"

They were alike in one thing only—both greedy children, far from the greatness of their famed ancestors. And yet, they’re emperors, which makes them the fathers of all living in Rome.

Livia didn’t love the world of mortals, didn’t like leaving the villa or the temple, just as she didn’t enjoy being in large crowds. Until now, the emperors had cared little for the Vestals. They had always dealt with uprisings and discontent with bloodshed, needing no help from them. But now… everything had changed.

The famous and beloved Lucilla, daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius, had adopted the current emperors, showing her favor. Why and for what, no one knew, and even if they did, they wouldn’t say, knowing how the emperors dealt with loose tongues.

Lucilla was now their mother, General Acacius was replaced by Fulvius Plautianus, who had served under Septimius Severus and was known for his brutal temper, and the Senate was filled with all kinds of scoundrels and sycophants. Livia, like the other Vestals, did not involve herself in politics, but she knew a lot, listening to the gossip of the wives of high-ranking officials who came to make offerings.

"Offer a prayer to Vesta, to Jupiter, anoint yourself with sacred blood, and the priest will tell them what they so desperately want to hear," Caesonia continued. "Then the games will pass, and we’ll return to the temple. It’s an honor, Livia, not a punishment. You’re young, not even fully trained, and yet you drew the lot!"

She really had drawn the short straw when it came time for her and the other sisters to decide who would make a sacrifice to the gods.

"Rituals should remain sacred," Livia replied, less confidently now, not really expecting an answer.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The first day of the games marked the start of autumn, right in the midst of the festival season, and the city hummed with excitement. The last games had been only recently, but after a string of executions, deaths, and tortures, people were desperate for something lighter. And really, what’s more entertaining than watching someone else die?

Draped in a flowing, snow-white tunic, Livia walked alongside the other Vestals, surrounded by stern-faced Praetorian guards, as they arrived at the Colosseum just as the sun hit its peak, bathing everything in blinding white light.

The crowd showered them with lilies and narcissus, desperate for a glimpse of the sacred priestesses. There were five of them—the sixth had stayed behind to tend the sacred fire. Usually, that was Livia’s role, but today, her duty was different.

She couldn’t hide her awe at the sight before her—flowers scattered everywhere, a roaring sea of people, thousands of voices merging into one. As they passed through the gates and reached the stands, she noticed the shift. These weren’t the same poor and desperate souls who had thrown flowers at her feet. Here, the crowd was wealthier, brighter, draped in a riot of colors and excessive finery.

To her displeasure, Livia understood that in this sea of bright hues and mixed fashions, there was a lack of respect for Roman customs, a disregard encouraged by the emperors, who, by all accounts, dressed quite unusually themselves.

"Over here, Livia," a priest, old and dry as parchment, took her hand, gently pulling her away from the others as they hurried to their designated seats. She turned her head, watching them go.

From a distance, their small platform gleamed—four pristine white figures, dazzling against the chaos of color. It made her smile.

The priest’s grip was light, his skin thin and fragile. He was the only man allowed to touch the Vestals, for he himself was not a man in the eyes of the people, but a vessel of the divine.

When they led her onto the arena floor, the sun blinded her. A thin white veil covered her face, a flower crown resting on her head, and beyond the sheer fabric, the world was hazy. She barely saw the thousands of faces watching her, barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd. Only the scorching heat of the sand beneath her bare feet felt real.

The drums beat. The noise swelled. The herald called out—she didn’t hear what he said. Instead, she lifted her face toward the sun, whispering a prayer under her breath, over and over.

"It is time, child," the priest said, removing her crown and veil. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders, but her gaze remained fixed on the sky. That’s where her true audience watched.

A primal, animalistic scream made her flinch. She finally lowered her face and looked around. Through the central gates leading to the arena, they brought in a massive white bull. The beast was so enormous that six burly men, their faces hidden behind golden masks, struggled to hold it.

The majestic creature tossed its horned head and bellowed loudly, frightened by the crowd. She was scared too, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took the crown from the priest’s hands, waiting as they led the bull closer.

"Behold our sacrifice, Jupiter!" the priest calls loudly, not in the voice of an old man, raising his hands to the sky. Several young boys are gathered nearby, holding a cup and a crooked bronze dagger.

They lead the bull to the center of the arena, forcing it to bow its head, tightening the thick cords around its neck. The animal freezes. Livia does, too, staring directly into its frightened black eyes. Its horns are coated in gold to honor the gods, so with each turn of its neck, they gleam and shimmer.

Slowly, she takes a few steps forward, and the stands fall silent, the rumble quiets, and the drums cease.

Such beauty, such strength—all for the glory of the gods. They love beauty, and they love when the blood of such magnificent creatures is spilled in their name. Back when human sacrifices were still allowed, beautiful, innocent youths and maidens were offered to the gods. Livia only tilted her head in sympathy, silently thanking the animal.

"In ancient times, I could have been in your place."

Her hands tremble slightly, but not from fear; it’s the solemnity of the moment. She was wrong to resist, wrong to argue with her mentor, because now she is living the best moment of her young life.

The black eyes meet hers, gray, and she could swear that these are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human! The bull no longer struggles; on the contrary, it stands still, bowing its head. Solemnly, she places the crown between its golden horns, kneels before it, bending her hands in prayer and closing her eyes.

The beginning of the ritual is marked by the continuous beat of the drums and the priest’s loud prayer. The emperors want to wage war again, to enslave more and more countries and peoples, and now, armed with a fearsome general, they await the gods’ blessing. That’s why she is here, and that’s why blood will be spilled today.

"What do you ask of the gods, amata?" the priest calls out, raising his hands to the sky.

Not opening her eyes or lowering her hands, she shouts as loud as she can in response:

"For blessing, for victory, for the greatness of Rome!"

The drums pounded like a storm, the bull let out a mournful cry, and she kept whispering her prayer, even as her heart pounded harder, even as a terrible unease settled in her stomach.

A moment. A sound—low and guttural.

And then, warmth. Hot liquid splashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. She knew what it was. This was why she knelt—to be anointed, to receive the gods’ answer, to be purified.

The thick, metallic scent filled her nose. Blood stung her eyes, slid down her face, dripped from her lips. It filled her mouth with every breath, stuck in her throat like a swallowed scream. But she didn’t stop. She whispered through bloodied lips, through the deafening drumbeats, until the very last word of her prayer left her tongue.

A bright flash illuminated her, though her eyes were closed, and she saw light—brilliant, beckoning. A good omen. The gods had accepted the sacrifice.

The priest leans down to her, and she whispers the good news to him, and he hoarsely repeats it to the entire Colosseum. The crowd, frozen in eager anticipation, bursts into cheers.

Livia rises to her feet, wiping her face. The blood has already begun to dry, pulling at her skin uncomfortably. The bull lies lifeless at her feet, its black eyes frozen forever. Part of it will be burned as an offering to the gods, and part will be cooked and eaten at the feast after the games. The thought of how it had looked at her with such intelligent eyes makes her sick. She quickly turns away, facing the imperial box, adorned with vines, flowers, and purple banners.

Both emperors raise their right hands in greeting, and the crowd erupts in cheers. How fickle people are! Not long ago, they wanted to tear their rulers apart, and now they celebrate them like divine saviors.

As she leaves the arena, the last thing she sees is the bull’s body being dragged through the opposite gates, a trail of blood smearing across the burning sand. A strange, uneasy feeling grips her, but she pushes it down, too shaken to dwell on it.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

They let her wash her hands and face, change into a clean tunic, but her dark curls, now stiff and heavy with dried blood, still reek of iron and death. She tucks them beneath her veil and hurries back to her place among the other Vestals.

The row where the Vestals sit stands out as a white line among the dressed-up guests. Their platform is on the left side of the imperial box. Livia sits to the right of the senior vestal and keeps her eyes fixed on the imperial box, even though the first fight has already begun. How could she not stare? She’s never been so close to those who rule the world.

Both of her sisters were married to senators, and she doesn’t know either of their husbands. But the Senate was one thing. This was something else entirely.

The emperors are strikingly young. Livia leaned forward slightly, eager to get a better look. The one sitting closest to her taps nervously on the golden armrest with his thin white fingers. Red-haired and pale, he doesn’t give off an impression of greatness or awe. Painted like a maiden, dressed the same. Livia doesn’t accept long garments on men; she sees it as a sign of effeminacy and a betrayal of traditions. A toga would have been more fitting for a man in her view, but then again, these are not just men.

He sat in profile, so no matter how much Livia strained her neck, she couldn’t make out his face. In another fit of curiosity, she rose slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruler’s face, but immediately found herself facing the mocking gaze of blue eyes. From behind his brother’s shoulder, the second emperor looked at her, leaning in and smiling shamelessly.

Embarrassment floods her, and Livia sits up straight, closes her eyes, cursing herself for her tactlessness and curiosity. She rarely takes an interest in other people, even less often men, so the very fact that she got caught staring, right after having just shown all of Rome the will of the gods, stings her deeply. She liked that the people treated the Vestals with awe and reverence, but in the emperor’s smile, she saw neither respect nor awe, only mockery.

"I’ll introduce you to the emperors later, behave properly," the senior vestal instructs her sternly, and Livia lowers her head in shame.

Today, there weren’t many killings; the festival shouldn’t be tarnished by too many deaths, so the games ended quickly. They were escorted into the halls inside the Colosseum, and as they walked slowly, still surrounded by the Praetorian guards, the crowd parted before them, eyeing them and whispering. The last time the Vestals had appeared at the games was under Marcus Aurelius, so their appearance was truly a momentous event for all of Rome.

"Raise your head, child, here are our rulers," her mentor commanded, and Livia obediently looked ahead.

Their arrival was met with a swell of voices, loud exclamations ringing through the air.

The first of the two, the one she had noticed in the stands, was tall and stately, but no warrior. His features were fine and well-defined, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence, but the set of his full lips betrayed a restless, nervous nature. A golden laurel nestled in the soft waves of his reddish curls, and his slender frame was draped in a black trabea trimmed with deep purple. Beneath it, a long tunic of the same black, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. He looked more like an eastern king than a Roman emperor. She didn’t like him.

While she was studying one of the emperors, the other had already been studying her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, sharp and deliberate. Quickly, she turned to face him.

Oh, he was nothing like his brother.

Shorter, narrower in the shoulders, he moved with a slow, fluid grace, completely at ease. Livia tilted her head slightly, and he mirrored the gesture with an amused glint in his eye. Was he teasing her?

