#Common Dawn Bat

[daily-batposting]

Cave Nectar Bat, photographed by Merlin Tuttle, (source)

[foldingfittedsheets]

Back in the dawn of days I worked at Red Robin. It was my first real job after a brief stint at a dog kennel. Many people don’t know this but there’s a costume. A Red Robin mascot costume. I’d never seen it before I worked there.

He’s a violently red bird with empty eyes, a vacant grin, the most atrocious yellow leggings you’ve ever seen, and feet to make any Kingdom heart character swoon. His name was Red.

I was a host, and we were the only ones called upon to wear the costume. We’d don the bright yellow tights and corporate fursuit with someone leading us by the hand so we didn’t crash into everything.

The mesh screen in Red’s gaping mouth was supposed to let the wearer look out. Visibility was a joke. The restaurant was a dark gray haze of bustle from inside Red’s head. So every Tuesday and Thursday there’d be a two hour shift of a designated Bird Buddy leading the visually impaired sacrifice around.

After being forced to wear it during a heat wave and vomiting from the overwhelming temperature, I had vowed to never wear it again. But every new host always had a tiny secret longing to wear it when they first started. This desire never survived the full two hour shift.

So I was working a day shift with a newer host, Lauren, who had been openly enthusiastic to wear it. The manager hustled up to tell us that a little kid was here for his birthday and desperately wanted to see Red. We weren’t scheduled but impromptu requests could be accommodated when the restaurant was slow.

I said, “Great, Lauren can do it and I can be her buddy.”

I grabbed the hapless Lauren and dragged her to the dry goods storage where the suit was stored and where we changed. I closed the door and dragged the suit down. It had a particular greasy ground in smell to it.

Frying food, hot oil, and body odor had all permeated the faux fur with a unique reek. The management mouthed empty nothings that the suit was sent for monthly cleanings. It was common knowledge they were lying through their teeth. The smell of Red was eternal and unchanging.

“Okay, so take off your pants, put on the tights, then step into the body and I’ll zip you up. Then you get a vest and the head goes on last, got it?”

Lauren stared at me. I stared back. She made no move to change.

“Okay…” I repeated, “So you take off your pants and put on the tights?”

Lauren shifted nervously, silent. Not changing.

“Do you need me to turn around…?” It hadn’t occurred to me that she might be shy based on her personality, all the hosts were fairly blasé about changing in front of each other.

“I didn’t….” Her voice dwindled to a decimal only perceivable by bats.

“What’s that?”

Blushing vibrantly she raised her voice to the level of a tiny mouse to squeak, “I’m not wearing underwear….”

I stared at her harder. Our uniform pants were dark denim jeans. The thought of rubbing my bare pussy into denim for a whole shift was on par with dry humping a sheet of sandpaper. “You’re… you’re not wearing… anything?”

She shook her head miserably.

We both regarded the yellow tights worn by most of the host staff. We contemplated a lack of underwear being pressed into those communal tights, adding to the miasma of Red’s smells.

But I was sure as fuck not getting in that costume.

“Make sure to take the tights home and wash them.”

Her eyebrows went up. She met the bitter steel in my eyes and crumpled. I turned my back and she did what she had to, slipping naked as a babe into the neon spandex of Red’s tights. Lauren trustingly kept a grip on my hand as I navigated her through trays and tables to terrify the tiny birthday boy.

To the best of my knowledge, she never did wash the tights.

[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Hey, i read the “Bat-boys finding out your pregnant” and may i ask for more? It was sooo cute that i need more of it 😭💕

The Batboys fathers HCs

A/N: this request is long overdue that I’m sure the requester doesn’t even remember it, but I’ve arrived at last. I hope this is what they wanted. The Absolute Power run has restored my love for Nightwing and comics. ❣️

Dick Grayson is a fun dad. At first, Dick suffocated beneath the weight of fatherly duties. He wanted to be better than Bruce. Dick loved him, but he could admit that his boyhood wasn’t a salubrious environment for the young mind. No child should have to carry the weight of Bruce’s mission. Thus, Dick’s mission became ensuring yours and the baby’s lives were secure, safe, and joyous.

Pale beams of sunlight kissed your cheeks good morning. The aroma of maple syrup wafted throughout the house, tickling your nostrils as you carried yourself down the stair steps, footfall by footfall. There Dick stood at the stove, scooting the black spatula beneath a golden pancake and flipping it into the air, causing your baby to burst out into a fit of giggles before the pancake hit the skillet with a sizzle. He was proud of himself for making his baby laugh.

“Well, well, look at mama.” A grin crept across his lips as he spotted you creeping closer, supernovas bursting in his electric blue irises.” You were snoring in a pool of drool when I awoke, so I grabbed the baby and started breakfast.” Vibrant seas of pacifiers, rattles, and toy pianos adorned the house.

Dick attempted to rush the developmental process. Not out of callousness, but sheer excitement to have a child. He had already stocked the baby in dolls, trucks, pacifiers, fruit snacks, apple juice (watered down, of course). He even installed a nightlight that short circuited the house at first, but Bruce helped him fix it. Reading is good for the baby right? Dick is on it. He’s already ordered the best and most classic tales; Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Seuss, Little Red Riding Hood.

Dick Grayson has read multiple novels on fatherhood, motherhood, child development, postpartum depression. He hates surprises, and babies are the breeding ground of surprises. He will pack the go-bag full of onesies, pacifiers, diapers, wipes, toys because he doesn’t want you to be in public and not have the materials.

“Give me a few days to install the new changing table. You’ll love it.” Crimson blush adorned his tanned cheeks, a proud grin dawning on his lips, showcasing his pearlescent teeth.” It broke when I weight checked it, thank god. Damian, albeit reluctantly, is coming out here tomorrow to translate the instructions.”

Jason Todd is the protective, paranoid father because he’d placed a bullet in the worst humanity had to offer, witnessed otherworldly horrors done to the little guys, the folks who lack billions of dollars to hole up on secluded islands and cabins. He can’t eradicate all the scum, can’t caulk the fractures villains seem to keep slipping through—and that terrifies him.

Jason never imagined a life worth living to be possible. He’d thought himself a sentient zombie, an unlucky boy yanked from the eternal peace of a cold, soundless grave and forced to enact vengeance on behalf of the common folk who lack the means to undertake the mission themselves. He never considered Red Hood to be a hero; merely a restless phantom with nothing else to bide his time until the sweet release of the afterlife deigned to shatter his manacles to the mortal world. That was until he’d fallen over the sun, offering endless devotion to his goddess, and you’d rewarded his offering with a daughter, a lovely girl. He’d abduct the moon and wrap it in a silken bow if only you’d give him permission.

“Catch, papa,” your daughter had called out, retrieving the little football and sprinting toward him, tiny feet carrying her over the damp and verdant grass of y’all’s backyard. Jason never brought the both of you to parks—an excess of people to watch, different personalities and behaviors; a myriad of possibilities for tragedy. Too much room for error in a vast, leafy expanse.

“You’ve gotta bring it to me first,” Jason called back, outstretching his muscular arms, awaiting her arrival. He was paranoid and distrustful of the world, not a killjoy. Y’all’s daughter’s bedroom was littered with vivid nail polishes, fluffy scarves, glittering tiaras, and Monster High dolls. Your daughter had always adored Frankie Stein and Frankenstein because they reminded her of Jason and herself, the dolls and humans both sharing pale white streaks of hair. He hadn’t known whether to laugh or weep upon hearing those words from her lips, innocent and completely unaware of the accuracies spanning far past hair color.

“Jason, I love you, but we are not cooping ourselves up in the house this summer.” The words were firm and unyielding—but lacking any true bite.

“ I’ve given you grace. I let a lot slide because I understand your background. But we’re just not doing it this summer. Its too hot to not go to waterparks and enjoy ourselves because of possibilities.” A damn good point rested upon your tongue, and he knew it.

“Fine.” He relented with a jocosely petulant huff.” But we take a gun with us.”

Tim Drake is an ambitious father. It’s been said before, but I don’t believe he’s as active as the fandom would believe. Though, his absence isn’t born of malice or indifference, but ambition, a thirst for a legacy. He wants to be a man his significant other and child can be proud of, a father worth bragging about. There’s also a large chamber seated within his mind that knows not how to be a father, for his parents were cold, choosing to throw dollars at his gripes and needs rather than be present.

One of his greatest fears is disappointing the both of you, like he was disappointed by his own parents, so disappointed he couldn’t even despise them. Tragically, the mission to avoid history’s repetition had placed him before a mirror, his parents gazing back at him, a smug smirk curled on their lips because they know that he’ll be on their end of the glass within a few decades.

Can he be blamed? Tim wants the absolute best for his family. The best grades, the best schools, the best scores, the best scholarships. He’s not naïve enough like Dick to believe hard work and persevere can lift a nobody anywhere. There are no bootstraps to be pulled taut. It’s an illusion, a sauce wealthy people spoon over their meals to disguise the taste of nepotism and privilege. Manipulations the rich regurgitate to excuse themselves from having to acknowledge the unfair, biased system they’ve upheld.

The door to his limousine slammed closed, his child seated beside but, but farther than ever. What could be said? Jerking forward, the limousine rolled into drive, coasting beneath autumn streaked clouds, as though her father had gifted her the sky from a florist. Bruce hadn’t prepared Tim for the teenaged terror years. He couldn’t help but wonder if he himself had been this capricious and fickle as a teen, or if he were merely that bad of a father.

“Do. . . do you want a Milkshake? From that one place by the house, like we used to when you were young.” Tim couldn’t help but raise a hopeful raven shaded brow. He could smell the stench of sweat, an anxious perspiration, cleaving to your school uniform. It must’ve been a test day.” I’ll clear the rest of my schedule for us. . . if you want, of course.” He extended an olive branch, granting her the choice to engage and accept, or set the course for the rest her teenage years.

Damian Wayne does not want children. He doesn’t know how far his taint would bleed, and all he can envision are the ways he could disgrace the mind of a child. His village was rotten and evil. Bad fruits bear worse seeds.

