#WHETHER HE SHOULD BE AT WING OR CENTER

[st-louis]

"like marty's been kind of preaching lately, you gotta find a chair."

[munsons-hellfire]

Forever Together 2 | Ploy!Bat Boys

SUMMARY: You struggle to come to terms with the battle against Hybern. But Feyre’s pregnancy looms over everyone. And while everyone is worried about her and the babe with wings your mates are worried about you and the state you’ve been left in.

PAIRINGS: Bat Boys x Reader

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of trauma, mentions of war, mentions of death, lying, the inner circle, cliff hanger

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This post is out a little late, mainly because I couldn't post it while I was at work as I did not have my laptop. It's looking like this is turning into a series if I can't get everything finished in part 3. I really don't want to rush it so it might be turning into a series. If you wish to be tagged in the next part let me know in the comments.

WORD COUNT: 2.7K

Feyre is pregnant. You were happy for her and Ryder, you knew they deserved it after all the trouble they’d gone through just to be with each other. Since the war had ended you and your mates had not yet accepted the bond fully. Cassian and Azriel were on missions and you and Rhysand were working hard with the other High Lords to come to an agreement on the treaty. Right now that was the least of your concerns.

You were curled up on Rhysand’s lap, your head rested on his chest while his arms were draped around your body. Cassian and Azriel had found it hard to keep their eyes off their mates. It had been hard to separate you from Rhy’s side as of late. Though the High Lord wasn’t complaining. Everyone was in the room in your home that Rhys had built after the war. It was nice to be able to come home to the three males. Feyre and Ryder had a home built right next to yours.

Right now they were discussing whether they should tell Lucien about his true heritage. You didn’t agree with them in the slightest, and their reasoning for not wanting to tell him was starting to anger you. You knew you were pushing it down the bond, you knew that Rhys, Cass, and Az could feel everything you were sending them. It wasn’t fair to Lucien to be kept in the dark about who his father really was.

You felt differently towards this whole conversation, you wanted to know what it was like to truly have a brother. And Lucien was your brother, he was your half-brother; but still he was blood nonetheless. And you knew he deserved to know. You had disliked how they all had treated him in the aftermath of what Hybern had done to Nesta and Elain. You knew he wasn’t in the right, but he didn’t deserve the treatment he was getting.

You felt an unbearable headache coming on, you’d have to stop at Madja to see if she’d have anything for the pain, and maybe you’d get a sleeping tonic to hopefully allow you to at least get one peaceful sleep without nightmares. The constant arguing was starting to get on your nerves. Finally you had enough and stood up from Rhy’s lap. You already missed his warmth and wanted to crawl back into his lap.

”Are you ok, love?” Azriel questioned, his brow lifted as he leaned forward in his seat next to Cassian. His hazel eyes were glued to you. There was a trace of worry in his features.

”This isn’t right.” You mumbled, walking to the center of the room. You wrapped your arms around your body as all eyes were now on you. “I don’t think this should be kept from him.”

”Y/N, Lucien is in the human lands, one secret won’t hurt him.” Rhy’s soft voice swam through your pointed ears. Shock fell upon your features as you stared at your mate.

”No, I won’t have it.” You glared at him, at the male who had made you his High Lady.

”Why? Why are you so eager to tell that male?” Amren asked, her eyes blazing brightly as she stared at you.

”Because he deserves to know his father.” You paused, closing your mouth. You were trying so hard to hold back the tears but waves were crashing into you like you weren’t made of stone. “Because I deserve a brother who loves me, and doesn’t treat me like shit, one who didn’t get my mother killed. I deserve better than those Illyrian bastards I was forced to call brothers. Most importantly, Lucien deserves a family who loves him for him and not who he sided with.”

The hurt was evident in your voice as you spoke to them. You couldn’t stand it anymore. All their eyes on you. Taking a deep breath in to calm yourself, then you released it. Turning away from them you quickly walked out of the room heading to your shared room with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel. All of whom had exchanged a concerned look with each other.

”I think it’s best if we come back to this matter on a later day.” Rhys said, as he stood from his chair and walked out of the living room heading down the hallway. Cassian and Azriel would see to it that everyone left and then they’d join you and Rhys.

When you made it to the bedroom you collapsed into the bed and pulled the covers over your head. You didn’t understand why this was something that needed to be discussed. Lucien deserved to know that Helion was his father, that you were his half-sister. You deserved so much and so did he. You pressed your eyes closed tightly when you heard the door open. You weren’t in the mood to talk to any of them tonight, not while the emotions were still fresh in your mind.

You felt Rhys press his body into you, his arm wrapped around your waist and he pulled you and the cover closer to him. His chin rested on top of your hair, slowly you started to remove the cover from the top half of your body. Just as Cassian and Azriel walked into the room. You felt the bed dip again. Cassian was on the other side of you and Azriel was behind Rhys.

Since coming home from the war you had curled up next to Rhys at night, while Cassian and Azriel would often switch which side of the bed they slept on. Rhy’s violet eyes found yours, he pulled his hand up and rested it on your cheek.

“Do you want to talk about whatever is bothering you darling?” Rhys asked, his voice so soft. You shook your head, Rhys’ hand moving with your movement.

“Not tonight, I-I can’t.” Your lips were trembling as more fresh tears fell down your face.

“We’ll talk about it when you're ready sweetheart.” Cassian was the next to speak, he nudged his head into your neck and breathed in your sweet scent.

“Get some sleep, love.” Azriel was the next to speak. You once again found yourself nodding your head. It was difficult to come up with the words right now. You snuggled up between your three mates and eventually sleep found you but it wasn’t a dreamless sleep like you’d hoped for.

☾

They were surrounding you, there was nowhere to go. And you’d be forced with only one option, kill them. They were now a fading memory, fighting on the losing side. You were covered in blood, your hair was caked with that blood and dirt. Your fingers tightened around your sword, knuckles turning white from the grip. Rhys had reached out to you via mind informing you that Cassian had been injured.

“Well… look at you.” The male whom you thought was your father spoke to you. “You think you’re tough and strong now.” He wasn’t your father, Helion was. Though the other males were still your half-brothers.

“I have nothing to prove to you.” Your voice was venomous as the words dripped from your lips. The  male glanced at your brothers. A hideous laugh escaped his mouth, then he lifted his blade in the air and ran towards you. Your brothers stood still, while your own blade came in contact with the male’s sword.

Grunts escaped from you as you fought him off. Your power was itching to break free. It tingles inside you. You ignored it just as the sword cut your shoulder. A wince escaped you and the males laughed loudly, but that was enough for you to lose all control you had left. Suddenly you blacked out, when you  came to you were on your knees. Sword next to you as you breathed heavily. They were no more.

But then everything changed, you were in front of your mates. Sad looks crossed their faces. They were kneeling on the ground. Two Hybern soldiers held onto you. Hybern himself stood behind your mates.

“Such a pity you had to be mated to these three batards.” Hybern’s words slammed into you, constricting your lungs.

“No, please. Don’t touch them.” You cried out.

But the words didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how much you begged him. You felt your heart stop when you no longer felt them through the bond.

“No! No!” You pulled yourself out of the bed, running to the bathroom and hurling the contents of your dinner up. You calmed slightly when you felt their welcoming presence. A few of Az’s shadows curled around your body helping you cool down. Sweat covered you entirely, you could feel their concern through the bond. But you knew they could feel your fear.