Livia knew that fashion required women to whiten their faces and paint their eyelids, and appearing without blush was considered bad taste—but she had never seen a painted man before. The first emperor’s lids were dusted with a soft, ashy gray, subtle but noticeable. The second’s bright blue eyes were rimmed with warm peach, a color so vivid against his pale skin that it caught her off guard. A shade she had never seen on a man.

He wore a short-sleeved tunic of rich purple, cinched at the waist with a wide golden belt. Her gaze caught on the huge gold medallion hanging from his white neck down to his chest. The sign of Fortuna, the goddess of luck. Did he even understand its meaning? Judging by the many rings and bracelets that gleamed along his fingers and wrists, she doubted it.

Finally, the Praetorians parted, and they, along with the other Vestals, stood face to face with the emperors. The tall one bent slightly and extended his hand, as if expecting the senior Vestal to offer her hand for a kiss. Livia couldn’t help but smirk. Vestals were forbidden to be touched by men, even by the emperor himself. Didn’t he know this?

The awkward moment was broken by the mocking laughter of the second emperor. His brother straightened up, pressed his lips together in irritation, and cast a glance first at his brother, then at them.

"We are glad that you honored us with your presence," he said loudly. His voice was deep and low, yet there were still nervous notes, as if he were anxious.

"And we are grateful for the invitation, Emperor Geta," her mentor replied with a respectful nod.

Geta.

Livia turned her gaze back to the other brother. So this was Caracalla.

"This is Livia," the senior Vestal introduced her. Livia stepped forward, her back straight as a blade, chin raised. "She brought good news to the arena today."

"I see," Caracalla finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, starkly contrasting the softness of his features.

Standing beside him, Livia noticed that the powdered skin, which had appeared so flawless from a distance, was marred by tiny wounds, some of which hadn’t healed and were hidden under layers of rouge. The emperor, sensing her gaze, immediately furrowed his pale brows and lifted his chin, wounded by the thought that she had seen his imperfections. It must be difficult to consider oneself a god when one’s earthly vessel is so far from perfect.

"Oh, that was quite a sight," Geta continued warmly, looking directly at her. His hand twitched forward as if he wanted to take her hand, but she immediately pulled away, causing another burst of laughter from Caracalla.

"You’re too kind, Caesar," she answered with measured dignity. "The scale of the spectacle was truly impressive."

"There will be a feast this evening," Geta said, nodding to her and her sisters. "Join us."

"I’m afraid we must serve at the temple, Emperor."

"What is allowed to Jupiter is not allowed to the bull," Geta quoted, hinting that, with their status, they could do much more than the common citizens of Rome.

"What is allowed to the bull, is not allowed to Jupiter," she replied, and his smile faltered. "Had he not turned into an bull, he would never have approached a defenseless maiden, would he?"

Once again, the young emperor looked wounded, unsure of what to say, helplessly turning to his smiling brother. Livia realized who he reminded her of—the sacrificial bull in the arena today. He had the same dark eyes, vivid and strangely sorrowful, but no trace of wisdom, no matter how hard she tried to look. Geta noticed she was studying him and fluttered his long eyelashes in confusion, then smiled again.

"You’re wise, though young," he tried to compliment her, smoothing over the awkward conversation.

To some, he might have seemed charming. Handsome, even. To someone who hadn’t devoted her life to the glory of Vesta.

"Thank you, Caesar."

The little show ends, and the eldest priestess steps up, leading them away with the emperors.

"They’re quite charming, aren’t they?" Caesonia says quietly, glancing at her with a smile.

Livia tensed. Curious gazes followed them from all sides, high-ranking guests watching their every move. A strange feeling crept over her—guilt. As if she had thought too harshly of her emperors. As if she had been unfair.

"Dignified and charming, yes," she answers calmly, suppressing her negative thoughts.

Order in the mind—order in the heart, and that’s how one must serve the gods. She ran her fingers under the veil, letting her dark curls slip through, trying to focus. Her hair was still soaked in blood, dry and tangled. She stared at her hand, pink from the blood stains, the smell of iron in the air.

"I mean them as men, child," the elder priestess smiles slyly.

Livia paled, a crease appeared between her brows, and her lips tightened into a line.

"You know your vows better than I do, sister," her voice rang with tension.

"Look, don’t touch, darling," the elder priestess continued, her tone unchanged. "We can admire them like beautiful trinkets. You wouldn’t scold me if I were to admire an intricately carved box, or…"

"I need to wash my hands," Livia interrupts her, causing Caesonia to laugh.

They weren’t stone, they had feelings, emotions, struggles. And desires too. Other Vestals sometimes spoke of men, but Livia had never joined in those conversations. And she wouldn’t now. Her training was ongoing, and the last thing she wanted to think about was worldly, base desires.

A bowl of water stood by one of the columns, meant for purification. Livia walked toward it, the crowd parting before her, holding their breath. She was flattered by this. Now, surrounded by gazes brimming with admiration, adoration, and quiet awe, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Later, she would ask the Goddess for forgiveness for her vanity, but for now, the young Vestal basked in the attention.

She dipped her hands into the cool water, and it immediately bloomed with pink.

"Smells like blood," a voice said behind her.

A strange sense of anxiety gripped her, and her heart began pounding so strongly that it made breathing hard. On the outside, she tried to remain calm, as always. After finishing washing her hands, she turned toward the speaker.

Emperor Caracalla was grinning wide, showing a gold tooth. It seemed the young ruler was in a great mood.

"It is blood, my Caesar."

"Watching you there, kneeling on the arena’s sand, bathed in blood, was the greatest pleasure of the day. I fear even tonight’s feast will not bring me such…delight," his voice was soft, smooth, flowing like honey, and his eyes gleamed with slyness. He was teasing her in a bold, shameless way!

When she was very young, living with her father and sisters, Cassandra and Claudia used to tease her, taking advantage of the fact that they were older. But in the emperor’s words, there was something different. Caracalla didn’t say anything outright offensive, but something about it felt improper. Was it the way he smiled, the way he stood, nonchalantly leaning his shoulder against a column?

In every movement, she sensed how utterly unserious he was—how he tilted his chin, half-closed his eyes, and stretched his painted lips into a lazy smirk.

He reminded her of a cat. The one that lived in the gardens of the Temple of Vesta, rolling from side to side, stretching out its fluffy body under the sun. That one was ginger too.

"It’s an honor to serve Rome, to serve you," he grinned wider, "And your brother," his smile immediately faded, and Livia was stunned at how quickly his expression changed.

For the first time, she was looked at with such disdain. She blinked, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. No, Caesar still stood there with a deep furrow between his brows, his nostrils flaring. Livia stepped back, unsure what had triggered his anger.

Almost as if seeking support or comfort, she turned, only to meet the black eyes of Emperor Geta. He stood at a distance, surrounded by a crowd. A beautiful copper-haired girl was speaking to him, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere, cutting through the sea of people—on her.

She faltered, then suddenly realized—this had nothing to do with her. The emperors were watching each other.

She mentally pictured herself from the outside: innocent, chaste, in white garments, she should remain dignified and focused. Livia was a priestess of Vesta, not a cunning and ambitious matron, so the emperors’ quarrels didn’t interest her.

Leaving Caracalla behind, she hurried toward the other Vestals, but was suddenly, shamelessly grabbed by the arms and pulled into an embrace. If this had been a man, they’d have been crucified in the Forum by morning, but…

"Livia, my dear!" she hardly recognizes the face of the girl in front of her.

"Claudia!" The calm mask slips from her face for a moment, and she smiles at her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in ages.

"You’ve grown so much! A real beauty! And you look just like Cassandra! Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones," Claudia’s finger traced her face, and Livia shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s touch. "But your eyes… they’re from our father. Ah, our dear sister was so gentle…" Her voice wavered, and her hand dropped.

A man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and only now does Livia notice the rounded belly of Claudia, the gaunt look on her face, and how feverishly her cheeks shone.

"Congratulations!" she quickly changes the subject, not wanting to speak of Cassandra.

"Yes, yes, this is my husband, Senator Appius, I don’t think you’ve met him, have you?" Claudia’s smile suddenly fades, but her husband grins broadly.

The exchange of pleasantries drags on for too long, and then her mentor arrives.

"It was good to see you, Livia," her sister whispers one last time. "We live at the palace now, visit me, I get so lonely sometimes…"

Livia nods sincerely, promising to visit, and hurries to join the other Vestals. The grip of her mentor on her arm is tight, and her gaze is nervous.

"What did you do to anger the emperors?"

"Me?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised, but then she remembers Caracalla’s hateful gaze, and she too asks herself the same question. "I don’t know, I’m sorry."

Suddenly, the crowd around her—the murmuring guests, the admiring stares—became unbearable. What had once flattered her now felt suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched her with reverence, with curiosity, yet only one pair—bright, piercing, burning with something close to fury—ruined her mood completely. She didn’t belong here.

Still, before she could leave the Colosseum and return to the Vestal House, she would have to face them once again.

Caesonia noticed her growing unease and linked arms with her, trying to comfort her.

"Once again, we thank you for the honor you have shown us and hope to see you again," Geta began, locking his hands together.

"We are pleased that the bond between our temple and the emperors has been restored," the senior Vestal responded politely.

"Oh, and one more thing," Geta said, theatrically raising his hands, "Our mother wished to visit your temple…"

"Yes, mother," Caracalla mockingly drawled, cutting off his brother. There was something in his tone that Livia didn’t like again. That’s not how you speak about your parents, even if they’re not by blood. "She can get so lonely, and we’re not always around to entertain her properly."

Her cheeks flushed, and Livia didn’t understand why, but Caracalla noticed her brief pause and grinned, his mouth opening slightly, pleased that he had provoked some emotion from her. She lifted her chin, refusing to seem vulnerable, even though inside she was embarrassed.

The moment of farewell came. She longed to return home as quickly as possible, to forget all these strange glances and words. There, among the other Vestals, she would be safe, and no troubling thoughts would haunt her.

"Until we meet again," Geta said politely, licking his upper lip and adding, "Amata, I hope next time we can do without the bloodshed."

Amata. Beloved.

She only nodded, unwilling to show how much she disliked being addressed that way by a stranger.

Caracalla didn’t say a word, looking away as if he didn’t even notice her.

And just as she exhaled, walking past him, quietly relieved by the absence of his attention, she felt it.

A touch.

A featherlight, teasing touch traced from the tip of her pinky, gliding up the soft curve of her hand—barely noticeable, yet it burned like fire.

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, but the emperor wasn’t looking at her; on the contrary, he was leaning toward his brother, speaking to him.