Damian’s devotion was love, the purest kind he knew, a primal desire to protect and cherish that of which he adored. You forged suns in his heart, set the butterflies in his belly aflutter. Beneath a weeping of sheet of violet sky, the both of you had sworn to love the other until Earth imploded—and when it did, he would find you in another universe.

He doesn’t hate children. In fact, he would be a decent babysitter for Dick and Jason, and whenever Tim deigned to grace the BatCave with his presence. But, Damian is staunch in his childfree attitude, and you respect it. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure you wanted kids. No, you and Damian battled crime, traveled the world and experienced culture, learned histories outside of the filth pumped into his mind by the Al Ghuls. Bruce was saddened by Damian’s decision against children, but he ultimately respected it—and him.

Damian knew he was poisoned and rotten and always would be, no matter what emblem was sewn over his breast. He was content with the life the both of you had, and knowing Dick, many more children are to come, so he’d never get lonely.” Beloved, what do you make of Italy? Not the tourist parts where the history is washed, but the ripe lands.”

Bruce Wayne is a weary father. He knew the birth of his youngest child was redemption, his last chance at preserving the Wayne name since Damian had sworn off children. But Bruce was aged, hardened, jaded, weary. He had scars to last a lifetime, some worn on his heart, though majority were worn on his skin.

The Wayne brownstone was eerily silent since Alfred’s death. Bruce’s son sat around the oaken table, coloring a picture of Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, and Alfred. Bruce’s heavy lids fell over exhausted, dim blue irises, his brain flitting back to the memories of Alfred, gathered at the stove and learning a recipe. I am. . . old, Master Bruce. My time on this earth is not infinite. You must learn more than the ways of fists, the words echoed in his mind. Reminding him that old age wasn’t even the murderer of Alfred Pennyworth.

He fetched an inhale before pulling himself off of the couch, and padding over toward his son at the dinner table.” What’s that? Oh, a pretty picture. A real artistic talent, like Damian.” Bruce was unsure of his fathering more often than not. He knew how it appeared to his son’s school counselors and the principal—old, washed up playboy Bruce Wayne saddled with another young son. That was far from the case, but the masses will believe anything when they’re given nothing.

Bruce fetched a pot and skillet from the creaking cabinets of the brownstone, far from the elegance and cleanliness of the manor. Alfred would’ve been mortified to see the mess, he almost chuckled, but withheld it. Lest his son raise a question, for the explanation would be too complicated and long-winded for his young mind.” So, what do you see for dinner tonight? What makes that belly growl like a lion? Mac and Cheese? Lasagna? Hamburger Helper?”

Bruce knew exactly what his son would choose. Asking was merely a courtesy. Bruce knew him, raised the boy from the minute he was weaned. He knew what his son would do before his son knew what he himself would do. The Batman wasn’t a slacker, wasn’t lazy.

[kwillow]

A Cure for Barbarity

The grand old manor of Northcrest provided more luxurious accommodations than most in the rag-tag group of soldiers in the company of the Rising Dawn were accustomed to - if they ignored the peeling wallpaper, smell of mold and the manor's creeping, foul-tempered owner. Unfortunately, Alex couldn't do the latter. She needed to wrangle their prisoner-turned-annoyance wizard Hyden into doing any work at all, and that meant negotiating with his self-appointed apprentice and biggest fan, their host with the least, Baron Theopolis North. Now she had two egotistical, unstable mages to deal with, which was two more than she ever wanted.

She was common, he was the worst kind of arrogant old-blood nobility, she no-nonsense, he excessively prone to nonsense, she hated Hyden, he adored the man beyond all reason. It was inevitable that tensions between the rat and bat would boil over into conflict. True, Alex was a disciplined soldier who knew how to keep a cool head in times of stress, but the mad mage of Northcrest knew how to get under her skin... in more ways than one.

[yameoto]

girldick!skank quinn won't leave my mind... send help

skank!quinn graffiting the girls bathroom with pornographic pictures of you and wanking over them like a total perv.

tw: semipublic masturbation, mild slutshaming

she fucked you, once, to show her mommy n daddy and herself that shes a big girl now. most earth-shattering sex of your life, not that youve ever acknowledged it, or her, since. so, she takes every opportunity to rub your nose in the dirt at how you stooped so low as to let quinn fabray stretch you out on her cock like a common whore. takes one to know one. she's painted your walls with cum and you wanna ignore her now? oh, she doesnt fucking think so.

skank!quinn staggering into a bathroom stall, half-drunk because she spent her chem period swigging ricewine under the bleachers with the skanks, so she doesn’t even check if the door is properly locked or not. doesn’t really fucking care. because how is one sight of you in the hallways enough for her to get painfully hard? in an instant she’s slumped on the toilet lid, legs swinging wide and tugging her cock out from her shitty ripped jeans and thumbing hopelessly over its dribbling tip.

its filthy and unclassy and decidedly the furthest thing from immaculate head cheerio, founder of the celibacy club, churchgoing daddy's girl; quinn fabray. which is precisely why she does it. another act of defiance. driven by all that festering resentment that’s been boiling up inside her since the dawn of time (though, it helps that you look hot enough to eat alive. that boner she's been sporting under the tied-up flannel around her waist has been fighting against her damn jeans, all day.)

strokes her member in languid, half-assed movements as her head falls back against tiled walls and her eyes flutter shut as she fantasises; about her shiny-black nails digging into the flesh of your thighs, your hips—clawing long, white scratches down your skin. her hands; sliding up your top and groping, squeezing, twisting your tits from under your bra. dragging your panties down your legs with her teeth, how your hips would jerk up as your pussy hits her tongue. your walls, tight and wet and wringing her cock.

she moans out loud as she jerks off, right then and there, not giving a single fuck who hears (though she stifles the gasp of your name all the same), biting hard against her knuckles when she feels her chest stutter, balls drawing up in her boxers and mascara-laden lashes batting uncontrollably. she cums. shoots her load all over the stall door, rutting into her fist as the creamy explosion arcs in the air, chest in rasping gasps as she aims, mouth hung open, eyes hooded with intent. takes a second to pant, slumped back, and admires her handiwork; glistening, all over a crude caricature of your naked form, penned in her black sharpie marker.

doesn’t even bother to wipe her dick off, afterwards. simply tucking herself back in her boxers and letting the aftermath soak into fabric, sticking to her skin. she smudges her hands on her jeans and struts out, cigarette balanced between teeth. she passes you by, on your way to the bathroom, and you’re completely nonplussed at the cocky, crooked upturn that fixtures her lips when her eyes meet yours, meaningfully, over those stupid sunnies of hers—until you’re shutting the stall door and face-to-face with a crude recreation of you; splattered and gleaming with dried cum. under it, in sharpied, instantly recognisable cursive loop (too delicate, for its purposes), glares one word—quinn’s.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Halloween

REFERENCES (Banshee; Ghost; Ghoul; Goblin; Haunt; Specter; Vampire; Wraith; Origins of Halloween)

Banshee

A female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die.

Banshee came from combining the Gaelic words meaning “woman of fairyland,” but any positive associations with fairies ends there.

Are female spirits that, if seen or heard wailing under the windows of a house, foretell of a death in the family that lives there.

Today, the word is most frequently heard in the idiom “scream like a banshee” or “wail like a banshee,” which shows the power of myth and the imaginative power of language, since probably no one has actually heard one.

Ghost

Most common meaning today is “a disembodied soul” or “the soul or specter of a deceased person”, which came next, a meaning based on the ancient folkloric notion that the spirit is separable from the body and can continue its existence after death. It originally meant “vital spark” or “the seat of life or intelligence,” which is still used in the phrase “give up the ghost.”

An older spelling of ghost, gast, is the root of aghast (“struck with terror, shocked”) and ghastly (“frightening”).

The German word for ghost, geist, is part of the word zeitgeist, which literally means “spirit of the time.”

Ghoul

A legendary evil being that robs graves and feeds on corpses.

Ghoul is a relatively recent English word, borrowed from Arabic in the 1700s.

Because it’s spelled with gh-, it looks vaguely like the Old English words ghost and ghastly (which share a common root in the Old English word gāst, meaning “spirit” or “ghost”).

In fact, it comes from the Arabic word ghūl, derived from the verb that means “to seize,” and originally meant “a legendary evil being held to rob graves and feed on corpses.” The word was introduced to western literature by the French translation of Arabian Nights.

Goblin

An ugly or grotesque sprite.

Usually mischievous and sometimes evil and malicious.

Haunt

To visit or inhabit as a ghost.

However, this is not the original sense of the word.

For centuries, it had a perfectly unfrightening set of meanings: “to visit often” and “to continually seek the company of.”

In the 1500s, it began to mean “to have a disquieting or harmful effect on,” as in “that problem may come back to haunt you.” The meaning here is simply the lingering presence of the problem, not the possibly scary nature of the problem itself; it is applied to thoughts, memories, and emotions.

The noun haunt retains this fright-neutral definition, “a place that you go to often,” as in “one of my favorite old haunts.”

A lingering idea, memory, or feeling may have led to the ghostly meaning of haunt, or one by a disembodied or imaginary spirit.

Specter

A visible disembodied spirit.

Specter originally meant “a visible disembodied spirit” in English—a good synonym for ghost. But, unlike ghost, the notion of being visible is paramount in specter, which came to English from the French word spectre, which developed directly from the Latin word spectrum, meaning “appearance” or “specter,” itself based on the verb specere, meaning “to look.”

Specere is also the root of many English words that have to do with appearance: aspect, conspicuous, inspect, perspective, and spectacle.

Vampire

The reanimated body of a dead person believed to come from the grave at night and suck the blood of persons asleep.

Legends of bloodsucking creatures go back to Ancient Greece, with harrowing tales of them rising from burial places at night to drink peoples’ blood before hiding from dawn’s daylight. These stories were popular in eastern Europe.

Originally comes from the Serbian word vampir, which then passed from German to French, coming to English in the 1700s.

The extended senses of vampire, “one who lives by preying on others” and a synonym of vampire bat, were both in use within a few decades.

Wraith

The exact likeness of a living person seen usually just before death as an apparition. The distinguishing quality of a wraith, compared with other ghosts, is its specificity.