“What was it, love?” Azriel’s voice was close to your ears. Cassian had his hands wrapped around your hair keeping it from falling into your face while you continued to hurl up the rest of your dinner. Rhys and Az placed a hand on you, both rubbing soothing circles on your back. Since returning from the war there had been a lot of nights like this. But Ryder was the only one who truly knew about your nightmares.

“Bad dream.” You whispered when the hurling finally stopped.

“Please tell us what you saw.” Cassian was the one to speak this time. But you couldn’t speak it into existence.

“Show me darling, only if you can.” Rhys said, speaking in your mind. So you lowered your shield and allowed Rhysand to see what you had dreamed tonight. It had been the same, but this was the first night you had dreamt a nightmare where your mates died. “Can I show Cass and Az?”

“Yes.” You replied back.

You moved to the floor, the shadows that had left their master followed you and continued to glide around your body. You kept your eyes closed, Rhys picked you up from the bathroom floor and carried you back to the bed. Azriel and Cassian followed behind you and him. It was quiet, you assumed that the males were talking to each other, trying to figure out what to do. How to handle your trauma. These nightmares were constant, never ending. You never caught a break, always losing sleep because of the nightmares.

The four of you settled into the bed in the same position you’d been in before you’d woken up. “I’m sorry.” You whispered, tears starting to fall from your eyes.

“There is nothing to apologize for, love.” Azriel whispered, he had his chin resting on Rhysand’s shoulder, and his hazel eyes were on you. His shadows moved around until they eventually covered the four of you. They were protecting you and your mates.

“It’s okay to feel this way. You have gone through so much, and you will get through this.” Cassian nuzzled his head into your neck, he moved his hand to rest on your waist and gently began to move his finger in a circle, a motion he knew calmed you down.

“You almost lost Cassian, you and Az both. You all experienced my death, and I can never take back what I did. I truly am sorry for putting you three through that. I’m here now, and I’m not leaving any of you again.” Rhys made the declaration clear to his mates. “I love you all equally, and I promise we will get through this together. We’ll help you with your nightmares.”

You nodded in understanding “I wish I didn't kill them. I hate that they are responsible for my mother’s death, but I regret killing them.” You paused trying to think of what to say next, you knew that they’d seen it. How you had acted in the nightmare when you killed them was exactly what had happened and even after all these months after the war it still haunted you.

“You did what you had to.” Azriel said.

“I blacked out. I panicked. I didn’t think I could do that, I didn’t even mean to kill them. It just happened and I know that’s probably not an excuse but that’s what happened. Next thing I knew Helion was in front of me and then Rhys was gone and I couldn’t feel him.”

Rhys tightened his arms around you, it still felt like a dream. It still felt like Rhys and Cass weren’t here and it was just you, and Azriel, and his shadows. Since you had lost your wings nothing was falling into place the way you thought it would and right now it really didn’t seem real.

“It’s real, Cass and I are real.” His smooth voice ran through your ears. You only gave a brief nod. Sleep was starting to fall over you again. But you didn’t know how long you would get before the nightmares returned.

☾

The sun shined brightly in your shared room. But you were quickly disappointed when you discovered none of your mates were in the bed with you. Throwing the covers off your body you stood to quickly change into comfortable clothes rather than going for a dress. Being the High Lady of the Night Court was the least of your worries right now. You opened the door and started to traverse down the hallway, voices were coming from the living room.

You could hear Rhys talking, though you were unsure of who he was talking to. Slowly you came to a stop and listened in on the conversation. You could tell that Cass and Az were in the room as well. You assumed judging by the hushed whispers that everyone else was included in the conversation but you. Which only meant one thing, they were discussing Lucien without you.

“Y/N is going to be beyond angry when she finds out that we voted without her.” It was Feyre’s voice that you hear break through Rhys’s comment.

“I know, but right now I don’t think it’s a great idea for Lucien to know. Y/N needs time to process the events of the war and she needs time to focus on the powers that she received from Helion. Lucien would be an added distraction on top of all of that.” Rhysand said.

They were going to keep this from you. A secret. One of many you assumed. You didn’t want to hear anymore of this. You stepped around the corner and looked at everyone in the room. Rhysand had his back to you.

“You voted not to tell him?” The hurt was evident in your voice. Cassian and Azriel were quick to stand up as Rhysand turned towards you. A look of shock on his face, clearly he had not expected you to be awake. “I woke up to an empty bed, one without my mates. So I came searching only to discover that you thought it was best that I didn’t have an added distraction. What in your right mind thought that was best for me? He’s my brother, he deserves to know.” The anger flared in your body and it was evident in the way that your power had started to show.

The light illuminates your body, some have to look away. “I thought it was best! Y/N. Cass and Az didn’t have a say in the matter.”

You shook your head. “I can’t believe you, Rhys. This is a new low even for you. Keeping that from him and Helion would only damage my relationship with both males. Did you even stop to think about that, about what might happen if they found out, if they found out that I lied to them.”

“I-”

“No. That’s not fair. Not fair to them and not fair to me.”

Before he could get another word in you winnowed away. It was the only thing you’d really learned to get the hang of after discovering what powers you’d received from your father. A door opened, before anything came out of your mouth you collapsed into the arms of the male that is your brother.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” Lucien questioned, eyes on you.

“You’re my brother.” The shock was so clear on his face, but you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

[moonstruckme]

hi! could you be able to please write a one shot with James Potter where he lets everyone know that he has a girlfriend and he's taken but nobody knows who is his girlfriend. And after he falls off his broom during a quidditch match turns out that his girlfriend its the slytherin captain, who is like the complete opposite of James lol

Hi lovely, thanks for your request! I hope you like it <3

Cw: mention of injury, no details/description

James Potter x slytherin!reader ♡ 740 words

James Potter is well aware that, considering his usual tendency to showboat, it's suspicious that his dating life has suddenly become the best-kept secret at Hogwarts. It's obvious he is dating someone. He hasn't exactly been inconspicuous with the notes he sends flying down the halls several times a day (though it's a small miracle no one has been able to chase them all the way to the recipient) and when he wouldn't tell Sirius who it was, his friend let slip to half of Gryffindor house that he'd caught James sneaking out of their dorm room three times in the past week. Soon, it seemed like all James' classmates did was buzz with speculation about his mysterious partner.

James is trying to ignore that speculation now, the chatter in the crowded stands somehow reaching him even far above the quidditch pitch, distracting him from looking out for the snitch.

"Hardly at the top of our game today, are we, Potter?" A snide voice calls, a blur of green blazing past him to lob the quaffle towards the center goalpost.

James perks up, brought back to the game by the familiarity of a good bickering. "Wishful thinking," he calls back, just as the Gryffindor keeper blocks your attempt at a goal. James meets your fierce stare with his most winning smile. "Maybe if I wasn't, you'd have a half-decent chance of beating us for the first time in three years."

Three years, he wants to add, since both of you had been made captain of your respective teams. James certainly isn't going to lose that winning streak because of any gossip. He redoubles his focus, waiting for a telling glint of light or the light buzzing of wings, and keeping an eye on the Slytherin seeker to make sure she hasn't spotted it either.

There's a flicker of movement to his right, and James is off, the ruckus of the crowd drowned out by the wind rushing past his ears as he races towards the snitch. His vision seems to narrow as it grows closer, all his attention on the tiny golden ball, and he can almost touch it when pain shoots through his side.

James tries to grab at his broom, but he's too slow, his hand wrapping around only air. He's on solid ground before he knows what's happened, splayed on his back with a view of the other players high above him, almost all shock-still. Almost, except for the Slytherin chaser in a dangerously fast nose-dive towards him. You hardly take the time to level out your broom before you're hopping off and crouching beside him.