It felt as though she’d been struck. The heat spread across her cheeks, sank lower into her chest, then froze in her stomach. How dare he?! No one had the right to touch them. Neither mortal nor immortal man would ever dare touch a Vestal Virgin. But he… He turned away, pretending nothing had happened, though that single gesture had shaken everything she had believed in for so long.

Trying to suppress her anger and confusion, she hurried toward her sisters, unaware that both emperors were watching her leave.

Without realizing it, Livia had started a new game.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

OHHHHHH.

One moment while I find that gif of Tom Hanks -

Found it!

OVERHATED CHARACTERS POLL: Owen Strand (9-1-1: Lone Star)

Feel free to explain your position in the comments or tags, but any harassment, over-the-top fighting, or personal attacks will result in you being blocked. Do not attack real people, be they fans or creators, over fictional characters.

[jaehaeryshater]

King Maekar and his cupbearer Vaella Targaryen, daughter of Daeron

art by @vazdelart, commissioned by me

“Emme, stop commissioning Vaella art” the crowd begs. “I can’t :(((” I reply while holding out a large wad of money to all my favorite artists.

I’ve been wanting a Vaella art featuring Maekar desperately for the past few months. The reason for this is that Rhaenyra was a cupbearer and in the southern part of Westeros, and especially in King’s Landing, the role of cupbearer is a very prestigious title for a young person to have and is often an indicator of someone being the heir to the throne. While Vaella’s claim was dismissed at the Great Council, I find no reason to believe that as long as Daeron lived, her role as his only child would not have been taken seriously and her education would not have been a priority nor that her prestige as the only child of the heir of the Iron Throne would not have been respected. That’s why I see her as Maekar’s cupbearer versus Duncan the Small, who was around the same age as her. Besides, I just think it’s sweet that Maekar would want to have her around as much as possible and hopefully have some control in her upbringing while Daeron, although I believe based on what we know about it his character that he must have loved Vaella deeply, was often not in a state to be a good father.

This is my second time commissioning Vaz and I love their work, so I would like to take a moment to point out some of the details that were worked in. I think they deserved to be appreciated. I didn’t ask for the pockmarks on Maekar’s face, she thought of it on her own and I’m so glad because I haven’t really seen any Maekar art where he has them, it adds a level of accuracy I think. I was so happy with the idea and how it came out. I wanted Maekar dressed mostly in black, sort of to show how he was a serious/no nonsense person and as a nod to his status as widower (I know we know nothing about him and Dyanna’s relationship but I like to think he never got over it, a lot like Queen Victoria), but also just because of it being his house colors. I think he looks regal but understated. Vaella, however, is all decked out. In my eyes, she loves pink. The excessive and showy fashion is meant to be courtesy of Daeron. I headcanon that he loves her so much but is too scared to get close to her because he thinks he will somehow negatively impact her, but that she adores him. The only way he feels that he can show his love and relieve his guilt is to spoil her with whatever will make her happy. And she loves dresses, he loves dressing her up and seeing her squeal in excitement when they’re fitting her for a new outfit. She does a pink strip in her hair, that’s supposed to be a nod to her mother, Kiera of Tyrosh. When this got posted to Reddit, someone was complaining that people (myself included) keep putting colored strips in characters hair when it’s not canon to their appearance, which I thought was really funny because Vaella has no canon appearance and the pink strip is as canon as her being bald. I just went with the sandy colored hair like Daeron’s because Kiera also doesn’t have a canon hair color. And in Tyrosh, they love to color their hair bright colors, so I thought Vaella would be a prime candidate to have a color strip in her hair.

This is mostly irrelevant but I wanted to yap about what I think Daeron’s intentions were for Vaella and kind of compare that to Aemon the Pale Prince. First off, it’s never stated in Fire and Blood that Aemon intended on Rhaenys being his heir, so it’s unlikely that Blood and Fire and will say anything about Daeron picking an heir, especially since we can infer that Daeron is a much less politically savvy person than Aemon. That said, Aemon is married to his wife Jocelyn for many many years and Rhaenys is their only child. He never tries to acquire a new wife (although I will say that I think people overestimate how easy/common it was in real history and in Westeros history to just set aside a wife, especially one you already have a child with. Henry VIII is not the standard) and never issues any complaints about Rhaenys. Jaehaerys only settles the issue about Baelon being next in line after Aemon dies, which I like to think is because if Aemon was alive he would oppose that and simply undo that once he became King. I think Daeron is similar in his love for his daughter and lack of concern about having a son. Although we have no information on it so it’s just a guess, I don’t think his love for Kiera was remotely to the caliber of Aemon and Jocelyn’s, so I don’t think the idea of having a new wife would bother him as much as it would Aemon. I don’t think Daeron ever wanted to be King nor ever saw that for himself, but I do think he assumed that Vaella would succeed him and that he would have wanted every opportunity in the world for her. I’m not sure the matter of succession was ever brought up by Maekar to Daeron. However, I will say that Daeron is not a very mentally well person and most likely would be easily swayed, so I’m not sure he’d hold up as well as Aemon if people were pressuring him to name a boy heir or to have a son. I think he’d want something for Vaella in his heart, but could be easily convinced that her being Queen would not be good for her. Then when he died (which it’s my headcanon that while he was dying for quite some time, he gave up fighting the disease entirely once he realized that Vaella was old enough to fend for herself, and that she was the only reason he was fighting it in the first place instead of not bothering to get up in the morning, seeing as his dragon dreams left him in such a deep state of depression). It was only when Daeron died that Maekar very quickly made Aerion heir, in fear that a female ruler would could strife. Kiera, I believe, was the one person to speak for Vaella at the Council, just as I imagine that Daenora was the one to speak for Maegor.

I do recommend commissioning anything you want to see even if it’s just for you and you think no one else will like it, because it’s so fun and it feels like you’re a King in the Renaissance and are a patron of the Arra. You can literally see anything you want and you don’t have to use AI slop to do it!!!! In the time of AI, it’s more important than ever to support artists. And I will never stop because it is so rewarding. I recommended @vazdelart in particular because they work really fast and are accommodating and they are really good at drawing old men; I love it. And you may be surprised about how many people will enjoy the art, because this piece got 1400 likes on Twitter. So it’s really fun. I can’t thank the artist enough.

[miley1442111]

fix it-a.hotchner

a/n: i imagined a fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

please don't read if you have emetophobia!!!!

summary: aaron says some horrible things, can he fix it?

pairing: husband! aaron hotchner x wife! reader

warnings: mad angst, aaron is so mean, reader believes she is a bad mother, heartbreak, feelings of disappointment, jack is so sweet, reader is pregnant, talks of pregnancy, talks of vomiting and morning sickness, no happy ending :(

part 2- fix it together

It was all coming down to this. It was Jack’s birthday and as his step-mom, you had been party planning all week. He was having a dinosaur themed birthday with a bounce house and watching a movie in the backyard, like a little drive in movie. You were excited for him. Aaron hadn’t really been around much that week, he was busy dealing with some legal battle the FBI was up against, meaning the rest of the team, including yourself, had the week off. It was Friday night, Jack’s actual birthday and he was asleep in bed as you waited for Aaron to get home. You were reading a book Spencer had recommended you as you nursed a cup of tea, getting sleepier by the second. 

The front door opened and there Aaron stood, briefcase in hand, handsome as ever. You smiled and got up from your spot on the couch, ready to greet him. He smiled softly as you hugged him, running a hand through his hair. “How did it go?” you asked, your voice just above a whisper.

“Oh it was fine, nothing too jarring. How was the week?” He asked, walking further into the house. 

“Fine. Nothing to report. Jack’s asleep but-”

“Did you do something for his birthday?” He asked, cutting you off. 

“Yeah, of course. I picked him up from school early and we went for lunch and to a film. He really enjoyed himself,” you smiled and he sighed. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah, fine,” Passive aggressive. Aaron was being passive aggressive.

“Aaron,” You said, worry coating your words. “Is everything ok?”

“Yes! Everything is just fine,” He sighed again, sitting on the couch. “Just one thing though- you didn’t think to offer him to see his mom?” He asked, malice behind every word. The accusation cut you deeply. Of course you’d asked, but he’d said no. He said ‘I don’t want to go without dad’ because of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to go to his moms grave without his dad, and not on his birthday either. You stood there, stunned at his words. He continued. “Y’know, you promised me this wouldn’t be an issue, so tell me now, is this an issue Y/N? I need to know because we can still get an annulment.” 

You gasped at his words. “Aaron stop-”

“No, you stop. You are not his mother. She is. She still is, even if she’s gone. You’ll never be his mother. You’re doing a good job of parenting but nothing compares to Haley. Thank god you’re not his actual mother.”

That was venomous. He was going straight for every insecurity you had around your relationship with Jack and throwing it in your face. He was hurting you. 

The silence was heavy. Aaron finally looked at your face and saw the disgust written all over it. The worst part was the fact that he knew it wasn't disgust at his actions, it was disgust directed at yourself and your parenting. You loved and adored Jack, he knew that. He knew, though he’d never admit it, that Jack liked you more than him, or maybe it was just his insecurity speaking, he wasn’t sure. He knew you gave everything of yourself to the both of them. And he knew he’d just done irreversible damage. 

“I offered,” you muttered, your eyes trained on the floor as you wrapped your arms around your chest, pleading with yourself to not cry. You felt silly, standing there, in his hoodie, his home, and seeing his child as your own. “He said he wanted to wait for you. I said we’d go on Sunday.” 

Aaron’s stomach dropped at the tone of your voice and the words being spoken. He was making you cry. He was hurting you. And all you’d ever been to him was perfectly kind. You’d always been so supportive, so loving, and so caring. As he came in he saw a love note on the fridge, he’d seen one of his favourite chocolate bars on the counter with a note beside it, a little wrapped gift beside it too. There were multiple reminders on the fridge for yourself, ones telling you to pick up things for the party, pick up Jack’s big birthday gift (a new bike), and call Jessica. You cared so much about the both of them, and he’d just said some of the worst things he could’ve, just because he was stressed.

Imagine how stressed you were, planning an entire party on your own while simultaneously working through hours and hours of paperwork (courtesy of your job, you were still working from home even if you weren't technically working), and parenting all week, all alone. 

“There’s dinner in the fridge, I-I’m going to go to bed,” you mumbled, walking about and leaving him alone with his thoughts. He heard your footsteps retract, walking up the stairs and in the opposite direction of your shared bedroom. Shit. You were sleeping in the guest room. 