Originally, it referred to either the exact likeness of a living person seen as an apparition just before that person’s death as a kind of spectral premonition of bad news, or a visible apparition of a dead person.

When referring to a living person, it’s a synonym of doppelgänger, or the “spirit double” of a living person (as opposed to a ghost, which refers to the spirit of a dead person). Doppelgänger is now frequently used in a broader sense to mean simply “someone who looks like someone else.”

When referring to a dead person, wraith is a synonym of revenant, which originally referred to a ghost of a particular person and subsequently has been used for a person who returns after a long absence.

ORIGINS OF HALLOWEEN

The traditions of Halloween have their origins in Samhain, a festival celebrated by the Celts of ancient Britain and Ireland.

Samhain marked the end of summer and the onset of winter, and occurred on a date that corresponds to our November 1st.

It was believed that during the Samhain festival, the world of the gods was visible to humans, and the gods took advantage of this fact by playing tricks on their mortal worshippers. Those worshippers in turn responded with bonfires on hilltops and sometimes masks and other varied disguises to keep ghosts from being able to recognize them. Things tended to get spooky and dangerous around Samhain, with bloody sacrifices and supernatural phenomena abounding.

Samhain chugged along for centuries, until Christianity poked its nose in: in the 8th century CE, All Saints' Day, a somewhat new Christian holiday, got moved from May 13th to November 1st.

The evening before All Saints' Day became a holy—that is, a hallowed—eve. Within a few centuries, Samhain and the eve of All Saints' Day had been merged into a single holiday. Protestants of the Reformation and all that came after largely rejected the whole thing, but the holiday persisted among some communities.

19th-century immigrants to the U.S., including many from Ireland, brought their Halloween customs with them and deserve no small amount of credit for the holiday as it's celebrated in the U.S. today.

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Word List: October

[cocoreallylovesraiden]

Bi Han living with reader hcs

(bullet points and blurbs) THIS WAS FOR AN INBOX ASK BUT I DELETED IT NOOO SHAWTY IM SO SORRY!!! I HOPE DIVINE INTERVENTION SENDS YOU THIS POST TELEPATHICALLY UR A STAR!

-Unless it’s for marriage, you would only move in with him if it was a matter of your safety. 

-Otherwise he would just trust you to manage on your own since if you can handle him you can handle anything in the world 

-Let’s say during a moment of conflict where a large percentage of earthrealm was a risk, he would ask (more like order) you to stay with him with the Lin Kuei. 

-Going to his quarters is like walking into an expensive furniture store and being afraid to get your commoner hands on anything at all. 

-You are left to settle your meagre belongings yourself, with strict instructions not to wander into the training compounds without a guide (read: himself), and though there were the usual lin kuei members patrolling about, you still felt incredibly isolated. 

-But the feeling goes from loneliness to an almost childlike wonder. It eventually leads to you taking a museum tour around the place like DAMN! This is what rich people's shampoo looks like! It’s… not very used… which is a little gross. 

-He comes back from his duties and is surprised when you greet him! Not in a cute way, in the way that you have to dodge tree trunk arms being swung at you like baseball bats. 

-The time you spend together is very mundane. Any energy he has is used on the Lin Kuei, which is understandable and honestly preferable because you get to be around a SLIGHTLY less high-strung bi han

-That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the energy to be insufferably tungsten-like when it came to nighttime

It seemed as though he had long settled his belongings into the intricate bedside drawer. He had yet to answer your question, leaving you to wonder if it had been in bad taste. You nervously tilt your head, trying to get a better view of him. You see Bi Han’s broad back, blocking the blue moonlight in a way reminiscent of Batman standing above Gotham skylines. The thought makes you snicker, a sound that’s soft in theory but almost echoes in the deathly quiet room. It makes his tense shoulders jump to his ears, and you can see his dark eyes dart to the very corners as if trying to get a glimpse of you without physically turning around. He stays perfectly still, like if he just didn’t breathe he could melt into the fabric of the bedsheets. 

The realisation dawns upon you like a humouring punch to the gut. Was he nervous? The big, bad grandmaster of Lin Kuei, nervous to have his partner in his bed? You have to throw yourself to face the other way, hand covering your mouth like it was a hostage situation. Unfortunately, a few stray cackles manage to escape you and this time you hear Bi Han scoff out a ‘is there something funny?’ 

It’s uncharacteristically strained, like a defensive child having to explain their search history. My god, he was really thrown off-kilter by you! The unintentional ego boost goes straight to your head as you readjust yourself, using your elbow to prop yourself up in a position you could only hope came off as comedically seductive. The face you met with is priceless, a mixture of second-hand embarrassment and horror etched onto his sharp features. 

You let out a laugh that sounds more like a chicken squawking, one that’s unfortunately interrupted by a rock-hard grain pillow being hurled at your head. It lands perfectly, because Bi Han only ever does things perfectly, and the speed that you slump onto the bed has him wondering if he accidentally murdered the one person who tolerated him non-professionally. 

He barks out your name, and groans when he hears you laughing from under your potential murder weapon. It’s not as amusing to him as it is for you, seeing as by the time you’ve freed yourself he’s turned his back to you with the air of an unforgiving housewife. No matter how much you grovel and paw at his head and back he refuses to say anything, but you know he’s awake because he flinches whenever you poke his sides. 

Bi Han huffs like a guard dog when you stop pestering him (because common misconception, you did need to sleep as well) and right as you're drifting off to sleep you feel the bed shift, and the pleasant coolness of his body temperature a little closer. 

-He wakes up early in the mornings and I personally do not think this guy eats breakfast but he definitely drinks tea

-He wakes up early in the mornings and I personally do not think this guy eats breakfast but he definitely drinks tea

-You two can share the wonderful joy of standing shoulder to shoulder making your respective morning drinks and judging each other for it

-Bi Han have you considered that you are a cranky bat because you don’t have coffee in the morning 

-Haha. You are so Funny. Have you considered the fact that you are stuck in the bathroom for an hour in the morning because of it.

-Too far Bi han too far

-During his daily duties, like while he watches his little foot goons do their drills he sometimes spaces out and wonders what you are doing back in his quarters. 

-If he sees you walking around the compound, god forbid trying to get your 10k steps in he has to do a triple take, then storms towards you with the intention of an air strike. 

When he sees your familiar mop of head peek through the intricate pillars of the Lin Kuei compound, it’s like an alarm goes off in his head. Thankfully he had been alone, travelling from supervising two training grounds; so he has time to get to you personally. The way your face lights up almost qualms the lecture brewing in his mind, but then he remembers what happened the last time you were left alone with a room of his men (the lin kuei had never been so close to unionising. God fears the scorn of a charismatic woman.) 

“What did I tell you about leaving alone without a guide? I cannot have you wandering aimlessly like a lost child.” It’s a tirade that he’s gone through countless times, and it’s more of a custom than meaning any of the words. You also seem to know, with how you barely raise an eyebrow at his stern words. A cheeky smile carves your cheeks as you stick out an elbow, and even as he continues his rant he subconsciously goes to link your arms together. 

“I have a guide, do I not? And a very handsome one.” You sound collected and suave, but even he can see the way you high-five yourself for thinking of that pick-up line. He wants to frown, but the dopamine he gets from the flattery has him frowning happily, trying to bite back a snort.

-Hes not kicking his feet giggling when he sees you after a day of work… but hes not NOT twirling his hair and shuffling in place

-Gets mad when you don’t run up to him the moment he goes through the door

-Ok diva

[brynn-lear]

"𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩" 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞

Relationship: Diluc Ragnvindr/Gender Neutral!Reader Synopsis: Diluc doesn't seem to like the ex-pirate who visits Angel's Share all that much, but he'll change his mind soon enough. (600 words)

Everyone working for the Dawn Winery didn't know what to make of you for the longest time.

You were becoming a new regular in Angel's Share, though you never bought alcoholic drinks for yourself. Instead, you'd go out of your way to pay Charles extra with specific instructions. You'd buy yourself a glass of wolfhook juice, pay for the next customer's shot— without batting an eye on the price tag, mind you— and then request to keep the glass bottle left behind. The staff would find you chatting up whoever was lucky enough to have their 1L pain reliever paid in full. There had been rumors that you once worked for Beidou from The Crux, so there's no wonder where you received the fortune.

There's also this tiny fact that you enjoy staring at the owner a lot.

If you want to be more charitable for troubled folks, there are better ways to go than paying for their drinks. Therapy is a better start; at least, that's what the Master believed. Despite profiting off your dubious goodwill, he wasn't fond of the execution. Diluc was under the impression that you find a twisted sense of pleasure in watching others poison themselves slowly. A hypocritical line of thought coming from the owner himself, so he has yet to voice them out loud. On the other hand, Venti doesn't think you're any cause for concern. The archon even implied you were an artisan— an attribute that confused Diluc even more.

"Is Master Diluc here?" Venti chirped, one foot inside the tavern while the other hovered outside in case he caught everyone in a sour mood (which isn't a rare occurrence on his end).

Diluc pinched the bridge of his nose. It was far too early for him to open the tavern, so he was the only one occupying the ground floor. He didn't look at Venti, instead his eyes were on last month's payment logs.

"What do you want, bard?"

Venti's face lit up as he marched forward. "I knew you would be too busy this festive season, so I bought you something from (Y/n)'s stall at the recent art fair!"

"(Y/n) sold something?" Finally, the jaded businessman met his gaze. He doesn't attend those. They were more or less Kaeya's scene than his.

"Not just sold— they literally sold out pretty quickly, actually!" Venti grinned, chuckling to himself. "Here's yours, open it!"

…

...

"A... vineyard in a bottle…?"

"Yep! I heard (Y/n)'s hobby was to make ships in a bottle, but this time, they're very inspired by something— or someone— else." Venti nodded, giving him a quick and playful wink. "I guess you two have much more in common than you thought, huh?"

"Instead of emptying bottles, you were both born to fill them."

Diluc chuckled softly.

