#the family dynamics are familying dynamicing

[seleneprince]

Jason Todd suddenly having a stepmother and three additional younger siblings out of nowhere, moved into the same house as him. Knowing damn well something is fishy about this marriage, specially coming from the new Mrs Wayne, but not saying anything because Bruce told him to not intervene.

Jason resenting the woman at first, but being uncapable of feeling the same way about the kids, who apparently think he's cool and drag him into playing with them, and well, he can't say no. He doesn't have the heart.

Jason noticing the oldest seems wary of him for some reason, as if she doesn't trust him, but eventually warming up to him when he perseveres in getting her out of her shell.

Jason adoring the three of them, encouraging them to call him "big bro Jay", but having a special bond with the oldest girl, who soon enough becomes his partner in crime in the family. Sneaking out to the kitchen to eat more dessert than they were allowed to, falling asleep together, chasing each other around the manor, playing pranks on the adults. Even getting grounded together.

Jason soaking up all the admiration and affection she shows him, and viceversa. Both low-key teaming up to complain about Dick being kinda an asshole to them. Promising the girl that he'll never leave her, and if she ever needs anything, she can count on "big bro Jay" to help her.

Jason learning even to like his stepmother, who makes homemade snacks for when he goes out with Batman, ruffles his hair while calling him cute nicknames and inviting him to eat at the table with her and her kids as well, as if he's her child too. And he feels guilty but god, he wants it so badly

Jason doubting himself more often that he'd like, admitting once to his beloved little sister that he doesn't feel like he'll ever be like Dick Grayson, only for her to look at him directly in the eyes all confidently and say "You're right, because you're better than him." His eyes getting wet out of sudden and hugging her tightly, as if her warmth alone can erase all his suffering. And it does.

Jason picking them up from school, scaring the shit out of anyone who messes with his little siblings. Carrying their backpacks for them. Telling them that if they ever feel threatened or even worried, don't do anything themselves, tell him instead. Let big bro take care of it.

Jason promising his little sister that he'll always love her, no matter what, and that he'll come back to them even if it costs him. Swearing up and down that he won't ever break her heart.

"We're family, little wing. Nothing can change that. You'll always be my babysister."

Jason loving his little sister more than anything, with all his heart...until his last breath. Dying with the realisation that he broke his promise.

Jason crawling his way back, forever changed. Forever mutated into someone else he barely recognises sometimes. Coming back to Gotham with hands stained in blood and the new weight of his sins on his shoulders. The pain, the fury and the revenge burning his soul until the boy he once was is nothing but ashes.

Jason returning to the manor, painfully aware of the darkness he now carries. That infects his being. Noticing everyone looking at him with wariness, like a bomb about to explode...except someone.

Jason seeing again those familiar eyes, full of warmth and longing, that he thought would never see again. There's no fear in her, no reluctance. No, worst. She's happy. Her eyes light up and runs to him, a bit wary in her steps, but her joy overshadowing everything else. She's unsure, but still reaches out. She still sees the boy who left, not the monster that came back.

Jason feeling too tainted and too guilty to even face her properly, ignoring the pang in his chest at her heartbroken face when he brushes her off. Telling himself he doesn't deserve her affection, not anymore. That he will just corrupt her, curse her by sticking close. Convincing himself that it's for her own good. Because that's what a big brother does. Protecting his little siblings from anything...even from himself.

Jason putting distance between them, pushing her away as much as he can, over and over until he realises she's moving on. That she no longer seeks him out, instead going on with her life and growing up. He's so glad, and so, so proud of her even if he doesn't tell her it fucking breaks him but what he's supposed to do?

Jason still spending time with the rest of the family because it's different with them. They already accepted the boy he once was is dead. They went through shit themselves to somewhat understand his own. They're all soldiers in their own ways, under the bat's shadow. There's no innocence to protect there, no one he can dissapoint. No one that he cares anyway.

Jason convinced that she's safe and better off without him, swallowing the poison threatening to spill out from his mouth when he catches Duke getting cozy with her in all too familiar way, biting his tongue as he looks the other way. That was his spot first, she used to be his, it's not fair it's not fucking fair

Jason forcing himself to not think about it every day....and then seeing her battered body crashed in a dark alley, on top of a car. Covered in bruises and blood and broken. Unresponsive. Not breathing. And he has no fucking idea what happened. Or how. Or why. No one knows, no one can tell him, there's no one to ask. All he knows is that his little sister fell from a fucking window and must've been bleeding alone there until she blacked out. Alone and battered, dying in silence.

Jason realising, with a heartcrushing force, that he fucked up. Astronomically. And it's too late now.

[etherealily]

same page? // f.odair

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings: Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Panem's most publicized situationship.

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Make them speculate.

Make them wonder.

Distract them.

Entice them.

Convince them.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, kissing your temple as he did so. Your insides turned. "Are we on or off today?"

"He didn't say."

"Hm.", he murmured against your forehead. "It's up to us, then."

You took a sip of your champagne.

Listen, Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.

Seven years. Seven years of this shit.

"Do you never wonder what it'd be like if we actually did end up marrying each other?"

"The entire Capitol would burn down.", you scoffed softly, eyes running around the room.

"Snow would be pissed, for one. It's a will-they/won't-they until we do."

"Which we won't."

He pouted, shaking his head as he brought your hand to his chest. "You wound me."

Your whirlwind romance had swept Panem off its feet. According to their knowledge, you'd first met at a Post-Games party, after your first time as a mentor, and you couldn't keep your eyes off each other. Cue the mess.

On and off. Sometimes, never, and always. That was you and Finnick, in the eyes of Panem.

It wasn't exactly all false. In the beginning it really had just been you, Finnick, and a couple of nights that neither of you wished to label. But there was no sex, that was what was morbidly hilarious here. Just deep, drunken conversations.

In Panem, the most intimate thing you could do with someone was not sex, no, it was developing a true connection, and that's what had happened all those nights — what had scared you both.

So sue you if you didn't want to label that shit. It'd only end badly for the both of you.

Sure, Finnick might have thought he might, possibly, maybe want more. But that was only on late nights when he was watching the moon or nostalgic footage of District Four on the TV, but at the end of the day, both of you knew this decision was the best.

Toxic, definitely, but at the end of the day, although his long string of dalliances followed his reputation everywhere he went, he always came back to you.

Panem thought it was because no matter how twisted, he always loved you.

Snow thought Panem would like that.

You preferred that than actually discussing with him why he always came back.

"Off.", you replied.

"We've been 'off' too many times this year. Snow's going to freak."

He was right. "Fine. Is Caesar here?"

His eyes flicked around the room, scoping it out. "Yes."

You groaned. "He's going to lip read, then."

Caesar Flickerman was a dynamic host as well as an expert lip-reader. You'd only found that out on your second year of this charade, when Finnick had been talking to you about missing home - taboo topic around the Capitol - and Caesar had caught it.

All over the news the next day. He'd had to cover it up and say he meant you were his home. The Capitol went positively feral.

"Look at you, all sexy.", Finnick whispered, with his maddening smirk. "For me?"

"For me." He rolled his eyes. Wrong answer, his glare told you.

"Tell me, gorgeous.", he breathed, hands placed tantalizingly and strategically on your shoulders. "Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"

His iconic line. He'd come up with it three years ago, and it was a cop-out for when he was too tired to come up with any other segue, and besides, the Capitol loved it. It was basically code for you to chill out on the responses, because he was way too exhausted that day.

"Do the cameras love you as much as your family does? Or do you just live here, now? In the Capitol? In the limelight?"

Wait, what?

"I live in my district. Most of the year." The hell was he doing?

"Do you now, beautiful? And why is it you're always here?"

"Why are you always here?"

"Photo ops, of course. Snow needs his best out here all the time to make the Capitol as spectacular-looking as he needs.", he replied, eyes glistening.

"I'm here for the same reason."

"Yes, but you act like you don't give a shit where you are. Like you winning the Games was nothing. Like you being bestowed with riches - more than most, actually, because of the hot little outfits that you model- is nothing. Impassive, deadpan, nonchalant, innocent but too-cool-for-school Y/N.", he mocked.

No way was he actually letting anyone lip read this.

"Caesar's not here, is he?"

He chuckled, nodding. "You're right. I just needed an excuse for you to listen."

"I will not have you judge me."

"Let me kiss you, Y/N."

"What?"

"Please."

"I am not going to let you kiss me. We've got... we can't act as if we've had this conversation in private. It has to progress slowly. Every single moment of ours must be 'accidentally' captured, and jus—"

"Same page?"

He always asked you that before he did something he thought would get the cameras off your back for a couple weeks.

"No! No, no, not this time, what?", you hissed through gritted teeth, doing your damndest to work on your ventriloquism skills.

He rolled his eyes, his lips moving to your cheek. "Let. Me. Kiss. You. I swear, you'll understand."

Finnick's knuckles on your jaw, he tilted his head, as if to say 'come on, I'm already this close'.

You acquiesced.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, before murmuring against them. "Kill Snow with me."

You didn't pull away, you didn't push him away, you didn't frown, you didn't scream. You just froze.

"Johanna— everyone, basically, is on board.", he said, in between kisses to your unresponsive lips. "And the Mockingjay. She... god, Y/N, please, I can tell you're two seconds away from killing me, but please—."

His kisses kept growing more feverish by the second, his hands cupping your face and using it to pull you closer. It was getting increasingly hard to ascertain whether he was addicted to your lips or the words he was corrupting them with.

"Finnick, Finnick, wait—"

"Please, please, Y/N." He was begging. He was pleading. "Just... shh."

"I'm not — stop.", you hissed, and he begrudgingly pulled away, though his lips lingered on your neck. "I'm not going to kill anyone. Not Snow, not you— though I should probably kill you for this. What if you're mic'd? Snow's done that befor—"

"You wouldn't be doing any of the killing, my love.", he smiled against your neck, his hands pulling you flush against his body, and something told you it wasn't even because this whole conversation was supposed to be a secret anymore.

He was drunk. You'd only seen Finnick drunk a couple times - the nights that had led you two to being friends (?) and being spotted talking (obviously fucking, according to the Capitol) - but it had never been this bad. He'd always had some form of control over his faculties.

"Finnick, there's cameras right now, we can't—"

"I'm in love with you, Y/N, more than the cameras."

One good thing about Finnick was that his words never slurred when he was psychotically, unforgivably inebriated. They simply hastened.

"Okay, Finnick, I'll get you back to your—"

"Like so much, and I—"

Before he could say something that could be picked up by the cameras around you and analysed by Caesar, you shook your head, covering his mouth with your palm.

He frowned, making unintelligible noises against your hand.

You rested your forehead against his as you whispered. "We'll talk about this later. Get some rest."

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Hours later, you knocked lightly on the door to his room before walking in gingerly.

He lay down, looking up at the ceiling as though it had every answer he could possibly need.

"Finnick?"

"I'm... a failure."

Shit. "Now, Finnick, remember what you have to do when you think like this? Think of your family. Who you're protecting."

"Oh, my god, princess, it's not himself he's disappointed at."

Johanna motherfucking Mason.

"Johanna?"

"In the flesh. But I won't be for long if you don't listen.", she reminded, elbow on her knee.

You closed the door behind you, locking it as you turned on the light. "You're in on this? It's crazy talk!"

"It's a rebellion. It supposed to sound out-there until you actually do it.", she snorted, hopping off the bay window and stretching.

"It's that District 12 Victor, isn't it? Everdeen-something? She's got you guys all riled up."

"Katniss Everdeen, yes. The Mockingjay."

"Jesus, you guys are all fuckwits."

"C'mon, baby, that's no way to be. I thought you were the polite, innocently sexy one? The one who could never even call someone stupid, let alone a fuckwit.", she pouted.

"Snow will kill everyone you've ever loved."

"He already is. Except it's slower, torturous. This way, we're nipping it at the bud so our kids don't have to go through this bullshit again. What about, uh, you two?", she teased, raising a brow as she gestured between you and a plastered Finnick groaning the headache away. "Your cute little Capitol-bred lovechild will still be made to go through the Games. You don't want that, huh?"

You groaned, yanking open the bedside drawer supply of water bottles, passing it over to him. "Jo."

She raised a brow, sitting next to you. "Y/N."

"You can't kill Snow."

"Watch me, sweetheart."

"Jo, this isn't even funny. She lucked out, alright? Katniss, you said her name was? She lucked out big time. Snow's seething. He's seething, and—"

"We know."

"Lie back down, Finnick, you're drunk."

"I'm hungover. This was a big deal for me, okay? I was nervous you'd react just like this and jeopardize it all, okay? Needed liquid courage. Cut me some slack."

"I'm leaving. I'm not going to fucking sit here and listen to you talk about a rebellion when the Capitol's at their strongest and Snow's at his angriest, it's your funer—"

"You're going back into the Arena!"

You paused at the doorway, your fingers on the frame like it was your only tether to reality. "What?"

"Heavensbee. He told us that the Quarter Quell will reap previous Victors."

"What?"

"Snow wants - needs - Katniss dead."

Your attempts to force breath to stay in your lungs proved futile when you realized exactly what that meant. "You guys are going to try protecting her?"

"We have to."

"No, actually, you don't. Finnick, please don't tell me you're going to volunteer if you aren't reaped."

He groaned, rubbing his face over his hands as he sat up. "There's one chance, and this is it. She is it."

Good lord, you were fucking surrounded by idiots.

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The moon was the only beauty you'd found in the Capitol.

Finnick had taught you to look at it. Especially when you were scared. Worried. Or feeling nothing. Or feeling everything. Or feeling too many things.

It worked, actually, but this time, you looked at the moon, and all you could remember was when eighteen-year-old Finnick pointed the moon out to newly-sixteen-year-old you.

"Beautiful, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you know it controls the tides?"

"What?"

"Yeah. That was my reaction when I first heard it, too!", he'd whispered. "It's your sweet sixteen, right? So just go ahead and pray that the tides change. Wish on the moon."

"Tides change?"

"You know, that this whole 'we're-in-love-spiel' can stop."

This had been the first ever year of this goldmine of a plotline for Capitol TV.

"I want to go home."

You'd said that some three times the past couple hours, but you knew Snow wouldn't let you do so.

"I know. Wish on the moon that you can do that, too. Wish on the moon you can spend all of your birthdays with the people you love. Well, besides me, of course.", he'd grinned, nudging your shoulder to make you laugh. "Just wish on the moon."

You'd closed your eyes to do just that.

"It'll take care of the rest.", he'd whispered.

Sweetest boy on Earth, he was back then.

Right now? Ugh. You wished on the moon that he'd get a brain.

A knock.

"What?!" Fine, snapping may not have been the best thing for you to be doing, as your blood pressure was already terrifyingly high.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, Finnick. Sure. Come in.", you mumbled, rubbing at your forehead.

"I... I can't even begin to apologise. Um... that was—"

"No, it's fine, you're good, it's wh—"

"No, that was... there is no excuse for that. Springing all that on you, and giving you all but five seconds to... I— I don't even know what I was thinking."

"Johanna got in your head, it happens.", you shrugged, watching as he frowned, sitting down opposite you on your bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. Huh. Your tone was understanding, but your words gave him pause.

"Same page?"

"I'd say we are."

"I don't know.", he muttered, picking at his knuckles for a second before turning to you. "Are you with us?"

"Okay, we're not on the same page."

"I thought not."

"Finnick, this is madness. Snow is at his angriest because he got his ass handed to him by two kids from District Twelve. Twelve. Like...", you scoff-laughed, gesturing wildly to illustrate the sheer bizarrity of the situation. "That shit doesn't happen every day. He's got us both going on more calls because the Patrons need to be pacified. Hell, he's now planning to send us all back into the Arena?!"

"Exactly! Don't you think it's enough?"

"What? Finnick—"

"Enough bloodshed, Y/N, please! Yeah, we're Careers, but when has that ever meant we were safe from the bullshit of the Capitol? Hm?"

"This isn't about us being Careers. It's about the fact that you could die!"

"We're going to anyway! It's like Johanna said! He's killing us slowly! We won't be able to live with ourselves once we're old and not wanted anymore!"

"FINNICK!"

"What?!"

"The first rebellion caused the Hunger Games. What the fuck do you think a second rebellion is going to bring? Hm? Mass genocide of the Districts? An arena with even younger kids? Every rebel and their families becoming Avoxes?! Are you fucking insane?!"

He paused at that. Silence. Good. At least he wasn't deluded enough not to consider the probability of failure.

You stared at him for a little while, before sighing. He wasn't weak, far from it, but you had just violently burst his bubble, the only thing he probably had going for him. And it must have been huge -and have been on his mind for a long time, a perfectly formulated plan that he was very excited about - seeing as he hadn't said anything to you.

He had a habit of doing that.

He never wanted to give you anything that wasn't just perfect.

He'd brought you back this seashell one time. From District Four. It had taken about five months for him to find the perfect one, with the best weight, the best colour, shape, texture, girth, whole shebang.

He stored your return-gift of a trident - you were masonry and weaponry district, after all - in a literal vault in District 4, until you gave him a tiny charm-version. He wore that around his neck.

Another time, he'd decided he'd write you his impression of your district from his Victory Tour. But that day, he'd been incredibly nervous, so he didn't look anywhere but his feet, and oh, how they longed to be home! In the sand, with waves kissing at his heels.

He figured he'd pretend he'd seen you in the crowd, all those years ago. In reality, you'd have only been about twelve, though you were raised above your parent's heads, so it was possible he could have seen you.

He hadn't, though.

For the case of this very humble birthday present, however, he pretended like he did. He took the wildest guess he could, that your hair was not tied up that day, and began to talk of your home.

How lovely everything had seemed.

How excited you looked.

You loved it. You really had. And he loved that you loved it.

And this whole rebellion thing was no different. He knew you'd be reluctant, but he also knew you'd secretly pray on the success of it, and he'd meticulously spent ages going through everything, every single thing, to make sure it was absolutely perfect for you, to make sure you could never call it anything but the best gift you'd ever gotten.

This, though? This argument had thrown him for a loop. You had a point. One he hadn't thought of.

"I'm—", you sighed once more, shaking your head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I... that was harsh."

He bit the inside of his bottom lip. "Mm."

"Finnick, I really am."

"Yeah, I know. I just... what if we don't fail, though?"

Wish(on the moon)ful thinking.

"Then great. But is that a chance you really want to take?"

"What if it is?" It's quiet in your room, and his response is almost engulfed in the silence, but you manage to catch it.

"Don't you think that's what the First Rebels thought?"

You were just dynamite today, weren't you? Finnick loved it when you were like this, but a tiny bit less when it was directed against him.