He got up, irritation and shame barely allowing him to get to the kitchen to eat the meal you’d made him. Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he have just listened to you? 

He sat alone eating, his eyes drifting to the gift on the counter the entire time. I don’t deserve it. He thought, but caved once he finished his food and cleaned up. He pulled the small bow off and unwrapped the colourful paper to reveal a positive pregnancy test. His heart broke again. Inside beside it was a note, in your beautiful handwriting. 

To my dearest Aaron, 

I wanted to tell you the second I found out but I also didn’t want you to come home too early when you were still needed in Washington. We’re pregnant! I’m so excited and nervous and happy and scared all at the same time. I didn’t want to upstage Jack’s birthday but I obviously needed to tell you :) 

I love you so much and I can’t wait for this next chapter! No more guest bedroom I guess :) 

P.s I’m almost sure Jack knows, I’ve been having horrible morning sickness :( but at least this fulfils his christmas wish last year, remember ? 

Anyways, I love you so much and I’m so excited. 

Your love, Y/N

Xxxx 

He felt sick to his stomach. You were pregnant. He’d just been evilly cruel to you and you were pregnant. He’d said some of the most vile things on planet earth to you, he essentially called you a bad mother. And you were pregnant. He hadn’t even realised he was crying until he saw the splotches on the paper, ruining one of the cute doodles you’d done. He immediately put it down, not wanting to damage it further. 

He took a deep breath, then went into his study and allowed himself to cry. He’d been mean. He’d hurt you in the one way he promised he wouldn’t, all because he was overwhelmed. All because he was stressed. 

“Dad?” He heard Jack’s voice and straightened. He wiped his face. “Why are you upset?” Jack walked into his office, pyjamas and a teddy in hand. 

“I did something mean to mom,” he admitted. “And I hurt her by accident,” he wasn’t sure if it was by accident. He was sure some deep part of him just wanted to self-sabotage himself. “And I feel bad about it.”

“It’ll be ok. Mom’s been sick this week, maybe you have the same tummy ache and it’s making you mad?” He suggested and Aaron let out a pathetic chuckle. 

“Maybe bud, maybe,” he agreed. “How about we get you back to bed, huh?” 

“Can I say goodnight to mom again?” He asked and Aaron’s heart broke again. He lifted him up and nodded, walking them down the hall. “You go into her and I’ll get your bed ready, yeah?” 

“OK dad!” Jack exclaimed as he was let down to the ground, and went running off to your shared bedroom. Aaron shook his head. 

“She’s in the other bedroom,” he pushed down another wave of tears at Jack’s confused face. 

“Why?” He asked, confused. 

“I was really mean,” Aaron sniffled. “Say goodnight from me too?”

“Ok dad,” Jack said, walking into the guest room. 

Aaron heard your voice, wishing Jack good dreams. You’d been crying. 

He was the worst person in the world. 

Jack came into his bedroom a few minutes later. “Mom’s still sick, she said goodnight and to tell you that she loves you.”

Aaron almost started crying again. You were so caring. You always put him above yourself. “Thanks buddy.” 

Aaron tucked him in and closed his door over, wishing him a good night. The tears came shortly after. He tried to sleep in your shared bed, but it wasn’t right. You weren’t there. 

Sleep evaded him that night. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, the morning sickness hit you like a truck. You had your head in the toilet for an hour, at least. You didn’t come out of the guest room until about 9am. You could hear the usual sounds of Jack and Aaron playing outside, probably soccer. You walked downstairs and got yourself a glass of water, the only thing you could actually stomach at the minute. You looked out the window that led to your garden and smiled when you saw your boys playing, then the nagging voice that you thought you’d gotten rid of all but screamed in your ear You’re such a terrible parent. Aaron’s just been trying to conserve your feelings this entire time. Jack probably hates you. You shouldn’t be having another child. 

You looked away. Focus on the party. You told yourself. Get through today.

You had a long list of things that needed doing before the party at 3. You had to pick up balloons, pick up the cake, pick up Jessica and her kids, pick up Sean from the airport (as a surprise for Aaron and Jack), and set everything up. You left a small note on the table explaining where you were, and left. You ran all your errands, leaving picking up Jessica, the kids, and Sean till last. When you walked back in, the house was set up and Jack was immediately excitedly by Jessica, his cousins, and Sean which gave you a moment to slip away from Aaron.

Soon enough, the party started and you were bombarded with around forty children and a party to have. You felt Aaron's eyes on you constantly, checking in on you or just watching you. Once the outdoor film started, Penelope, Emily, Jj, and Spencer came over to ask what was wrong with you and Aaron, saying it was strange to not see you all over each other. You told them about the fight (not the pregnancy) and they were shocked at his behaviour. How could he be so mean? How could he treat you like that?

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aaron had been trying to talk to you for hours. Whenever he tried, a kid or one of the team would stop him with a dumb question, or needing help. You had Emily, Penelope, Jj, and Spencer crowding you the entire night, sending him the dirtiest of looks. That’s how he ended up at the end of the garden with David and Derek, who were both giving him a lecture about how what he’d done was wrong. 

“You can't say anyone is a bad parent!” Derek stressed. “That’s a very clear no-go!”

“I’m aware,” Aaron said, his lips tight in a frown. “I know what I did was wrong.”

“Then why aren’t you apologising?!” Derek exclaimed, loud enough that a few kids turned around to shush him. 

“Because,” Aaron sighed. “Those four haven’t left her side in hours.” 

As the movie came to a close and the children left, you were left with just the team and family. 

You all sat down to dinner, chinese takeout- Jack’s favourite. There was laughter and true joy, especially at David’s insistence that he could make the meal much better than Jack's favourite take-out, considering he was a ‘chef’. 

You all sat down to watch Jack open his gifts, individually thanking each person who gave him something. He was especially taken by the gift Spencer got him, a book on dinosaurs, and he adored the bike. You’d gotten one that you'd made look similar to Sean’s motorbike, Jack was always obsessed with Sean's motorbike. You’d even drawn on specific details that made it even more unique. Everyone eventually trailed out and it was just you, Jack, Sean, and Aaron. Jack asked Sean to read his bedtime story. That meant you and Aaron were left to clean up together. You got up to start picking up plates but Aaron stopped you. 

“Can I?” He offered and you nodded, sitting on the couch. You hadn’t eaten at dinner, all food just meant more vomiting in the morning and you were not up for that. “Can we talk?” He asked. 

“About what?” You sighed, looking over at him. “I think we’ve both said enough.”

“I’m so sorry about last night,” he sighed, coming over to you and sitting beside you. “I was awful. I was disgustingly mean just because I was overwhelmed. You’re an amazing mother to Jack, while you’re not his biological mother, you love him as such and he loves you. You’re a great parent. I was just being reactive and mean. I was so cruel and I'm sorry. I don’t want an annulment. I want to be with you forever. I know that it isn’t a problem. I know how much you love Jack and me,” he chuckled humorlessly. “I know how little I deserve it.”

You took his hand. “What you said… it was probably my worst nightmare,” you chuckled flatly. “And what you said was pretty damaging, Aaron. I just… it completely restarted the voice in my head that says I’m a terrible parent. It made me scared to think about what’s going to happen when we have our baby. I was already terrified about being pregnant, and this was just…” you trailed off as Aaron’s heart broke. Your voice was raw with emotion. You were so hurt. 

“I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that you are the best mother our children could ever have,” he promised and you smiled, but it lacked the regular spark your smiles usually contained. 

“The best mother Jack could have is Haley. We both know that.”

Fuck. Now you were comparing yourself to Haley again. Aaron had quite literally set you back about 4 years in your confidence as Jack’s mother. “Honey-”

“I know it sounds bad, but we both know it’s true. I’m good, but as you said, I’m nothing compared to Haley. Which is fine Aaron. I understand my place.”

His heart broke for what felt like the millionth time. He’d hurt you so badly. “Honey please, I was stressed and overwhelmed and I took it out on you. I meant nothing I said. You’re the best mother to Jack and our unborn child. You are the love of my life-”

“I’m the second love of your life,” you smiled sadly at him. “I’m going to bed, goodnight Aaron.” 

You walked up the stairs with a heavy heart. No matter what he said, you’ll always remember the look on his face when he told you that you weren’t enough, that you weren't Haley.

You fell asleep on your side of the bed, since you couldn’t exactly sleep in the guest room when Sean was in there. 

Aaron leaned against the counter as he washed dishes, thinking about how he could fix this. 

Could he even fix this?

——————————————————————————-------------------

criminal minds masterlist

[coldilikeit]

Yandere Batfam x Camp half-blood (Neglected reader)

DC x Pjo

Part 3

___________________

"Missing: If found dead or alive, please contact the authorities"

Dick feels like he's about to puke, every time he sees that fucking poster, every time it's played in the news

He feels like he failed, not just as Nightwing, but as a brother, he was supposed to be a protector, projecting you as a vigilante and as a hero

Everything keeps replaying in his head, how you were always out of theme in family photos because Damian keeps telling you the wrong one, but no one bothers to tell you the real one

How in a single day, everything you've ever built was abandoned, your room, your school, your friends (he wasn't sure if you had any) (ps: you didn't, Damian wouldn't let it happen)

How no one was there to help

And he saw another poster "bring back dead or alive"

He wasn't sure how he's going to accept if you're actually dead

Because if you're alive, there could be a chance, he'd apologize to you, and he knows you're kind enough to accept it, he'll spend lost time with you, and everything will be fine

But with every minute that passes, it feels like slowly you are pulling away further from him (if it's still possible that you could be pulled further than you are now)

________________________

2 years ago

"How long are you gonna keep disappointing me like this...?" Bruce sighed deeply

He got your report card, funny enough, the only time he sees you is when you do something wrong

And it wasn't like you failed either, it's just that it's lower than what your siblings got, it's lower than his standards

Well sorry you're not Tony Stark level, am I right? Ahaha-

You weren't stupid, you just weren't as smart as your siblings, in your defense you were smarter than them at some other stuff, it's just that it's the stuff your father didn't care about

"Dad are you finally throwing out the anchor?" Damian snickered

You huff at the insult, knowing if you insult him back you'll get in trouble "it's not even that bad-"

Jason furrows his brows "yeah, but it's not good enough, I hope you realize how lucky you are compared to the other kids in Gotham, you should repay it by being outstanding"

"And not to mention as the first born biological child you should uphold yourself to the standards given to you, if you can't do that then stand down" Tim scoffs at you

That comment may or may not be from an insecurity that he isn't Bruce's real kid (despite being more loved than you)

"don't you think you're being too dramatic? I don't even want that stupid company" you grit your teeth

"that stupid company is what keeps a roof over your head, stop being so ungrateful"

Damian's face has that shit-eating grin once again "throw it out the streets maybe then it'll know"

It's always that fucking suggestion that throws you off, every fight, they call you a burden in this house, they want you out

You feel like if it weren't going to be a legal problem Bruce would have done it

"you guys are so full of yourselves, I don't know where you pull the 'i'll fix Gotham' mentality when you can't even fix your own issues" you grab your grades and leave

"You fucking-" you hear Damian say but you ran to your room, to the far corner of the Manor, a guest bedroom (you were kicked out of your master bedroom when Damian came, his reason was "it's too stressful seeing it everyday", so they moved you)

______________________

Present

"Diana...?" Bruce calls

"Diana!, what is it!?" Bruce yells "What do you see?"