"Potter—shit, Potter, are you okay?" Your hands tremble as they run over his arms, his torso, as if wanting to make sure he's still whole but afraid he'll shatter at anything more than your gentlest touch.

"I think so." James groans, sitting up. "A couple broken ribs, maybe."

"Shit," you pant, your hands moving to his face. "Are you sure?"

"Well, I'm a bit rattled at the moment," he says, beginning to snark, but he softens when he sees you're blinking back tears. "It's not bad, sweetheart. I'm alright."

You shake your head, somewhere between frustrated and fond, and press your lips to James' abruptly. He's so shocked it takes him a second to kiss you back, doing his best to soothe the desperation he can feel in your touch.

You pull back just as quickly, leaving James so dazed he's caught entirely off guard by the light smack you deliver to the back of his head.

"You idiot. You should have seen that bludger coming from a mile away."

James searches for a witty rebuttal, but comes up empty. He can't decide whether to be offended or charmed by you right now, and it's stolen the gall from him. It's also possible that he's concussed. "Yeah," he says dumbly.

You huff, but still squeeze his shoulder as you stand, letting Madam Hooch move in to take your place. "Idiot," you mumble again, stalking towards your broom. "Come see me later."

James watches you go with something akin to awe. Only after you've rejoined your teammates does he notice the hush that's fallen over the crowd, and Sirius, standing well within hearing distance and looking like he's been stupefied, his eyes wide with horror.

But even if James looks as whipped as he feels, he doesn't really care.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twelve

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None! Familiar faces return to Velaris and Y/n finally gets a chance to explore the city...

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

I’ve been dreaming again. Dreaming of him. 

Thanatos. With his milky pale skin the color of bleached bones. Bold brush strokes of black ink mark his clothes and paint his hair and his marble eyes. I should feel unsettled when looking into the face of death. But I don’t. I’m the only one who gets to see him like this. The only one who gets to see his true face and I don’t know why. He doesn’t understand it either, and it frustrates him to no end. 

He’s almost as curious as I am. Almost. 

He came to the cabin again today, carrying that black lit candle between his spindly fingers like he believed in the Mother and was prepared to pray and sing to her like the rest of us. He says he likes to hear me during the service, tiny and informal as it is, but really I think he’s here because it irks me, and because I’m some tapestry he can’t seem to unravel.

He asked me again whether I’d call upon the Mother for him. He says he has a question that needs answering, and once he has his answer, he’ll be able to tell me how we can defeat Koschei. If it’s even possible. 

But I don’t believe that male for a second. He’d sooner carve the world to bits and devour the scraps before helping us like the coyote he is.

Rest assured I will never agree to his bargain. It will take more than that to turn Bethsevah Mordeigh.  

Although he said something strange that night, when the candles had dripped and left their waxy marks on the altar. 

“You were made to ruin me, Beth,” he said, “And I will let you do it a thousand—a million—times over.” 

He spoke in a dozen different voices, but I can’t deny I liked how the sounds came together and became his own. 

You jerked awake with your hand still cradling the book against your chest. 

Bethsevah Mordeigh. 

You had a name. 

You had a name! 

You burst out of your room. 

“Az! Az! I’ve got something.” You beat your fist against his bedroom door. “Az!” There was silence. 

The kitchen was empty, dirty dishes scrubbing themselves clean in the sink. A glance at the clock above the oven told you you’d slept in a great deal.

You took the steps two at a time, sprinting down the hallway towards the west wing. The training arena took up most of the second floor stocked with enough weapons to outfit a small army. Wood and stone knobs stuck out from the wall at extreme angles as part of the climbing gym. The ceiling dipped up and down like draped fabric. On any other day you would have seen Valkyries with rippling arms and backs making their way up to the green flag pinned directly above the room’s center point, bodies straining against the pull of gravity. But not today. 

Two of the three mats spaced across the room were occupied and you heard the beat of Illyrian wings before you even opened the double doors. 

Feyre and Nesta stood against the side wall bracketed by racks of steel swords, glistening throwing knives, and an Illyrian bow as long as you were tall. 

Feyre licked her lips, greedily tracing Rhysand’s powerful form as he went toe to toe with Azriel. You couldn’t help but stare as well as they leapt around the ring in a blur of wings and shadow. You’d never seen Azriel shirtless but… well… it was a sight you could get used to. 

It was a dance — a dangerous, deadly dance — and although the language of violence wasn’t one you were familiar with, you could read the display well enough to know that Azriel would win this round. 

Sweat glistened on his skin, slipping down the curves of his back where leathery black wings fused with his shoulder blades. Tattoos wrapped around his shoulders and across his chest, pulsing with a life of their own as Azriel cleanly side stepped one of Rhysand’s kicks. There was the faintest crease in the High Lord’s brow to let you know he was getting tired. 

But Azriel was just getting started. And now that he knew you were watching? He wanted to make it worth your while.  

Rhys gritted his teeth, launching out with a strike quicker than lightning. Someway, somehow, Azriel was faster. He dipped to the side, Rhys’s knuckle just kissing his cheekbones and came up for a counterstrike, slamming his fist so hard into his brother’s cheek that he staggered back. 

That was unnecessary. Rhys snapped his jaw back into place.

Azriel grinned. Fatherhood suits you. But I can’t let you get soft.

There was a roll of violet eyes. Sure. That’s why you’re trying so hard right now.

Rhys snatched Azriel’s leg out of the air, rolling onto the ground in a move that sent the Shadowsinger twisting in a graceful arch that had your breath catching in your throat. He broke free of Rhysand’s hold, leaping onto his feet like gravity didn’t apply. 

You met his eyes, heady and dark, and could have sworn he winked. But it may have just been a trick of the light. 

You ducked your head, hurrying across the room towards Feyre and Nesta and hoping they wouldn’t comment on the flush creeping up your neck.

“Fey—” you began urgently.

The High Lady held up a hand and you fell silent. There was a sheen to her eyes that let you know she was honing in on Rhysand’s moves with more than just her eyes. 

Nesta smirked at you as you blushed. You struggled to keep your gaze from drifting back to the powerful display, even as you caught glimpses of Azriel’s tan body out of the corner of your eye. Rippling, bold, strong. 

“Don’t worry about staring,” Nesta said with a wicked glimmer. “The boys admire us. We admire them. It’s an even exchange.” 

One mat over Cassian was sparing with a new female you’d never seen before. Illyrian, but there was something wrong with her wings. They were held strong and proud above the ground, but they dragged in places where Cassian had control over every minor movement. If you concentrated closely enough, you could make out the thin, shiny scars that had snipped the tendon closest to the apex of her wings, just by the arch of her claws. 

Your stomach dropped with horror.

Her wings had been clipped. 

She held her own against the Lord of Bloodshed. Cassian might have had the advantage of experience and his longer limbs, but she moved with a daring determination. She dodged every blow by the narrowest margin, conserving her energy so when she was able to slip close and find her opening, she slammed her elbow up and into his nose with a sickening crack that echoed throughout the room. 

You winced, hands flying up to your face at the same time that Cassian’s did. 

“FUCK!” He roared. 

“Whooo! THAT’S MY WIFE!” A gorgeous, curvy blond hung off one of the ring posts, legs propped up on the tensioned ropes. 

There was only one member of their family that had ever been described as sunlight incarnate. That had to be Mor. Which meant the striking female currently giving Cassian hell on the mat was Emerie.