He gently took the ship on the box, inspecting it. Diluc must admit, he doesn't quite understand the meaning of every detail, but the colors of the miniature people alone reminded him of regulars and other Dawn Winery staff. The people held baskets of grapes, some positioned themselves for a picnic, and he swore he saw a version of Stanley drinking with Venti by the vines.

Diluc made a strangled and surprised noise when he saw a particular red-haired man hidden from plain sight, pouring what was quite possibly grape juice for the (h/c) haired person facing him.

"I suppose so." Diluc nodded, fondly gazing at the ship. "I suppose so."

Ah, so that's what those stares were for.

You were collecting bottles to make these.

Maybe you weren't so bad after all.

[manageablemischiefs-blog]

Let's Reflect On: Peter Pettigrew's erasure from The Marauders by a big portion of the Harry Potter fandom.

Peter Pettigrew was an 11-year-old boy who happened to be in the same compartment of the Hogwarts Express as James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. They all befriended each other through that interaction - through being sorted in the same house, being dormmates, having things in common, being comfortable around each other.

Peter Pettigrew was a twenty-something-year-old man who was threatened to sell his friends to Voldemort. He was a coward, not a follower.

Even Voldemort himself says it:

“[…] Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?" He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob.  “You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don’t you?”“

Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire, Chapter 33: The Death Eaters

In the end, at the moment of his death, when ordered to strangle Harry he hesitated. Now, we have seen him murder without batting an eyelash, why would he not do the same with Harry?

Here's my take on it:

I believe Wormtail saw Harry as more than a chore, a body to dispose of. He saw him as James' son. His best friend whom he helped killing son. All the guilt and grief he had been trying to justify and push away since that fateful night dawned on him.

Peter had been there for his beginning; for James and Lily’s beginning. He was there at their wedding, at the baby shower (if there was one), for every Christmas since first year... He felt, not sure love, but definitely guilt. He looked at Harry and saw the face of James and the never-quivering eyes that once belonged to Lily. It was much easier living without carrying the responsibility of having cast the spell that ended their lives.

He hesitated, which caused the silver hand Voldemort had given to him to sense that as a sign of weakness and/or disloyalty, leading him to be strangled to death. With such a choice, he saves Harry’s life and, to me, finds redemption for his treason.

I’m not saying you should love Peter or that he was a wonderful human being who should now be showered with flowers and kisses by any means, but he has a story and he has a past. He has a built-up of growing insecurities until he betrays his friends. All of this is essential to understand that the twenty-something-year-old Peter Pettigrew is not the same as Hogwarts student Peter Pettigrew. There’s background and nuance to each character - If we ignore it and pretend he was an idiot through and through it just turns him into an empty character with no real importance in the plot, which is not the case. Don't reduce the complex relationship of the marauders to that.

To expand on the topic, the extraordinary @theprogressofspring has quite an extensive section on their blog labeled In Defense of Peter Pettigrew, with essays that go much more into detail and actually gave me the courage to post this entire thing. In addition, they also began a while ago writing The Life Cycle of the Common Rat; a story from Peter's point of view, tackling the first Wizarding War and refreshing characterizations of young adult marauders and Lily; it was a really tricky time, and sometimes the people we love are cunts and the people we hate are not pure evil.

[wylderflower]

How about lunacord next gen? I feel those two could get along well given they both were former villains and understand how it feels for others to view them as otherwise.

Say hello to Dreamweaver! I love the idea that Luna and Discord bond over being former villains and the prejudice that arises from that. Their draconequus child is the ruler of the dream realm, taking over for their mother when she retires from her royal duties. Some lore I thought of while drawing them~ Dreamweaver's body is made of a sheep's head, doe/dragon body and dove/bat wings. The projection over their horns is always the current phase of the moon. Their hair mimics the dawn sky and their wings the night. They represent both dreams and nightmares.

The orb they carry helps them enter and manipulate the dreams of others, a gift from their mother. It is said when Dreamweaver came into their magic, all creatures began dreaming. It was only common for ponies to dream before then. Dreamweaver is very shy and quiet outside of others dreams. Inside of dreams they take many forms and express their personality more outwardly. Once you have become close to Dreamweaver, you'll find out just how fun they are and how much they love pranks.

[llondonfog]

God there's something that drives me crazy about it how Lilia and Malleus have been putting Silver to sleep for years using Meleanor's lullaby. You might have talked about it before but ugghhhhhhh as wild as she was, she obviously wanted to be an amazing mother for her kid, and now her caretaking is even reaching the baby of the man who killed her. They're everything they drive me nuts!!!!!

I actually don't think I've talked about the lullaby before!! I've written one little ficlet about Meleanor surviving and Lilia adopting Silver as one big happy family (which I should revisit honestly . . . I live for Auntie Mel who will melt the faces off anyone human or fae or Lilia who causes her precious godchild to cry <3) but I've not talked about the lullaby!!

In regards to Lilia, the usage of the lullaby speaks such volumes to me of how he's already accepted Silver as his son and how he's refused to let the past/Silver's heritage taint his view of this truly innocent child. Silver's father was the one to battle against Meleanor and strike that final blow that destroyed her— the knight would be rightfully responsible for not only potentially decimating a kingdom and leaving it leaderless, but for killing a mother before she ever got to see her son, killing a wife still searching for her husband, and directly killing one of (at the time) Lilia's only two loves in his life. It would not be absurd for Lilia to withhold the lullaby from Silver out of respect for Meleanor, knowing her disdain for the human race and the ties that Silver unfortunately shares to her demise.

But instead, he does not see (as much as he may struggle to accept this change in his heart) a prince of an enemy nation or the son of a murderer— he cradles the warm, heavy bundle in his arms close, breathes in the sweet scent of the spring, and feels that tiny heartbeat as it tries to sync up with his own breathing. That baby— that's his Silver. His child that he's blessed and named, his own son for all the cognitive dissonance he exhibits when he struggles to come to terms with how much he cares for, loves the boy. And what does a parent do to soothe a fretful child in need of comfort? They sing a lullaby.

(He thinks Meleanor would understand. Perhaps he even feels her singing through him to the child. And when Silver drowsily blinks his dawn-swept eyes up at his papa, Lilia can only poke his cheek with a smile, wondering if this little human would have been the one to tame the mighty dragon, just as he's softened this old bat's heart.)

For Malleus and Silver, ugh their relationship is so complex and special to me. We have two princes who would have been raised on opposite sides of the battlefield, and frankly, Silver would most likely have died before Malleus could even learn to speak the common tongue. Just like Lilia and Silver, these two should never have met, and yet here we have Mal, strolling around this dinky little cottage with a human babe cradled in his arms, trying his best to soothe its forlorn cries for its father with a distant memory. A prince caring for another little prince, unknowingly welcoming the son of the man who killed his mother into his heart with so much fierce devotion that he would stop the world to keep Silver's tears from falling (I fully believe Lilia would have walked unscathed out of NRC and none of this overblot would have happened the moment that it did regardless of Mal's stewing emotions— but when he saw Silver weeping, he was not going to allow this charade to continue any longer).

But this lullaby surviving for centuries past Meleanor, and how it will continue to survive when Malleus passes it on to his own children, and Silver to his, it gives Lilia a glimpse of the hope he wishes for the future. Between his beautiful child and his noble prince, perhaps they can accomplish what their fathers and mothers could not.

[ladytauria]

*Astral projects into your room* Didnt-realize-they-were-dating Jaytimkon where Kon is the only one who realizes they're all dating but he thinks that jaytim knows this too. They do not. Kon is actively saying he's common law married and jaytim are saying they're roommates (with many benefits). Lighthearted but hilarious

sdfghjkhygh i love this so much

Kon moving in with Tim, while Tim and Jason are fwb. Tim wants Kon so Jason propositions him on Tim's behalf and it turns into the three of them fucking in various combinations. Jason shows up so often he's basically moved in as well, resulting in all three of them living together.

They fall into domesticity pretty easily--they go grocery shopping together, eat together, watch movies together. They cuddle on the couch and hold hands in public. They flirt and do all the typical couple-shit, so Kon is like. Yeah, these are my boyfriends, 'cause like. It's so obvious, who needs it spelled out to them?

These two dumbasses, of course.

First time he hears them say they're just roommates with benefits he thinks its a joke. The second time it's a little hurtful but then he thinks about it and it dawns on him:

Oh yeah. They're stupid.

Two of the smartest people he knows, but. Give them a relationship and suddenly they don't have two braincells to rub together between them. Kon is amused. Also exasperated. Cue his attempts to guide them into realizing what's going on.

He calls them "boyfriend." They respond, thoughtlessly. He calls their outing dates. They don't bat an eye. He tells them he loves them. They say it back.

Finally, he gives up and sits them down, to spell it out to them. (Lmao imagining him making a full on power point with picture evidence.) They finally get a clue.

Kon holds it over their heads forever.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Hello, your neighborhood Darry Curtis angst truther here. I would love to see what kind of Darry angst your magical brain can cook up, but I am partial to a sickfic. I can’t wait to read what you come up with!

oh I LOVE this!! Sick darry rots in my brain NON stop LOVE LOVE this ask!! fic under the cut!! TYSM FOR THE ASK!!

cw!! vomiting (nothing graphic!!)

Darry didn't get sick. He just didn't. He would defy the laws of nature and manage to avoid it in the middle of January takin' care of both Pony 'n Soda who'd managed to get strep and flu respectfully. He'd dodge it when Two took up a permanent residence in his bed with the stomach bug for a week. He'd come out without a scratch when both Dallas 'n Steve had the common cold 'n acted like they were goin' to have to be put down come dawn.

Pony 'n Soda claimed that Darry managed to stay healthy as a horse all year long on pure stubbornness. Darry had told them that if that was the case, Pony would never have caught so much as a cough.

Yes, Darry Curtis had a track record to uphold. A record he was currently watchin' slip straight through his fingers.

"G'mornin' Dar," Soda's already in the kitchen when Darry walks in, a bad sign. Darry can't remember the last time Soda had gotten ready before anyone. The second he claps his eyes on Darry his brows knit in concern. "You ok?"