Diana looks like she's about to cry, as she examines the footage in front of her

another demigod dead

She thinks, her hands shaking at the sight of another child, like she once was, dying at the hands of those monsters who hunt them down

Does Bruce know? It didn't seem like he did, if he knew- he would have protected the kid right?

Then she sees light, she sees the little kid run into the garden, and meet nymphs, she sees the kid escape

"oh thank the gods..." She whispered

Without saying another word, she left the tower, leaving the others confused, she knew where the kid was

(Name) was safe at camp

_______________________

I just finished an exam and the entire time I was taking it, the edit of "dynamic duo", starring Nightwing and Redhood kept playing in my head

Also this series is gonna have multiple parts, I wanna make things easier for you guys :3 , how do you make a masterlist?

I hope you enjoy the chapter!

@bat1212 @vanessa-boo @sweetconnoisseurgardener

[orionshounds]

as a fierce enjoyer of shadow and sonic’s dynamic, i am deeply interested in how things will shake out in sonic 3, mainly because movie sonic is so different to any other iteration of sonic before

i could go on and on about how interesting sonic wachowski is comparatively....most of the time sonic struggles with his close relationships because, while he loves his friends, he struggles with wanting to be free and feeling tied down to them. this sonic yearns for that stability, he WANTS to be tied down to other people, he wants almost desperately to have a stable place to call home. this is a sonic that is tired of running

shadow has always had a clearly defined past. even if theyve never played it, most sonic fans know the plot of sa2 by heart. it is an amazing story and gives a clear framework for shadow’s character. sonic...has never really had this. sure, certain sonics like sonic satam or underground have more specific pasts, but largely sonic’s backstory has always been kinda nebulous and ive always found that fascinating. to me, shadow is interesting because of his past, sonic is interesting because of his lack of one. this is yet another thing the movie “breaks” about sonics character and its what i believe is going to make such an interesting change to sonic and shadows dynamic

sonic understands shadow’s loss

sure other mainline sonics have experienced loss before, but sonic wachowski has a clearly defined backstory in which he lost someone TREMENDOUSLY important to him....not even just important, he lost his family which is kind of shadow’s whole deal

longclaw was murdered, violently. maria was murdered, violently. both of them witnessed their loved ones dying right in front of them. this sonic wont just empathize with shadow, he understands him on a fundamental level.

now, obviously, they will still have a lot of conflict. shadow is going to lash out at the world for his loss and sonic refuses to let anything happen to his new family. but i cant help but wonder if sonic will try reaching out on that personal level, and what shadow’s reaction will be (i imagine he would reject it, saying that sonic could never understand, but he does. he so painfully does).

the movie’s story has set up such a perfect reflection of shadow in sonic that i have never seen before and i CANNOT WAIT to see play out

[solxamber]

If its alright for you^^ Can you do Malleus, Vil, and Jade with gn reader being an angel (reader inspired to Robin fron Hsr and also Columbina, or seraphim if thats what they both are). Being and Ethereal—how would they be in a relationship with Reader? Write how you like! Also could you write a little angst on Vil envying because reader is much more beautiful than him.

Malleus, Vil, Jade with an Angel! reader

I hope I've interpreted it correctly and I hope you like it <3

Malleus Draconia

Being in a relationship with someone as ethereal as you—a being reminiscent of a seraphim, with an almost divine presence—would captivate Malleus in ways even he didn’t fully understand. Your wings, your aura, everything about you felt ancient, otherworldly, and yet, in your company, he felt something warm and grounding.

He’d spend countless nights with you under the stars, speaking of things beyond mortal comprehension, your shared silence often saying more than words ever could. He cherished how you never treated him with fear but rather saw him as an equal, someone to confide in, to trust, to protect.

However, Malleus couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty at times. While he was powerful, revered, and feared, you were something altogether different—transcendent. Your beauty wasn’t just physical; it was the kind of grace that belonged to myths, a presence so strong that even the most stubborn fae would bow their heads to you.

He’d watch you as you moved gracefully, your wings casting soft, shimmering light that seemed to ease his darkest thoughts. Malleus loved you deeply, but there were moments where he pondered: how long would this peace last? Could someone as divine as you ever truly remain grounded by someone like him?

And yet, each time those doubts surfaced, you’d turn to him with a gentle smile, sensing his unease. “Malleus, I chose you. Not because of your power or your lineage, but because of your heart.” And in those moments, Malleus knew that no matter how distant the stars seemed, you’d always stand by his side.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit, a man who built his world on beauty and perfection, found himself in a relationship with someone whose very existence redefined those concepts. Your ethereal presence—a being so breathtaking that even the sun seemed to shine less brightly in comparison—challenged everything Vil once held dear.

He adored you, admired you, but in the quiet moments of solitude, envy crept into his heart. How could he, the man known for his flawless appearance and impeccable standards, ever compare to you? His reflection in the mirror seemed duller these days, his beauty pale in comparison to your effortless grace.

Vil wouldn’t voice his insecurities, of course. He was Vil Schoenheit, after all—poised, confident, and above all, perfect. But you could see the cracks in his armor, the way he looked at you sometimes, like he was searching for a flaw that didn’t exist.

One evening, after a particularly intense photoshoot, Vil found himself alone with you, the two of you resting in his dressing room. You could feel his tension, the way he was fidgeting, unusually quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“Sometimes... I wonder what it's like for you,” Vil murmured, not meeting your eyes. “To be so effortlessly beautiful. To have all eyes on you, not because of your hard work, but because... because you simply are.”

You reached for his hand, your touch soft, like the brush of an angel’s wing. “Vil,” you began gently, your voice carrying a soothing quality. “Your beauty is more than what people see on the outside. You work hard, you inspire others, and your drive is what draws people to you.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “But it’s not enough, is it? I will never be able to match you.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Vil, I never asked for you to match me. I fell in love with you—your strength, your vulnerability, your passion. You don’t need to be more than who you are. You’re already enough for me.”

Vil closed his eyes, letting your words sink in, though the jealousy still lingered in the recesses of his mind. But, for tonight, with you by his side, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t need to compare himself to the divine when you already saw him as someone irreplaceable.

Jade Leech

Jade would find your ethereal nature endlessly fascinating. From the first moment he saw you, he knew there was something different about you. Your wings, your almost serene grace—everything about you was an enigma, something he wanted to unravel.

In his mind, you were a creature of beauty, but also of great mystery. He loved the way your mere presence could change the atmosphere in a room, turning the mundane into something almost magical. He loved even more how you seemed unphased by the chaotic nature of his twin, Floyd, or the dangerous waters of Octavinelle.

"Fascinating," Jade would often muse, his eyes gleaming with curiosity whenever he caught you mid-flight or gazing at the ocean, as if seeing it through otherworldly eyes.

You would tease him for it, smirking as you caught his stare. “You know, you don’t have to analyze me like one of your mushroom specimens.”

He’d chuckle, not denying it in the slightest. “Can you blame me? You’re far more intriguing than any mushroom I’ve encountered.”

While you remained an enigma, your kind and grounded nature endeared you to Jade in ways he couldn’t quite explain. You had this ability to see through his carefully constructed facade, to touch the softer parts of him he rarely let anyone witness. Whenever he was feeling particularly mischievous or cryptic, you had a way of disarming him with just a smile or a well-timed quip.

One night, after hours spent exploring the coral reefs beneath the surface, the two of you floated together in the calm waters, stars reflecting off the surface above. He looked at you, his gaze softened by the water’s gentle ebb and flow.

“You’re like a rare treasure from the deepest trenches of the sea,” Jade whispered, voice low and contemplative. “Something that shouldn’t exist, and yet, here you are.”

You smiled softly, your wings brushing against the water as you drifted closer to him. “And yet, here we are,” you echoed, leaning into his embrace.

Jade, despite his usual composed and calculating nature, found something precious in the way you balanced him, in the way your kindness and ethereal presence made him feel less like a creature of the depths and more like someone who could reach the surface—if only for you.

Masterlist

[callsigns-haze]

Are You Kidding Me?

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x reader

After the war ends and Xaden is cured, you find out you're pregnant and quietly start preparing for the baby—until one innocent look at a onesie has you spiralling over the size of baby heads. Xaden tries to comfort you, but mostly ends up laughing as you dramatically mourn your future labour. Still, in the middle of all the teasing and ridiculous threats to name your child after Tairn, there's no mistaking the fierce love growing between you both—and not just for the baby.

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains light-hearted pregnancy humour, dramatic groaning over labour fears, affectionate teasing, and excessive banter between deeply in-love idiots. Mild mentions of childbirth logistics and one (1) emotional moment that may cause unexpected feelings. Proceed with snacks and emotional support dragons.

You stared down at the tiny onesie in your hands, the fabric soft and dyed in a rich midnight blue—almost the same shade as Sgaeyl’s scales when she told Xaden he should try to convince you to rest instead of running combat drills.

It was adorable. The little snaps, the embroidered gryphon, the hood with tiny horns. You’d melted the second you saw it in the little market in Aretia and bought it without thinking.

Well, you’d bought five of them. In different colours. With matching mittens.

You were beaming when you got home—until, about five minutes later, curiosity ruined your bliss.

You glanced down at your bump—just the softest swell under your tunic—and then looked back at the baby clothes on the bed. More specifically, the size of the neck holes. Then your gaze dropped slowly to your legs.

“No,” you whispered. “Absolutely not.”

You picked up the onesie again, holding it by the shoulders and squinting like somehow it was the fabric’s fault. You paced back and forth in the bedroom you shared with Xaden, muttering calculations under your breath, comparing your hips to the fabric like a madwoman.