Emerie blushed, stealing a heavy look for long enough for Cassian to snap his nose back into place. He ducked down and swept her legs out from beneath her, wrestling her to the ground in a tangle of leather and wings. But Nesta didn’t let him have the advantage for too long. 

Cassian choked on the teasing words he’d prepared for Emerie when Nesta sent him a particularly candid image of herself in a strip of black fabric. 

For later tonight. She whispered down the bond.

Damn it Nes.

Emerie smashed her forehead into his already swollen nose, then her knee surged up with enough strength to crack ribs. She braced her foot against his chest and flipped him over her head and onto his back, wrapping her powerful legs around his neck and pinning him to the ground with his arm forced back in his socket. Finally he tapped out. 

“Poor Illyrian baby,” Nesta crooned as Emerie pulled Cassian to his feet. Despite the blood that dripped from his nose, he was glowing with pride at Emerie. “Better luck next time.”

Mor grasped Emerie by the front of her training gear and yanked her close for a long kiss that left the Illyrian stumbling back with red lipstick smeared over her lips and a dark blush across her caramel cheeks. 

Nesta yelped when Cassian wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground with one arm like she weighed nothing.

“We could try that move tonight. Your legs, my face? But this time I won’t tap out.” Cassian winked and Nesta leveled a sultry glare in his direction, eyes lingering on the sheen of his muscular chest with unabashed heat. 

“Get a room,” Mor called out and Emerie threw a towel in his direction. It landed over his shoulder with comical perfection. 

“Says the pair that had to disappear to another continent after their wedding ceremony.” 

Mor flung an obscene gesture his way and Cassian returned it with equal fervor. “Says the pair that made Azriel run for the hills when he was left to chaperone.” 

“Hey! That’s on Rhysand. He never should have left us with a chaperone at all.” Nesta cut in. 

“You rang.” Rhysand appeared sweaty and spent behind Mor’s shoulder and slung his arm around her. The bruises on his cheeks were turning darker by the second.

Azriel hovered on the edges of the crowd, glancing at Mor and then at you. He was mildly disappointed that you’d been too busy watching Cass and Emerie to see him win at the end of the fight.  

“Gross, get off of me.” Mor shoved her cousin away. 

Rhysand’s shoulders shook with laughter. He smiled at you, eyes gleaming with happiness. It had been so long since he’d last seen his cousin. 

“Mor.” He gestured to you, “Meet Y/n—” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I think I just realized I don’t know your last name.” 

“Halwynn.” You offered up your mother’s last name. Even though you technically didn’t have any right to it as a bastard, it’s the name you’d gone by your whole life.

“Meet Y/n Halwynn,” Rhysand finished. 

“The resident intellect,” Mor said, caramel-brown eyes shining. “Well thank the Mother, you showed up when you did.” She looped her arm around yours easily and you caught a whiff of the perfume she’d dotted against her collarbones — amber and vanilla. A ruby the size of your thumb hung from a gold chain, following the dramatic dip in the front of her scarlet dress that left little to the imagination. You thought she might just be the most gorgeous female you’d ever seen. 

“We’d be absolutely lost without you. I hope the Library is up to your standards, although let’s be honest, it probably isn’t.”

You agreed a little too quickly. 

“Bethsevah Mordeigh.” Rhysand turned the name over in his mind, testing its familiarity and coming up empty. “Any takers?” 

You all stood around Rhysand’s desk, the book propped open beside bottles of jet-black ink, eagle-feather pens, and neat stacks of parchment paper.

Everyone shook their heads. 

“Fair enough.” He looked disappointed, but not surprised. “We’re only separated by a few thousand years, give or take.”

You paced in front of the windowsill, nervously picking at your fingernails until they were under threat of bleeding. Azriel noticed and one of his shadows gently wrapped around your wrists and pulled your hands apart. You looked at him gratefully and stuck your hands in your pockets.

“The oldest text I’ve seen dates back twelve-thousand years,” Feyre offered. “I’ve also asked Gwyn and Clotho to begin searching.”

“What about the Day Court?” Azriel looked at you.

“I can ask Helion to search the archives. But I’ll warn you, records dating back that far are few and far apart. And priestesses back then were less keen on recording the movements of their members. But we might get lucky with some of her descendants if they ever joined the order. Work our way backwards through history.”

Mor shot Rhysand a look. “Why ask me to come back here now? I could have been of better use searching for this information on the Continent.”

“Now is not the time for you to be traversing foreign lands. Not with Koschei at risk of being let loose.” 

You shook your head. “And it wouldn’t matter. Bethsevah wouldn’t have been born on the Continent. If she ever went, it would have only been to trap Koschei. Our best bet is to search for information about her down south.”

The others stared at you in confusion. You blinked as if the answer was obvious. “Organized religion surrounding the Mother emerged in Southern Prythian and her priestesses didn’t spread out to Hybern or the Continent until the Insynthian Age.”

“Your point being?” Nesta folded her arms over her chest. When it came to the specifics of Prythian history, she and Feyre were about as useful as a glass rod in a lightning storm. 

“The bit about the candles is a very, very old ceremony. People would write their prayers in blood and have a priestess burn them on a candle made with a strand of their hair woven into the wick. If Bethsevah was a priestess performing this ritual, she would have been an early member of the order. Before the Insynthian Age.” 

“That would narrow things down significantly.” Rhysand nodded in approval. “I’ll reach out to Lucien, see if he’ll be able to find anything out for us.”

You pulled a sheef of paper out from your pockets and Helion’s pen. You scribbled down a note to him about what you’d discovered and within five minutes the words were racing south to the Day Court. 

“How on earth do you know this?” Mor asked incredulously, looking at you with a mixture of awe and bewilderment.

“I’m a Librarian.” She looked unimpressed by that statement. “I had a religious phase.” You smoothed your thumb over your necklace, feeling for your mother’s seal — a flowering heather and fountain pen crossed over in an “x”. 

“A religious phase?”  

“Yes.” 

She clicked her tongue, red lips turning up in a smirk. “You Day Court fae are certainly something.” 

You blushed. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.” You went to grab the book, but Mor’s hand slapped down first, pinning it to the table and you with a stare. 

“Nope. Work is for tomorrow,” Mor declared, eyes glittering with fondness. “Today, I want to see my city with my family.” 

You tapped the book through your robes, counting the rhythmic swings against your hip like a metronome. One. Two. One. Two. One-

Cassian leaned down to whisper, “You’re doing great,” before waving to a male with ash-blonde hair standing beside an apple cart. 

Pink ladies, honeycrisps, and ambrosias were piled high into luscious clouds. Two gestures and a flick of a coin through the air later and Cassian was shoving a small, flimsy basket in your hand. Roasted apples covered in burnt sugar and drizzled with caramel seeped into the wax paper. 

One. Two. One. Two. 

It was still too early for most of the Night Court, but the hustle and bustle in the Palace of Bone and Salt was unperturbed. Now was the time for the owners of small shops to haggle for prices without interfering with common business. The apple cart you just left had a new customer already — a wispy female with candy-floss hair lugging a basket on wheels capable of carrying three bushels for the bakery two streets over.

“Would you like some?” You held the food up to Azriel, but he only stumbled over a crack cobblestone street before shaking his head no. 

He was being awfully quiet today. Quieter than usual. 

Maybe he’s sick? You thought to yourself. He hadn’t eaten lunch either, but maybe that was just because he disliked the sandwiches you’d made. Or maybe it was because of a certain blond-haired female who kept giving him side glances with questions eating at her from the inside out.