At least he knew he was an inch closer to receiving your amazing hugs.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, for sure."

You nodded softly, and then he kissed you.

And once more, corruption blossomed on your lips. "But you're deluded if you think when we're in that arena, I'm letting you kill Katniss."

"I won't have to if my theory is right."

"What theory?", he scoffed against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands crept up into your hair.

"That Snow will do things specifically to kill Katniss, and the only way anything will ever work is if you, I dunno, find a way to save Katniss and yourself and Peeta and Joha—"

"We're hacking into the arena."

He really hated kissing you when you didn't reciprocate, but he had to for the next few seconds when you froze, before pulling you away. "What?"

"We're... I can't tell you, but we've got District 3 in on it, they're going to get a wire and basically, like—"

"What, blow up the arena? Are you sure you're feeling okay? Are you still hungover?", you asked, placing your palm on his forehead.

He rolled his eyes, taking it in his and kissing it once. "I promise, I am perfectly fine. And yes, we have a solid plan—"

"Holy shit, this is what you meant by 'the Capitol Patrons give me information' ? I figured it was about the next Games, so you could help your tributes win, not... fuck, Finnick! This is treason!"

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!"

You glared at him as he stood in sheer fury. "I'm sorry for yelling."

Wow. Sweetest boy on earth and you'd made him miserable. How do you do it?

"It's alright."

"I don't care that it's treason, alright? But we need to end this bullshit. Okay? So I will ask you for the last ever time, Y/N, because you know that whatever you say next will affect whether we see each other again. Are you with us?"

You licked your lips, picking at the duvet. "Can I have some time?"

"Reaping Day."

"Reaping Day?"

"Reaping Day. I'm not even kidding."

Yeah, he almost never was.

Fuck.

"I'll tell you by Reaping Day."

"Okay."

He didn't leave. It was a long moment of either meeting or vehemently avoiding each others eyes.

"I'm sorry about the yelling.", he repeated.

"You're not volunteering."

"What?" He was halfway out the door when you said it, and he was this close to slamming it.

"If you're not reaped, you take it as the odds being in your favor and shut up. Alright?"

He turned to you, slamming the door and leaning on it with crossed arms. Incredulity painted his face. "Are you kidding me?"

"No."

"Who are you to order me around? Fucking Snow?"

"I'm—"

"Who?! My on-screen-propaganda-lover?!"

That stung more than you'd expected it to.

"Fine. Fuck you! Go ahead and volunteer. Like a fucking dumbass. Go get yourself killed because you can't handle the truth! This is how it is and how it'll always be!"

"It doesn't have to!"

"Yeah, tell that to District 13!"

"Oh, if only you fucking knew!"

"Knew what?! That your half-baked 'plan' is bound to fail?!"

"If you're such a fucking loyalist, go tell Snow the big 'half-baked' plan!"

"Maybe I will!"

"Yeah, go! Go right now, scurry off, become the fearless Savior of Panem, the title of the Most Loyal goes to you!"

You stood, attempting to shoulder past him, but honestly, you should've known better. He grabbed your arm. "If you're going, stay on your knees in front of him so we can shoot you in the back of your head when we storm the Capitol." Pretty picture he could paint, you'd give him that. He could paint a dazzling romance and a grisly murder all just with words.

"That's if you do it. You won't."

"Yeah? Watch us."

You mirrored his clenched jaw. "Let. Go."

"You don't like me holding you?", he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

"No."

"In the Snow regime, in the Capitol, sweetheart, that word has no meaning.", he spat.

"Does treason? Does murder? Does anarchy?"

"Snow gave you a comprehensive list of his favourite vocabulary, how cute."

"Oh, fuck off, Finnick, alright? Let go."

"Are you with us?" He shook your arm.

"No!"

"Are you with us?" More desperation this time. But he knew you, and his eyes held a calm that suggested he knew exactly where your heart lay. With him. With the idea of a free Panem.

"I'm not!"

"ARE YOU WITH US?!", he snapped, finally yelling once more.

"YES!"

The silence had snuck back in unnannounced.

"This is why I love you. You're a fucking trip."

Great. You were not only having to play an innocent, his lover and now a rebel, but you were also, evidently, to play jester for him, since he thought you were so fucking amusing.

"Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"

Oh, my god, he was being funny now, was he?

"Don't die.", you scoffed.

"Not if you won't. Same page?"

You scrambled to come up with a plan. Rig District 4's reaping? Fucking how? Beg Heavensbee for a glimpse into the arena? You barely knew if he was actually on your side, no matter how much Finnick seemed to trust him. Tell Snow and not include Finnick or Johanna or Katniss or — okay, too many variables. Oh! Wait! When he was busy protecting Katniss in the arena, you'd be busy protecting him. Okay. Could work. Right, okay.

He kissed your temple, looking down at you expectantly. He had no idea what he'd do if you hated his gift. "Right.", he muttered, after a little while of watching you play with the hem of his shirt. "I gave you till Reaping Day."

You nodded, and he whistled lowly, looking out at the window, his eyes brightening. "But... you know it's Full Moon Day today.", he grinned.

So you two sat there watching the moon for... quite a while, actually.

Wishing that the other would just fucking listen for once.

Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.

But he was also the sweetest boy you knew.

So, if you had to be on the same page, you would be.

"Same page.", you affirmed, finally, when it got too late and his hands went slack around your shoulder, and your eyes started getting heavy. You were truly, in entire honesty, unable to fathom a future where the rebellion worked and Panem was free.

But your plan was at least still intact. No matter how this clearly poorly thought out rebellion went.

At least, with your plan, he'd be alright, either way.

At least he'd live.

[strialternatives]

You mentioned in the tags of I think your comic of Akira and Akechi traveling that Akechi is first-aid certified in multiple countries. Does this mean something to any headcanon’s you have about what his adult life would be like? I love your palace au and i’m really interested in how he recovers afterwards!!

If it was just a joke then you don’t have to answer :)

that actually wasn't a joke! :D it started off as a "taking care of akira" investment that got outta hand ya see-

some background first! in my head shuake wind up traveling after Akechi's physical therapy and Akira takes an "extended leave" from uni then just. never goes back.

they travel China, then Thailand--near all the countries in east asia. at first, its about putting some distance between themselves and tokyo and all that metaverse ptsd baggage no one wants to acknowledge or talk about-

not that they don't have talks. they talk a lot, they have a lot of hard talks in hotel rooms, during quiet moments, about everything and nothing at all. akira is devastated to learn that his future husband is a dog person.

then, literally as they're about to book the plane back to tokyo, after months and months of travels and late night talks--akira offhandedly, mentions that he's always wanted to visit paris.

there's no reason for them not to. akira has an absurd amount of metaverse money, akechi has the key to a good chunk of shido's offshore assets. akira picks up languages quickly thanks to his personas and so does akechi.

and it kinda spirals from there. after that they only drop by tokyo for holidays and planned thief get-togethers.

akira's the type of wild card that picks up confidants everywhere he goes, he likes to help the people he connects with, and sometimes that comes with dangerous situations and hospital visits.

(the two of them are nosy, reckless and don't know how to mind their own business to save their lives. and akira is so kind to others and willing to help and his and akechi loves and hates him for it so, sooo much.)

at first akechi learns how to patch (his) idiot up for his own peace of mind, its manageable, he's used to patching up real world wounds. his initial mementos explorations were full of trial and error, after all.

--then there's this awful business with the russian mob that akira's gotten involved with during that part-time bodyguard gig protecting some small time lawyer's child during a court case and, well. he's two years in, somewhere between learning how to suture a stab wound from an underground doctor and looking up tameki-san again,

akechi realizes he's in this for the long haul. that he has to--unfortunately--lock in.

and he's GOOD at it, akechi likes being good at things.

he's not planning on being a doctor or anything, can't stay in one place long enough for a degree. but, picking up certifications still scratches an itch he wasn't aware he had. to heal instead of hurt--it helps that it starts with akira.

anyway, sometimes when he's bored and they're in one place for more than two weeks he'll go hit up foreign clinics who need a temp helper.

[disgraceofthenation]

@soughtserenity

i got nostalgic

[damianwaynerocks]

“jason hates tim” “jason calls tim ‘replacement”

jason todd’s relationship with tim drake is so personal to me. jason hated tim at first. he attacked him in titans tower. he was hurt and angry that bruce replaced him and he took it out on tim. and tim was innocent in that. jason todd is a tragic victim first a foremost, an imperfect victim who reacts with rage instead of tears, but tim was innocent in that. because yeah, jason was furious at bruce, but tim? tim was a civilian kid when jason died. i don’t think they ever met. tim had nothing to do with bruce not killing the joker and yet jason tried to murder him.

and yet somehow tim understands him arguably better than any of the other waynes.

tim was, to my recollection, the first person that jason gave a roundabout apology to about his behavior and tim looked him dead in the face and said he understood why he did it and that it was fine. tim drake, who has held jason during a panic attack and talked him through it. tim drake, who looked jason peter todd in the face and told him “you’re more than your failures and you’re not alone.” like. “tim hates jason” what do u mean. they have one of the most interesting dynamics in the batfamily.

like tim is canonically jason’s favorite person in the batfamily. jason invited tim for drinks (for a case i know but still). jason has eaten breakfast with tim in his apartment. jason canonically considers himself and tim to be ‘the two black sheep’ of the family. tim is arguably one of the characters with the most behavioral similarities to bruce and yet jason enjoys being around him. idk but they’re interesting and they care about each other and i wish that dynamic was explored more

[astrologydray]

Ruler of the 7th through the houses

The ruler of the 7th house through the houses is all about your relationships, your mirror, your soulmate energy, so when we look at where the ruler of your 7th house is placed, we’re seeing where love leads you, who you’re drawn to and why, and how you balance “me” and “we.”

7th House Ruler in the 1st House

You attract what you are.

You’re your own soulmate first. People project their ideal partner onto you, and you likely pull a lot of romantic attention. Relationships play a huge role in shaping your identity. Attracts: Partners who reflect YOU. Love lesson: Don’t lose self in other’s gaze. “When I know myself, I attract the right one.”

7th House Ruler in the 2nd House

You crave stable, sensual partnerships.

Relationships are deeply tied to your values and self-worth. You’re drawn to partners who offer security or help build your sense of value — emotionally, physically, or materially. Attracts: Loyal, resourceful, dependable partners. Love lesson: Avoid transactional dynamics. “My love is worth investing in.”

7th House Ruler in the 3rd House

Love begins with conversation.

You’re drawn to witty, curious, communicative partners. Mental stimulation is non-negotiable, and you may meet lovers through local events, online, or your immediate network. Attracts: Smart, talkative, adaptable partners. Love lesson: Say what you actually feel. “We flirt with our minds first.”

7th House Ruler in the 4th House

You want roots, not just romance.

You crave emotional depth and soul-level safety in relationships. Family, home life, or ancestry may play into who you choose. Love must feel safe before it feels exciting. Attracts: Nurturing, nostalgic, homebody types. Love lesson: Don’t hide from growth for comfort. “Build me a home, and I’ll give you my heart.”

7th House Ruler in the 5th House

Love = play, passion, and performance.

You’re attracted to romantic, expressive, fun-loving partners. You may meet lovers through creative or artistic spaces. You seek chemistry, spark, and someone to make life feel alive. Attracts: Bold, magnetic, attention-giving lovers. Love lesson: Don’t confuse drama with depth. “Love me loud or leave me alone.”

7th House Ruler in the 6th House

You fall for devotion.

You’re drawn to reliable, humble, helpful lovers — or you may end up in relationships through work or health settings. Acts of service are your love language, and routine = romance. Attracts: Hard-working, grounded, supportive partners. Love lesson: Don’t make love a duty. Vibe: “Love is in the little things.”

7th House Ruler in the 7th House

You’re born for partnership.

Relationships are central to your life path. You likely attract a lot of attention — and may idealize partnerships as the key to your happiness. Balance and harmony in love are your life’s art. Attracts: Magnetic, equal, romantic types. Love lesson: Don’t abandon self for the other. “You + me = magic, but I must remain me.”

7th House Ruler in the 8th House

You want soul-merging love.

You attract intense, transformative, karmic bonds. Relationships are portals for your deepest evolution. Love may involve shared resources, secrets, or deep emotional alchemy. Attracts: Deep, passionate, complex partners. Love lesson: Don’t cling to chaos. “If love doesn’t change me, I don’t want it.”

7th House Ruler in the 9th House

You fall for minds, missions + meaning.

You attract lovers from different cultures, philosophies, or belief systems. Your ideal partner expands your world. You may meet them while traveling, studying, or seeking truth. Attracts: Free-spirited, wise, idealistic partners. Love lesson: Don’t escape reality for the fantasy. “My love story is a journey.”

7th House Ruler in the 10th House

Love shapes your legacy.

You may meet partners through work, status circles, or shared goals. You’re drawn to ambitious or “high-value” lovers. Your relationships may be public, or part of your career path. Attracts: Successful, authoritative, respected people. Love lesson: Let love in without needing it to look perfect. “Let’s build an empire together.”

7th House Ruler in the 11th House

You love like a rebel.

You’re attracted to unique, unconventional, or freedom-loving partners — maybe even meeting them online or in friend groups. You want romance that respects individuality + vision. Attracts: Eccentric, visionary, community-driven types. Love lesson: Detach without dissociating. “Let’s love like it’s the future.”

7th House Ruler in the 12th House

Your love life is spiritual, secret, or karmic.

You may be drawn to unavailable people or soulmate-type connections. Love is healing, mystical, or even hidden. You might need solitude to sort through what love really means to you. Attracts: Dreamy, mysterious, spiritual partners. Love lesson: Know when love is real vs. illusion. “My heart speaks in silence.”

[dresshistorynerd]

Overview of Rococo Fashion

I mentioned in a post three god damn years ago I was writing this, but in my defense 1700s was a hell of a century.

18th century was a weird and interesting period of western fashion. It was a time of extreme inequality in Europe and even more extreme exploitation of the rest of the world through massive colonial expansion. Fashion became also extreme. The wealth amassed by the elite translated into diverse styles and complicated dress codes which required multiple changes in clothing thorough a day. Imperialism also meant increasing centralization of power and authoritarianism. In fashion this led to interesting dynamic, where the courts, trying to control the increasingly rich and powerful elite, set restrictive and archaic dress codes, while the aristocrats continued to experiment with new fashions in their casual styles. The cultural capital shifted from formal court events to the casual gatherings among the fashionable aristocrats. Salon parties, picnics, morning gatherings and even dressing up became important social events.

All of this makes the fashion of the period very hard to grasp. I have yet to find any good overview of it. So after trying to figure out this period for a long while now, I will attempt to give my own overview. Like any even remotely succinct overview, it will be incomplete. I'll focus on the high society women's fashion and the two central players in the fashion of this period, France and Britain. I define this fashion period (which is really late Baroque plus Rococo) as starting from the rise of mantua in 1680s and ending to the French Revolution in 1789, but this post will only cover the fashion up to roughly 1770. Things changed a lot during the 1770s in France especially (which was the fashion capital) and numerous new types of fashionable gowns popped up, so this would be way too long (more than it is already) and it's a natural place to split this. (I will make a second part to this but no promises on doing it quickly.) The different types of gowns were used for different purposes and often evolved fairly separately from the other types of gowns, so I will structure this around them. This approach was the only one that made sense to me so I hope it makes sense to you too. I won't go through every single type of gown, since there's too many. For example I will skip all the numerous short gowns and jackets, which were always common informal wear, and I'm focusing less on different types of negligé. Just know they and others were there. I have split this in a very vibes based eras named after the most fashionable thing at the time.

Negligé, dishabillé, half dress and full dress

But first, to understand the fashion of 18th century, we need to first understand the social life of the high society and it's dress codes. The highest level of formality was expected in court, and courts set their own dress code, which needed to be complied with. It functioned as a sort of invitation pass as court was theoretically open, but you needed to wear extremely expensive clothing to get in. Outside court the most formal events were formal balls, in which full dress (formal dress) was used. Full dresses followed fashion and were quicker to change than the court's dress code, so they weren't necessarily the same as court dresses. Less formal events were things like private dinner parties. In those half dress (semi-formal dress) was used. Then there were informal social events, like tea parties, picnics and salon gatherings, where dishabillé could be used. Dishabillé means undress, and while from modern perspective they were fully dressed, at the time it meant a type of informal dress that was used inside the home, but which was not too casual to be improper outside home either. Dishabillé was also used when otherwise going outside, not to an event, but for example visiting a friend or a relative.

At home dishabillé could be used for example to have dinner with family. Dishabillé negligé was an even more informal dress and not used outside home, except for perhaps a private morning walk. Usually it was used in the morning, but could be used till dinner on a quiet day. It could be used to receive guests or sometimes for receiving the small intimate gatherings too. It would be used with stays (could be lightly boned or worn loosely) or jumps and petticoat. Negligé was the most casual wear which was not literally underwear. Negligé was worn over the night chemise, sometimes with minimal structural garments. Negligé was used inside bedchambers or dressing room (usually the same). In the 18th century toilette, dressing up for the day, had become a very intimate social event. The upper class hair especially took quite a while to powder and put up fashionably, so while they were being dressed by the servants, they might just as well receive close friends, family members or even lovers. Sometimes women might receive close friends also when reclining in bed in their negligé.

Only court dress had explicit rules and even those were not always followed, so what was considered full dress, half dress, dishabillé or negligé was not very strict. So when I mention later what type of gown was considered to fit what sort of dress code at different points in time, these are not hard rules and people did bend them based on their taste and even politics. Some day I'll want to go deeper into this and go through some of my research of paintings and fashion plates.

1680s-1710s: The Mantua Era

Mantua gained it's start in 1670s, but became broadly fashionable in 1680s, so that's where I'll properly start. At the start of 17th century first colonial trading companies, the Dutch and the British East Indian Companies, were created and through the century they had been establishing trading posts in Asia. As the century progressed they became increasingly aggressive in their competition over the trade leading to Anglo-Dutch wars. It lead to a race to extend colonial control over the local authorities and in 1680s the British East Indian Company colonized Indian subcontinent. Increasingly available Asian luxury products led to a fascination with Asia. This fascination became justification for colonialism in the form of Orientalism. Orientalism constructs an Orient, which is fetishized, mystical, primitive and barbaric at the same time, to dehumanize colonized people and justify their subjugation. It became a very significant force in the fashion of whole 18th century.