“This thing’s head is bigger than my—oh gods,” you wheezed.

The door creaked open behind you. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” came Xaden’s voice, amused and warm.

You turned around slowly, holding the onesie out like evidence of a crime. “Do you know how big their heads are?”

His brows rose, then furrowed. “...The babies?”

“Yes, the babies, Xaden.” You gestured wildly to the onesie. “Their heads are this big. This is supposed to come out of me. I don’t think I thought this through.”

He blinked, clearly trying not to laugh. “You… measured?”

“I’m thorough.” You shot him a glare. “Did you know this? Did you know how huge baby heads are?”

“I—” he choked, covering his mouth with his hand. “I mean, I figured you’d read a book or something?”

“I was too busy surviving a war and making out with a six-foot-five former venin duke to read a book about biology.”

That did it. He laughed—loud, full, head-tilted-back kind of laugh. You scowled and smacked the onesie against his chest. He caught it before it could fall and looked down at it, then back at you.

“You already bought clothes,” he said, voice softening as he reached for your hand. “You’re really doing this.”

You sighed and let him pull you into his arms, pressing your cheek against his chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I really am.”

He kissed the top of your head, his palm warm as it splayed across your back. “I guess I should start researching baby head dimensions.”

You groaned. “Don’t ever say that again.”

He chuckled. “Deal.”

It started as a low, guttural sound in the back of your throat—one of those dramatic, from-the-depths-of-your-core groans that turned into an actual wordless wail as you flopped face-first onto the bed.

“Uuughhhhhhhhh,” you moaned into the sheets. “This is not what I signed up for. Why did no one warn me? Why did you not warn me?”

Xaden just stood there with the baby outfit draped over one hand, brows raised, trying his hardest not to laugh as you buried your face deeper into the mattress and let out another prolonged, muffled groan.

“I fought wyvern,” you whined into the blankets. “I stared down quadrant leaders. I survived First Year and my mother. And this—this is what’s going to break me?”

Your voice cracked halfway through, which only made Xaden finally lose it. You heard him snort, then cough like he was trying to hide it, which only made you groan louder, full of despair and betrayal.

“You’re not helping!” you shouted into the mattress.

“I didn’t know I needed to warn you about...head circumference.”

You just groaned again.

Drawn-out. Dramatic. And utterly defeated.

Xaden tossed the onesie onto the bed and moved toward you, that smug little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth—the one that meant he was enjoying himself far too much for a man who didn’t have to physically push a tiny, big-headed person out of his body.

“You done?” he asked, crouching beside the bed and brushing your hair back from your face.

You shifted just enough to peek at him with one narrowed eye. “Do I look done?”

He laughed under his breath, resting his arms on the edge of the mattress so he could lean in close. “You look like you’re trying to mentally relocate your uterus to somewhere with a back door.”

“That’s not even funny,” you mumbled, flipping onto your side with a grunt. “There is no door. There’s no way out. Just this one tiny, horrifying tunnel.”

Xaden tilted his head, brows lifting. “I mean… we could always call a healer—”

“Oh my gods,” you cut him off, throwing a pillow at his head. He caught it easily, grinning now.

“You’re so lucky you’re pretty,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said smugly, tossing the pillow back on the bed and climbing in next to you. “But you’re stuck with me either way. And we’re stuck with one very well-endowed baby skull, apparently.”

You flopped back onto his chest with another groan, this one slightly more resigned than the last. “It’s not fair. Why is the head the biggest part? Why not feet? Feet I could deal with.”

Xaden was stroking your back now, trying and failing not to laugh again. “Feet would be far less aerodynamic.”

You hit him. Gently. But still.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I love you,” you muttered, pointing at his chest, “but if I go through twenty hours of labour and this kid pops out looking just like you, I’m going to make sure the entire quadrant knows who’s responsible.”

Xaden smirked, tugging you tighter into his arms. “Let me guess… huge head, dramatic flair, stupidly good hair?”

You squinted up at him, deadpan. “And an ego that can’t fit in a gryphon's saddlebag.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “We’re gonna be fine.”

You sighed, curling closer to him. “You’re damn right we are. But if this baby’s head is bigger than yours, I’m naming them after Tairn.”

Xaden froze. “You wouldn’t.”

You grinned. “Try me, Duke Riorson.”

Xaden was silent for a beat too long.

You looked up at him slowly, brow raised. “What, are you picturing it now? A tiny little baby with a full head of dramatic, windswept black hair screaming its lungs out and breathing shadows?”

He blinked. “I was actually picturing Tairn’s reaction when he finds out. You know he’s going to think it’s a compliment.”

You snorted. “He would. That smug, oversized lizard.”

Xaden’s fingers drifted down to your stomach, his palm warm as it rested against the gentle curve there. His voice dropped lower, more thoughtful. “Still can’t believe there’s someone in there.”

Your smile softened despite yourself. “Someone who already has your stubborn streak, I’m sure.”

He chuckled. “And your ability to terrify an entire room with one look.”

You shrugged. “I learned from the best.”

A quiet settled between you—comfortable and full. Xaden kept his hand over your stomach like he could feel something already, even though you were only just starting to show. He didn’t say anything, just watched you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them during a debrief or a strategy meeting.

You nudged him lightly. “You okay over there? You’re looking at me like I’m going to break.”

He blinked, then shook his head. “I’m just thinking. This time last year, I didn’t know if I’d ever get to have something like this. With you.”

Your heart gave a painful, stupid little thump. You reached up to cradle his jaw, brushing your thumb just beneath the scar on his cheek.

“You came back to me,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m never leaving again,” he said fiercely. “I don’t care what position I hold. I don’t care what anyone expects. You and this baby—you’re my only priority.”

You were about to say something sappy and heartfelt—and maybe tear up a little—when the baby onesie beside you caught your eye again.

You narrowed your eyes at it.

Xaden noticed. “...Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” you muttered, “I should probably start stretching.”

He groaned. “Gods help me.”

You grinned wickedly. “Oh, you’re not getting out of this. You’re the one who did this to me.”

Xaden raised a brow. “Pretty sure it was mutual.”

You scoffed. “I didn’t order a baby with a melon for a head.”

He laughed, and you buried your face in his chest again, trying to muffle your wheezing. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, strong and steady.

Yeah, you were going to be okay. Even if you were about to give birth to a tiny version of Xaden with a boulder for a skull.

You were so in love, it was actually disgusting.

A/N: I take requests but they probably wont be posted until the summer!

Comments, thoughts and reblogs would be really appreciated

Credit to @empyreanevents for the divider

This fic is for my beautiful wife @thelov3lybookworm

[mewmurdock]

okay walk with me: matt had been so busy and hadn’t touched you for WEEKS so you had to take matters into your own hands yk 🤷🏽‍♀️ but you got too caught up that you didn’t notice matt entered the bedroom while you’re doing it. so he was making up for it, aka making you come for how many times you lost count

ask me to write a matt murdock blurb ;)

you had decided, perhaps six minutes ago, that enough time had passed without any intimacy. you hadn't been fussy, or impatient, or ungrateful during these past few weeks — you knew your husband was busy with all of his lawyer-ing and daredevil-ing. sometimes he'd slip into bed and immediately pass out from his exhaustion, and you — the good wife you are — would kiss his forehead and draw the covers up his body, and snuggle in beside him, content enough to not wake him up and ask for him to touch you.

you respected him, and that meant that he needed his space and rest, and to get his work done.

but what was so wrong with what you were doing now — grabbing your little magenta vibrator and taking care of yourself?

the door to your bedroom was closed, and you didn't think matt, even with his incredible hearing and scent, would notice what you were doing. he'd be too caught up in going over opening statements, or asleep, or something.

so for six minutes now you had been sitting the vibrator on your clit. you had not bothered to take your clothes off, so your hand was shoved down your stretch pants and into your underwear. your panties were not much of a hinderance this time, as they were the ultra thin kind that didn't have any elastic lining and wouldn't be tight against the back of your hand.

you sighed into the open air, closing your eyes as the pleasure grew down there. the covers were up to your chin, and it was increasingly becoming warmer all over you.

soon, as you found the best spot for your vibrator to be on your clit, you heard nothing but your own quiet sighs and the blood rushing in your ears. you were getting closer, but you weren't on the verge of orgasm just yet.

"what's this?" said your husband's voice.

you practically jumped out of your skin, immediately removing the vibrator and curling up with a small cry of fright. "uh—"

matt was there. his glasses were off, and he was standing with one arm around his front and the other on top of it, elbowing it. his hand was at his lips — he was biting his finger, just a little, as if to restrain himself.

you knew that, though he couldn't see you, he had still been observing you for a while. his sleeves were rolled up a little, but he was still dressed as if for his day-job, tie and all. he could probably smell you in the room, and maybe he could've heard you from the family room or the kitchen, or felt the vibration of the sex toy in the air.

"sweetheart," he said softly, smirking, "if you really needed help with that, why didn't you just ask me?"

"well, you've been busy with your work, honey, i didn't want to bother you. you've been exhausted for weeks and needed to take care of yourself. i'm alright on my own."

"oh, i appreciate the sentiment, my love, but you know that that little vibrator there won't compare."

"it'll get the job done."

matt laughs at that. "ah, is that all you need then? 'to get the job done'?" he steps closer to the bed, off to the side, and leans down. he kisses you deeply, his hand coming up to rest at your cheek. "i can do that."

"go get your work done," you giggle. "honestly. i'm —"

you're cut off with a shriek as matt pulls all the covers off of you without warning.

"it's cold!"

"you're always cold. now let me love you."

"huh?"

"you heard me. c'mon, wife." he straddles you and puts his hands around your sides. "i'll do a better job than that toy could ever do, my work or well being be damned." he smirks again. "how many weeks has it been?"

"three, i think."

he tsks. "my poor baby, going without my touch for almost a full month. you've been awfully good with restraining yourself, i'll admit, but i know even you can't do that for too long. let me make it up to you.

"how about three orgasms tonight? hm? how's that sound, sweetheart?"

[lune-moon-nuit]

The influence of conformity & gender stereotypes on the characters of Stranger Things but also on US (the general audience)

The moment I stumbled upon the arguments of "anti-Byler," the most commonly cited one was their outright denial of heteronormative pressures and societal expectations that are instilled in us from a young age. These same dynamics influenced Mike and the other characters in Stranger Things. This realization brought to mind a personal childhood anecdote that illustrates this phenomenon perfectly.