“Come on,” you encouraged, nudging his shoulder. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” 

Azriel looked at the apple slice you held out for him like it was a personal torture.

Cassian grinned and slung his arm over your shoulders, peeling you away from Azriel’s side to his relief. The weight was a comfort coming from him and you felt that thrill in your stomach whenever any member of the Inner Circle touched you. 

“Azriel won’t starve. I promise, Y/n.” 

Nyx thought he might starve. He was a growing boy, and had a stomach to match. He tapped your elbow and you wordlessly passed over the basket to him, but not before snatching a piece for yourself. The sugar crackled, then melted over your tongue, the sharpness from the apple cutting through caramel in a burst of tartness. 

“How is Helion doing by the way?” Mor dropped the question casually. “Rhys says you know him well.” 

You blinked at her. What did she care about Helion? “I’ve worked on a few projects for him before this one. And he’s doing as well as he can be, I suppose. Things aren’t exactly perfect in the Day Court right now.”

“Ah, Helion,” Mor breathed out, almost wistfully, “He was one of the few good males I ever slept with.” 

You choked on your food, sputtering and coughing for long enough that Cassian started to slap your back. You felt your bones shake with each blow.

So… Mor had slept with your father… figures.

Feyre looked at you with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you said meekly. You shoved more food in your mouth before anyone could ask any further questions.

Azriel felt that familiar pool of jealousy bubble in his stomach at the mention of Helion. You kept rubbing that necklace of yours, Helion’s seal displayed prominently like he’d personally stamped you as his. 

He allowed himself to get close enough to brush against your shoulder and a few of his shadows creeped onto your body, weaving themselves into your hair. You looked up at him and smiled. 

“You’re in a good mood today.” Azriel’s hazel eyes were brighter in the morning light, flecks of green poking through the amber. “You’re smiling.” 

And what didn’t you have to be smiling about? You were finally exploring Velaris. Mor, Cassian, and Nyx had touched you, albeit through the fabric of your robes, and you hadn’t been overwhelmed. And you’d finally been able to take knowledge from the book.

 It had been a pinch of information as potent as saltwater. You had gotten a name, and names held power. 

Azriel’s eyes glimmered with quiet delight. 

“I’m just happy,” you said. “I think things are getting better, with—” You glanced down at where your arms swung side by side and you reached out a finger, allowing it to gently brush against the scars at the top of his left hand. You curled your fingers around his for the briefest moment before letting go. “And… you know.” You shrugged. 

Azriel stopped walking abruptly and everyone turned to stare at him. The Shadowsinger was strung taughter than an Illyrian bow. 

Mor raised her brow in open appraisal. There was a flash of something like shock in her eyes and then she was buried in Emerie’s hair, whispering something into the female’s rounded ears that had her dark carved eyebrows flying up to her hairline.

“Az?” Rhys asked cheekily, “Everything alright?”

Cassian chuckled and even Nesta smirked.

Last year he was giving Elain and Gwyn the bedroom eyes, and now he short-circuits because Y/n brushes her hand against his? I don’t believe what I’m seeing, Cass.

Some females like their males a little pathetic and lovesick. 

You would know. 

Cassian chuckled, looping his arm around her waist and burying his lips in her hair. He twirled the face framing pieces between his fingers like he always did, and Nesta tried not to think about how she’d first started leaving them out after meeting the Lord of Bloodshed. It would seem she had once been a pathetic and lovesick fool herself.

I love it when you tease, Nes. 

Maybe she still was. Nesta couldn’t help but lean into his touch. 

They do make a good couple. She admitted and Cassian was in agreement.

Feyre was thinking the same thing as you twisted towards him, hand still outstretched like there was a string tying your fingers to his. You couldn’t help but want to drift towards him as surely as gravity makes rain fall to the earth. 

Does she know? Mor grasped Rhysand’s arm, eyes wide and staring. Does she know they’re mates? 

Not yet. 

Mor groaned. Are you fucking kidding me?

I wish I was.

Damn you, Azriel.

Azriel shook his head and forced his body to move forward. The world had stopped when you touched him, and it was only just starting to pick up again. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. 

Nyx munched on his apple slice, staring at you both curiously before following after his mother and father.

“Did you hear something?” You stayed by his side, no longer interested in the aromas fluttering in the air from the bakery, the soup shop with its stone vats bubbling in the back, the smokehouse with its slabs of bacon crackling on grease. “From your shadows?”

“No. Why did you think that?”

“You had a look in your eye, like you weren’t quite there for a second. My mother used to say that I looked like that sometimes when using my powers. Like for a moment I was untethered from the earth and at risk of floating away.” 

Azriel saved that piece of information, storing it away in his mind next to the knowledge that you had always wanted a dustbear for a pet because they were such simple, mindless creatures and you never felt overcome in their presence. 

“I do feel that way at times.” He waited until your little troupe passed by the spice shops. The particles in the air always made Cassian sneeze. “But not now.” 

Everyone dipped into a paisley blue building, the bell ringing with a soft clang to announce their presence. 

“Right now I feel… settled.” 

You grinned at him brighter than the sun, moon, and stars combined. “Good.” 

You followed after the others, and while your back was turned, Mor took her opportunity. She clawed the back of Azriel’s leathers, hauling him down the alleyway before anyone could notice. 

Azriel’s eyes blew open in surprise when Mor shoved him up against the wall hard enough for a rain of petals to fall over their heads from the second floor balcony. It would have been romantic if it weren’t for the incredulous look in Mor’s eyes and the fact that Azriel was still caught up in your smile and the feeling of your skin against his. Gods he wished you were the one pressing him against this wall. He couldn’t stop thinking about that hug in Rhysand’s office. He wanted to feel the softness of your body against him once more. 

“You idiot!” Mor slapped him across the face and it shocked him back to the present. “Why didn’t you tell me you found your mate?” She hissed. 

Azriel looked frantically back to the street, half expecting you to be standing there with your inquisitive eyes. It was still a jolt to his system whenever anyone used that word: mate. Equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. It was such a fragile word, and the others tossed it around so dangerously. 

“I didn’t—” Azriel stammered. Mor and Emerie’s arrival this morning had been unexpected for everyone except Rhysand and Feyre. “There wasn’t time.” “So?! You should’ve made time.” Mor stepped away, letting the Shadowsinger back down onto his feet. He had the good sense to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck while Mor tossed her waist length hair over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed pink, tanned and freckled from her time on the Continent. 

Azriel felt that familiar coil of guilt building in his stomach and he tried to remember the apology he’d been preparing for this exact moment when he and Mor would be alone. 

He cleared his throat and bowed his head to the ground in a picture of reverent apology. “Mor, about what I said—”

She crashed into him again, arms looping around his neck and squeezing him so tightly he felt his ribs crack. And she was… laughing?

“You have a mate!” She giggled through happy tears, bouncing on her feet. Her heels clicked against the granite tiles. “My best friend finally has a mate!”

She kept repeating it over and over again, like she couldn’t quite believe it herself. 

“Mor, please. Keep it down.” They were attracting attention and Azriel wordlessly summoned his shadows to hide them from view.

Mor finally let him go, covering her mouth with her hands. “I’m sorry I just—” She squealed. 

Azriel let out a long, heavy sigh. This was closer to the reaction he should have had when Mor and Emerie announced their engagement. Instead he’d gone cold and silent. 