The rigid or stiff-bodied gown

Also known as rode de cour and grand habit in France. Most of the 17th century the basic garment in women's fashion was the structured bodies and a skirt, either attached together or separate as was the case increasingly towards the end of the century. Bodies were heavily structured with boning and the primary structural layer and were used as both outer and under garment. In formal occasions the gown had rigid bodies which could be separate from the skirt but always matching. When mantua became the fashionable dishabillé in 1680s, the more formal gown started to be called rigid or stiff-bodied gown. The new silhouette was conical and stiffer. The skirt had a long trail and was open at the front and pulled to back to expose the usually contrasting petticoat. Later, especially for full dress, petticoat would usually be matching. The petticoat was also fairly conical, narrow and stiff, not full and flowing like in the mid century. It was a sort of return to the Elizabethan aesthetics of mid and late 16th century England and France after the fuller and softer aesthetics of the height of Baroque.

French fashion plate from 1683. Detail from c. 1715-1720 painting "Madame de Ventadour with Louis XIV and his Heirs".

Robe de chambre

Also called wrapper, dressing gown and nightgown. Robe de chambre became the fashionable negligee in late 1600s following the style of men's informal robe, banyan, which had become fashionable in the mid century. Banyan was of Orientalist origin and imitated Japanese kimonos. Banyan name came from Hindu merchants and was also called the Indian nightgown in Britain. In the eyes of Orientalism the whole continent of Asia (and North Africa) were all interchangeable. Banyan represented intellectualism and open-mindedness, connecting to the view that "the Orient" possessed "ancient mystic wisdom", which in the hands of the "Rational Western Man" could be turned into intellectual enlightenment. For example philosophers and intellectuals often got their portraits in banyan. Robe de chambre was like banyan, a long loose gown of rich (often imported) material. As it became more fashionable and more richly made, it graduated to dishabillé negligé. As negligé it was often worn over a night shift, when getting dressed, but as dishabillé negligé it was worn over stays and petticoat. Then it was often belted at the waist to give definition to the silhouette. It could be closed, hiding the stays and petticoat, or they could be left visible, in which case they needed to be fashionable as well. The stays evolved from the undergarment bodies and therefore weren't considered strictly undergarment, like the later corset.

Robe de chambre or dressing gown continued to be used as negligé and dishabillé negligé thorough the century only changing a little (for example in patterns and sleeve shapes) with fashions.

French fashion plate from 1685. French fashion plate from 1695.

Mantua

During 1670s increasingly formal forms of robe de chambre emerged and started to be worn as dishabillé. In addition to being belted, this robe was paired with a fashionable petticoat and the skirt was tied back like the formal rigid gowns to follow the fashionable silhouette and that way making it more formal. It became a new type of dress, mantua. Robe de chambre continued to be used as dishabillé negligé. Mantua was basically constructed the exact same way as robe de chambre, only really differing by having a long train. Early mantuas in 1680s and before were pinned closed at the front to create a sort of closed bodice mimicking rigid gowns. By 1690s though the bodice would be usually left open in a v and a stomacher in contrasting colour would be attached to the stays to cover them or stays of contrasting color from fashionable fabrics were used, usually for more casual cases. By the end of 17th century the petticoat was usually made from the same fabric as mantua, but the stomacher was still often from contrasting fabric. Around that time mantua also graduated to half dress. It was still worn in less elaborate forms as dishabillé though.

Mantua's success arguably laid in it's adaptability. It was loose, simple in cut and didn't need tailoring, so it was quite easy and cheep to make, while it could still be fitted to the fashionable silhouette with pins and belts. This made it very easy to fit comfortably to the changes in body and to other people with different bodies. It could even be fitted to new silhouettes just by changing the structural under garments. The quick and cheap construction also made it possible for rich upper class women to gain very large wardrobe and therefore develop the very complicated dress codes the 18th century would be known for.

British woolen extant mantua from late 17th century (probably around 1680s). French portrait of Anne de Souvré from 1693.

1720s-1730s: The Robe Volante Era

Rococo style started dominating the arts, especially in France, but would influence the whole western world. In fashion it meant brighter colours, lighter and fuller fabrics and lusher details. Because of the rivalry between the British and French empires, the English took a fairly oppositional stance on the very French Rococo style. This led to a gap between French and English fashions. French fashion leaned to the decadent opulence, while English fashion was more restrained and somber. Rococo was a decorational style related to the broader Classicism, and the English fashion leaned more towards "pure" Classicism.

Rigid gown

By 1720s mantua had firmly usurped rigid gown as the fashionable full dress. However, the courts still clinged to the traditional rigid gowns, even though by that point it was clear mantua had come to stay. The roundness had come back to the skirts to display the fullness of the fabrics. The skirt had started growing again in the beginning of the century and hooped petticoats had started to enter back into the wider fashion after almost a century, probably again from Spain, where they had stayed as the stable of court fashion through the whole 17th century. It kept growing through 1730s into massive round cake-like proportions. The sleeves had barely changed at all from previous decades.

Portrait of Maria Lescynska, Queen of France, from 1726. Portrait of Princess Amelia of Great Britain from 1728.

Mantua

As mentioned, mantua had became the full dress. Less elaborate mantua was still also used as half dress, but the dishabillé versions had been usurped by new types of gowns. The formal mantuas had increasingly their pleats stitched to create more fitted appearance. Skirts of the formal mantuas changed along rigid gowns. Hoops (or that large hoop skirts) weren't necessarily used with half dress.

British extant mantua from 1735-1740. Detail from French painting "Adélaïde de Gueidan and her sister at the harpsichord" from 1735-1740.

Robe volante

As mantua was turned into increasingly elaborate and formal gown, a new less formal version was developed from it. Or rather it also developed from a dressing gown as a slightly more formal version like mantua had before it. Robe volante or battante was unbelted mantua. It was closed at the front (usually stitched or closed with buttons) often leaving a similar v as mantua to reveal a stomacher, but sometimes closed so far it mostly covered the stays. It was pleated at the back, but the pleats were left loose, which was called sack back. Overall it was very loose flowing dress and combined with a large skirt the effect, especially when sitting, was like drowning in an opulent sea of fine fabric. In France it became extremely popular first as dishabillé, but eventually it was used as half dress as well.

Today it might feel a little weird that this very covering and not at all formfitting garment was seen as quite indecent in public. But at the time structural garments, especially stays, which shaped the body and concealed it's natural form, was needed to be considered dressed at all. Loose unfitted garments were already associated with negligé, but then covering the fashionable form with a garment like that left it obscured weather they were even wearing stays. The reaction was basically "what if she's naked under her clothes????" This was also of course related to Orientalism. In many Asian and North-African cultures (especially Arab and many other Muslim cultures) women (and everyone else) wore loose covering gowns, and there was fetishistic fascination among Europeans about their "exotic beauty" under the clothes. Both of these associations fed each other. So young fashionable women were then sometimes suspected of promiscuity for wearing robe volante in public. Occasionally these accusations were justified by claiming they could be hiding an extra-marital pregnancy under the loose garment, even though that seems quite impractical.

French extant robe volante from c. 1730. English portrait of Mrs. Elizabeth Symonds from 1740.

English gown

The English upper society, being more prudish and restrained, made their own version of robe volante. It was otherwise basically the same, but the pleats in front and back were pinned like in mantua. Since the skirt portion was closed at the front it was basically round gown. Sometimes belt was also used, or an apron. The v opening on the bodice usually had ribbons, sometimes pleating, to keep the robe in place. This English version was much more toned down than robe volante. It was usually made of plain single color fabric and white neckerchief stuffed under the ribbons of the v-opening or plain, often white, stomacher. There were a little more showy versions of it with elaborate patterned fabrics. For finer dishabillé round gowns the pleats were sometimes stitched to their place like mantua's pleats started to be stitched. The English did still use robe volante, but it seem to have stayed more in the dishabillé negligé (or at most dishabillé) category, while the English version of it was used as dishabillé and half dress.

British extant gown from c. 1725. Detail from British painting "Wedding of Stephen Beckingham and Mary Cox" from 1729.

English nightgown

In 1730s another version of the English gown became popular, it was basically the same, but the skirt was open at the front to reveal simple, often quilted, contrasting petticoat. The terminology is hard to pin down often in this period, but I think this version of the English gown specifically was called nightgown. It was basically robe de chambre, but pinned and belted like the other English gown. It seems to have started as the new dishabillé negligé as round gown was increasingly used as dishabillé, but it would quickly increase in formality.

The English gowns with stiched down pleasts in the back as well, possibly both type of English gowns, came to be known as robe á l'anglaise in France.

British painting "Portrait of a Woman Seated beside a Table" from 1730s. French painting "Le lecturer" from 1725-1750.

1740s-1760s: The Robe á la Française Era

This is the peak Rococo fashion era and is usually what people think when they think of 18th century fashion. Extreme fashions became popular and the gap between the elite and the common people became even more apparent in fashion and in other areas of life. This was fertile ground for political upheaval, and revolutions in US, Latin America and France would follow. The extremes therefore, even in fashion, could not last very long.

Rigid gown

By 1740s rigid gown was well passed it's time as fashionable garment and supplanted from it's place as the court dress in Britain. In France though it continued to be the robe de cour in Louis XV's court till his death in 1774. Louis XV tried to keep control over his aristocracy, even though the center of high society had increasingly shifted to the salons of Paris out of Versailles. Robe de cour adapted to the new fashionable silhouette of the mid century - the extreme wide box-like skirt frame -, but continued to be otherwise very similar in style as earlier in the century.

Portrait of Marie Leszczyńska, Queen of France, from 1747. Portrait of Princess Henriette of France from 1754.

Mantua

The British court had less authoritarian power than the French counterpart, but it was just as conservative, so when it finally accepted mantua as the formal court dress, it was already going out of fashion. From 1740s onward mantua was relegated to court gown. Like the French robe de cour, it also adapted the new fashionable boxy wideness.

British extant court mantua from c. 1750. British painting of David Garrick and Hannah Pritchard from 1752.

Robe á la française

Robe á la française, or the French gown or saque or sack or sack-back gown, replaced robe Volante as the fashionable deshabillé and half dress. Despite it's name, it may have gained it's beginning in Britain in a roundabout way. English gown was a more fitted and conservative version of robe volante, but early in 1740s, when robe á la française had not yet gained popularity, a new English version of robe volante became popularised in Britain. Like in English gown the pleats on the front were fitted, however, the pleats on the back were left unfitted and hence it became a sack-back gown. I'm not sure which came first, the robe á la française in France, which had fitted pleats on the front of the bodice, sack-back and was open at the front, or the English version, which only difference was closed front. I suspect the latter, since I have found more early examples of the closed English version, and it's sort of transitional link between robe volante and robe á la française, and I haven't found any French examples of the closed variety.

Regardless, early on robe á la française was a relatively simple, but it quickly went from dishabillé and half dress to half dress and full dress, making mantua obsolete outside the English court. In 1750s it had become the default formal wear outside courts in both France and Britain and grew increasingly opulent. The sleeves also turned more fitted, while the cuffs grew and gained more layers of ruff and lace.

British portrait of Mrs. Wardle from 1742. French extant gown from c. 1755-1760.

English gown

The open English gown was also adopted by the French as dishabillé and increasingly as robe á la française grew in formality, as half dress, like it was used in Britain as well, though it was more popular in Britain. It followed the same trends too, especially in it's half dress form. Dishabillé version of the garment continued to be quite simple, worn with less structuring and otherwise too quite similar as they were earlier in the century.

Portrait of Sarah Lascelles from 1749. British extant gown from 1770-1775.

Round gown

Closed versions of the English gown were called round gown. It was possibly always called that, but as said multiple times, the terminology of this period is unclear. They stayed fairly similar as they had been since 1720s and didn't really gain popularity in France. I have not seen examples of this early type of round gown from France. The open English gown seemed to have become the more formal version and examples of round gown from 1740s and 1750s seem to be more dishabillé than half dress. Round gown in this form fell out of fashion around 1760, which gets us to the last garment we'll cover in this post.

Portrait of Mrs Iremonger of Wherwell Priory from 1745. British extant garment from 1760-1775.

Close bodied gown

Close bodied gown basically replaced round gown. The unclear terminology makes this especially hard to parse out. It seems to me that after the early version of round gown (open bodice, closed skirt) was replaced with close bodied gown (closed bodice, closed skirt), that was then called round gown as well. The trouble is that close bodied gowns existed alongside round gowns, and not all close bodied gowns even had closed skirt (this applies later as well and I'm not sure weather they were separated in terminology or were both called round gown). Close bodied gowns in fact existed basically during the whole century, but earlier they were used only by underage girls. Main difference to these earlier girl's dresses was that they were closed at the back, while the later close bodied gowns worn by adult women were closed at the front. Some of the close bodied gowns are however constructed similarly to girls' dresses, where the bodice and the skirt are cut fully separately from simple cuts, only difference being the opening is at the center front instead of center back. The close bodied gown, which clearly evolved from the English gown, instead has the distinctive pleated back seams of English gowns. Early gowns like this were clearly constructed as basically the same as the English gown, but the front was not pleated open into a v-shape, instead it was closed over the stays. This close bodied version of round gown would later become very popular casual garment everywhere among all classes and would eventually come to define the Regency fashion which followed after the French Revolution.

British extant garment from c. 1750. Portrait of Anna Dorothean Finney from 1758.

Sources

Patterns of Fashion 1, Janet Arnold

Faction and Fashion: The Politics of Court Dress in Eighteenth-Century England, Hannah Greig

5 Facts About Fashionable, Morning and Domestic Apparel in 18th Century France - MoMu Antwerp (based on a book "Living Fashion: Women’s Daily Wear 1750–1950 from the Jacoba de Jonge Collection" but I couldn't get my hands on the book)

Women's clothing and accessories - 18th Century Notebook

[karimac]

Haters? I'm sorry to hear that, @chickensarentcheap. Esme is a very relatable character, and I love the interactions involving her, Tyler and their kids. It can sometimes be hard to get the "human quality" of the family dynamic surrounding action hero characters across to readers, and you always work very hard to flesh out that part of their ongoing stories.

when people like your OCs it is truly one of the best feelings ever. but when they also UNDERSTAND your OCs??? When they say or do something that just makes you go "oh they get it." UNBEATABLE.

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Loving You Was Never Hard

Part 4

Wandanat x fem!reader

Summary: You finally get to meet their friends and find out it's okay to be vulnerable

Word Count: 1.9K

Warnings: Mentions of past emotional abuse and neglectful relationships, Brief descriptions of trauma responses (e.g., self-doubt, emotional flashbacks), Light teasing (supportive context), Discussions of found family and emotional vulnerability, Soft caregiver dynamics beginning to develop (Mama/Daddy references, comfort scenes), Mild emotional hurt/comfort, Sleepy little space behavior

Authors note: This just felt so therapeutic to write so I hope you all enjoy it

You had finally felt like you were settled in. Wanda had helped you unpack most of your things though you kept a box under your bed that you didn't let Wanda touch. The room–though still very much theirs–now had a bit of your own flair to it. Some posters, decor, your throw blanket, pillows. Some of your things even started to spill out of the room and into the living room and kitchen. 

A few of your clothes even end up in their bedroom for no other reason than Wanda picking up laundry when she saw it. She'd fold them neatly and hang the shirts up. 

You were finally feeling comfortable and a part of the house as you helped Wanda do little things around the house. Usually during the days when she'd work from home you'd check in with her and make her lunch, bringing her drinks and doing chores. It made you feel useful and unlike your ex, Wanda always appreciated it. Giving you a smile and a thank you. Even if she could only mouth it. Sometimes she'd grab your hand, giving a gentle kiss before her hand would find the small of your back to gently push you out. 

It brought you joy to be useful and that's why Wanda and Natasha let you do it. They saw the pure joy on your face as you cooked dinner one night while they had both had to go in for meetings. Both walking through the door to your music playing, your voice carrying through the house as you happily chopped up veggies and skewered meat. The two women looked at each other and then at you before you noticed them. They both just took you in a moment before Natasha spoke up, “Dinner is gonna be amazing tonight. I can already tell.” It startled you and you blushed a bit, looking down at the kabobs in front of you. You felt a hand on your head before you were gently pulled to Natasha's chest. Her lips kissing the top of your head. “I mean that baby.” Her words of encouragement made you feel something you hadn't in a long time. 

Your ex never appreciated the food you cooked. Never complimented it. Never second guessed it. To her it was expected and if that expectation wasn't met you were yelled at and cussed out and made to sleep on the couch as you begged for forgiveness. 

You finally felt appreciated. It was over dinner that night the two of them explained their weekly get together with their friends. The first thing you said to them caught them off guard. 

“I can leave for the evening if you want or just stay in my room so I don't bother your evening.” You say to them without a second thought. When your ex had people over she'd rather you not be seen or heard. Didn't want her friends knowing her girlfriend didn't have a job. 

“Oh malyshka no we want to have you with us and introduce you to our friends.” Wanda speaks in that soft, loving tone that sends a wave through you. 

“We want them to get to know you and have fun with you there baby.” Natasha joins in, making you blush, looking down at your food. 

“W-why would you want that? I'm just like a stray you took in.” You mumble, poking at your food. 

“Malyshka.” Wanda says in a tone that makes you look at her without hesitation. “You aren't a stray. We care about you. You've been here for almost two weeks. You're a part of this household. You help cook and clean and you do your fair share while Tasha and I work. You are so helpful and we appreciate having you here with us. Truly we love having you here and as bad or weird as it might sound we're glad your ex kicked you out and my brother sent you our way. I think fate did that for a reason.” Wanda's words left you speechless and you didn't realize the tears pricking your eyes until they slipped down your face. 

Natasha’s hand found your cheek with a light brush of her thumb and a soft smile as you met her gaze. “We aren’t going anywhere. We aren’t having you go anywhere. You’re a part of this home.” She reassured you. More tears falling from your face. 

“I don’t deserve you two…” Your voice cracked along with Wanda’s heart.

“You deserve the world sweet girl.” Wanda’s voice was softer as she reached across the table. Her hand finding yours then Natasha’s hand finding Wanda’s as the three of you connected. You had never felt like you belonged somewhere this much before. 

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

You changed into something a little nicer after dinner—nothing fancy, just a cozy oversized sweater and leggings—but Wanda had smiled at you approvingly anyway when you walked out of your room. It was strange, how that small smile eased the nerves curling in your stomach. You weren’t used to meeting new people like this. Not people who were important to the people who’d taken you in. Not people who might judge you if you were too quiet, or too weird, or too... you.

The doorbell rang around seven. Your hands froze mid-fold over a dish towel, and you glanced over your shoulder at Wanda, who was already walking toward the front door with a serene expression. Natasha gave you a little nudge from where she leaned against the counter.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart. They’re gonna love you.”