I must have been around ten years old because I remember this happening on the bus ride home from a school trip to watch Ratatouille. At the time, I had recently befriended a boy in my class—we had been seated next to each other, which gave us more opportunities to talk than when I’d usually stick with my girlfriends during recess while he played soccer with the boys. (Just describing this setup already paints a clear picture of gender stereotypes and heteronormativity, even though this was in 2007—25 years after 1982, to put things into perspective.)

When I say we had grown closer, I mean that two kids had developed a friendship: we laughed together, enjoyed each other’s company, and simply got along well. But I vividly remember sitting face-to-face with Maximilien—yes, I suddenly recalled his name as I was writing this! Maximilien, with his freckles and ginger hair—and we were laughing and talking about the movie. At one point, I playfully held two strands of his hair between my fingers, pretending to guide him like Rémy from Ratatouille.

It was then that I noticed, just behind Maximilien's smiling face, my classmates observing us from the next row. They were whispering and giggling, their glances unmistakably filled with mischief. I immediately understood what they were thinking. Later that day, they confronted me, insisting, “You’re in love with Maximilien!”

I felt embarrassed and awkward. But the truth is, before their remarks, the idea hadn’t even crossed my mind. To me, Maximilien was simply a friend, someone I enjoyed spending time with. It wasn’t until my friends planted that seed of doubt that I began to question my feelings. For the rest of the school year, I convinced myself I had a crush on him.

Looking back, this memory perfectly encapsulates how deeply societal conditioning affects us, even as children. At ten years old, we were already internalizing heteronormative narratives from our peers, advertisements, media, movies, and TV shows. Everything around us reinforced the notion that if a boy and a girl were close, they had to be more than friends.

This anecdote resurfaced in my mind recently, and it struck me how pervasive this conditioning was—even in 2007, when societal attitudes had already progressed somewhat compared to the 1980s. Now imagine how amplified this must have been in the '80s, which sheds light on the behaviors of Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy (and others by the way) in Stranger Things.

These three characters—Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy—each insinuated that Mike had romantic feelings for El based solely on his acts of kindness and care for her. It becomes much easier to understand their reactions when you realize they were operating under the same heteronormative assumptions that shaped our childhoods. After all, didn’t we all have our own versions of Lucas and Dustin who convinced us we were in love with our Maximilien or El?

Before Lucas’s heteronormative remark, Mike had done nothing more than show empathy for El—protecting her and taking care of her after she told him she was being hunted by “bad men” and that her life was in danger. Mike’s actions stemmed from compassion and the fact that she had information about Will’s disappearance, not romantic interest. Their interactions were simply those of two kind-hearted kids getting to know each other, with Mike admiring her powers (like any kid fascinated by superheroes) and El being drawn to Mike’s stable family life—a concept foreign to her.

But then Lucas planted that tiny seed: “If you’re this nice to her, you must be in love with her.” From that point on, Mike started behaving more timidly around El, his perception of their interactions skewed by Lucas’s words. Dustin reinforced this by accusing Mike of neglecting their friendship because of El, which was a childish and reductive observation considering the circumstances. Nancy, too, perpetuated this when she directly asked Mike, “You like El?” after he inquired about her feelings for Jonathan.

All these comments were rooted in internalized heteronormativity—small seeds planted in Mike by his friends, just as their families, communities, and society had once planted similar seeds in them.

The result? Mike simply conformed to what he thought he was supposed to feel. If everyone said he loved El, then he must love her, right? So he invited her to the Snow Ball and kissed her—because that’s what he believed he was “meant” to do. After all, she had superpowers like the heroes he admired, and as a bullied, insecure boy who often felt powerless, her attention gave him a sense of validation. She needed him, depended on him, and he felt useful and in control by taking care of her.

At the same time, he barely knew her—they’d only spent a week together, and beyond the immediate crisis and her love of Eggo waffles, there wasn’t much else he understood about her. Still, this fleeting connection gave him emotional and psychological comfort during Will’s disappearance and presumed death—a situation where he felt utterly helpless.

All of this resulted in Mike simply doing what he thought he was supposed to feel and do: "If everyone says I love her, then I must love her, right? So let's invite her to the dance and kiss her! Besides, she has powers like my favorite superheroes—that's pretty cool for a bullied boy who looks like a frog, isn't it? If she's interested in me, wouldn’t that prove I'm normal after all? Plus, she depends on me, she needs me, she's lost without me, and I have to take her under my wing. I feel useful taking care of her! It's only been seven days since I met her, so honestly, apart from the urgent situation we're in, I know almost nothing about her except that she likes waffles. But at least, during this week, we needed each other, and emotionally and psychologically, it helped me cope with the disappearance and presumed death of my best friend—a friend who vanished after leaving my house, where I feel 100% powerless to protect or save him. Having some sense of control by taking care of El, who clearly needs me, might just be my way of projecting? Also, she looks like a boy with her short hair, and she was mistaken for Will three times throughout the season—what a coincidence!"

I also noticed that in Season 4, the Duffer Brothers repeatedly wrote into the script how Robin and Steve are often mistaken for a couple by others. This happens because people don’t know Robin is a lesbian, but more importantly, because they can’t comprehend how Robin and Steve can be so close, so in sync, and have such incredible chemistry without being romantically involved. And yes, it’s absolutely possible—some people can be your soulmate without being in a romantic relationship with you. In fact, there are relationships that are healthier and more balanced as friendships rather than as romantic partnerships, and the people involved often realize this themselves. This doesn’t diminish the genuine love they have for each other. They love each other, they don’t want to lose one another, it’s just not romantic. It doesn’t take away from the strength or depth of the bond they share—it’s simply a different kind of love for a different kind of relationship.

This dynamic becomes even more compelling when you consider how heteronormativity shaped not only Mike’s understanding of his feelings but also everyone else’s perceptions of their relationship. Like Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy, we’ve all been influenced by these societal norms, projecting them onto others and perpetuating them, often without even realizing it.

[cup1dluvhss]

‎𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 HAMZAH THE FANTASTIC NSFW ALPHABET, written by cup1dluvhs

‎𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 nsfw alphabet inspired by my own hamzah smut headcannons!

| warnings: smut/nsfw (guys this is very dirty, like i had no idea i had this kind of stuff in me so caution is advised) kinda a little bit of fluff plus mentions of angst. btw, this is very detailed and each letter has its own paragraph.

| taking requests!

A: after care—

every single time after you finish having sex, hamzah never fails to check on you to make sure you’re okay, or hurt at all, considering 95% of the time he likes it rougher. he’ll pull you into his chest and stroke you’re hair, whispering things in your ear like, ‘you looked so pretty under me with that look on your face, baby.’ or, ‘was it too much?’

B: body part—

hamzah’s favourite body part of yours is 100% your thighs. he loves to tease you when eating you out by planting slow, wet kisses against them are he travels closer and closer to your core, and loves grabbing onto them and guiding you by rolling your body back and forth when your on top of him in cowgirl position. ‘fuck, that’s it baby, just like that.’ he’ll say while panting. your favourite body part of his has to be his biceps/arms, and the way he effortlessly scoops you up and plants you in a new position without struggle. you find yourself often clenching your thighs together when you watch him lift heavy things, practically throwing them around.

C: cum—

hamzah has many places on your body where he loves finishing, but nothing compares to doing it inside of you. nothing brings him greater pleasure then watching your twisted facial expression as he fills you up, and how you bounce back against him, continuing fucking him through his high. ‘fuckk baby, you look so pretty like that..’ he’ll say panting, brushing some of your hair out of your face as you try to catch your breath.

D: dirty secret—

hamzah’s dirty secret is definitely how much he loves when you take over, like when you sweep his feet from under him while he’s still thrusting deeply into you and flip him over, climbing on top of him all while keeping your eyes locked on his. he loves grabbing at your hips as you slowly bounce on top of him, occasionally throwing his head back when the pleasure becomes too much to handle. ‘baby, i’m gonna cum inside you right now if you keep going like that.’

E: experience—

the first time you had sex with hamzah, it didn’t take you long to notice that he had definitely done it before. the way he worked his hands, tongue and body to make sure you felt the most pleasure possible, as well as his sweet words of encouragement in between kisses or thrusts, and even prioritising your orgasm before his own told you he was well educated on the subject of sex. ‘is this okay baby? you like that?’ he’ll say as he rolls your hips back and forth as you grind against his bulge while sitting in his lap, nodding profusely and struggling to get any kind of verbal response out.

F: favourite position—

hamzah’s favourite position is missionary, and he loves looking you in the eyes as he fucks you senseless. ‘god, you’re so fucking pretty, you know that?’ he’ll say as he brushes some of your hair out your face, observing the twisted expression on your face with pleasure as you struggle to contain your moans and whimpers as his pace quickens.

G: goofy—

hamzah usually takes sex with you very seriously, and is almost in a trance when fucking you where he simply can’t do anything else until he knows he’s making you feel so good, except for talking you through it. occasionally though, he’ll crack a joke in between switching positions. ‘i think i just went to heaven for a second, and god is a woman.’

H: hair—

hamzah is usually shaved, but you’ve made it clear with him before that you don’t care what he wants to do as long as he’s able to fuck you almost every night, whenever and wherever. you are mostly the same, and neither of you tend to voice your opinions on each other’s bodies, and are happy with whatever the other wants to do.

I: intimacy—

hamzah is incredibly intimate with you, during sex or not. even in public situations or when you’re both hanging out with martin and mandy, or even recording videos for the channel, he’ll press gentle kisses on your hands or neck, or keep his hand on your thigh or his arm around your shoulder ‘you look so fucking pretty today, i just wanna take you home and—‘ he’ll whisper in your ear, before you quickly shush him frantically, noticing mandy’s eyes watching the two of you. you love to lean your head against his chest, and love leaning on him in general when your too tired to sit up straight. ‘you tired baby?’ he’ll mumble gently, stroking your hair with his hand as you hum in content.

J: jack off—

hamzah 100% couldnt finish to porn after meeting you, and the only thought that could bring him to an orgasm would be thinking about you. once, you went on vacation with a few friends for a week, and hamzah would call you every single night asking you to talk him through it as a way to cope with your absence. ‘i miss you so, so much.’ he’d say through whimpers and moans as you’d bite back giggles.

K: kink—

one of hamzah’s favourite kinks would have to be tying your hands together with a belt, or anything he can find, and degrading you all while watching you struggle. nothing makes him more feral than seeing you desperate and loosing your mind under him. ‘your just a stupid little slut, right? you love my dick, don’t you?’ he’ll say, a wide smile on his face as he listens to your pleas and watches your hands trying to grasp onto him.