"'Mornin', honey. I'm fine." He has to be. He ruffles Soda's hair 'n tries to walk past him, he can hear the sound of an egg burnin' on the pan 'n he's really not in the mood to have to scrape it off. The smell makes his stomach do a sudden, violent lurch. Soda easily blocks him, noddin' for Dallas, who leans over 'n takes the pan off from where he's sittin' in the window sill. "C'mon, kid."

"Somethin's wrong." Soda reaches up to put his palm on Darry's forehead 'n Darry easily bats him away.

"I just slept bad, I'm fine." To be fair, that was the truth. Or at least partly. Dallas had rolled in past three in the mornin' from a shift with the ponys at Buck's 'n climbed straight into Darry's bed, wreakin' like a stable 'n twice as cold. When he had tried to kick the kid out he had fought, literally, tooth 'n nail. Somethin' about Soda not bein' warm 'n Pony not sharin' the blanket. Never you mind it was the spittin' middle of summer. Darry had conceded, if only for the chance to go back to bed. The culprit glanced over his shoulder 'n grinned 'n Darry narrowed his eyes at him.

"Well... alright." Soda reluctantly moves out of the way 'n Darry squeezes his shoulder, grabbin' a piece of dry toast from the counter 'n movin' to put his shoes on. "Are you 'n Steve walkin' to the DX or d'you need a ride?" Steve 'n Soda's love child of a beater had recently done the only thing it did well, stop workin'. Again. Steve swore this time it was just the muffler. Easy fix. Last time he'd said that their car had sat on Darry's lawn for a week.

"We'll walk- wait you gotta have some breakfast." Soda stubbornly moves to cut him off again 'n Darry chuckles fondly, easily manhandlin' him out of the way.

"I'm gonna be late kiddo." He holds the toast in his mouth 'n steps into his work boots. "Hey, one of you make sure Pony gets up before you leave or else I swear he'll sleep all day." Darry shoves aside the feelin' in his gut, half premonition, half sickness.

"I'll get him up later." Dallas climbs off the counter 'n both him 'n Soda share a look. "You sure you're good, man?"

"Glory, you two really know how to make a man feel better." Darry rolls his eyes but gives them both a grin. "I'll be fine. Now, I'll be 'round to pick up you 'n Steve after work, 'n Dally, you're on dishes." Dallas scowled but didn't complain which wasn't much of a comfort. Darry must look bad if Dallas wouldn't kick up a fuss.

He was fine. He'd be fine.

God knows what they would do it he wasn't.

...

Darry was home by noon. Apparently, they don't take kindly to you vomitin' up breakfast at the construction site. He'd begged to be able to stay but his boss had stood firm on it. He was a real good man, had worked with his father, 'n had offered him the afternoon paid time off.

He'd barely gotten home. It was like all at once his body had just decided to quit workin'. His legs fell like jelly as he climbs out of the truck, white knucklin' the railin' to get up the steps.

"Pone?" He calls when the door swings open 'n is greeted with nothin' but the vague smell of burnt eggs. He instantly ducks into the kitchen 'n brings up bile. Well. Shit.

He reaches over 'n slides the window open, hopin' to circulate some air into the house. Only the sticky, tempid dry heat of Tusla summers trails through the screen. Darry sinks down to the basin, restin' his hot forehead against the cold metal.

Alright. Up. The house is, mercifully, empty 'n Darry makes quick work of shruggin' off his shoes, shirt, 'n work belt. He trudges down the hall 'n ducks into the relative darkness of his room. He's asleep before he realizes it, passed out on the bed with his Levi's still on.

...

"Darry?" Darry wakes up with a migraine, head swimmin'. Soda's voice calls from somewhere in the house 'n it's got a shrill high note of panic in it. Darry glances to the end table 'n has to shake his head three times before he processes the time. Six in the afternoon. Shit.

Darry sits up too fast 'n the world spins around him. No. No no no. He couldn't do this. The door to his bedroom bangs open 'n Soda appears in the doorway, face flushed, hair stickin' in every direction. Steve hovers behind him lookin' just as stricken.

"Oh, fuck. Dar you don't look good." Soda sits down on the bed 'n pushes Darry's hair off his sweaty forehead in a way oddly reminiscent of how Darry often did to him. He tries to grin, sits up a little taller, shakes Soda off 'n doesn't even grimace when just that makes his head damn near split. Soda doesn't fall for it one bit. "Darry you lay back down. Steve go get some soup from the cabinet, I know you haven't eaten anythin'." Soda shoots him a determined look 'n nods to himself when Darry doesn't protest. Steve spares him one more worried frown 'n disappears back down the hall.

"I'm fine Soda." Which is just about the biggest lie he's ever told.

"No, you're not." Soda leans over 'n presses on Darry's shoulder to make him lie down. He pretends it doesn't scare him how little force it takes. "You would never have forgotten to pick up me 'n Steve if somethin' wasn't wrong. 'N you definitely wouldn't be home early. Now, hush." Darry glances at him guiltily but now that he's layin' back down he can barely hold his eyes open.

"'M sorry, kiddo." Soda squeezes his shoulder 'n drops a kiss to his hot forehead.

"It's alright, Dar. Let me take care of you for once." And he thinks he says somethin' but, truthfully, he's asleep before he can be sure.

...

The next time he wakes up the sun is low outside his window, the shadows stretchin' long across the floor. He feels worse. Somehow. His body aches like he's been hit by a truck. His throat is sore 'n raw 'n he can feel the barely stagnant nausea in his stomach. When he turns his head the migraine flares to life along the edges of his vision.

"Darry?" Darry squeezes his eyes shut, the low voice soundin' like a gunshot in the silence. He blinks blearily, lifts his head 'n searches for the voice's owner.

"Pone?" The armchair from the living room has been drug into the corner of his bedroom 'n Pony is curled up in it. Darry can hear the sounds of Soda, Steve, 'n Dallas all in the kitchen down the hall 'n he grimaces.

"Yeah, Darry it's me." Shit. Pony shouldn't be in here. He can't afford the kid gettin' sick. Or seein' him like this. He's not supposed to be fallible. Glory, he doesn't have it in him to look strong right now. So he's gotta get the kid out.

"Your brother know you're in here?" Pony worries his lip between his teeth.

"No, he didn't want me to bug you but... I didn't want you to be alone." Glory, the kid could be a thorn in his side sometimes. But then he'd turn around 'n say somethin' like that 'n Darry really didn't know what he'd done in his life to end up with such good kid brothers.

"C'mere, Ponybaby." Darry shifts over, bites back on his wince, 'n Pony immediately curls up in the crook of his arm. Darry strokes his hair gently 'n Pony clutches Darry's side like if he can't hold on to him he'll vanish. The heat of Pony's body is nearly unbearable against Darry's fever-ridden sickness but Darry'll be damned if he's not gonna give his kid brother whatever comfort he can right now.

Darry's just startin' to drift again when the door eases open, the light from the hall nearly makin' him wretch. Soda slips in 'n eases the door shut behind him, a bowl of soup steamin' in his hands. The smell makes Darry's stomach churn.

"Ponyboy Curtis, didn't I tell you to let Darry sleep?" But he doesn't sound mad at all.

"C'mon Soda," Pony tucks himself tighter into the crook of Darry's elbow 'n Darry squeezes Pony reassuringly.

"Pony, mind your brother. I'll be fine." He gives Pony a gentle shove 'n Pony slides reluctantly off the bed 'n to Soda's side. Soda drops a kiss to his head 'n Pony slips out into the hall with a single worried glance back.

"How ya feelin', Dar?" Soda plops down on the bed, settin' the soup down on the end table 'n handin' Darry a glass of water.

"I'm-"

"If you say fine I'm gonna call you a liar." Soda wags a finger 'n Darry scoffs, flinches.

"I've had better days." Darry takes a small sip of the water, it feels like acid down his dry throat.

"You don't say?" Soda chuckles under his breath 'n takes the glass back, swappin' it with the soup 'n fixin' him with a look when he grimaces. "You gotta try to eat somethin', Dar."

Darry holds the bowl in his lap 'n takes a long steadin' breath. He doesn't want to. Honest. But he's spent too many mornin', noon, 'n nights fightin' with sick kids to know better than to refuse. He wasn't gonna make this any more stressful on Soda than it already was. "You know, Pepsi, you're pretty damn good at this older brother thing."

Soda folds his legs up crisis-cross under him 'n smiles ruefully. "I'll be happier when I can hand the position back over."

Darry chuckles 'n reaches out ruffles his hair. "Sorry, kiddo."

"For what? If you're apologizin' for gettin' sick I'm gonna make you eat the casserole I made for dinner instead of Steve's Campbell." Soda shoots him a stern glare he can't quite hold.

"Apologizin'? Who's apologizin'? I was feelin' sorry for myself." Soda howls his laugh 'n Darry has missed hearin' it so bad he manages to completely ignore the way his migraine fuzzes around his temples.

"Alright, mister, no more stallin'. Eat." Darry manages two bites in ten minutes. Then he vomits both it 'n the water back up.

"Dar..." Soda rubs his back 'n Darry bites his lip hard. He wants to bawl. He won't do that to Soda. "I think we're gonna hafta call a doc."

"Look, give me another day. I'm not gonna drain our entire fund for some stupid cold, ok? I'll be alright. Give me another day." He somehow finds it in him to sound more assured then he feels.

"Oook." Soda doesn't look confident at all as he takes the bowl off the end of the bed, most of the can still remainin'. "But, Dar?" He pauses until Darry looks back up at him.

"What is it, Pepsi?"

"We'd make it happen. It ain't a drain if it means we can fix you up."

"Alright, kiddo." 'N they both know he doesn't believe it. "Now get your ass outta here before you get sick too."

Soda offers only a wobbly version of his usual grin as he pulls the door back open. "Hey now, I ain't ready to hand over that in charge title yet, young man."

...

"Darry? Darry, c'mon man." Darry wakes to rough hands shakin' him 'n immediately knows it's not Pony or Soda.

"Dar, you're scarin' me, c'mon." The second Darry opens his eyes the hands drop him. Dallas sits back, eyes wild, hair fallin' in his face, hands clenchin' 'n unclenchin' on his knees.