You tried to believe her.

And then the house filled with voices and laughter.

Maria was the first one in—sharp suit, easy smile. Then came Carol, loud and warm, Monica right beside her with a plate of cupcakes. Pepper arrived next, already talking about some deal she’d closed that morning, and finally Kate and Yelena wandered in together, mid-bicker about some board game they’d played the night before.

You hovered just off to the side, eyes wide, hands clasped nervously in front of you.

Wanda noticed first. Of course she did.

“Come here, baby,” she said softly, reaching for you with one hand. And you went. You didn’t even think about it. You just moved to her side, letting her arm loop around your waist, her hand resting on your back in that grounding way that had become so familiar.

You heard Pepper’s voice, amused. “Ooh, total Mama’s girl, huh?”

Your face burned as the others chuckled. You tried to pull away slightly, but Wanda held you close, rubbing her thumb gently against your side.

“There’s nothing wrong with listening when someone asks nicely,” Wanda said lightly, with just enough of a faux warning tone to make Pepper smirk and throw her hands up in mock surrender.

Natasha joined the circle then, nodding toward you. “Everyone, this is our girl. Be nice, or I’ll kick you out before movie night starts.”

“Hi,” you said, quiet, but sincere.

“Hi!” Monica gave you a warm grin. “Wanda and Natasha have said so many good things about you.”

“Only the good ones,” Carol added, winking.

Kate squinted at you, playful. “Wait—are you the one who made those kabobs they were raving about in the group chat?”

You blinked. “Um… I guess so?”

“They were talking about those for days,” Yelena said, nodding seriously. “We’ve been dying for an invite ever since.”

You felt your cheeks heat again, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

“Why don’t you help me get drinks ready?” Wanda asked, as though sensing the moment your nerves started to rise again. You nodded quickly, escaping to the kitchen with her.

As you moved around to get cups and help pour wine and sodas, you felt that warm familiar comfort creep back in. Wanda worked beside you like you’d done it a hundred times before. She passed you things without needing to be asked. Your shoulders eased.

“I didn’t embarrass you, did I?” you whispered at one point, afraid to look her in the eyes.

Wanda paused, then turned to you with a gentle expression. “No, baby. You could never embarrass me. You were perfect.”

And with that, she leaned in and kissed your temple—just once, quick and tender—before passing you a tray of glasses.

As the two of you returned to the living room, the sound of laughter and music filling the space again, you realized something you hadn’t before:

You weren’t just staying here anymore.

You were part of this.

The second movie was winding down, the credits rolling quietly over soft background music. Most of the chatter had died down, replaced by half-asleep murmurs and the crinkle of snack wrappers. You didn’t realize how tired you were until your head dipped and landed gently against Wanda’s shoulder.

She turned just slightly, enough to look down and see your eyes fluttering closed, your body warm and pliant against her side. One arm curled instinctively around you, hand brushing gently over your back as you nuzzled closer, letting out the tiniest sigh.

Pepper noticed first, leaning toward the group with a teasing little smirk. “Looks like someone’s falling asleep on Mama.”

The affectionate teasing made a few smiles flicker across the room—until Natasha stirred.

She rose from her chair without a word, setting her wine glass down with a soft clink. Wanda didn’t need to say anything—she gently tilted your body forward so Natasha could scoop you up effortlessly, her arms sliding beneath you with practiced ease.

You barely stirred, only wrapping your arms tightly around her neck, legs curling up around her waist like you’d done it a thousand times before.

A soft murmur escaped your lips. “Tasha…”

Carol blinked, watching with a smile that was more amused than surprised. “Oh. A Daddy’s girl too.”

“Shhh,” Wanda hushed them with a soft, protective smile, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “Let her sleep.”

Natasha carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing, your soft breaths warm against her collarbone, your hold clinging to her like you never wanted to let go. Once inside your room, she gently laid you down in the bed, tugging the blankets up around your body with a care that made her movements almost reverent.

But your hand caught her wrist before she could pull away.

“Mmmm… Tasha?” you asked sleepily, still barely awake.

“Yes, baby?” she said softly, sitting down beside you and letting her fingers drift through your hair, slow and soothing.

Your voice was quiet, a mumble against the pillow, but it was so sincere it made her heart ache.

“Is it okay to be a Mama’s girl and a Daddy’s girl?”

Natasha smiled, warm and full of something she didn’t quite know how to name. You didn’t open your eyes—you just pressed your face further into her hand, clearly comforted by the gentle affection.

“Of course it is, baby,” she said, brushing a few strands of hair away from your cheek. “Wanda and I would both love that. But we can talk more about it another time, okay?”

You gave a sleepy, approving noise, content and soothed by her presence.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Nigh, Daddy,” you whispered, the words coming without hesitation.

Natasha stayed a little longer, brushing your hair back slowly, watching your features go slack with sleep. She didn’t rush out the door when you finally drifted off. She just sat there in the quiet, heart full and eyes soft.

[spaceyaemonds]

god i love this premise, it’s so hilarious that Jack would wind up with a young baby mama. It’d be fun to think of this as pre-canon. So she can kinda fit in the whole first season, like a super young mom coming in to treat a burn or something with a little kid, she’s being seen by a resident whose like so unaware and then boom, Jack walks in and the gossip/stares start. I think Jack can’t really ignore what it looks like but would be annoyed by the stares but ultimately wouldn’t care. And she would just be like *shrugs* “he’s super hot”

Also I am eagerly waiting on the hilarious interaction of Jack telling Robby and Dana. “What’s worse than knocking up your one night stand?” “Um, she’s 23.” “Jesus Christ”

Or maybe when they go out they keep calling Jack grandpa. Or just the heavy looks when they see this very young milf smile around Jack. Just the heavy stares from Robby and Dana as they watch this young family grow lol.

I also think they could have this really cute but kinda dysfunctional family dynamic. Yes they have a healthy coparenting relationship. Dad is teaching the kid survival skills and taking him on camping excursions where they test said survival skills. Yes Mom is chill as hell, and spills tea about the crazy office dynamics while she crafts with her kid. And lowkey loves being a hot mom. Like yes mom and dad sometimes smash because they have needs and it’s just less mess and complication when they have this somewhat dysfunctional FWB situation, that has potential to blossom into something bigger.

Anyways I love this mini series it’s serious feeding me, that man is so fine with the salt and pepper hair. I can’t wait to read more.

hi friend!!! i am so so glad you have been enjoying this mini series!!!! i have loved sharing it with everyone here!! omg same, i am so obsessed with him he makes me SICKKK!

ahh!! i have a lot to say on this so answering under the cut!!

it is very funny to imagine jack getting off of shift on the day and hours into the day reader shows up in the ed with their (fat, because i love fat babies) baby, maybe two years old. baby slipped and bumped their head, and she doesn’t want to bother jack so she takes baby alone. she somehow misses robby and dana, ends up with whitaker, of all people. maybe perlah or princess notice baby abbot’s name on the board, immediately tell dana, who makes a quick call to jack. whitaker goes to check over the baby, and jack immediately jerks the door open, “get the hell away from my kid.” and whitaker just looks between reader, the baby, and jack, on the verge of throwing up. santos and mel are right outside when they hear everything and immediately are all 😮👀

dana and robby’s reactions are as expected. dana is majorly side eyeing, and robby is just like “jesus christ! twenty-three?!?!” and jack doesn’t even really try to defend himself. standing there like a puppy getting scolded lol.

i like to think that reader very often gets hit on, guys closer in age to her walking up to her when she’s with jack and baby abbot at the park, asking if her dad can keep an eye on the baby and maybe they can grab dinner. it always makes her laugh, and infuriates jack, has him mumbling all kinds of stuff like “sure, dad can watch baby.” because he understands that she’s a beautiful girl, but he can’t deny the jealousy he feels when people hit on her in front of him.

jack loves nothing more than spending time with his baby. more often than not, after a hard shift, he finds his way to her house, just asking to take a peek at baby but ends up sleeping on the floor next to the crib. and more often than not, he spends his nights off there, ending up in readers bed. he isn’t interested in seeing anyone else, and she can’t imagine dating when there’s so much tension and longing between her and jack.

i think it takes some time, but they do eventually end up together. they’ve lowkey just been together, though, just not official. jack never felt the need to try to put a label on it because he’s worried about “forcing” her into something she doesn’t want. he knows how he feels, and though is never 100% on how exactly she feels, he knows there’s something there. i also don’t think they ever really officially date. i like to imagine jack maybe just slips a ring on her finger one night, and they get married not long after!

[hard-core-super-star]

(they long to be) close to you [W.Maximoff]

pairing: baker!wanda x college student!reader

summary: after months of pining after the lovely owner of westview's best cafe, you finally get a chance to get to know her better.

warnings: none, just fluff and pining; MILF!wanda because my hand slipped; is cute tension a thing?; gay panic; bad flirting; mentions of stress and tense family dynamics

wordcount: 1.8k

a/n: this idea came from a brief conversation with one of my favorite people [@katehopecore] and i wasn't able to get it out of my head so now it's here! and it'll probably end up as a series because i can't help myself. anyway, hope you enjoy <3 [oh AND, the cranberries version of this song is the best one, you can't change my mind]

* * * * * * *

Life in Westview had become a weird sort of predictable by now. Same routine, same people, same comfy booth at the best café in town.

Ironically, you didn't even live in said city. At least, not anymore. There was a time in your life when you'd known nothing except that small town in New Jersey and the neighbors you'd seen your whole life. It was easy, familiar, and so comfortable it became uncomfortable.

And so, to your parent's dismay, when you graduated from high school, you'd decided to leave. You chose to go to college in New York, trading the world you knew for a shining, new, incredibly loud, alternative. As overwhelming as the change had been, it was everything you'd wanted and more.

That being said, you still came back home as much as you could, more out of routine than anything else. At first, you'd left your visits reserved for holiday breaks and three-day weekends. When things got busy at school, the last thing you wanted was to be cooped up with your parents, avoiding their questions and listening to them rant about the neighbors.

Things had taken a turn, however, when you'd accidentally stumbled across Wanda Maximoff and her quaint, yet cozy, café. The lovely owner had moved into town right when you were graduating high school, so even though your parents had attended the house-warming party, you'd never met her.

Maybe that was why you were so drawn to the space. Why your feet carried you there instead of your usual hiding spots. Well, they were technically study spots. At least that was what you told yourself, even though most of the time, you were just looking for an excuse to get some fresh air away from your childhood room.

You weren't sure how it happened, but somehow, Wanda's bakery had become your safe heaven. The one place you could always run to for a warm pastry and a comforting smile.

Okay, maybe you were more fond of the beautiful owner than the fantastic coffee and pastries, but that was beside the point.

What truly mattered, at least right now, was the fact that you'd chosen to leave New York for the weekend, swearing you were going to study and prepare for your midterms next week. Of course, that was easier said than done.

Especially when you'd spent most of the morning drooling into your coffee since Wanda was working the counter today. She had no business looking as good as she did in a flannel and suspenders, her lovely red hair falling into soft waves over her shoulders.

It was a little comical how unaware of the effect she had on other people Wanda seemed to be. It was almost like she was in her own little world. One filled with croissant recipes and the weirdest ways to keep an old espresso machine from breaking down.

She was the most enchanting woman you'd ever met and she didn't even know it. Didn't even notice the way all the teenage boys that came in tripped over themselves for a second of her attention.

As much as you wanted to make fun of them, you were just the same.

Except more mature…at least, you hoped.

You're in the middle of another study session, the most recent drink you'd ordered forgotten on the table among the chaos of notebooks, books and of course, your struggling laptop, when you hear footsteps approaching.

You don't look up from your textbook until you hear the sound of a plate and a glass being placed on the table. A question is on the tip of your tongue when your eyes meet Wanda's. There's a softness in them that speaks volumes.

"You've been here for a while," she says with a small shrug. "I thought you might be hungry."

It's only then that you fully realize what she's placed on the table. A glass of water with a few slices of lemon and a plate with a warm ham and cheese croissant. It's not the most extravagant of meals by any means but, considering the growling of your stomach, it's exactly what you need.

"Thank you," you mumble, your voice coming out slightly hoarse. "This is really nice of you."

"Oh, it's nothing, sweetheart." The warmth that spread across your chest stops you from seeing the blush on her cheeks. "Just a little something to keep your energy up."

You're not sure what compels you but you close your laptop and move your stuff out of the way. "Would you like to sit for a little? You've been working hard all morning too."

A small smile tugs at the corners of the older woman's lips. "I shouldn't but…I'm sure the boys can manage for a few minutes."

You sneak a glance up at the counter, watching as the young boys behind the counter scramble to help the working adults preparing coffee orders. Even though you don't want to pry, a question falls out of your lips once you take in the similarities between the two boys and the woman sitting in front of you. "Are they…your sons?"

Wanda nods before you can think too hard about the embarrassing question you just asked. "Yeah, Billy and Tommy. They come help out on the weekends before going to their father's for a few days."

Thankfully, you were barely reaching for your water when she said that, otherwise…you might have made an even bigger fool of yourself by choking like an idiot. That being said…you still didn't push down the urge to keep asking questions.

"You're married?"

"Was married," she corrects. "Things didn't work out, but we share custody and are still good friends. It makes it easier on the boys, I think."

It's hard to hide the smile that starts spreading across your face. You hate how instantaneous it is, how insensitive it makes you feel, and more importantly…how relieved you feel. You barely know this woman, and yet here you are, wrapped around her finger so tightly that you can't stop yourself from hoping there's a chance.

A chance for what? Only time will tell, you suppose.

"Do they like baking too?" You ask as you dig into the croissant, steering the conversation away from something that might make you gay panic.

Your question makes her laugh, the sound sharp with surprise yet filled with warmth. "Oh no, the second they see flour anywhere, they start throwing it at each other."

"Can't say I blame them. I probably wouldn't be much better."

"That's disappointing," Wanda teases. "I was looking for an apprentice."

You giggle in response and concentrate on not appearing too flustered. You're not sure you succeed, though, considering the way the older woman looks at you. "I would if I could, midterm season doesn't give me much free time."

"An even better reason to give baking a try," she replies. "It's what I do when I'm stressed."

"So you decided to open a bakery? How does that work?"

She shrugs. "Divorce is stressful."

All you can do is shake your head and laugh again, feeling warmth bloom in your chest as she joins you. You're pretty sure you can get used to making her laugh like this.

"I might have to give it a try then," you say once your laughter dies down. "It sounds much better than what I've been doing."

"Which is?"

"Ignoring my problems and drinking too much coffee."

"Oh."

To ignore the soft concern in her features, you go back to eating. Thankfully, she doesn't press you or ask any more questions. She simply sits with you, keeping you company and helping you stay grounded.

It's…nice having her with you, you find. Even though all she's doing is sitting with you, her presence is calming. Comforting.

And maybe you should unpack that, but you'd rather not ruin the peace that's settled over you.

Wanda seems just as comfortable as you, since she doesn't move from her spot until she's sure you've finished eating, and she's coaxed you into finishing the glass of water. Even then, she isn't in much of a rush. At least, until one of the twins (you're still not sure which one is which, since you're too embarrassed to ask) tells her the oven went off and the newest batch of cookies is ready.

The smile on your face falters some at that and the older woman must notice because she turns back to you with a certain sparkle in her eyes. "Would you like to come help? I know you're probably busy but-"

"Yes." You rush the words out before you can second-guess yourself. "I'd love to."

Her surprise turns into glee and before you know it you're putting your things away and following her into the back. Somehow, even though the entire café always smells sweet, the aroma coming from the ovens is magnificent. You're not sure how you're going to help her without eating half of the batch.

She seems to read your mind because she motions for you to sit on a counter while she takes the cookies out of the oven. You're more than happy to watch her work, munching on whatever sweet treat she hands you to keep you from getting bored. You're pretty sure it's impossible to be bored in her presence but you don't mention that.

Some time passes before Wanda speaks again. "Sorry, I'm usually better at multitasking."

You instantly shake your head. "It's okay, I don't mind the quiet. It's nice watching you work."

"You're too sweet," she says, looking up at you with a mock glare.

You stifle a laugh as you notice the faint streak of icing on her face. "Actually, I think you have me beaten."

Her eyebrows furrow, more out of confusion than annoyance, though. "What's so funny?"

Instead of answering, you slide off the counter and reach out to wipe the icing off her face. There's still space between you, but it feels suddenly small…like if you just stepped forward…

The sound of the oven going off again stops you before you can do something truly idiotic.

Your hand drops as Wanda turns. "You should help me decorate this next batch. My hand's a little tired."

You have a feeling she's not at all tired, considering this is her passion, but you see the offer for what it is. A chance to spend more time with her.

"Deal."

It's not until almost an hour later that either of you acknowledge what happened. The soft touch and the even softer looks exchanged.

It's subtle, like the smell of her perfume that starts lingering on your clothes.

"You know, if you want to come back tomorrow, I would appreciate the help."

And you do.

The next morning. And the next Saturday. And the one after that.

You come back each and every weekend until you accidentally carve out a space in her heart reserved just for you.

[tsin-lockhart]

OP is right (for one thousand reasons but since writing / fiction / fandom came up let's go with that )

So much of building or defining a character goes into deciding how that character was raised. We see this across all media in the trend of the dead / disappeared mother so that women leads have an explanation as to why they are vulnerable in some way. We also see this in the countless ways people write their own characters' backstories and minds. At some point in character creation it is often (though not always) required to decide how they were mothered (patented, raised, experienced family, or just what their relationship or support from their mother was ) * In other words, understanding how the role and job of motherhood functioned is needed to inform most basic things about characters which makes it inherently interesting to analyze. That and the way the individual mother came to experience life, expresses personality, and has freedoms or depth will transactually inform the character.

We see this same relationship dynamic with the way real people address their traumas and realities. The last few decades have embraced an understanding of mental health without really addressing old fallacies and power imbalances (such as racism and sexism). Part of the perception issue people are having with addressing their own issues (meaning the clear imbalance in possible number of narcissist or similar examples) is that they literally do not have the context and perspective to understand things. Imo cut your hateful mom off either way but there is a difference between thinking that she abused you and is SIMPLY a narcissist for no reason ( narcissistic traits can develop from neglect) and understanding that in the generation she lived she was underpaid paid, over worked, and abused in a way that is no longer socially acceptable and was never going to have the skills or means to be successful at parenting. In other words, we don't hold as much grief over our missing father's because we accept there were large systemic factors and odds against them but we believe in most cases if the mother fails it means that she did not love her child enough , she is evil, she is selfish and she is those things and nothing else.