L: location—

hamzah favourite place to do it with you is in your shared bed in your apartment. not that he doesn’t enjoy the risk of doing it in more dangerous places, but he much prefers to be intimate with you in your home where no one can interrupt you. also, probably a big fan of the shower too, and would definitely sneak in while your getting ready for work in the morning. ‘—fuck, hamzah!’ you’ll say, spinning around as the steam clouds your vision, the only senses you have being the feeling of his hands on your waist and the sound of laughter filling the tight space.

M: motivation—

nothing gets him going more than seeing you all dressed up, ready to go out with your friends with your hair and makeup looking all pretty. he’ll always try to get you to come upstairs with him, but you’ll always tell him no. ‘no hamzah, i have to go, and i’m late enough already.’ you’d say, rolling your eyes with your hands flush against his chest as he stares at you with big brown eyes pleadingly, his hands gripping your waist tightly. ‘please? i can be quick, i promise, i just need you right now, baby.’

N: no’s—

hamzah definitely isn’t into quickies or doing it under time pressure. he loves to take his time with you and ensure that you feel the most pleasure possible, and always makes sure that every time you do it its memorable for the both of you. ‘please can we? i know mandy and martin’ll be here in five, but we can do it quickly!’ you’ll say desperately, tugging on his arm gently. ‘baby, you and i both know i can’t be done with you in five minutes. later, okay?’ he’ll respond, kissing your forehead as he chuckles at your disappointed expression.

O: oral—

you love sucking hamzah off in the most inconvenient places possible, and love watching him get all worked up. once, when you were both in the car, you got the sudden urge to just ask him if you could make him feel good. ‘uhm—hamzah?’ you said hesitantly, twirling your hair around a finger. ‘yeah, whats up?’ he responded, completely unaware of what was to come as his hand gripped the steering wheel. ‘i really, really wanna suck your dick. like, right now.’ you mumbled, watching amusedly as his head shot in your direction, his eyes wide as he stared at you. ‘uh—yeah, ….yeah you can do that if you want to.’ he said, his breath quickening pace as one of your hands reached for his belt.

P: pace—

hamzah is completely ruthless when it comes to the pace in which he fucks you. he’ll always try to take it slow at first and enjoy the moment, but it doesn’t take him long to throw your legs over his shoulder and go completely feral with you. ‘fuck, your so tight, squeezing me so good, baby.’ he’d say as he picks up his pace, your loud moans and yelps as his hands grip your hips like music to his ears. he takes these noises as a cue to go faster, and always makes sure your orgasm hits you like a brick. ‘you like that? you want me to go faster then, pretty?’ he’d say, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb as he stares in awe at your disheveled state.

Q: quickies—

as mentioned before, hamzah doesn’t like quickies and prefers taking his time with you to make sure that sex between you both is always special. but, depending on how desperate he is, sometimes it might happen but it isn’t his favourite thing as he doesn’t want you feeling like all he needs is five minutes with you to feel fully satisfied. ‘i can’t get enough of you, y/n. make sure your well recovered for when we get back home, because the things i’m going to do to you..’ he’ll mutter as you both leave a bathroom stall, a smile finding its way to your face as you button back up your jeans.

R: risks—

it isn’t hamzah’s favourite thing to have sex with you in risky areas, but he does love the thrill and the idea of being caught by someone. back before mandy or martin knew you were both dating or even fucking, you had both stayed over at their apartment and you ended up on top of him doing cowgirl on a blowup mattress. ‘as much as i love hearing those pretty noises come out of your mouth baby, im the only one who should be hearing them.’ he hissed as his hands travelled around your body, grabbing onto your hips as you rode him mercilessly.

S: stamina—

hamzah can definitely go for more than one round, but his max is around three. that isn’t saying that he doesn’t crave more of you even after finishing for a third time, but it is all he can take. you love pushing him to his limits as you perch yourself in front of him, stroking his dick up and down as you whisper sweet things to him. ‘you think you can do one more for me, baby?’ you’ll mumble, dragging your lips up his shaft teasingly. ‘fuck—yes, yes—i can do it. anything for you.’ he’d say desperately as he combs a hand through your long hair.

T: toys—

you do have a vibrator, but you couldn’t find much use for it ever since you began dating hamzah. however, one day while hamzah was looking through a drawer in your apartment for something, he stumbled upon it in all its glory. ‘what’s this?’ he said to you, holding it by the handle as he stood in front of you, your expression startled as you turned your head to him from the dinner you were making for the two of you. ‘uhm—that’s my..uh..—you know what that is, hamzah.’ you said, pinching the bridge of your nose and avoiding his gaze. he chuckled, putting it down on the counter. ‘you want me to use that on you tonight, sweetheart?’ he asked, watching with amusement as your eyes practically lit up.

U: unfair—

hamzah 100% loves to tease you. he loves watching you get all worked up when he makes you beg for him, or when he holds off giving you what you want for his own amusement. ‘beg for it, tell me how much you want me to fuck you, sweetheart.’ he’ll say, hovering over you as he plays with your hair teasingly. ‘please hamzah—need you so bad.’ you’ll whimper back, but you always end up getting what you want.

V: volume—

hamzah is definitely loud when fucking you. he’s loud in the sense that he’ll let you know what your doing is making him feel good by groaning or whimpering loudly, while muttering things under his breath. ‘god—your so fucking good at this.’ he’ll moan while his eyes are screwed shut, his hand wrapped around the back of your head as you bob it up and down on his dick, occasionally gaging as it hits the back of your throat.

W: wild card—

definitely talks you through it, and it’s one of his favourite ways to make sure that he’s doing things perfectly for you. when your sitting in his lap grinding against him, he’ll whisper in your ear things like ‘just like that.’ or ‘don’t stop, baby.’

X: x-ray—

hamzah is definitely big, and the first time you saw it you were taken aback. the first time you actually had sex you both struggled to get it to fit, but eventually you adjusted to his size and are now able to take him all. ‘fuck, your so tight. how the fuck were we able to do this the first time?’ he’ll say as he slowly begins to move inside of you, hands gripping your hips as you laugh lightly in agreement.

Y: yearning—

as mentioned before, hamzah can’t go long without you. yes, he can make it through a day without having sex with you, but only if you’ve been with him or spending time with him. however when your off doing something else or are gone for a few days, he slowly begins to lose his mind. ‘hey, when are you back? very horny without you, by the way. for what it’s worth.’ he’ll say over the phone with you as you laugh at him. ‘this time tomorrow. hang in there, soldier.’ you’ll respond as you hear him sigh on the other end of the phone.

Z: zzzzz—

hamzah is usually very tired after having sex with you, as he puts in all of his strength and energy into the act to make sure that you feel the most amount of pleasure as you can. the minute he finishes, he flips over and crawls under the duvet, and immediately falls asleep. you manage to try and talk to him a little before he’s completely out, but within five minutes your also laying down knocked out in his arms.

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

On David Tennant and Aging

So, I’ve seen a lot of posts in response to Tumblr users’ habit of affectionately calling their favorite middle aged dudes “old men”, David Tennant in particular, saying things like “clearly you’ve never met an actual old person”, “omg you talk about these guys like they’re 80”, “please be normal about people aging”, etc. And on one hand, all of these statements are objectively right and true! But as someone who’s always been really fascinated by and found a lot of beauty in getting older (which I’ve explored in some of my writing on A03 because nobody else is going to do it for me), I’d like to provide a bit more nuance on how I think this label applies to David in particular.

David, obviously, in literal terms, is not “old”, at least not to me- I don’t personally consider people old until they get past 60. 52 is middle aged, simple as that. And yet, when I see David stuck with the “old man” label, it still somehow feels weirdly right, for a number of reasons.

It annoys me so much when people say David “hasn’t aged a day since Doctor Who”, because, well…

He clearly has. A lot. He’s got forehead creases, deep crows’ feet and eyebags, and I think that post-Fourteen we’re gonna see him rocking the grey temples a LOT more. He also has the voice of an older man now, his upper range is still there but the default is much more deep and rich, with a gravelly, rumbling quality that just goes straight through you. I personally think Broadchurch was when David finally started to embrace looking his age- Alec Hardy just wouldn’t have been served by Ten’s fresh-faced boyishness.

Obviously, these are the kinds of changes you’d expect any 52-year-old man to have, but something about David just makes it all seem a bit more… intense? The expressiveness of his face combined with his almost gaunt frame makes his wrinkles very prominent, and when he works his voice to its emotional extremes, his lower register can sound positively ancient, to devastating effect.

David, I think, is someone with an old soul- I don’t think he could be as good as he is at playing ancient characters like Crowley and The Doctor if he weren’t. He has lived so many lives, given so much of himself to so many characters, often incredibly tragic ones, and I think it wears on him. David also has five kids. FIVE. Do you know how exhausting it is to be one of the hardest working actors alive and be a present, loving father to even ONE child? But David somehow does it anyway! Nowadays I see him and my heart breaks because he looks so tired, so weary and fragile. But he’s all the more beautiful for it to me because I know that that is because he is kind. He’s a deeply empathetic person who feels and lives to the absolute fullest, and that story is written so clearly on his face, along with every other story he has ever been a part of.

There’s other things about David that make the label endearingly fitting- his utter hopelessness when it comes to technology, for instance. And he’s just got that warm, wise, grandpa energy too sometimes- look at that above Fourteen picture and tell me I’m wrong!

I once showed my friend who’d only seen David in Doctor Who and Harry Potter a picture of David from Around The World in 80 Days. It was a particularly emotional scene, and his face had just the most beautiful expression of compassion and sadness, every wrinkle on full display. And she said, in a less than complimentary fashion, “he looks so old!” Which, of course, offended me quite a bit at first. But to me, referring to David as old almost feels like a badge of honor, something he’s earned by living fully and selflessly, working hard and being wise and compassionate beyond his years. I think David himself is secretly more than a little insecure about the fact that he’s getting older. There’s sadness behind every jovially self-depreciating remark he’s made about his age in the past year, particularly in comparing himself to Ncuti Gatwa. I know how much David struggles with his impostor syndrome and how people perceive him, and I can clearly see in his eyes the fear of being discarded, the anxiety he feels about if he’ll still be as loved as he was back in 2007 now that he’s closer in age to King Lear than he is to Romeo. So I hope David knows it’s a privilege to watch him grow older, to watch his soul and talents deepen with the crinkles around his eyes. If I, in my silly goofy tumblr girl-ness, call David Tennant an old man, it’s because it’s a label that suits him beautifully- even if it isn’t TECHNICALLY an accurate one yet.