He should have known Mor preferred females, and maybe he had known all along that Mor could never love him the way he’d once loved her. But he’d done what he always did when it came to love and ran forward with a blindfold on, hoping his aim was true but never bothering to check. 

Mor furrowed her brows. “Are you upset by this? Why do you look like that?”

“What?” Azriel hissed like the question physically hurt him. “No. No! I’m not upset, I’m—” He clenched his fists and said in a small voice, “I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” He took a deep breath and winced, “And I’m thinking that you must have felt similarly when you got together with Emerie, and that I royally fucked up by reacting the way that I did.” 

He could picture it clear as day — Mor’s radiant smile slipping off her face, left hand dropping behind her back to hide the glittering ruby, the tears that gathered in her eyes when all Azriel did was remain stiff as stone before dropping off the balcony at her engagement party. 

Mor hesitated then tucked her honey-gold waves behind her ears like she did whenever she was uncomfortable. “I should have told you sooner.” Azriel knew she was referring to more than just her relationship with Emerie. “I knew you loved me and I let you believe for so long that there might be a chance I could return those feelings. But I was scared because… because I wanted to know there would always be someone waiting for me if…” She pressed her hands over her stomach. The nails may have disappeared from her body without a trace, but they’d been hammered elsewhere in her soul and she hadn’t managed to take them out just yet. “It was wrong of me to use you like that. To keep you waiting for so long.”

Azriel rubbed her shoulders. “I think you gave me more than a few hints that it wouldn’t work out. Chief among them, Cassian.” Mor’s gaze dropped to her feet, but all Azriel did was press a gentle kiss to the crown of her forehead. “I still love you, Mor, and I always will. It’s just a different kind of love now. I’m happy for you and Emerie. Truly.” 

“Yeah?” She looked up hopefully. 

Azriel nodded. He pulled Mor close, wrapping his wings around her to block out the sounds of bartering happening in the square. They stayed like that for a long while, until the shadows on the wall had dropped another inch. 

Mor sniffled and pushed him away. “Ok, enough of this now.” She carefully brushed away at the corner of her eyes, “You’re ruining my makeup.” 

Azriel’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Mor noted how it seemed to come easier to him now.   

The whole day you’d felt that something was amiss, but it wasn’t until a flustered artisan carrying bolts of spider silk fabric crashed into you that you realized what it was.

You stumbled into Azriel’s sturdy arms, feeling the strength and power beneath his leathers as he propped you up against his side. 

“So sorry, miss. Please forgive me.” The artisan blubbered. His cat eyes glowed a pale orange as they flickered over you from head to toe, “Can’t see with this.” He lifted the bolt. There was something about his gaze that unsettled you, like he was searching for something. Like he was hungry. Or scared.

“It’s alright.” You adjusted your clothes, tucked the book behind your back so it was pressed up against Azriel’s hip. 

That look in his eyes disappeared and he huffed in relief before continuing down the cobblestone streets, too much in a hurry to notice the Shadowsinger glaring at him.

“Are you ok?” He let you find your footing, keeping his hand at the small of your back. 

You stared at the male’s retreating form. “He didn’t… he didn’t bow to you. To any of you.” You blinked at Feyre and Rhysand.

She wore no crown, no jewelry except the ring on her finger and the diamonds in her  ears, but the male must have known he was in the presence of his High Lady. And there was no mistaking Rhysand and his brothers.

“Like Azriel said when you first arrived here, we take the casual approach.” Feyre said, and as if to make the point, Nyx shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to the side in a manner so like Rhys that Azriel and Cassian burst out laughing. Rhys looked down fondly and brushed back his hair. 

Feyre drifted to your side, watching with amusement as Nyx disappeared into the forest of color that was the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Every inch of fabric was too precious to be wasted, and so the weavers collected the scraps and tied them together, end to end, until they became one long chain. They hung from the entrances of shops, from the arches criss-crossing overhead, and from hand-painted signs. They wrapped around doorways and caught on the shoulders of passerbys, whispering of the time and effort spent crafting them.

Nyx weaved in and out of these strands, chased by Cassian and Azriel as they pretended to be tricked by the little boy’s lithe footsteps. You gasped as he turned invisible, then reappeared four inches to his left, jabbing at Azriel’s side before disappearing again.

“He can wrap light around himself as much as he can weave darkness,” Feyre explained, staying close to your side, “I think he might have gotten some remnant of the Day Court’s power from me. It made him an absolute nightmare for about three years when he couldn’t control it. Can you imagine having a toddler waddling around and wreaking havoc that you can’t even see?”

Nesta let out a sharp breath of laughter. “I think that’s an experience unique to you, Fey.”

You had to agree. You’d never turned invisible as a child, although you had to admit it would have been a very useful power to inherit from your father.

“Gotcha! You little rascal!” Cassian said triumphantly. 

You heard Nyx shriek with laughter. Cassian and Azriel both had one arm raised above their heads and with a little shake the boy came back into view, dangling upside down from his ankles.  

“Don’t break the boy, Cass.” 

“I won’t break him, Rhys. Gotta let him grow old enough to beat all those bastards at Windhaven, don’t I?” 

Rhys and Feyre’s smiles slipped ever so slightly. 

Nyx was lowered to the ground. He kept his arms out and balanced on his hands for a brief moment before walking over onto his feet with a flourish. 

“Gwyn taught me that last week. She’s part river nymph. Very flexible.” He brushed invisible dirt from his shirt and continued on, leading the way towards the Sidra like he owned the place — which in some respects he did.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

Just another little chapter with more slowburn antics between Y/n and Azriel! And! Mor and Emerie are here! I am slowly but surely collecting characters like pokemon cards because you know I want to have my favorites in Velaris when shit starts to go down...

[probablyasocialecologist]

Though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has stopped counting Covid-19 cases, according to wastewater data—which emerged early on as an accurate tracker of the ebbs and flows of the virus—we are currently in one of the biggest surges of the pandemic, amid the spread of a new variant, JN-1, as the virus keeps mutating. More than three-quarters of U.S. hospital beds are currently in use due to Covid hospitalizations. Uptake of the most recent booster shot, which should help to protect against the new variant and lower the risk of severe cases and the odds of getting long Covid, hovers around 19 percent. Meanwhile, the most recent White House response to a question about whether they had any guidance for hospitals, some of which have brought back mitigation protocols in response to the most recent Covid spike, came courtesy of press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre: “Hospitals, communities, states, they have to make their own decisions. That’s not something we get involved in,” she replied, appearing exasperated. “We are in possibly the second-biggest surge of the pandemic if you look at wastewater levels,” said Dr. Monica Verduzco-Gutierrez, who runs a long-Covid clinic at the University of Texas, San Antonio, and has had ongoing Covid symptoms since August 2022. “There is no urgency to this. No news. No discussion in Congress. There is no education.”

[...]

Since the Biden administration declared the end of the national emergency in May, Americans across the political spectrum have largely followed the example set by the government and entirely disposed of any level of Covid precautions. Liberal and left-wing outlets have participated in the normalizing of Covid too, dismissing or even ostracizing people who still take precautions as if they are tin-hat conspiracy theorists. “We can’t be in lockdown forever,” has become a common refrain, as if wearing a mask on the subway constitutes “lockdown.” In September, Biden himself participated in the spread of this kind of harmful disinformation when he declared the pandemic “over” on 60 Minutes. “If you notice, no one’s wearing masks,” he said. “Everybody seems to be in pretty good shape.” This is, essentially, governing via “vibes”—so much for “following the science.”

[...]