Understanding motherhood as it's own ecosystem of rules and expectations and knowing that most people online spend their time lamenting their inability to function or make goals should help connect the idea that sometimes women are just people who can fail and giving birth doesn't mean they inherently love and will understand their child. But there really is so little space to address this in media despite how often it is the direct source of conflict in real life.

What's crazy to mean is that this post opened from talking about an aspect of sexism to a way that is addressed in queer identity or writing in this case. But queer spaces allow sexism to be directed and celebrated against poor women all the time. I think the celebration of not wanting or needing or enjoying kids should never stop and is a long time coming but I also think pretending like access to education and the affects of poverty don't heavily impact the way a large majority of women end up connected to partners, and families (for life!) happens in their early 20s. I think that religion is not only murderous to gay people when the way monotheistic religions curate physical and behavior expectations to little girls before they can even spell their name. Sexism is pervasive , it's on top of everything all the time, and it gets boring to point out. But it always lays down a factor, which is why lesbains struggle to get representation in their own spaces because the queer space has some of the same sexist beliefs as straight spaces and some specific to queer spaces but the power imbalances are very weird. People will simply support or allow sexism and homophobia to happen to queer female people who happen to be mainstream and fail in some way, then it's allowed and good to say anything to them in the only spaces they are even allowed in. I'm not dumb or lacking nuance by the way that many queer people are abused by straight women and it sure as fuck isn't their job to wipe everyone's tears but engaging in behavior that punches down isn't a consequence free choice. I also want to clarify, cause you can never be too avoidant of terfs, that if the mpreg tag was also meant to include the way trans people enjoy character creation I don't intend to derail or diminish the joy of that. I'm just addressing OPs point that there's is a lot to talk about in this direction that is often hard to get properly analyzed. Hope that makes sense, trans people deserve everything they want in life and pretty flowers too.

* There is rarely a question that is purposefully intending to discover "what was this characters relationship like with their dad?" exclusively or as the first curiosity. This is because cis women (regardless of education, interests, or even understanding) can biologically become pregant and thus is socially, culturally, and physically (consenting or otherwise) the woman's responsibility to deal with the gestation, birth, and early survival of that life. (Gender expectations and proximity alone give child care to women, and therefore, women are often exposed to the complex needs of children and are often more empathic as a result. Imo this is wisdom that comes from living in gender centric world frames (always oppressive) and is also an example of an area where men's rights should be focused - paternity leave) This is to say, we do learn as much from a characters relationship with their dad as their mom (or we can) but people real and fictional often have to survive without their dads but cannot do so as easily without their moms.

tl;dr : Motherhood as a practice, and the endless ways people can come to that role is thousand time richer and dynamic that people can imagine.

Every time women make something and it's just for women people simply talk about it and title as worse, (women's literature is nothing but examples: cozy murders, romance, and even smut are not inherently lesser forms of writing and women who do write fantasy and action are often forced into young adult) and this extends to the spaces that women take up or that are put upon women.

honestly you all are so annoying because motherhood IS interesting but fandom people are simultaneously obsessed with deciding that every woman has motherly qualities and completely disinterested in actually exploring motherhood as a role that informs a character. I do think exploring a character being a mother can be wildly interesting if they are canonically one, but because of misogyny, people just view motherhood as a totally unremarkable naturalized state that all women must inhabit!

[mattrempeswife]

CHEER TO YOUR EX AND MY PAIN

part 2 of NOT A WAY YOU BREAK A HEART.

pair: jack hughes x f!reader

genre: angst, drama, emotional hurt/comfort.

warnings: cheating, emotional distress, heartbreak, tension, awkward family dynamics, toxic ex behavior (sammy), strong language

summary: you keep your promise to luke and show up to the devils vs. canucks game, sitting with ellen and jim despite the pain still fresh from jack’s betrayal. as you avoid jack’s gaze and remain silent even when he scores, ellen begins to suspect something’s wrong. after the game, tensions rise when jack tries to talk to you and sammy appears, flaunting their connection.

fia’s note: i’m torn between making it a co-parenting-to-lovers arc again… or maybe the reader just walks away, finds someone better, and raises the baby without him. what do you guys think? (thinkin’ about his teammates).

You hadn’t wanted to come.

Every fiber of your body told you to stay home, to crawl under the covers and ignore the buzzing messages from Luke, the calendar alert you set weeks ago, and the stupid voice in your head that whispered, You promised.

But promises are sacred with the Hughes family. And you were always good at keeping yours.

So now you stood in the VIP suite at the Prudential Center, the coldness from the ice below creeping up through the glass. Jim chatted with one of the assistant coaches in the corner, and Ellen, ever the heart of the family, gently nudged a bottle of water into your hands.

“You look tired, sweetheart,” she said, her voice warm but observant.

You forced a polite smile.

“I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Something on your mind?”

‘Everything’, you wanted to say.

Instead, you shook your head.

“No, just excited for the game.”

She smiled.

“Luke’s been counting down the days. He kept telling me, ‘She promised she’d come.’ He’s been nervous. Doesn’t want to mess up in front of you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

You didn’t deserve that kind of loyalty not after the secret you were carrying. Not after watching Jack shatter it into pieces.

The warm-ups started, the familiar buzz of the arena drowning out your thoughts. Luke was the first to skate out. He waved up toward the suite as expected, and you returned it with a small, genuine smile. Quinn followed not long after, cool and focused. You caught him sneaking glances up as well, his brotherly protectiveness clear in the set of his jaw.

And then Jack skated out.

Your breath hitched.

His eyes found yours almost instantly, like a magnet pulled him. There was hope in his gaze, something pleading. He slowed slightly as he passed center ice, like he was waiting for something from you.

A smile. A wave. A look.

You gave him nothing.

You turned your head.

You didn’t miss the way Ellen noticed.

You didn’t miss the way Jack’s shoulders sagged just a little before he dropped his head and resumed his warm-up.

The game was electric. Fast-paced and brutal, with Quinn pulling off two massive breakouts and Luke assisting on a late-period goal. Jack scored once, top shelf, clean, sharp. The box erupted with cheers. Jim stood. Ellen clapped.

You stayed seated.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t clap.

You thought maybe he wouldn’t notice.

But from the corner of your eye, you saw Jack’s head turn up again toward the suite.

And you did nothing.

After the game, the VIP suite cleared out slowly. You lingered with Ellen and Jim, the sound of the crowd dying behind the soundproof glass. You stared down at the emptying rink, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?”

Ellen asked again, gently.

You nodded without meeting her eyes.

The door opened behind you, and in walked Luke and Quinn, still slightly sweaty, their hair damp, but their smiles wide.

Luke wrapped you in a tight hug.

“I knew you’d come.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and hugged him back.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

Quinn stood beside you, offering a fist bump that turned into a warm squeeze of your shoulder.

“You doing okay?”

Your lips twitched upward.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t.

Then came Jack.

He walked in slowly, hesitantly, like the weight of your silence during the game had finally landed on him in full.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer.

Luke glanced between the two of you, his smile faltering.

“Can we talk?” Jack asked, eyes only on you.

Your stare was sharp and immediate.

“Now’s not the time.”

“I just—”

“I said not now, Jack”

And then, like a ghost from a graveyard of bad decisions Sammy Marcus appeared.

Wearing his jersey. Hughes 86.

The nerve.

“Oh,” she said, blinking innocently.

“You didn’t tell me she’d be here.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. He immediately stepped away from her, but her presence alone was a slap in the face.

Quinn’s brows furrowed. Luke’s entire body tensed.

Sammy clutched Jack’s arm like she had a claim on him.

You clenched your jaw. Said nothing.

“I mean, awkward, right?”

She added with a too-bright smile.

“But we all move on eventually.”

Your stomach twisted. Every word she said was a game designed to provoke, designed to win.

Jack’s voice was low.

“Sammy, stop.”

She didn’t. “You didn’t seem to mind last weekend…”

That was it.

Ellen stepped forward like a shield.

“Alright. How about we all head back to the house? I’ve got ribs marinating, and Jim’s been bragging about his grilling skills all week.”

You blinked. She was trying. She knew something was wrong, and she was trying to smooth it over. You didn’t want to go but her hand on your arm was so gentle, so maternal.

“Please,” she added softly.

“It’d mean a lot.”

So you went.

You told yourself it was for her. For Luke. For Quinn.

It wasn’t for Jack.

It would never be for Jack again.

At the Hughes’ house. Jim stood by the grill. Quinn helped set the table. Luke tossed a football with a cousin across the lawn. Sammy, thankfully, was nowhere in the house, she’s not invited, Jack had finally told her to leave, though she’d pouted the whole way to the car.

You sat at the table, poking at your food, stomach turning more from anxiety than morning sickness.

Jack sat across from you, silent.

The others were trying, pretending nothing was wrong. But the tension was thick. Luke couldn’t stop glancing between you. Quinn said little. Jim made a few jokes that didn’t land.

And then Ellen, the only one brave enough to say what no one else would, leaned forward.

“Alright. I can’t take it anymore.”

Her tone was firm but kind.

“What happened between you two?”

Your throat closed.

Jack flinched.

Quinn set down his glass slowly.

Luke stopped mid-bite.

You looked at Jack. You didn’t want to say it. You weren’t sure if you even could.

But Jack did.

“I cheated,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Silence fell like a hammer.

“I cheated on her,” he repeated, louder this time.

“With Sammy.”

Ellen’s fork dropped against her plate.

Luke’s mouth opened in shock.

Quinn looked like you’d punched him.

“Y/N, she found out the same night she was going to tell me she was pregnant,”

Jack continued, voice trembling.

“She waited for me. And I… I was with Sammy. I didn’t know about the baby. But that doesn’t matter. I still did it. I fucked it all up.”

The table stayed quiet.

Dead, aching quiet.

You could feel every heartbeat like a bruise in your chest.

Luke pushed back from the table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Luke—” Jack started.

“No. No, Jack,” he snapped.

“She’s been there for you since day one. Every game. Every offseason. Everything. And you throw it away for Sammy… Sammy who? Marcus?”

Quinn stood up slowly. His voice wasn’t loud but it was deadly calm.

“You didn’t just cheat on her. You broke this.”

He gestured around the table.

“You broke us.”

Jack couldn’t look at anyone.

“I didn’t mean…”

“You never mean to,” Luke cut in.

“But you did it. And now she’s the one picking up the pieces.”

Ellen reached for your hand across the table, her eyes glassy.

“Sweetheart… I am so sorry.”

You nodded, blinking back tears.

“It’s not your fault, Ellen.”

Quinn turned to you, voice quiet but thick.

“What do you need? Whatever it is say it. We’re here.”

You tried to speak, but emotion clogged your throat.

Finally, you stood. “I need to leave.”

“I’ll take you,” Jack said instantly, rising too.

“No,” Luke barked.

“She’s not going anywhere with you.”

You met Jack’s eyes. There was pain in them. Regret so deep it made his voice crack.

But it wasn’t enough.

“I don’t feel safe with you anymore,” you said, steady now.

“And I don’t know if I ever will again.”

You turned and walked into the house.

“Hey.”

Luke’s voice was quiet but firm behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“I’m just going to get a car. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he said without hesitation.

“You’re not going alone.”

“I don’t want to be a burden, Luke.”

“You’re not.” His tone sharpened.

“You never are.”

You finally turned, met his eyes. Luke looked like he hadn’t fully recovered from what Jack admitted. His jaw was tense. His hands were fists in his hoodie pocket. His whole body screamed don’t fight me on this.

“I’ll drive you home,”

He said, more softly this time.

“Please. Let me do something for you.”

“Luke, I—”

“I can’t sit in there and pretend like everything’s okay when it’s not. When you’re hurting this bad. When my brother.”

His voice cracked slightly before he bit it back.

“Let me make sure you get home safe.”

The sincerity in his voice broke you.

Not pity.

Not obligation.

Just… care.

And maybe a little guilt for not seeing it sooner.

You sighed, blinking fast. “Okay.”

He nodded and opened the door for you.

As you stepped outside, you caught a glimpse through the living room window, Jack sitting at the table, head in his hands, Quinn pacing behind him, Ellen and Jim whispering tensely in the kitchen.

Luke unlocked his car, holding the passenger door for you like it was sacred.

The second you sat down, your shoulders sagged.

The tears you’d been fighting all night welled up but you wiped them quickly before Luke could see.

He started the engine, pulling out of the driveway in silence for a few long moments.

Then, as the road stretched out ahead of you and the stars blinked above, he said quietly.

“You didn’t deserve any of that. You know that, right?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yeah. I know.”

But part of you didn’t believe it.

Not really.

Luke glanced at you briefly.

“He doesn’t get to make you doubt yourself. Not after everything.”

You looked at him.

“You’re being really sweet.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “I’m not sweet. I’m fucking pissed. I love him, but what he did? It’s not okay. You’re family to me, too. And watching you go through that tonight…”

He trailed off, swallowing hard.

“It killed me.”

Silence fell again, heavy but comforting this time.

He drove slower than usual. Like he didn’t want the ride to end. Like he wanted to buy you a little more time before you were alone again with your thoughts.

When he pulled up in front of your place, he didn’t immediately shut off the car.

He looked at you. Really looked.

“Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

And then, before you opened the door, he reached across the center console and gently squeezed your hand.

“You’re not alone, okay? Not now. Not ever.”

[girlsworldillusion]

When pretending doesn't matter anymore  

Alpha!Aemond - Omega!Reader

Summary: An unexpected heat. An unclaimed Omega. An Alpha fighting for control. An intense combination of events that change your life completely.

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Ella's Notes: This story, as the summary says, explores a bit of the A/B/O dynamic. Which, of course, touches on subjects like heats and ruts, secondary designations, bonding bites, knots and the like. I tried to approach it in a simpler way, because I understand that this universe is very complex and goes beyond such things. Anyway, if this is something that sparks your interest, enjoy!! It was a challenge in some parts, but I'm pleased with the result. I hope you like it too.

(I left out a good portion of the dance events excluded in this story, since the goal was to focus on the Alpha and Omega dynamic. So it's very subjective whether there's a dance about to happen or not, and I'll leave that to your imagination.)

Happy reading!

Word count: 11k

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

You couldn’t remember ever feeling so immensely uncomfortable as you did now.

“No, no, no…This can’t be happening now.”

You felt heated and heavy in your body, as if you had been soaking in a steaming bath for too long. As if you had been lying too close to the scalding breath of your dragon’s flames. Your fever was getting worse. Your steps were starting to stagger slightly, sweat dripping down your forehead as you let yourself lean against the stone wall of the hallway for a moment.

There was no doubt what was happening, you had been in enough heat over the years to know when you were sinking into one. The thing was, you weren’t supposed to be in one, not for at least another whole month. In fact, up until a few minutes ago you had been stuck at a normal dinner with your family, listening to Aegon’s disgusting and disrespectful jokes and trying to calm the silent tension between Lucerys and Aemond. Nothing was different there. Everything was going as dull and tedious as ever.

That is, until Aemond reached out to grab a piece of bread from your side. And that simple, seemingly harmless gesture was the catalyst for everything that was deeply held inside you. The movement brought his side closer to yours, almost unnecessarily closer you would say, and you were about to voice that thought out loud to him when it hit you.

The scent.

You couldn’t say what was different, what made you so intimately aware of that smell, since you had been around the man since you were children. Maybe it was the unprecedented fact that you were sitting next to each other at the dinner table after the deliberate distance you had forced upon yourself and him over the past few years. Maybe he was about to come into a rut of his own and hadn’t even noticed yet. Or maybe Aemond had been drinking some tea or some herbal substance to suppress the worst of his own smell all this time and for the first time he was free of it...

The thing was, with that simple movement of picking up a damn piece of bread from the table, he had shoved into your nostrils a whiff of the most delicious scent you had ever smelled in your life.

Dragon scales, the burning flames of a fire, open parchments and green apples. The memory of childhood, of an old feeling. Familiar and comforting, soothing your inner omega, making you want to delve deeper into the scent and wrap yourself around him. But it also aroused you. His scent was undeniably masculine and Alpha, with a dangerous and dominating richness that made you want to submit - right there, at the dinner table, in front of the whole family.

The whole thing mixed together in a spiral of aromas that flowed straight into your lungs, pulling an absolutely embarrassing and undignified meow from your lips before you could even realize it. Judging by the annoying chatter that continued at the table, no one had noticed that sound, thankfully. No one except Aemond - who was right there next to you, unfortunately. He stared at your tense profile with a sharp gaze, his hand extended for the bread, but frozen in the air before he could reach it, not even disguising that his focus was now elsewhere.

Even staring fixedly at a bowl of sauce on the table as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered, you could clearly notice when he was about to say something and, at the same time as he parted his lips with a sigh, a strong and sudden tightening in your lower abdomen was present, the space between your legs contracting and relaxing to emit a pool of absolutely unexpected moisture on the delicate fabric of your underwear.

Your body's reaction horrified you so much that you immediately pushed your chair back, the loud creak of the wooden legs on the stone floor drawing the attention of the others at the table. You could only quickly mumble that you weren't feeling well, that you were going to get some sleep and asking please for no one to worry, before practically running out of the place, barely hearing your mother say that she would send someone to check on you later.

Which brings you to the present moment.

Emotions were already starting to get the better of you. The intensity of the sensations leaving you on the verge of tears, the sheer desperation born of falling into a heat without being in the least bit prepared for it making your fingers tremble.

Usually there would be a prelude, signs that would serve as a warning of the approaching heat, giving you time to properly prepare yourself for the intense days ahead. But this time you seemed to have skipped all the stages straight to the peak of the sensations, without warning and without preparation.

All you could do was force your staggering body through the hallways to your bedchamber, knowing there was no other alternative. The heat was here, whether you wanted it or not. And despite everything, this was one of those few moments when you felt grateful to have been born into such a noble house.

Omegas comprised the smallest part of the population, followed by Betas and Alphas. But although fewer in number, omegas were violently desired - especially by alphas. Their smaller, gentler build, delicate features, natural predisposition to submission and, of course, their heat, were just a few reasons why the rest of the population would go to great lengths to keep an omega for themselves. And you knew what happened to those poor omegas scattered throughout the streets of King's Landing and throughout the Seven Kingdoms, without any choice over their own desires, nothing more than slaves to their unfair biology.