Darry blinks hard, realizes three things at the same time. His heart is beatin' so hard he can hear the blood as it rushes in his ears. There's a name on his lips. Somethin' startin' with an M he knows before he has to ask. His throat is sore, 'n not from all the hackin' he's been doin'. The kind you get from screamin'.

He opens his mouth to answer 'n immediately brings up the contents of his stomach into the bucket Soda had left when he brought dinner. Dallas flies to his side, bony hand restin' on Darry's back. "Shit, Darry."

Darry squeezes his eyes shut, groans. The second he stops feelin' like heavin' around nothin' he sits back 'n refocuses on Dallas. "Shit, kid. I'm sorry. Are you ok?"

"Am I? Dar, I was worried about you, man. I'm fine." But he's still got a flash in his eyes Darry knows, the restless way his spins his ring around his finger. He opens one arm 'n Dallas hesitates before slidin' over 'n droppin' his head down to Darry's shoulder.

"Was I havin'... a nightmare?" He doesn't need to ask. He knows. They run in the family. Darry was just better at keepin' 'em locked down.

"Yeah, man. You were, uh, callin' for Mrs. C." He had figured. He lets out a long breath 'n rests his head down on Dallas', their temples together.

"You sure you're alright, kid?" Dallas presses his elbow against Darry's ribs 'n Darry does them both a favor 'n pulls him flush against his side.

"Yeah, man, I'm sure." They're quiet for a few moments. They don't need to say anythin'. "I'm glad Soda's asleep. Pony wanted to sleep in here but I told him no way, man, that kid's annoyin' when he's not sick."

Darry chuckles 'n lays back down. Dallas flips around a few times before settlin'. He's got the minimum amount of contact with space to have none. Darry lets out a huff of a laugh. He gets the touch thing from Pony, no contest.

"Thanks for wakin' me up, kid."

"Yeah, well, don't mention it. You were thrashin' around 'n takin' up my whole side of the bed 'n shit so I kinda had to." Darry laughs again 'n doesn't mention Dallas' doin' what he does best: pretendin' everythin' is ok. His migraine flares so bad he feels like his skull might just crack in half to remind him that's not the case.

"Dal, I don't want you catchin' this. Why don't you go elbow over Soda tonight?" When he twists to look at Darry he's got that look in his ice-chip eyes that tell Darry arguin' is pointless. He may not have gotten his stubbornness from the Curtis' but he damn well fit right in.

"Don't mention it."

...

Darry has his feet on the floor before he can fully process anythin'. He blinks his eyes, rubs at them blearily. Lets out a sigh when his stomach turns over. He's gettin' real sick of the wakin' up 'n driftin' off thing. Mostly 'cause every time he was up he expects to feel better 'n that is never the case.

He glances at the clock at his bedside. A little before six. Like clockwork. Darry never needed to set alarms. He just woke up when he was meant to. Pony had complained about that for years. 'N Darry, in turn, had complained about his obnoxious alarm clocks.

It takes a moment for him to realize he's suddenly ravenous. He's so goddamn relieved he could cry.

Dallas is gone but that's to be expected. Dallas was an oddly early riser. He would go to sleep at two 'n still wake up before Darry. Darry creeps into the kitchen 'n finds Dallas where he always is, curled up in the window sill. He also finds Soda, awake again.

"Hey lil' buddy, what are you doin' awake?" Soda whips around, still half asleep. He looks so soothed for a moment, the stress fallin' out of his shoulders. Then he gets a good look at Darry.

"What are you doin' out of bed?" Soda shrugs his DX shirt around on his shoulders, takes the coffee Dallas offers him.

"I've gotta go to work, kiddo. I'm feelin' better." Darry grins, holds his head stiffly 'n walks around the side of the table. Dallas jumps off the counter 'n, between the two of them, manage corner him.

"Nuh uh, no siree. I let you go to work yesterday 'n look where that got you." Darry sighs, lets Soda manhandle him down into a chair like just standin' too much could make him keel over 'n die. Darry won't admit he might be right.

"Soda, I love you. We can't afford this." Soda shoots Dallas a look Darry can't read. And that unsettles him.

"Don't worry, Dar. We got it covered. Plus, Soda already called you in sick so it's too late now." Dallas turns around 'n slides an egg that is somehow both over 'n underdone across the table. So Soda cooked. Darry snakes a hand out 'n snatches both of their wrists. Dallas jumps a lil' but neither look particularly surprised.

"This 'Got it covered' shit legal?" He fixes them both with the sternest look he can manage. His appetite is slippin' away from him again 'n he hates to admit it but Soda's probably right. Another look between the two of them 'n Darry gives them a shake.

"Look, Dar. Don't worry about it." Darry lets out an exasperated sigh 'n Dallas rolls his eyes. "Yes, it's legal. Soda 'n I are just pickin' up extra shifts, ok? Glory, you wouldn't let God have his second comin' without callin' you first."

Darry lets out a sigh of relief 'n chuckles. "Since when did you get religious, Dallas Winston?"

"Since the Devil thought it'd be funny to dump me in the middle of Tusla, Oklahoma with you bunch." Dallas scuffs his foot on the tile 'n Darry's laughs become a hackin' cough. Soda 'n Dallas glance at each other again.

"Look, you two, I appreciate it. But I'm not gonna make you work extra to pick up my slack. I'll just call back. I can go in." Soda sighs 'n sinks down into the chair across from his brother.

"Darry, just let us do this, alright?" He fiddles with his shirt, the mug, a curl of his bangs. "You do enough, Dar. Let us just do this."

No, he thinks, I never do enough.

Darry looks his kid brothers over again. Feels that familiar kick that he will never deserve this. "Fine." He swallows bile as it rises up his throat. "Fine. I'll stay home."

"And you won't do any housework- or anythin' Pony wants." Soda bounces back instantly waggin' his finger 'n grinnin', but that's how Soda's always been. "I better come back to this house a disaster!"

"Yessir." Darry throws his hands up, hesitantly tries for the eggs again.

"Steve's comin' in after school so if you need anythin' call Two, OK?" Darry nods again 'n Soda grins 'n pours him a glass of water.

"I'm gonna let Pony know we're headed out." Dallas disappears down the hall 'n Darry can hear him pokin' at the kid 'n when that doesn't work, drag the kid out of bed. In the literal fashion.

"OW!"

"Are the eggs ok? I cooked 'em." Darry goes for the least runny bite he can get.

"Great, kiddo. Thank you." He snaps Soda up 'n drops a kiss to his messy hair.

"-'n if I hear about you bein' a brat I swear to God-"

"Pony'll be stayin' here. I tried to get him to go but..." Soda trails off 'n they both hear the distinctive sound of two bodies hittin' the floor.

"I don't want him here on my account. He's not skippin' school if he ain't sick." Darry swallows his bite 'n bile crawls up his throat immediately. Soda watches him carefully.

"Well, if you wanna fight with the kid I won't get in you're way. But, uh, well you know how Pony is." He did. His migraine burns along the back of his head. Please Pony, he feels a little guilty but it doesn't stop him from thinkin', don't be yourself.

Dallas 'n Pony appear in the kitchen again, both tousel-headed 'n scowlin'. The second Pony lays eyes on Darry, however, he lets out a soft little noise of relief 'n throws himself into Darry's arms.

"Hey, kid." Darry runs a hand through his hair 'n pulls him into his lap.

"Dar, you're ok." He tucks his head under Darry's chin 'n Darry smiles. Maybe he should get sick more often.

"Well, don't be too happy. I'm gonna tell you somethin' you're not gonna like 'n I'm not fightin' on it." Pont leans back, furrows his brows.

"Ok?"

"You're goin' to school today. I'm not gonna have you skippin' for my sake. I'll be fine alone, Pone." Pony's face scrunches up into a scowl again.

"But-" Dallas clears his throat 'n Pony snaps his mouth shut. "Fine." He clambers away from Darry 'n back out into the hall, not quite managin' to avoid the whack to the back of the head Dallas sends him with a smirk.

"Glory, you 'n Soda run a tight ship, huh?" Dallas grins, shrugs on his jacket.

"Well, can't have the kid turnin' into a knucklehead 'cause you have to call out of havin' a stick up your ass for one day." Pony 'n Darry let out twin noises of indignation, Pony's comin' from somewhere around the corner. Soda 'n Dallas both howl.

"Watch it, you two. Once I get better I'm gonna have to beat your fool heads in." Darry rests his head on his hand, proppin' his elbow on the table. Glory, why did bein' sick make him so damn tired?

"Have to catch us first!" Soda splits into a toothy smile 'n slips out the screen door, snappin' the keys off the counter. "Don't you dare do nothin'- remember!"

"C'mon Pony! Leave now or walk!" Dallas shouts into the hall 'n Pony comes flyin' back out with his bag. He only stops long enough for Darry to press a kiss to his temple. Dallas kicks him in the ass 'n Pony turns back around to sock him in the ribs.

"Get better, Dar!"

"Yeah, 'n call Buck's if you need me." Darry rolls his eyes 'n follows them to the door, shuttin' it behind them.

"Somehow I'll manage. Glory, y'all have become frettin' hens!" Soda cracks up, squawks 'n flaps his hands. Pony shakes his head but can't hide his grin. "Love y'all."

"Love ya, Dar!"

"Yeah, man."

"Get better, Darry!"

The truck pulls out of the drive too fast 'n zips down the street. The second it vanishes around the corner exhaustion hits Darry again. He ducks back inside 'n is in bed before the sound of Soda gunnin' the engine is too far to hear.

...

The smell of dinner wakes Darry up. When his stomach flips it has nothin' to do with sickness. God, it smells good.

He kicks the blanket off 'n almost cries when he isn't swelterin' or shiverin'. When he gets to his feet his head doesn't swim. Glory, it doesn't even hurt. Heavensake, he'd forgotten how good it felt to not have a headache.

He eases the door open 'n the sound of an Elvis record they've nearly burned through skips on the player. It scratches 'n Darry can hear Steve 'n Dallas goin' back 'n forth over the new Hollies single or the Yard Birds. Dallas wins out 'n The Hollies drifts down the hall.