The consequences of discarding all Covid precautions are becoming clearer, as more people get repeated infections and long-term symptoms, amid an alarming spike in heart problems among healthy young people. People are getting sick more often not due to the myth of “immunity debt,” which posits that the lack of exposure to other people during lockdown has made people less able to fight off infections (three years later), but because Covid weakens the immune system. Each time someone contracts Covid, the odds of long-term complications increase.

[qqueenofhades]

I just read an article on The Conversation that states: "Today, most data has Trump narrowly beating Biden in the national popular vote, albeit within the statistical margin of error." (Source for that data: https://projects.fivethirtyeight.com/polls/president-general/)

In your opinion, is that true? How can that be possible after everything Trump has done? After the Insurrection? I'm terrified 😕

(For reference, the original article can be found at https://theconversation.com/five-reasons-why-trumps-republican-opponents-were-never-going-to-beat-him-223288?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=The%20Weekend%20Conversation%20-%202888329325&utm_content=The%20Weekend%20Conversation%20-%202888329325+CID_fceedfd21410eb8a7b6fd6e1124d9d54&utm_source=campaign_monitor_uk&utm_term=five%20reasons)

Short answer: no, I don't think it's true.

Long answer: no, I really don't think it's true. Here's why.

Broader context. A Republican has won the popular presidential vote only twice in the 21st century, and in the first of those occasions -- 2000 -- I use "won" very advisedly. We all know, or at least we should, about all the fuckery that went down in Florida with Bush vs. Gore and SCOTUS stepping in to stop the recount (which almost surely would have gone to Gore) and handing Florida, and thus the presidency, to George Dubya Bush by a mere 537 votes. Dubya then did win re-election and the popular vote/EC in 2004, in the throes of patriotic war fervor and the GOP's Swiftboating of John Kerry (who was a pretty terrible candidate to start with). Other than that? None. Zip. Nada. None. Even in 2016 when Trump squeaked out a win (and thus the presidency) in the Electoral College, he lost nationwide to HRC by over 3 million votes. He lost to Biden by 7 million votes nationwide last time. Also, the reason the GOP loves the antidemocratic Electoral College is that it always works in their favor, and because red states with relatively scant population are given the same power in the Senate. That's why California, with 40+ million people, gets two (Democratic) senators, and Wyoming, with 400,000 people, gets two (Republican) senators. There is just no way that red states can get the actual raw numbers to win the popular vote against heavily blue urban population centers. The only one that comes close is Texas, and while it's something of a white whale for Democrats who think fondly that it'll surely turn blue this election cycle (and then it doesn't), it's not giving all its votes popular-vote-wise to Republicans. So yeah. The numbers aren't there. Biden is about 99% certain to win the popular vote, but because this is America, the question is whether the EC will follow.

(Although, I gotta say. In the deeply unlikely event that Biden loses the popular vote but wins the Electoral College -- i.e. the exact same thing Trump did in 2016 -- the right wing would lose their fucking minds and it would be incredibly hilarious. Also, we might finally get some red states willing to sign up to the National Popular Vote Compact, which is just a few ratifications away from going into effect. As noted, the Republicans will cling onto the Electoral College with their last dying breath because it's the only thing that makes them competitive in nationwide elections. If it fucked Trump, they might finally listen to ideas about changing it.)

The media are incredibly biased, and so is Nate Silver. Silver first rose to prominence as an independent geeky Data Guy elections whiz-kid, and was relatively good at being unbiased. That is not the case anymore. He's now affiliated with the New York Times and has started echoing the smugly anti-Biden framework of both that paper and the mainstream media in general. I'm not necessarily saying his data is total bunk, but he's extremely eager to frame, narrate, and explain it in ways that artificially disadvantage Biden (in the same way the NYT itself is all in on "BUT HIS AGEEEEE," just as they were with "BUT HER EEEEEEMAILS" in 2016) And that's a problem, because:

The polls are shit. Like, really, really shit. Didn't we just go through this in 2022, where everyone howled about how All The Data pointed to a Red Wave and then were /shocked pikachu face when this was nothing more than a Red Dribble of Piss (and frankly, the best midterm election result for the ruling party since like, the 1930s?) We've also had major, real-time proof that the polls are showing a consistent pro-Trump bias of 10 or more points, which is a huge error and keeps getting corrected whenever people actually vote, but the media will never admit that, because TRUMP IS WINNING WE ARE ALL DOOMZED!! We heard about how Biden might lose New Hampshire because he wasn't even on the ballot and that would be a critical embarrassment for him. He cruised easily with 68% (all write-in votes and FAR more than any other Democratic "candidate.") Meanwhile, Trump won New Hampshire by about 15% under what the polls had predicted for him (after doing the same and barely squeaking over 50% in Iowa, one of the whitest, most rural, most Trump-loving states in the nation). The number ballparked for Biden in the NV Democratic primary was something like 75%; he got over 90% (and twice as many votes as any candidate in the Republican Primary/Caucus/Whatever That Mess Was). The number for what he was supposed to get in the SC primary was in the high 60% (driven by the media's other favorite "Black voters are abandoning Biden" canard); he absolutely crushed it at 97% statewide. When Biden is winning by whopping margins and Trump is underperforming badly, in both cases by gaps of ten percent or more, it means the polls are simply not showing us an accurate state of the race. This could be because of media bias, bad data, selective polling, inability to actually connect with voters (especially young voters, who are about as likely to eat a live scorpion as to pick up an unsolicited phone call from an unknown number). This also shows up in:

Special elections. We've heard tons of Very Smart Punditry (derogatory) about how Democrats kicking ass in pretty much every competitive election since Roe was overturned in 2022 totally means nothing for the general election. (Of course, if the situation was reversed and Republicans were cleaning up at the same rate, we would be hearing nothing except how we're all destined for Eternal Trumpocracy... wait. no... we're still only hearing this. Weird.) In the last special election in early February, Democrat Tom Suozzi won back his old U.S House seat (NY-03) by over eight points, after polls had given him at most a two- or three-point edge. (Funnily, once again a Democrat did far better than the media is determined to insist, so Politico hilariously called a thumping eight-point win "edging it out.") This represents almost a 16-point blue swing from even just 2022, when The Congressman Possibly Known as George Santos won it by 7 points. On that same night, a Democratic candidate in a Trump +26 district in deep, deep red Oklahoma only lost by 5 points, marking another massive pro-blue swing. This has been the case in every special election since Roe went down. Apparently blah blah This Won't Translate to the General Election, because the media is very smart. Even when Democrats (historically hard to motivate and muster in off-year election cycles, or you know in general) are turning up in elections that don't involve Trump to punish terrible Trumpist policies, we're supposed to think they won't be motivated to actually vote against the guy himself? And not just them, because:

Trump is a terrible candidate. Which we know, and have always known, but now it's really true. We've had up to half of Haley voters stating they will vote for Biden over Trump if that is the November matchup (which it will be). Haley, amusingly, actually outraised Trump in January, because it turns out that the Trump Crime Family's open promise to send every single donor or RNC dollar to pay El Trumpo's legal fees hasn't been a terribly effective message. We had Republicans in NY-03 telling CNN that they voted for the Democrat Suozzi because they're so fed up with the GOP clown show in the House and don't think Republicans can govern (which uh. Yeah. Welcome to reality, we all knew that ages ago too). We have had up to a third of Republican voters saying they won't vote for Trump if he's convicted of a felony before the election (and technically he already has been, but we're still hoping for the January 6 trial to go ahead). Now, yes, Republicans are a notoriously cliquey bunch and might change their minds, but for all the endless bullshit BIDEN SHOULD STEP DOWN BECAUSE DEMOCRATS ARE DISUNITED narrative the media has been pushing like their kidnapped grandmothers' lives depend on it, Democrats aren't actually disunited at all. Instead, Trump is in chaos, the GOP is in chaos, sizeable chunks of Republican voters are ready to vote for someone else and in some cases have already done so, and yet, do we hear a peep about how Trump should step down? Nah. In related news, did you hear that Biden is old?!?! Why isn't anyone writing about this?!?!