There was no mercy when one of them went into heat, yearning intensely for the claim of an alpha - no matter who was. Which led to unwanted pregnancies, sexual slavery, omega trafficking and other heat-induced atrocities. The alphas, in turn, gave in to their most basic instincts when faced with such need, acting more like animals than humans. The brutal confrontation for the claim of an omega most often ended in blood and death - not only of alphas, but death of the omega in question many times, caught in the middle of such unbridled violence.

Despite being rare and desired for their instinctive subservience, omegas were constantly discriminated against, treated with disdain and irrelevance once they are claimed; as pariahs of society, nothing more than perfect breeding mares for the alphas. More than once you vehemently cursed the gods for making you one of them. The burden caused by your designation was almost unbearable. You would give anything to be a Beta; to fit into a standard of normality in the eyes of the people for once in your life. Wasn't it enough to suffer ridicule and discrimination for the questionable origin of your and your brothers birth? Did the gods still need to come and make you an miserable omega?

Ever since you had your first heat at fourteen, you had suffered this fate alone, since any omega of noble lineage could only be claimed when they were of suitable age to marry. Servants stocked your bedchamber with everything you might need in the days following the heat; the finest towels and blankets for your nest, personal beta guards posted day and night at your door for protection, servants discreetly entering to change your bath water and replenish your food and drink supplies. You had all the comfort and privacy that wealth could offer, but your body still yearned for an alpha — your omega begging for a knot, for large hands to hold you close, for sharp teeth to sink into your flesh to claim you as his. It was instinct, uncontrollable, a need so primal and overwhelming that you cried for days, sweating and writhing in the large, lonely bed as you screamed for an Alpha.

But when your heat was gone and this ordeal finally came to an end, you felt grateful to be safe within these walls, hidden from the violence of the alphas who would only desire you for your secondary designation.

And your foggy mind whispers it to you once more. Despite everything, you are safe. Just go to your chamber, make your nest at some point of relief and you will be fine. Like always.

And so you almost do - the large, ornate doors of your bedchamber visible at the end of the hallway, making you sigh in relief. Until a voice halts your final walk.

“Do you need help, Princess?”

The booming, recognizably Alpha voice makes you flinch where you stand, eyes widening as you turn to the source of the sound. Standing there is one of your Personal Guards, Ser Adrian Redfort.

“I-I’m fine, Ser.” You reply hoarsely, straightening your posture as best you can to support your false statement, your heart racing in your chest at being in front of an Alpha just as your heat begins to build.

“Are you sure?” he asked slowly, tilting his head slightly in curiosity — but also with something hard to describe shone there, something dark and shrewd. “You don’t look well.”

And by the gods, you really didn’t. Your face was flushed to the point where you could feel the heat radiating from your skin, a few loose strands of hair beginning to stick to the sides of your face from the sweat. Your intricate dress were wrinkled and uncomfortable on your body where it clung to your damp skin, and you were breathing hard, as if there wasn’t enough air in the castle.

“Yes, I-I’m sure!”

You had never been afraid of the man in front of you — he was one of your Personal Guards after all, someone who was there to protect you. And that was why he was never around when your heat gave signs, replaced by Beta Guards. For your safety. His being assigned to protect your chambers tonight was proof that this heat shouldn’t have happened now.

He sniffs you, a slow twitch of his nostrils that could have sent your entire world crashing down, growling low in his throat at whatever scent he can pick up coming from you. The alpha in front of you is tall, with a dark mess of curls on his head and equally dark eyes. The stubble on his tanned cheeks makes him look rough and sullen. His broad shoulders beneath his armor seem to swell even more under your shy scrutiny and his posture straightens to full height, a show of strength to win over a potential mate.

You weren’t afraid of him. Ser Adrian Redfort, despite his intimidating appearance, was a man of honor, you knew.

But not even the most honorable men were immune to the powerful pheromone an omega released during a heat. They were all alphas, after all, driven by the primal instinct to claim a small, unmated omega.

And when he stares into your eyes like that, his expression as intense as a forest fire, alpha pheromones seeping from his pores so suffocatingly that you might as well have a bag over your head, you feel like you’ve never in life truly experienced the instinctive compulsion to bow and submit to a male like you do now.

And that’s what you’re afraid of.

You’re afraid because you know it’s not you wanting it. It’s your instincts, your pheromones reacting to his and he reacting to yours in an endless loop, the stupid biological compulsion to let an alpha take over your body and use you as he best serves him. Be good, be good for the Alpha.

You know that very soon your mind will be so consumed with heat that you won’t have such qualms or uncertainties, you’ll want — no, you’ll need — an Alpha, and you’ll beg for it, no matter who it is. But there’s still some coherence and lucidity left in your mind, reeling as it is. And using that shadow of sanity, you shiver just thinking about Ser Adrian with you in your nest; his hands on your body, his teeth in your flesh, his knot deep in your cunt.

No, no. Wrong. It’s wrong.

“I could help with that, princess.”

He proposes and you both know very well what he’s referring to. The darkness in his gaze more prominent; a thin, golden ring at the edges — evidence that his alpha was taking control of his emotions.

It’s wrong, but still you feel more moisture forming between your legs, making a sticky mess on your inner thighs, reacting against your will to the alpha pheromones exuding from the man - and you almost sob, because it’s horrible. It’s horrible and no one talks about it; about how absolutely terrifying it is to have no control over your own body, even when you’re undeniably uncomfortable with a situation like that.

Your mother had raised you fierce and resilient, just like Daemon had when he came into your life as another father figure, but you still felt like a child after all, holding back tears and clenching your fists. Your only salvation was your stubborn nature and thirst to prove yourself, to prove that you were more than just a delicate and submissive omega.

Yes, a part of you was aroused to the point of being intoxicated by the sensation, but the more rational side, which was disappearing by the second, fought even harder, squirming and grunting, rebelling against your most basic instincts. Fearing the alpha more than you wanted his knot. The pungent smell of stress and heartbreak tangling deep in the air with the sweet scent of your heat.

This alpha was no good...not the right one.

"N-no, thank you," you reply, gathering all your willpower, desperately trying to think of a way out. You were trapped in an empty hallway, at the beginning of your heat, with a strong, intimidating alpha - it was not a good situation.

"Please," you find yourself arguing with him suddenly when he doesn't back down, your mouth moving before you can even think, "I know you're not that kind of alpha, Ser Adrian, it's just the pheromones getting the better of you, you'll regret it once your mind clears. I said no, please listen to me."

He steps forward anyway, invading your personal space. And as scared and aroused as you are (an honestly disturbing mix of emotions to have) you find yourself baring your teeth at him - a small growl building in your throat, standing up to the alpha who dared to disrespect your decision.

"Poor thing," Ser Adrian chuckles, the golden ring in his eyes growing more evident, your little, thoughtless act of confrontation only stirring the alpha inside him. "You don't know what you need, omega, not really. But I do."

The next thing you know, he’s advancing, so much so that you immediately back up against the wall in response, flattening your feverish, sweaty body against it as best you can to get away from him. A whimper leaves your lips as he reaches out, your body disgusted and craving the action in equal measure, making your eyes brim with tears. He’s going to touch you, he’s going to do it. He’s going to do it and still claim that you wanted it, because…well...you don’t want it, but you do too, don’t you?

A sound rings out behind the two of you.

“Get away from her, Ser Adrian.” You recognize Aemond’s voice quickly; a sharp, relieved sigh in response, your omega instantly perking up inside you. “Now.”

His voice is as calm and deep as ever, but you hear the warning there; the dark tone gnawing at the edges - a tone that promised danger if not heeded. It does something to you, fills your stomach with little butterflies - all fluttering their wings at once. A purr wanting to escape your throat. Safe, the Alpha will keep you safe. Finally.

Ser Adrian’s expression darkens as he senses your relief through the pheromones in the air, slowly turning his body to face the unwelcome presence. He shows no submission at all when he sees Aemond standing there, even though he knows he was his prince. You know he’s too far gone for that now. No hierarchy matters here. It's just two Alphas facing each other over an Omega.

He exchanges an intense look with Aemond, obviously communicating that you are worth the confrontation.

"What are you going to do?" Ser Adrian challenges, his hand slowly descending to rest on the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. "I bet you don't have the guts, boy."

You swallow hard, trembling for Aemond, scared at the prospect of a fight. Your omega, once relieved, is now agonized at the thought of this Alpha getting hurt.

Aemond, for his part, remains seemingly unfazed by the older man's threat - in fact he smiles at the guard's words. A cold and sharp smile, disdainful really, tilting his head in mock consideration, his hands still casually clasped behind his back. "Do you really want to test that theory?"

Ser Adrian pulls his sword a little from where it is kept, offended by the younger Alpha's reaction, but he still doesn't remove the blade completely from his waist. Aemond, though he makes no move toward his own sword, stares at him with such acidity and defiance in his eye that it’s almost as if that was the only weapon he’d need tonight.

Alphas fighting over an omega in heat become wild, territorial, aggressive. Ser Adrian, from where you can see, is vibrating with tattered restraint, with the tension of a possible confrontation unfolding. He’s acting on instinct. But Aemond isn’t. Although there’s a hard shadow in his one good eye, a warning to his dark and unpredictable interior - he keeps himself perfectly in control. His hands are clasped behind his back, a provocative smile on his lips.

“She doesn’t smell like you,” the other Alpha growls through his teeth, straightening his shoulders, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly.

“Hn, maybe I’m a gentleman and I’m going slow so as not to scare her,” Aemond replied in affront, the corner of his lip still pulled back in a lazy smile. "A concern that has not crossed your mind, obviously."

The older Alpha grunts in displeasure in his throat, casting an appraising glance at you over his shoulder, his nostrils flaring to catch your scent. And if you had control of your legs, you would be long gone by now. But not only is your heat consuming your to worrying levels, but the overwhelming pheromones that both Alphas exude in this confrontation are strong enough to make you flinch in response, exhaling your own cornered and fearful scent into the air.

"Are you saying you are this Omega's Alpha?" Ser Adrian snorts in annoyance, turning his narrowed gaze to Aemond.

"Yes." He doesn't even hesitate before answering. "Do you have anything to say or...do...about it?"

The clean and immediate statement coupled with the unspoken challenge makes you gasp, your legs shaking and threatening to give way beneath you, the viscosity in your pussy increasing in response to that easy words.

Did...did he say he was your Alpha?

Could it be that you heard him correctly? Could it be that the only man you'd ever wanted to be courted by had felt the same way all this time?

A thought you'd never dared to voice out loud, knowing full well that doing so would be nothing short of a confession. And you definitely didn't feel ready to confess any tender feelings for Aemond yet. Despite what your stupid heart told, you knew what a conflicted person he was. His sarcastic and unpredictable personality, even his tendencies toward cold words and actions at times.

But he was also...he could also be...

The truth was, you knew how you felt about him. You knew it all too well.

And while you usually managed to keep your unwanted feelings well caged and hidden from outside knowledge, falling into a sudden and intense heat like this made it significantly harder to maintain this charade, especially when his scent hung imposingly and proudly over the other alpha, all possessive and icy intentions. And especially when he so easily claimed to be your alpha.

Amidst the surprise of the declaration, you almost forgot about the challenge between both men, only coming back to the present when Ser Adrian growls something between his teeth (something that sounds very much like a curse), shoving his sword back into its sheath with much more aggression than necessary. He straightens himself before the other alpha - but even so Aemond towers over him, with his imposing height. The older one reluctantly steps away with a murderous look at the prince, maintaining contact as long as he can - it was not in an alpha's nature to give in, especially in the presence of another. Which shows that, on some level, Ser Adrian was still there, clinging to the shreds of control he had left over his own primal instincts.

Aemond holds his gaze, but looks at you again as soon as the guard disappears around a bend in the hallway, his steps deliberately heavy and dissatisfied.

"Come," he says as he approaches where you're leaning against the wall, his cold, affronted expression giving way to one that's almost angry. You feel yourself wilt a little at the abrupt change, but try not to show it, for fear of upsetting the alpha even more. "Let me take you to your chamber, it's not safe to be out here with so many alphas around the castle, especially when you smell like that."

He takes a step closer and you meow in response, your body so fragile and small next to his, his scent invading your nose again. Green apples and parchment, dragon scales and fire. Your omega immediately purrs, wanting to snuggle into this Alpha, let him protect you and take care of your needs.

“Can you walk?” He asks slowly, looking much more tense with you than he had when he’d challenged an older, more experienced alpha, his jaw clenched and his violet gaze refusing to stay on yours.

You feel something ache in your chest, not understanding why he was suddenly being so distant, even though he’d proudly defended you not long ago.

“Y-yes, yes, I can.”

Your legs are definitely shaking, but you still force yourself to take the final steps to your chamber, your dress clinging to your body in the most uncomfortable way, your damp thighs rubbing against each other and creating a friction that makes your skin crawl all over.

Aemond stands rigidly beside you, walking at a respectful distance, looking like he’s barely breathing. Clearly wanting to avoid smelling you. But…but why? Doesn’t he like the way you smell? Don’t you please the Alpha?

You suddenly feel frantic, scared by the knowledge that you’ve lost him before you’ve even reached him.

This is something you could handle normally. Gods, you could handle worse than this, normally. You’ve been putting up with your conflicting feelings for him for years. The heat is just making you feel silly and sad and…pathetic…

But knowing this doesn’t make it any better. It doesn’t help. And before you can stop yourself from doing something stupid, your mouth is moving.

“Why did you say that?” You ask as he opens the door to your chamber for you to enter, staggering and panting, nearly tripping until you fall onto the ornate sofa to catch your breath as if you had run all the way across the Red Keep to get here.

“What?” He asks vaguely, glancing discreetly into your chamber, but not entering it. Looking at your space. Where the things that please your omega are. No alpha has ever had such a view. But he can, you decide. You want him to look.

“Why did you say you were my Alpha?”

For a few seconds, all you can hear is the rapid beating of your heart and your breathing. He had left you in your chamber as he promised, and you began to fear that he would simply ignore the question and leave now.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers, interrupting his checking of the environment to look at you; though his gaze is vacant and distant, as if he is trying hard to just pretend to look at you. "I thought that would drive him away without the need for a physical confrontation. You wouldn't have been satisfied with such aggression, I imagine."

You bite your lip to contain a moan as you feel a strong wave of cramps in your lower abdomen, your head swimming in the rising heat, as if reacting instinctively to those words. He worried about you, about what would leave you unsatisfied.

And later, you would tell yourself that the next question was solely guided by your messy, chaotic hormones, by his enchanting scent filling your sensitive nose. Anything to exclude your conscious guilt.

"What if it were true?"

Aemond blinks, finally looking at you. For real this time. "If it were true what?"

You take a deep breath, your heart beating so fast you can feel it straining against your ribcage.

"That you're my Alpha." You mumble, cursing your own mouth as soon as the words come out. But it was too late and he had already heard each one of them. "What if...what if you really were?"

For a long moment he says nothing, just stands there, stoic and magnificent in his white hair flowing over his shoulders, dark clothes and hands behind his body, staring at you with an almost alarmed expression. And you are so nervous, so messed up with all these intense emotions and this miserable heat burning your body that you find yourself mumbling to fill the maddening silence he maintains, your hands fidgeting as you gesture them in the air.

"Y-you could come in. You could stay here, with me, if...if you wish, of course. I really-"

Aemond shakes his head suddenly once, his gaze darkening at you.

"That's not a good idea."

The way he says it, so firm and direct, his expression hardening into something determined, makes you shut up immediately. The saliva in your mouth is suddenly too thick, your heartbeat painful.

“Oh.”

The rejection stabs you like a sharp dagger, piercing your chest through to the other side in one fell swoop, and you feel like crying. Your bottom lip trembles, and you stare at the opposite wall, nodding weakly. Honestly, how many more ways did the gods plan to humiliate you?

All those years of hardening your feelings for him, keeping yourself away to keep them from growing any further. And you were doing well. Everything was going well. But then, the one time you let yourself harbor a small flame of hope, he rejects you so easily that you wish you could eat the words back, pretend it never happened.

“Right, yeah,” you mumble, limiting yourself to a few words in case you start sobbing out loud. “I understand. You don’t…” You sigh, hurt in a way that only an omega rejected right during their heat, the most vulnerable moment, could sound. Stupid, stupid hormones, you hate feeling this way. “You don’t want me. It’s okay.”

“Wait — what? You think it’s because I don’t want —” Aemond breathes out an incredulous laugh, finally pulling his hands from behind his back to rub them down his face, frustration clear in each of his sharp lines, making your omega shrink even further inside you. Alpha is dissatisfied, help him, calm him down. Despite your increasingly stronger instincts, you manage to stay in the same place, with your shoulders slumped and your breathing anxiously in your chest. "Of course I want you. You have no fucking idea, Y/N, I swear. But this..." he points to your body, to your disheveled condition and watery eyes, "...this is just the heat. You don't really want me to come in there with you. It's just the heat and when it passes, you'll regret this request."

You sigh shakily at his statement, at the restraint he's showing even as he lowers his clenched fists to his sides; jaw tense, preventing himself from breathing too deeply and taking in more of your scent. The intensity in his gaze making your heart race as he stares at you, his brow furrowed in an unreadable expression.

It all makes sense now.

So that's it, huh? He was trying to stay away because he thinks you only want him because of the heat. He thinks you would regret this. He thinks you only want him because he is an unbonded alpha who conveniently happens to be here at this moment.

God heavens, you wish that was all it was.

"It's not just the heat."

You whisper to the imposing room and he sighs deeply.

"Y/N..."

"Let me speak, please."

He holds your gaze firmly and dominantly, almost making you tilt your head down in a natural response of submission, but to your relief he ends up giving in after a few seconds with a stiff nod of his chin.

You wet your lips. "Yeah, I'm going into a sudden heat and I might be partially driven by instincts here..." You mumble weakly, the heat making your body shiver and your mind swim, but you fight to keep yourself together as much as you can in order to convey to him what you really need.

"But Aemond, I shouldn't even be having a heat right now, I'm nowhere near my normal cycle. Y-you, oh fuck -" you gasp in pain as an intense cramp makes you curl up completely over your own body on the sofa. Aemond instinctively reaches out to help, but stops when you hold up an open, shaking palm to him. "N-no, wait. I need to finish saying this." He doesn't look pleased, but he does as you say, waiting impatiently as you shift back into a sitting position, breathing slowly through your teeth to try and calm yourself.

“Do you know what sent me into this sudden heat in the first place?” You ask quietly when you’ve finally gathered yourself enough, your watery eyes glaring at the man in front of you, begging him to hear what you really mean.

“What?” He asks back, holding your gaze with just as much intensity.