Darry pokes his head into the kitchen 'n Soda stops jabbin' at Two who was fixin' somethin' at the stove. He takes Darry in from head to toe 'n then grins wide. He looks exhausted but also younger than he has since the moment he came home to Darry 'n his bug.

Pony glances up from where he's workin' at his math homework 'n splits into a big smile.

"Dar!" He shoots out of his chair so fast he nearly knocks it over. Dallas 'n Steve duck into the kitchen from the living room both lookin' suddenly, jarringly relieved. Pony throws his arms around Darry 'n Darry pulls Soda into the hug.

"You feelin' better, Superman?" The smell of gasoline clings to both Steve 'n Soda. Horses to Dallas'. Pony's homework it half done. No one coercin' him. The meal Two's pullin' out of the oven had taken at least an hour of prep work. Darry knows from experience. 'N they're all lookin' at him.

"Yeah, you know? I am."

[selineram3421]

🎀

You're Off-key

Part 3

Part 2

Reader X Gravity Falls

Warnings ⚠

⚠ everyone is aged up, cussing, American healthcare, Ford being weird, Italics= thoughts ⚠

Hours had passed and Mabel wanted to know everything about you, her "new friend."

You told her your favorite color, desserts, movies, and so on. She had questions about questions and even more questions. It was almost never ending.

Thankfully her twin distracted her by talking about the other board games that you might be able to play.

"Or we could play a card game?", Dipper suggests.

"I am willing but I will have you know that I am terrible at card games.", you say as the two help you to a spare room upstairs. "Is it good or bad that I'm feeling a little light headed as we go up?"

"Aaand we should sit you down. Soon.", one of the two panics.

Mabel thinks it's a little funny. "How does it feel? Like you're floating or like you're weightless?"

"What's the difference!?", her twin asks as they both get you to sit down in the extra room.

"There is a difference.", you confirm as you lean back on the chair. "Floating is like back and forth, you feel it in waves, while being weightless is like you're in a void, nothing is weighing you down."

"....", the two stare at you as they try to process how you know that.

"Did they have Smile Dip?"

You wake up somewhat early, that being the ass crack of dawn and see a glass of water on the table nearby.

Sitting up to take a sip from the glass, you find a weird headset on your head and follow the wires, only to find Ford holding a little calculator like monitor at the end of it.

"Don't mind me, just reading your vitals and brain waves."

"AAAAAAAH-!"

You knew that Ford had a few screws loose but he was taking things too far. Even Stan gave him a good whack after rushing up the stairs with a bat.

Though, you did know it would happen, it was still kinda creepy.

"Even though it is great to be curious and have the need for knowledge, Great Uncle Ford must be put in time out.", Marble declared during breakfast. "You crossed a lot of boundaries."

"What is the normal amount of boundaries that are allowed to be crossed?", Ford asked.

"None.", Dipper said.

"Look, I can understand that you wanted to check up on me but with such treatment, it feels more like I'm a test subject than a patient.", you speak up. "Also, maybe you want to wait till I'm conscious to do tests like that. You'll most likely get better results."

"Better results how?", the older man asks.

"I'm awake to answer questions is how.", you say. "Also, I need copies of whatever you got from that scan."

⯅

"I call driving to the clinic!", Mabel says.

You and Dipper glance at each other a little worriedly.

"Ten bucks says you can't make it without pointing out cute dogs on the way.", you bet suddenly.

"Twenty for cats.", Dipper adds in.

"I'll take that bet!", she says and grabs the keys. "To the golf cart!"

A quick drive, some disco music, and a quiet Mabel, you all make it to the little clinic and check yourself in.

While waiting (for whatever reason), you look around and find an opossum playing dead near the blue couch you were sitting on. Mabel was trying to pet it and Dipper was pushing her hand away.

"No, stop! We don't know if it has rabies!", he whispered.

"Opossums are actually least likely to have rabies.", you say while reading some magazine titles on the book rack to your left.

"Ha!", Mabel laughs and pets the opossum.

Someone calls out your name and you head over. A quick scan, a questionnaire, and the doc tells you to take it easy for a few days.

"So.. you're telling me something I already knew to do?", you say.

"Yes!"

With a deadpan stare, you walk out of the clinic upset.

"The American healthcare system!", you shout. "WHAT A JOKE!"

"What happened?", Dipper asked.

"Did you get magical powers!?", Mabel asks.

"No. I got common sense told back to me.", you say with a sigh. "Let's run so I don't have to pay anything."

"You got it!", Mabel says and tosses the keys to Dipper. "Shotgun!", she runs off.

Thanks to that, which was nothing, all of you made it back to the Mystery Shack and you went straight to Ford.

Who was downstairs in the bunker lab.

"Ok old man, I need to know what that scan said and how to take care of my injuries. Please."

Ford was doing...something and gestured at the papers on his desk.

"Of course, the papers are over there. Just give me a minute."

Picking up the scan from the desk, you saw a bunch of zigzag lines and some notes on the side. The writing was a little hard to read but you managed to make some stuff out.

"Can't understand the static? What the heck is this?", you keep reading the almost illegible notes. "I'm just going to take a nap.", you decide. "Or read a book."

I don't want to know. You thought tiredly.

As you left, you didn't notice that Ford hid the scan papers in a folder.

*hides* Now I shall sleep.

~Seline, the person.

Part 4

Taglist@

@diffidentphantom @sleep-7372 @boredwithlifeatthispoint @mspurpl3 @gxstiess @lynkolnevans @fries11 @paastaboi @the-monochrome-jester @staygold162 @geckodarla @klwrites @alias-sam @eddwardtheseventhspacewizard @agreatcheesecakestudentstuff @+?

GF List🏞 | YO-🎹

[saphirered]

Hiii I love ur writing!

I would love to see a Percy x reader where they both kinda hate each other in the beginning but eventually fall in love, if that makes sense? Maybe a rivals to lovers thing

Hope that makes sense! Love ur work :D

Thank you deary! I love a little rivals to lovers moment so I hope you enjoy this one! 😘

You are completely and utterly infuriating. Percy has a multitude of enemies in his life, upon whom he wishes horrible things but you are not a common enemy. You are not a friend either. He does not wish an ill fate to befall you. What he does wish for, is your projects falling apart at the seams, your wine to taste sour and food to be bland, your ink to forever run out, your notes to be messed up, that one tool you need to be missing or just barely out of reach. Percy wishes no harm upon you but he does wish for the most petty things to befall you. Were he anyone else he might feel some kind of way but he just happens to be a petty individual from time to time and when it comes to you, you are no exception. 

Percy doesn’t quite know where it began or when it might end. He cannot remember a time before, where you might have been on less rivalling terms. You’ve just always been so damn you and you can get under his skin like no other with your stupid perfection and incredible mind. Your clever and eloquent words always hit him just the wrong way and you make his blood boil. Where he turned a tinkerer, you turned to magic. You’re a damn prodigy and you have no issue with rubbing it in his face. You just had to get involved in Whitestone politics, didn’t you? You just had to be fundamental in the city’s protection. You just had to rub it in his face you were here when he wasn’t. 

Your skills to disturb his peace just when he needed it are impeccable. Percy was enjoying a late lunch in the dining hall alone after a busy morning and afternoon of tinkering and meetings. You had been entirely absent all day, nowhere to be found. Despite what he might have thought the lack of your presence irked him. He brushed it off as some expectation you might jump out to ruin his day at some point but you never did. Percy would deny it if ever faced with it but he grew worried at your lack of presence. Perhaps you overslept. Completely unreasonable for you as you rise at the crack of dawn and are never a minute late to anything. You’d missed two meetings you were set to attend. No page had come to notify him of your undoubtedly expertly worded excuse. No word of you came at all. And when those meetings came to an end nobody had batted an eye at your lack of attendance. Did everyone know but him? Was this some sort of trick? Another petty thing to get back at him for something he might have said or done? 

Think of the devil and they shall appear. You enter the dining hall and beeline for the decanter and glasses. You fill one and drink, then fill it again with a deep sigh. You lean against the table a little too much as you shuffle over to grab a plate and pile some of the food leftovers still set out; some bread and some fruits, Percy notes. Not your usual choices. If anything you seem entirely careless about the contents. He notes your appearance. You look disheveled. Your clothes are crinkled and you’re sweaty. Your eyes are sunken and your expression is grim. Your shoulders are slumped and there’s a shake to your hands that are usually so steady. You look exhausted. 

“What hell hole did you crawl out of?” Percy says with his usual snark and casually sips his wine. He expects a quick-witted retort. You bite your tongue and shake your head as you drop some grapes on your plate. 

“I’m not in the mood for your quips, Percival. If you’re looking for a fight I suggest you go find your friends and ask them to kick your ass into the next realm.” You grumble picking up your plate now filled and taking another large swig of your drink before you pour a refill. 

“Day drinking already? I recall you saying those are the actions of idiots and alcoholics.” You give him a look, in particular his own glass very much filled with the burgundy liquid yours holds as well. 

“So which one are you? Idiot or alcoholic?” You retort and Percy swears he notes the faint twitch at the corner of your lips. 

“Any one who does not question his sanity is the furthest from it.” 

“The same could be said about anyone who holds a cup and proclaims themselves not a problem drinker.” He snorts and rolls his eyes. You look between him and the exit. Your exhaustion shows and with a shake of the head more to yourself than him you take to the seat opposite of him. You sit down gracelessly, push aside the cutlery, put your elbows on the table as you cross your arms and lean on them. The moment you sit down there seems to be some kind of relief rushing through you, similar to that of muscle ache. What had you been up to? Percy wants to find out. 

“You neglected your duties to the council today.” It’s a statement not a question. You just pick up a grape and pop it into your mouth musing a shrug. “Did you oversleep?” The jab is almost belittling and you shoot him a look to remind him of your first statement; you really aren’t in the mood for this. 

“I was otherwise occupied. Now may I please eat in silence?” The expression, the tiredness in his eyes makes him almost regret his pervious words. What has caused you to be like this? He’s never seen you so-so beyond yourself. You’ve always been the image of composure and expertise and now, you’re almost seem vulnerable, weak, almost human and not just the picture perfect creature you’d set your appearances as. You’re a person, not just some devil sent straight from the hells to make his life a living nightmare. You’re real. 