You take a breath. “It was you. It was your scent, Aemond.” Your brows furrow at him, trying to hide the shiver that shakes your body as another painful cramp wracks through you. “I-I’m surrounded by unbound alphas here at the Red Keep; Aegon, a few Gold Cloaks, the Kingsguard, my Personal Guards, a few nobles from the court. Every day I see them and interact with them and yet none of them have ever sent me into an uncycled heat. Never. Only you.”

His gaze is dark and heated, a stormy violet, his expression tense and expectant.

"B-but even if my omega didn't feel that way, even if you weren't an alpha...heavens, you could be a beta and I'd still want that, with you." Your mouth is worryingly dry, which you find to be a fair contradiction to how absolutely soaked the middle of your legs is. "Because I've always liked you. Ever since we were children and you would teach me Valyrian late into the night in the library, hidden from our parents and the guards, far better than any Maester could. Or when I claimed a dragon and you were so genuinely happy for me, even though you didn't have your own dragon then. And when everyone laughed at me at court? They made jokes about my birth, but you always defended and protected me - even if you happily let my brothers be fed to the wolves." You smile shakily with the little self-control you have left, which elicits a small snort of disdain from him. "Y-you've taken care of me and protected me all along the way and I've always felt safe with you. And that had nothing to do with your designation."

Aemond exhales heavily, a husky and unmistakably masculine sound, his alpha clearly pleased to hear that you felt safe with him. A shiver runs through your body in response to that primal sound, your belly tightening and you want nothing more than to beg him to take you, or to leave altogether and let you take care of yourself - alone and apart, as you always have, but this time suffering from the rejection of the only alpha you've ever truly wanted.

Still, you force yourself to continue.

"B-but then you introduced as an Alpha and I as an Omega and everything changed. I pulled away because you didn't seem like the same Aemond I knew. You had changed. You were quieter, more mysterious, darker. You didn't invite me to go to the library or to fly with you and Vhagar. You pushed me away. I-I didn't know how to deal with it, it felt like a wall had been built between us and I didn't know how to deal with it...walking away was the easiest way, I guess. But I never, I swear I never forgot...I just-"

You didn't realize you had started to cry. Then everything you had said just hit you like a punch in the stomach. How exposed you had left yourself to him, open and raw as a nerve. But there was no going back.

"If you don't want me, that's okay. I-I'll deal with it. But I need you to know that it's not just the heat, Aemond."

You end with an almost anguished sound, another storm of emotions rising up inside your chest, too strong to be repressed. Your hands release their grip on the upholstery to move restlessly up to the scent glands on your neck, scratching and clawing at the sensitive, pulsing skin with a degree of desperation that only makes your true feelings clear. Everything hurts, everything burns, everything screams for relief, for large hands and sharp teeth. The Alpha's scent so close, yet so far away...

You're going crazy as he remains silent and it's almost like torture, his presence becoming both a delight and a punishment for your omega. The next wave of heat hits so intense that it makes every hair on your body stand on, a shock of cold and extreme heat on your flushed skin. You bite your lip hard to stop from moaning, legs squeezing together to ease the aching throb in your clit - the torturous emptiness of having nothing inside your body when it's all it's needs.

"P-please, if you don't...if it's not what you want...leave me alone. I need to be alone now Aemond-"

“I always know when your heat is here —” he cuts you off in a calm voice, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales deeply; a husky, appreciative sound vibrating in his throat as he allows himself to feel you properly for the first time all night. He enters your chamber with careful steps after that, but it’s the sight of his hand splayed on the wood of the door that makes you feel like you could faint right there; thick veins beneath pale skin, fingers long and elegant, adorned with thin, regal rings. You hold your gaze there as he gently pushes the wood shut with an audible click that makes you shiver in response, heart thundering in your chest.

He’s here, in your place. Just the two of you. The Alpha is here.

“No matter how much your mother, your maids, and the Guards do their best to hide you in this secluded chamber, I can always tell when you’re in heat. Even from across the Red Keep I can still smell you — warm, buttery, sweet as vanilla and cinnamon; like something that just come out of the oven, familiar and comforting like home. Like you belong to me —”

Aemond’s bright gaze is fixed on yours, watching you with predatory focus, like a carnivore about to sink its teeth into the tender flesh of a poor deer. Your chest tightens. Instantly, it’s as if an imaginary rug has been pulled out from under you and you’re weightless, even sitting as you are. The moment stretches between you like caramel, tantalizing and promisingly sweet. You arch your back and undulate your hips against the soft upholstery, as if that will soothe the itch. Instead, it spreads across your abdomen like a cloud of fire. You shiver and moan.

“I hear you crying, screaming as your heat is at in peak, begging for a knot. The whole damn Red Keep can hear it, sweetheart.” You’re panting and very, very aware of the slick slide of your poor cunt sandwiched between your thighs as you moves in restless undulations, of the blood roaring in your ears, and of the hungry look in Aemond’s eye, whose pupil is so dilated that his eye, once a pale shade of violet, is almost entirely black. He breathes very slowly, savoring the increasingly intense pheromones you exude. "Aegon usually runs to a brothel whenever you're in heat, as do most of the castle's Alpha Guards. But not me. I stay here...smelling your disturbing scent, enduring the miserable torture of hearing every muffled sound - fucking my cock between my fingers as I imagine doing this, giving in to your tearful plea. You have no fucking idea how many times I've had to stop myself from walking through these doors and giving you what you so desperately beg for, pup."

"Alpha," you sigh, cry. You've never called him that — or any other man directly — but the familiarity and naturalness tastes like molasses on your tongue now, and you repeat it helplessly. "Alpha…"

You could hear his harsh breathing, see his hands tightening into fists. He tried to hold back, but all you could think about was having him buried inside you. Having him rock his hips against you. "You were right, all this time. Ever since we received our designations I feel like something in me has changed. Sometimes it's like I have no control over this new side of me..."

Your breath hitches in your chest and you unconsciously lean into him, breathing him in. "W-what side?"

He sighs; hoarse, troubled. "This side that desperately wants to bend you and fill you until you're leaking with my seed, until the only scent that comes from you is mine...only mine. To sink my teeth into your soft flesh to claim you, to make everyone know who you belong to. It's maddening. It's dark. I'm constantly consumed by primal desires that scare even myself."

"Aemond," you beg, savoring the name, rolling it across your tongue like caramel.

He crouches on the floor, right in front of you, letting your heights equalize for the first time, both hands resting on your knee. You moan at that, tilting your head closer to him to breathe him in, letting the strong, warm, and safe scent of this alpha wash over you.

Your stomach tightens and you grip his arm tightly, bracing yourself, gasping as your inner muscles flex and spasm. Aemond strokes your knees with his thumbs as you shiver. The weight of his hand on you is equal parts comforting and tempting.

You were in the prime of your life and you were going to die.

There was no other explanation for the way your heart was beating fast, like a rabbit’s, at the way he lingered on your skin — at the way Aemond remained still and stared at you, in a way that, frankly, would have been quite flattering if it weren’t for the way his nostrils kept flaring.

“I’m sorry for putting you through this,” you truly did, but you also felt like you couldn’t take it anymore, “but I want you so much, Aemond. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Don’t be. I want you too,” he growled, leaning down to whisper against your ear, his nose gently brushing the curve of your neck. "So fucking much."

Submission was instantaneous then, without the slightest hint of reluctance or rebellion. Your neck tilts back, throat exposed to the alpha, letting him nuzzle your scent gland and inhale deeply, whimpering happily at having him there, his warm, familiar scent enveloping you safely. Omega condescending. But it’s more than that. Omega eager, the scent of your heat intensifying, overflowing between your thighs, which open instinctively as he encloses you with his hands braced on the sofa, and your happy little cry turns into a needy mewl.

His nose slowly moves up to caress your face, gently nudging the curve of your cheekbone. “Can I kiss you? Fuck, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for years.”

You nod enthusiastically against him before he even finishes the question, your eyes closing as his sweet, warm breath blows across your lips. You’ve dreamed of kissing him too, ever since you could remember.

The first touch of his lips against yours was like coming home, so right and so familiar that it almost scared you, if only the heat haze wasn’t disorienting your mind.

You wanted to enjoy it more, to take it slow, but by all the gods, the level of desperation in your body was unhealthy.

Your lips open like a flower beneath the alpha, hands gripping those long, silky silver strands, pulling him closer and closer. Feeling his jaw move rhythmically beneath your fingers as he opens and closes his mouth to lick your tongue, catching your bottom lip between his teeth in a teasing bite. Your legs swing to wrap around his waist, pressing inch by delicious inch of your bodies together. You moan into his mouth, feeling your pussy rub indiscreetly against the hard planes of his stomach, blood rushing to your groin as sticky moisture flows dramatically from your intimacy.

Aemond was perfect, you swore the alpha tasted like chocolate and wine on your tongue, that he felt like heaven against your fingertips. You could smell the arousal in the air, the way he growled into your wet kisses, and the way his large hand clenched in the fabric of your dress on your thigh.

He nestles his hands between your ass and the upholstery, helping your hips sway against his body, not wanting to let you go. His gorgeous, dilated gaze flickers to you as he breaks the kiss, gently kissing your tear-stained cheek.

“Sweetheart…tell me you accept my claim,” he demands in an eager tone, tracing the soft skin of your jaw with his lips to brush the nape of your neck again, where your swollen scent gland burns and throbs. The gentle pressure of his lips there has you squirming, practically melting into his strong hands. “I need you to understand what I’m asking. Please, focus on me, omega.”

You nod, tears weighing down your lashes. “I do, I do. It’s always been just you. Please, Aemond!”

He pulls back at this, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his pale skin as his breathing becomes shallower. His scent seems to increase, overwhelming every inch of your chamber with his pheromones. Running the tip of his tongue over his upper teeth, you see a glint of his slightly elongated incisors. The golden ring at the rim of his eye. His body, no doubt, reacting to the omega’s pheromones, pushing him into his own rut. You feel like you can vibe to this, the omega pleased to know he has this effect on the alpha.

“A-alpha, it hurts,” you whisper.

“Shhh, I got you, love,” he soothes you, though he’s losing control himself, gently nuzzling your noses together. “Put your arms around my neck. That’s it, good girl.”

He stands with you wrapped around him, carrying you toward the four-poster bed. The thin silk of your skirts soaks where his forearm braces your thighs.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet.” Aemond barely holds back a rough groan as his lips come close to your ear, clearly enjoying the way your body is already ready for him. His knot. You whimper, licking the salt from his throat and moaning. You try to straddle his waist once more, try to lower yourself and bend over, feel the thick, hard line of his cock, the bulge of the knot you know is already forming.

You barely realize you’re being placed on the bed. You barely notice his fingers undoing the knots of your corset and pulling the delicate fabric of your dress off your body. You barely notice the gentle words he whispers in your ear, the praises for your omega. The haze of heat takes over your mind and leaves you adrift, confused, needy. It's all a blur of desperate pleas and crying.

It's only when his body, naked and as absurdly heated as yours, lies on top of you that some coherence returns. The sensation of his feverish skin on yours makes you shiver all over, your cheeks burning - although you can't tell if it's just from the heat or the embarrassment of feeling him like this.

He looms large over you, as alphas tend to be, but in a way that makes you feel secure rather than intimidated. His lean, elegant muscles tense endlessly beneath his soft skin, the flames of the fireplace bathing his pale, sweaty complexion in a beautiful orange glow. The tips of his hair slide hypnotically over your skin, sending shivers down your spine with each contact.

"There she is..." he shivers with satisfaction when he feels the heat allow some of your consciousness to return, his hand wrapping around the delicate curve of your jaw to drag you into a feral kiss while he presses your body against his as if he would die without it. Rut, your confused mind answers. He is falling too. And yet, you were still empty and needy. 

"N-no nest...there is no nest, Alpha...I couldn't make it...I didn't know, I d-didn't have time - please, I'm so sorry -" You stammer between gasps and sobs on your lips, your omega dissatisfied with not having a nest where the Alpha could curl up comfortably with you, let his knot sink in and keep you warm and safe throughout your heat.

"You're such a good omega, worrying about this..." he mumbles, kissing your chin and jaw, his hands fidgeting at your sides. "But it's okay, love. Your heat will last for days and I'm not going anywhere. We'll have time. We'll use the breaks between heat waves and I'm sure you'll make the most comfortable, cozy nest for us. I can't wait to see it, omega. Promise you'll make a good nest for your Alpha?"

"Yes, yes! I'll make the best nest, alpha..."

"Yeah you will, my good girl..."

When his mouth reaches your glans on your neck again, you know it's red and raised, waiting for him to touch it. 

"Stay still baby," he whispers and you're not sure if he's talking to you or to himself.

His first lick against that spot hits you right in the heart. Your breath is ragged with each press of his tongue, and you can’t help the small purr that escapes your chest. When he growls in response to the sound, vibrations coursing through your glans, your hands grip his broad shoulders in desperation.

“Please, gods, please—alpha, please!” Your skin is feverish and taut, tight as a coiled spring, and you need…more. Your hips roll upward, and at the feel of him hard and solid and huge against your core, you almost come right there. Your wrists move, one behind his ear and the other toward the top of his shoulder, and you rub them subtly against his skin, the only thought in your head is for him to smell like you.

“Alpha, please—” That needy plea seems to be enough to rob Aemond of what little control he has left. He wraps those soft lips around the glans and sucks hard, making your eyes roll to the back of your head, your entire body trembling and flushing with heat.

“Omega,” he growls into your drooling skin, his primal instincts kicking in harder than a sword blow, thrusting his wet cock into your belly. “Tell me what you need.”

You barely blink before begging. “Fill me, please.” Your fingers tangle in the leather of his eye patch, pulling it away so you can take in the full extent of your alpha’s immaculate beauty as he takes you. The turquoise stone glows for only a few seconds before you sink your fingers into his silky hair, guiding his mouth back to yours, pulling him in for another heated, hurried kiss.

And with that touch of his lips, you both lose yourselves. With a guttural sound that goes straight between your legs, Aemond is everywhere.

A large hand is on your neck, his thumb pressing against your chin, opening your mouth for him as his tongue meets yours. Using his other hand, you feel the gentle pressure of a finger against your swollen, throbbing clit, eliciting a cry from your mouth clamped to his. You’re lifting your hips, stroking your own tongue against his as he rolls your clit on his thumb, his cock sliding against your hip again and again, leaving your skin wet with pre-cum.

It’s all a cacophony of sensations, too much and not enough. It’s magnificent, but not what you need.

What you need is him, right now. 

Gods, you wanted to enjoy this moment, this first time, savor every touch, every new sensation, every taste and smell, but you both knew that you were at the height of this unexpected heat. Anything other than him inside you at this moment would only be torture for your body and your needs. You sob with desire on his lips, tears streaming down your face as your arousal reaches a level beyond painful; unbearable.

He pulls his face away from yours.

Pupil dilated and his tongue darting out to wet those sinful lips, flushed and swollen from your kisses.     

Hungry. 

He looks hungry. 

"Y/N," he says breathlessly, dropping the designations for a moment, even giving up his own rut-driven instincts, to call you by name, and your eyes widen in response, pupils dilated like an endless abyss. "Do you want my knot? Is that what you need right now, baby?" You hold his gaze with a lucidity that no longer exists, but unconsciously understanding the seriousness of this moment.

"Please, please, I'm going to go crazy if you don't do this. I need it, Aemond. Now."

His growl vibrates in his chest and through yours, making you moan in response and wrap your legs around his waist. Your pussy is absolutely soaked with your own arousal. You had never produced so much fluids before, even during your heats. On the other hand, you had never had an alpha promise to give you his knot before.

Something itches in your mind, driving you to present yourself to him now, whispering for you to turn your body and let him take you from behind, this position would be better - more chances of a successful knot. Instinct, obviously, since you wouldn’t have any previous experience to draw on. And you almost do, placing your hands on his shoulders to push him away. The turn, however, is interrupted by large hands on the sides of your waist, firm but still gentle as he keep you lying with him between your legs.

You frown at him in confusion.

“Please, no. Not this time.” He whispers feverishly, leaning his sweaty forehead against yours, breath puffing across your parted lips. “I know instinct tells you otherwise, just as they are telling me, but I want to see your face. I need to see your eyes as I take you for the first time, sweetheart.”

It’s not an order. Not exactly. It’s more of a request than anything else. But you obey anyway, captivated by his need to have you in this way, for his strength in resisting his own Alpha's demands and take you the way he, the men, wants.

Warming up to the desperate cadence of your low mewls, he lines his hardened member up toward your center, your omega more than ready for this. The tip pokes a few times into your soaked folds, seeking warmth as he settles himself.

It’s an almost sacred moment, even in the haze of heat.

The chamber goes silent as he enters you for the first time, thrusting inside, slowly and steady, one hand coming up to the side of your face, the other gripping your hip possessively, his gaze locked on yours. Your hearts beat in sync, the fierce need to be joined to each other growing like a wildfire. The head of his cock barely enters before the world simply stops. He begins to rock his hips, slowly at first, so slowly that it’s almost provocative, but it’s delicious and cathartic, and you never want it to end.

Besides his hungry gaze on yours, the second thing your drunken brain registers is that it doesn’t hurt.

First time penetration should hurt, right? You’ve never had sex before, obviously, but you know that the first time should be uncomfortable, at the least. However, your body accepts him with easy submission, with your own abundant sticky wetness easing the way, and all you can feel is the same relief that his arms offer, the smell of him. You moan between teeth, satisfied, and reach out to grip his arm as he thrusts into you, feeling the muscles ripple under your touch. He groans your name once more and his erection pulses against your walls.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands. “Tell me you’ve kept that perfect pussy for me all this time.” 

Of course you were his. The fact hadn’t always pleased you, but you’d known that since you were children and running through the halls of the Red Keep. You always knew you were made for him, and you held on to that bitter dream even when you tried to pull away from him. So it was only natural to let your animal instinct take over, exposing the truth as if it were the only thing that mattered.

“I’m yours, Aemond. I’ve always been yours.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him close. "Only yours."

“F-fuck,” he stutters, your pussy greedy and desperate as it molds itself to accommodate him. “You’re going so well for me, pup. Such a good little omega.”

His lips press against your cheek as he pants, struggling to hold himself together as he feels the full length of his cock inside your folds. And you sense that this is your weakness. Green apples and parchment, flames and dragon scales. He’s warm and comforting, fitting between your legs like he belongs there, like you’re his home. It’s divine how you mold yourself to accommodate him. Easy, as if it were a normal thing, and you had done this together a thousand times before.

Aemond takes a deep, shuddering breath.

And then he begins to thrust. Slowly.

You were soaked and desperate, but Aemond was an Alpha and, well, you were a virgin just a few minutes ago. His restraint was understandable. But you wanted more, needed everything he could give you...

You didn’t realize you were speaking out loud until he answered. “I’ll give you. Fuck, I’ll give you anything you want, baby. I’m yours.” His voice took on a deep, husky tone that sent goosebumps across your skin. “But I need to make sure you’re ready first.”

You whimper. “I can take it,” you promise. “Come on, Alpha. Make me yours!”

Aemond’s large body trembled with the restraint of going slow, his muscles contracting restlessly beneath your fingers. At your words, he groans and suddenly thrusts deep. The air rushes from your lungs, and you dig your nails into his back, gripping tightly as your body struggles to adjust to the massive intrusion.

He pulls back to get a better look at your face, to make sure you’re not uncomfortable. And by the gods, you’re not. Your omega rolls over and shows the belly, satisfied and purring, vibrating with joy at finally having his alpha take you. His thrusts don’t stop, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so beautiful, omega, so fucking beautiful. So good for me, pup.”

Your eyelids flutter with the long, delicious drag as he pulls out, pussy clenching his cock like it doesn’t want to let go, and the emptiness he leaves hurts, no matter how quickly he pulls away. Then he thrusts back in and you breathe once more.

“Yes!” you cry out, wrapping your arms and legs around him, clinging to his lean but strong body. “More, Alpha. Please!”

Aemond curses and then sets a steady, pulsing rhythm in his hips. Each entry was slow, each thrust back hard and intense. He fucked you like he flying on Vhagar’s back: confident and assertive, teetering on the edge of control but never losing it. The extent of his control was crystal clear as he breathed into your lips, his gaze keeping yours, his forehead sweaty and his eyebrows furrowed, even as you shuddered and moaned and clawed at his back.

You were wetter than you’d ever been, drops running down between your thighs to soak the sheets. The sounds of your joining were loud and filthy, filling your chamber with moans and growls, the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, and the harder he went, the more animalistic you both became. You were soon moaning and sobbing with every thrust, while he grunts and growls in your face.

When he swallowed hard, his gaze was, without any choice, drawn to his throat; the Adam’s apple bobbing, the veins high in his neck, his scent glands. He nods at your gaze, and you’re suddenly overcome with the need to touch him — to taste him.

You lean forward and place your mouth over his gland, alternating your tongue and lips between sucking and licking the heated skin, panting into his skin in time with his thrusts. He groans, broken and hoarse, his hips slowing to fuck you less hard, more slowly.

“Y/N, fuck, I need—”

He’s worryingly heated against you, his own rut peaking, silver strands of hair sticking to his sweaty face.  

“Me too, Aemond...I need it so bad it hurts,” you cry, pressing your face against his scent gland, breathing hard. He nods, settling into a rhythm that, while less frenetic than it was a moment ago, is brutal in its intensity. Your thighs tremble around his waist, though Aemond is definitely the one doing the heavy lifting. His knot nudges against your pussy, pressing, clamping, and pushing against your entrance with each thrust.

“I can feel you getting close,” he whispers in your ear. “Do you want to come in my knot, pup?”

Your head falls back and you moan loudly as he hits you again, and again, hard and stand, and you’re right on the edge — close enough that you can feel your orgasm building in your lower back, threatening to overtake you at any second.

Yes, yes, yes, your omega cries out in response to his question. It’s all you want, all you need. To come with the Alpha’s knot inside you.

“Yes,” you sob. “Please!” 

As his knot begins to force itself inside you, everything becomes shockingly clear. You know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you were made for this. To take his knot, to sit on it, to come and clench around him until he paints your insides with his seed.

“Oh, good girl, almost there—” His voice grows lower, rougher, darker. “Yeah, that’s it, spread those pretty legs a little wider and let me—fuck, yeah, that’s it, puppy—”

Your purpose is singular now, as his knot stretches your entrance. He forces your opening almost to the point of pain, even as wet and stretched as it already is, but biology is on your side. You strain for his next thrust, and with a searing ecstasy, you feel his knot push a little deeper inside you.

The next movement, like everything else tonight, is guided only by instinct and basic need. You hold the back of his neck, guiding his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder, tears streaming down the sides of your face until its soak the sheets.

"P-please, make me yours, Alpha. In every way."

Aemond sighs longly on your skin, leaving wet kisses there, his breath warm and tense. His body is so intimately attached to yours that each thrust makes your breasts drag against the hard planes of his chest, teasing your sensitive nipples. Each undulation of his hips rubs your throbbing clit against the trimmed hair of his pelvis. It is torture, the most delicious torture.

"You're going to fucking kill me, love." He half smiles half growls, gently nipping at your shoulder, just a shadow of what you really wanted from him there. You grip him tighter, frowning as you mewl dissatisfiedly through your teeth.

He silences your mumbled protests with whispers of your name and designation, intoned in an encouraging tone against your skin as he guides you closer and closer, and you feel your thighs tremble around his hips as you prepare to be pulled under. Your toes clench, body ready to jump into the waters that threaten to drown you, all you need to do is let yourself sink. Let your body surrender to what you were designed to do.

“Come for me, Y/N,” he growls into your shoulder, the vibrations coursing through your body, his fingers digging into your hips, leaving marks on your skin that your omega accepts with pleasure. “Come for your Alpha and then I'll give you my knot, I swear.”

And with that encouragement, you submit completely. The command to surrender to the pleasure was all your body needed. A primal scream rips from your throat, and your body shudders beneath his. Your pussy clench around his cock, desperate and needy for what only he could give you. And it’s nothing like cumming with your own fingers.

Aemond, feeling your walls tighten around him, thrusts harder; a long groan through his teeth before biting down hard on your shoulder, his sharp incisors tearing the skin until you’re screaming. Despite the shock of pain, your fingers dig into the back of his neck, pushing his face into the bite, wanting more. He growls at this, thrusting his hips forward one last time, burying his cock deep as his knot finally expands inside your pussy, locking him in place and joining you together.

Your spine arches, your breasts pushing against his chest with a long, broken groan that seems to escape straight from your core, your body clenching around his cock before contracting almost painfully. Aemond grunts, nearly falling on top of you as he shoots inside your pussy, filling your insides with his cum.

Entire galaxies shimmer behind your eyes as a second orgasm rips through you, just by the sensation of it being his, irrefutably. And you cling to your Alpha as he graces you with slow, shallow thrusts, his seed filling you beyond your limit. You can almost feel it filling your womb, spilling from your core and dripping down from where your bodies join to coat the sheets beneath you.

He licks your raw flesh when he releases you, whispering praise as he wipes away the blood dripping down your skin, and the throbbing in his cock begins to slow.

But though your orgasms are over for now, you know you’ll stay glued together until his knot comes undone. Your arms tighten around his shoulders until he sags, letting the weight of his body collapse onto yours, and you savor the comfort of being smothered by him. Your omega purrs, rubbing your cheek against his sweaty shoulder, trying to cover yourself with as much of his musk as possible.

The chamber is silent, except for both heavy breathings and the crackling of the fireplace.

It takes you a moment to recover. Your mind is drunk but relaxed, satisfied. And then a hand slides down your arm, broad and warm and absolutely everything you need. He takes your hand in his, so small and fragile in comparison, noting how both are trembling before lowering his lips and placing a kiss on your knuckles.

Your eyes open into lazy slits at the feeling and it’s only after what feels like an eternity that you realize it’s raining; thunder rumbles around the castle as flashes of light illuminate your chamber through the windows. But you don’t feel afraid. Because inside you are warm and safe beneath your Alpha. You both gasp together as he locks his gaze with yours, his lips swollen and a little red with your blood. An unspoken question flashes across his expression, the tops of his cheeks flushed and his skin sweaty, his gaze beginning to return to its usual violet hue. You smile in response, something vague and lazy, but enough to show that everything is okay.

With a relieved nod, Aemond can’t help but gently stroke the damp hair stuck to your sweaty, flushed face, slipping an arm under your back to cradle your head with his other hand. “Good?” he asks, his voice hoarse and rough, punctuated by another small burst of semen that makes you shiver and laugh softly.

“You’re big,” you say, flexing slowly with a fragile sigh, eliciting a breathy laugh from him as well - his head turning in a weak reprimand, as if he doesn’t surprise with your cheeky response at a time like this.

When he rolls to the side, you hum happily as feel him wrap your body around him to bring you with him, still intimately embraced and joined by the knot. He lies on his side, arranging one of your legs over his hip, your head hidden in the crook of his neck. Both of you bracing yourself for the time it would take for his knot to deflate.

You feel completely exhausted, sated now that you’ve received what you needed from the Alpha. Your mind is clearer and more aware, finally letting the extent of what you’ve just done sink into your bones. But you know it won’t last long, another wave will soon arrive, your heat had only just begun and the days ahead would demand a lot from both of you.

“Shhh, just sleep, pup. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Aemond whispers into your hair as he feels your restlessness begin, a large, warm hand slowly running up and down the curve of your back and thigh in a soothing gesture, the other arm stretched out beneath your head to serve as a pillow. “I’ll take care of you from now on. Trust me.”

With those words your eyelids begin to grow heavy, the almost painful stretch of Aemond’s knot, still deeply trapped inside you, fading into a comfortable tingle. And with a sigh of relief, you allow yourself to snuggle closer to his body, his familiar scent now ingrained in every inch of your body, feeling protected and cared for - without any doubt that he would keep his promise. The soft throb of his bonding bite on your shoulder confirming it.

He is yours now. And you are his.

[soleminisanction]

Follow-up thought to that last ask: It's worth noting that fandom, in particular a certain kind of Damian stan, also has a tendency to heteronorm-ify the Batman & Robin dynamic between Dick and Damian. They do this by treating it like it's also a paternal relationship, treating Dick like he was Damian's "real father" and coming up with stories where he adopts the kid to make it official.

And it's just frustrating because part of the reason Dick and Damian worked during the Rebirth era is that their relationship was as fluid and arguably ambiguous as Dick's was with Bruce when Dick was Robin.

I've mentioned this in other posts, but during the 40+ years Dick was Robin, Bruce wasn't characterized as his "father" nearly as often as he was something closer to an adult older brother. Robin wasn't Batman's child to protect, he was a junior partner who was less experienced and there to learn from an expert but still considered to be on roughly equal standing. Bruce was Dick's mentor, his guardian, and his only living family, and they clearly loved each other deeply, but I still maintain to this day that if you ask Richard Grayson for the name of his father, he'll tell you it's John. Bruce is something else. That doesn't make their relationship any less meaningful or important.

Dick and Damian's relationship is similar. So, for that matter is Dick and Tim's, and to a lesser extent Dick and Jason's. They're more firmly brothers, and they'll address each other as such, but it's a gray area between found family and brothers-in-arms. Dick is more than "just" Damian's adopted older brother, but that doesn't make him his parent.

It's just, IDK. Overly simplistic and a little insulting to both of them to act like their relationship doesn't have that complexity.

[just-1other-nerd]

These are my picks and below the cut I'll explain why though I doubt that anyone will read this ridiculously long essay.

I'm making this a tag game but everyone is free to join.

Small disclaimer: I'm acespec, because of that romantic love and sexual attraction feel a bit fictional to me anyways (kind of like how I believe in magic but it's far removed from my reality and daily life, still wouldn't mind it being there at all), so I'm very good at separating this kind of fiction from reality. I still adore romance in stories and I definitely have standards of what I would want a relationship to actually look like in real life if I should ever end up in one.

Enemies to lovers (mostly in fantasy though) is my jam. It's that specific category of hate to love which is one of my favourite tropes in general, bully "romances" and such appalling stuff is not included in my definition of this trope. For me it is the whole "we are on different sides of the war" thing or the "we have genuine reasons to hate each other but through reluctantly spending time together we overcome this" thing, tension and banter are just great and if an author actually understands what makes this trope great that means that the characters will undergo some kind of development and I adore a good character arc. Do not get me wrong, I love friends to lovers (especially in contemporary) amd the fluff it can give me but it seldomly gives me the kind of kick that enemies to lovers has got to it.

Yearning and angst are my thing, 10/10 and you know what has got that if well done? Fake dating and forbidden love! But I ended up choosing forbidden love because the reasons to end up in a fake relationship are oftentimes less believable than the ones for a forbidden love. Because when has faking a relationship actually seemed like it could solve any problems instead of creating more in the long run? Meanwhile the love existing in the first place is the problem itself.

Found family is a no brainer. It can be basically anything, teens, adults, kids, animal compantions, a combination of those and it slaps everytime. Single parent is okay, I like the representation but I can't really relate. But consider a found family that consists of an adult and their adopted child... brilliant! I think I improved the single parent trope by 1000%.

Sunshine x grumpy is a fucking good dynamic if well written and not just there to check off a trope box. Second chance is once again something that I can't really relate to but I really liked the angst and yearning in the few instances in which I've seen it done well.

I never really got the whole famous people appeal. There's actors and musicians and so on which I find hot but actually dating them would be a nightmare considering their work hours, the paparazzi, the long distance stuff, the stress and so on. For lots of people this choice would be about what archetype they find hotter for me that would be the musician but I'm annoyed by the self insert vibes. I hate "omg this famous person fancies me of all people that must make me special but I am not special at all actually". But then I discovered the bandmate and teammate dynamics and the (sports) rivals dynamics. It completely removes the power dynamics of normal person x famous and rich person because these people are on the same level, the also very clearly understand the whole career and public eye aspect of a romance like this better because both of them are in the business. And that is great, it creates understanding, yearning and angst if the relationship could meddle with the career. And even if it doesn't there's still ambition and a connection through a shared interest. A lot of this vatiation of these tropes is also queer so I'm even more into it. In the end I chose sports romance over rockstar romance because even though I'm not into sports in reality but really into music I am very obsessed with certain sports anime and the shipping game is top tier.

Small town romance is a very American Hallmark movie thing to me. It's literally just a setting. Granted one with less anonymity, less places to go and more conservative views but still just a setting. I think it seldomly actually adds to a romance plot and oftentimes gets living in a more rural area wrong (trust me I'm from a European village with less than 1000 people living here). Also the (female) main character giving up a successful career for a not so special guy just feels wrong and is done way too often and very boring. A secret baby at least brings some drama into the story and I think that's entertaining.

There's something horrible patriarchal about a forced marriage it would be a nightmare in real life but in fiction it is my guilty pleasure since it often includes some form of hate to love and forced proximity. The latter also a guilty pleasure in fiction because by God do I like my personal space and would hate someone intruding. But in stories it causes the same kind of thing I love about hate to love: the characters are annoyed by one another but over time the begin to grow close emotionally and there's a character arc about understanding involved. (Side note hate to love and forced proximity can also be platonic.) The trope can also just be funny, like being shoved into a closet but they land on top of each other in a mess of limbs. I picked forced proximity as the one I prefer because it is more harmless than a forced relationship.

Summer and winter are just settings and while they contribute a lot to the vibe and to the possibilities of what the characters can get up to I think they are less important than the actual plot which is why my liking of a story won't be that influenced by the season. If I had to pick a season for a contemporary romance it would be spring (even though I like a built up that is longer than 3 months but alas), otherwise I don't have real preferences because once again it depends on the plot. But I picked summer since its vibes are closer to spring vibes than winter's.

I like good boys and I like edgy boys who are actually decent people. Bad boys on the other hand are often a cardboard cut-out of a person who has no hobbies except for brooding, being mysterious, being obsessive and abusive. So I didn't have to think hard about this one.

Slow burn forever! Draw out the tension, the longing, the yearning, the angst and I am happy but then let it all dissolve in a satisfying act of love or a heartbreaking one. One of my favourite tropes and I think one aspect of this is that if it takes a while for the characters to get together that means they know each other fairly well by then which I think is an important part of a functional relationship. Love triangles can be done well like when you actually do not know who will end up with whom or if you don't know who you, the viewer/reader, would choose or would want the main character to end up with because both options are good and likable or if one person gets two partners (one polyamorous person, two monogamous people who are okay with this arrangement) or if everyone ends up with everyone (throuple yay). But I have seen far too many instances in which it was not only clear to me from early on who the desired person would choose in the end but the author also failed to make me like the involved characters or when they failed to give me a good reason for why the protagonist chose who they chose or if the character picked the choice I wouldn't have gone with and thos things took away all the tension and likability. I swear 80% of this trope is "who is the not so special girl going to choose the insanely physically attractive and rich blond brother with a flirty personality who is the life of the party or the insanely physically attractive and rich brother with dark hair and a fable for brooding and antisocial behaviour?" and it's always the latter and he is the worse option out of the two already bad ones.

Billionaires shouldn't exist and burn in hell. The whole concept of their existence is unethical, I do not under any circumstances want to even have contact with someone like that let alone date them. There's also this power dynamic that comes with a person being much more wealthy than their partner which I just don't like. An office romance can also be problematic because it can annoy coworkers, change team dynamics, you never get a break from your partner, there might be some HR problems involved, you might fight over work topics, you start to associate your partner with desk work, there might be some envy when it comes to career, there might be uncomfortable power dynamics and trying to hide the dating thing from others to avoid all of this won't end up working otherwise there wouldn't be a plot or a conflict. But it's still better than fucking billionaires. Just get me away from a capitalist hellscape as a setting in general, like who saw cubicles and thought "this is cute"? I do not need to spend more time at work than I have to in order to survive so why would I want my fiction to take place right there?

I go to dystopia for the plot and the social commentary and while I appreciate a good romantic subplot a lot, I don't want this to distract me all too much from the thing I was looking for. Historical settings on the other hand are just very detailed (if the reasearch was done right anyways) and interesting to me. It's got its own social rules and political nuances. Of course patriarchal power dynamics have been even worse in the past but I love it when the couple navigates those in a way that still results in them having a healthy relationship. I also just love Jane Austen.

First love is nice but not necessarily better than second or third love and so on. My choice is revenge because I am a petty bitch with lots of grudges and I feel so much catharsis when someone gets what they deserve. I also love it when a character takes their revenge too far and has to deal with that moral dilemma, that is an interesting struggle if you ask me.

I think I have already established why I don't like office or work romances. And rivalries are often just a subsection of hate to love, and I've gone into why I like that too. A bonus of rivals to lovers is also the (often) harmless obsessiveness of the characters with each other. It doesn't matter if it's an academic context or a sports context or a career context, it is just fun

If you've actually made it to here, congrats I guess. Please tell me your thoughts.

@jediwizard @ilov3b00kss0much @ineffablebookgirl

EVERYONE ON TUMBLR NEEDS TO DO THIS