“If you wish…” He pushes around his food with his fork while you tear bits and pieces off the bread and eat them slowly. You’re too tired to eat. You look like you’re about to fall asleep right here on this very table, or at least deliberating whether you could justify it. You both eat in silence for the next few minutes. Percy has cleaned his plate and reaches for the decanter to pour some more wine. You’re confused when he refills your cup too. 

“Are you alright?” Percy asks out of the blue and you might as well have been shot by one of Vex’s arrows given your surprise. You choke on your bread and cough. 

“Excuse me?” You wheeze and recompose yourself. You look for any kind of deceit or malicious intent, anything that might explain the undertone of his question because you are pretty damn sure that sounded an awful lot like worry.

“Are you alright?” The second time he repeats it does not ease quell your confusion. Still sounds like worry. Why the hell would he have any reason to be worried about you? You two have been nothing but a menace upon each other’s lives. You never had anything nice to say about each other. You constantly question each other’s skill, motives and credibility. You constantly undermine and try to outperform each other. That’s not to say you have not enjoyed any of it, and you remember the looks of satisfaction and pride well when either of you stand victor over the other. You’d never expect worry to be an expression associated with Percy in the context of you. Worry means concern and concern is rooted in care. And that train of thought sends you down a spiral. Does he care? Do you care? Maybe you do. Anyone’s life grows a little duller without their competition nearby, right? That’s just a poor excuse. How do you even answer his question? Honesty. 

“No.” You speak before you can think but you know it’s true. You’ve been pushing yourself too far the past few weeks.

“Will you be alright?” When you answered Percy swears something within him reminisces of glass breaking. 

“I don’t know.” You chuckle to yourself and think for a second. “Do you know you’re the first person to ask me that and and got the real answer? What does that say about me?” The latter you ask yourself. 

“You’re exhausted. Rest.” You’ve heard those words before but not from him. “I can’t very well argue with you when you’re about to pass out onto your lunch.” There’s a light quip in there but it’s far more playful than the ones you’re used to. It’s far more lighthearted than you have ever exchanged. 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? What’s your record? Sixty-five hours without a minute of sleep before you decided a nice risotto would make a comfortable pillow?” 

“You keep reminding me. As you keep reminding me that your record is set at sixty-seven hours and twenty-four minutes and thus you have bested me even in sleep deprivation.” He manages a chuckle as do you. 

“Are these the petty victories we have come to? Have we no better achievements left?” 

“Well, I’ve killed a dragon. You?” He deadpans though there’s no real seriousness about the brag. 

“You and your friends killed a dragon, together. You still got four more to go. Don’t get ahead of yourself, dear.” You wink and swirl your wine leaning back in your seat. Though exhausted the tension begins ebbing away. Who knew it was Percy that would be a comfort and bring peace to the chaos of your life. 

“It’s still one more than you. Besides, we’ll have killed the other four in time.” You shrug and flick a grape at him. It bounces off his arm and rolls on the table. Before you can claim it back Percy puts his hand over it and prevents you from getting it. He cups it as you try to pry his fingers apart and gets it out of your reach lest you disgrace yourself even further and lean over the table to attempt to take it from him. He grins victoriously and pops the fruit into his mouth. You mutter some kind of curse under your breath and he just looks at you innocently. 

“Of course, you take your sweet time skinning some dragons while I keep this city safe hidden from their senses. Tell me, how many lives saved every day counts against the slaying of a dragon? What’s the conversion rate? You’re schooled in mathematics and economics are you not?” You point a finger at him and Percy is sure he has the perfect retort for your statement but then the gravity of it hits him. You’ve been the one keeping up this city-wide illusion. You’ve been the one keeping Whitestone safe in his absence. That’s why you weren’t at the meeting today and that’s why he wasn’t informed. Gilmore and Allura were there, you weren’t. He doesn’t know why it took him two days to figure out no three of you were seen in the same place since he returned from the Feywild. He had known the illusion was there, he passed through it for goodness’ sake. He just never considered that’s what you’d be doing. It’d gone over his head you’d use your skills not to fight but to protect instead. You’d not reach for glory or selfish gain but you’d do what is best for the people. You’d still risk yourself for every soul in Whitestone. You’d been doing so for weeks and you had not flaunted it in his face once during your interactions. How did you end up the one protecting him? Why did you not gloat? Why do you not mention this fact even now? 

“You’ve been pushing yourself beyond your limits, for Whitestone? For us?” He asks breathlessly. The meaning behind those words becomes very real now they are spoken, and the statement is undeniable. The playfulness disappears and a a gloomy sorrow overcasts instead. Still you manage a cocky grin with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well who else is going to keep your precious workshop safe so you can continue constructing the means of a dragon’s demise or while you’re off gathering those pesky vestiges?” Your jest does not make lighter the gravity of your deeds. 

“Thank you.” Percy blurts before he recovers. “I mean it. Thank you, for everything. Whitestone owes you a debt.” ‘I owe you a debt’, he leaves those last words unspoken. Percy cannot quite describe what runs through you but he feels safe to assume you have not heard those words before, not on this matter. It’s one thing to know people are grateful for the work you do. It’s another to actually hear them say it. A thoughtful moment of silence passes before you push back your chair and rise.

“I’m going to sleep for the barest amount possible and then I’m going to go back for my next shift and repeat this all over again.” You twirl your wrists and they crack sending shivers up Percy’s spine. You flex your shoulders and same thing happens. He sees the discomfort pass across your features when you push the chair back in its place and lean on the back of it before you walk around the table and make way for the exit. 

“Get some proper sleep. I’ll talk to Allura or Gilmore-“ Percy argues but you stop and face him shaking your head. 

“They need their rest too if we want this illusion to last.” You counter. You dread every day as this thing eats away at your magic. You don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this but you have to. Every life in this city depends on it. 

“There has to be something…” Percy thinks of the ways to help but there’s nothing. He knows next to nothing about the arcane. He’s no mage. He’s a damn tinkerer and he can’t very well fix this with some mirrors or magical charges. He can’t help bear the burden, not as you carry the burden for him. Whitestone should be his responsibility, but he’s out of his depths. He’s helpless, or would be without you to keep pushing yourself far past your limits. He can only imagine what price you’d pay for this over time, or how long you’d be able to keep this going. He’ll have to admit defeat in this particular query. 

“You could kill some dragons.” You smile. “But until then, I’d appreciate some company while I drain every resource I have until I can barely stand. If you have the time-“ You imply but an answer is given immediately. 

“I’ll make time.” He answers far too quickly. “I’ve come to the conclusion I might like your company far more than I dislike it.” So he has. He cares about you. He looks back upon his life now and he knows it to be true. His pettiness was never born from hatred or dislike. You were perfect, are perfect in his eyes, any imperfection does not chip away at that belief, it is simply part of you. He’s envious of your skill and achievement because he desires to be your equal but felt like he could never be. His pettiness was born from a an unfair coping mechanism and he hopes this is something you two can work on now that veil has been dropped. Perhaps you can discuss as adults rather than bicker like children? He’d like that very much. He likes you. That feel like a disgusting thought he’s still coming to terms with but he knows he can get over himself. He likes you. 

“Is this where we kiss and profess our undying love for each other?” And you like him. Gods he doesn’t need a demon’s bargain to figure that one out. He knows your games and your words, he knows how to read those underlying tones and it’s exactly how he sees now; you like him. Never did he think he’d draw that conclusion nor would he think himself anything but a fool for believing it. Maybe he is a fool. A lucky fool he’ll be. 

“Perhaps in time.” He retorts. Okay maybe old habits do die hard but given you purse your lips and blow him a kiss, it’s not a habit you want to let die either. It’s perfectly you. It’s perfectly him too. 

“I reckon I’ll have you swooning in no time.” 

“That sounds an awful lot like a challenge. A petty one at that.” 

“If you say so…” 

[elrielffs]

“He hadn't gotten that far with his planning, certainly not beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to.”

Gwynriels love to use this as proof of “it’s just lust,” but it’s as if they haven’t paid attention to the way Azriel’s character is described. Why would he envision a future with Elain when she has a mate and he feels unworthy of love and happiness?

Of the three bat boys, I would say that Rhys has the “healthiest” self-esteem and self-confidence, and even he didn’t want to dream or plan a future with Feyre because he didn’t feel good enough for her. So, why would things be different for Az?

It really is crazy how much stock they put in that sentence, like Azriel should of had a power point presentation (ha!) to explain exactly how and why he's in love with Elain and what he's gonna do about it down to how they'll have his kids in a magical pregnancy since Elain doesn't have the PLiAbLE BoNeS.

Never mind he also mentions this is the first time he's voicing his thoughts and feelings out loud and being vulnerable and it was sprung on him after a very charged moment with Elain. He should of had his shit together and waxed poetic to Rhysand all the ways he loves Elain. (Protip: If a guy describes a girl like the sun at dawn...that's not lust either.)

Cassian also didn't have a plan. He banged Nesta's brains out before they even confirmed if they were mates to each other or even said I love you. Cassian also didn't think he was worthy of Nesta because he was bastard born but nobody said anything about how he can't be with Nesta cause he feels unworthy.

I've also seen antis use because Az didn't think about his hands around Gwyn or didn't feel unworthy means they're endgame.

It's almost as if...when you like someone in a romantic way...you care more what they would think and become self conscious? And it's a common common common COMMON trope that the male love interest doesn't feel good enough for the fmc in romantic media.

It's really sweet that Azriel actually worked up the nerve that night to even give Elain the necklace. With how unworthy he feels, his self-esteem so low, he dared to hope that Elain would return his affections and she did--then everything was shattered. I don't blame him for throwing rock filled snowballs at Rhys the next day.

As for all the sexual thoughts, Rhysand thought that way about Feyre. Cassian thought that way about Nesta. It's not wrong for Azriel to think that way about Elain.

Antis REALLY wanted the whole Elriel book in the BC apparently.