Now, I want to make it clear: Trump's chances of winning are not zero, and they are not inconsiderable. We need to face that fact and deal with it accordingly. Large chunks of the country are still willing to vote for white Christian nationalist fascism. Trump still has plenty of diehard cultists and the entire establishment Republican party in his pocket, and it's been made very clear that Putin is bringing the full force of his malevolent Russian fascist machine to bear on this election as well. Case in point: we spent four years hearing about HUNTER BIDEN HUNTER BIDEN SECRET CORRUPTION GIANT SECRET BUSINESS SCANDAL, and it turns out that the GOP's "star informant" has been actively working with Russian spies the whole time and fed them complete bullshit disinformation, which they were eager to repeat so long as it might hurt Joe Biden. (And it would hurt Ukraine, so, twofer! I cannot emphasize enough how much it was all a deliberate collaboration by some of the worst people on earth.)

In 2016, people naively assumed that Trump could never win, and so they were especially willing to throw away, spoil, or otherwise not exercise their vote, or throw purity hissy fits over HRC (likewise fed at the toxic teat of Russian disinformation). That was exactly what allowed Trump to squeak out a win in the EC and put us in the mess we are currently in. If people act in the same way in 2024 that they did in 2016, Trump's chances of winning are drastically increased. So once again, as I keep saying, it's up to us. If we all vote blue, and we get our networks to vote blue, Biden is very likely to win. If we don't, he won't, and Trump will win. It's that simple. We had better decide what we're doing. The end.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave

I actually wrote a fic, go figure! Huge thanks to @minky-for-short for getting me into Hazbin and @hangsters for the support and love! I got a lot more where this came from <3

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

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They've been told to live tonight however they want. And with tomorrow's Extermination looming and the Hazbin Hotel right in the middle of the target, there's only one thing Angel Dust wants to do.

And that's the bartender.

---

You didn’t wind up in hell without knowing fear. Whether you got there by painting it on other people or seeing it in your reflection or both, it didn’t matter, to everyone down below, fear was like an old friend. 

And to Angel Dust, fear was like a toxic hook up whose calls he couldn’t make himself ignore after years of dissatisfying back alley orgasms. 

All to say, he knew the taste of it, sharp like battery acid and sour like cheap, soapy lube. He knew how it sounded, laughter stretched so thin you could see through it, the whir of a camera lens pulling close to try and see where you were breaking. He knew how it smelled, sweat and latex and dry ice. He knew how it felt, cheap faux fur and overwarm, foreign skin. 

Angel had been sucking fear’s dick for longer than he cared to remember. But what surprised him was that he didn’t see it here. 

They should be scared. They should all be pissing themselves in terror. In who knew how many hours, the worst Extermination they’d known would descend, with their home and everyone in it smack bang in the center of the target. And Heaven wasn’t in the habit of missing their shot. 

But when Angel knocked back another shot of top shelf whiskey, he didn’t taste fear in it. The laughter that surrounded him was real, all he could feel was a warmth that he wasn’t sure came from the drink. 

Maybe this was what fear felt like when you didn’t face it alone. 

“You’re staring.”

Angel didn’t have much of a defense, especially when he hadn’t even realized that Vaggie had moved onto the barstool next to him and jumped a mile when she started speaking, nearly spilling his next shot. Because he was busy staring. 

So he took evasive action instead, trying to piece his cool back together, “Ain’t you got a girlfriend waiting on you upstairs? What are you still doing down here?”

“Finishing my drink,” she gave him a cool, bemused look, proving her point by draining the rest of her glass, “I don’t think any of us are in a position to be wasting alcohol tonight. Or time.”

“Thanks for the riddle, toots,” Angel rolled his eyes, taking the shot before someone else could come along and nearly make him spill it. 

“Want me to say it plainly then?” Vaggie arched an eyebrow. 

Angel scowled but he wasn’t mad at Vaggie, not really. He was more pissed at himself for not hiding it better. The five time winner of the Golden Tongue Award (for best performance in a pornographic visual production) should probably have been able to school his face. 

He let his eyes wander across the bar, if there was no point in hiding it anymore. Husk was tossing a cocktail shaker from one hand to the other before sending it up behind his back, bouncing it between his wings, making it disappear and reappear before pouring out an electric blue liquid into Nifty’s waiting glass, to her immense delight. He bowed to the slight but enthusiastic applause, showing Angel a glimpse of the showman he’d been once upon a time. 

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It wasn’t just that he was Angel’s exact type and then some, that gravelly voice, the snark, the emotional unavailability, the tortured past that muzzled him, his boxes were well and truly ticked. If it was just that, Angel would have torn his clothes off, rode him on that bar and moved on with his afterlife. 

But Husk had pushed back. He’d growled and snapped and thrown up more walls until Angel started to see getting the cat’s trousers off as a professional challenge. Robbed of his only way to safely interact with people, to feel like he was in control, Angel had fallen apart in front of him on one of the worst days he’d had in a while.

And all Husk had done was put him back together again. 

So it wasn’t just that he was hot, there was a hell of a lot more to it than that. And there was the fear again, souring the booze on his tongue. 

“I ain’t a fan of straight talking,” Angel grunted, hunching his shoulders and spinning the now empty glass on the edge of his finger. 

“Figured,” Vaggie sighed in a way that might almost suggest she actually cared, hopping down off the barstool. 

She looked ready to disappear up the stairs but something made her pause, maybe the weight of their borrowed time, maybe something dangerously close to sentiment. But she did stop, reaching out and putting a hand on Angel’s shoulder. 

“All I’m gonna say…I’ve been told the only way to survive this is to fight for love. Find someone you can’t live without and go out there with one goal. Protecting them.” 

Like a magnet, those words drew his eyes over to Husk again. And this time, he looked back, feeling his gaze. Those narrow yellow eyes, glowing like bulbs on a marquee or LEDs tempting a sucker to a slot machine, crinkled a little at the edges, shooting the spider demon a wink. 

Angel groaned inwardly at himself. He was doomed and Heaven didn’t have anything to do with it. 

“Someone like me don’t even know what love is,” Angel murmured, more to himself than to Vaggie, “Might as well be speaking a different language, sugar.”

But he heard him anyway, those damn sharp ears of hers, “Then what better time to make a change?”

Before he could shield himself with sarcasm, she was gone, off up the stairs to someone who loved her. To another heartbeat against her own, arms around her, a silent promise that she was cared about, no matter what the nightmares said. Angel felt a pang in his chest, somehow finding the poor sense to want something he’d never had. 

“Another drink?” 

Angel dredged up a crooked grin, “Sure! Put it on my tab, I’ll come settle up with you tomorrow night.”

“Very funny,” Husk poured him a couple more shots to keep him going, though he was now without other customers. 

Charlie and Vaggie had gone upstairs, Cherri had dragged Sir Pentious over to the pool table where she’d definitely crush him, Nifty was curled up in an unnervingly cat like way, sleeping on the bar and making Angel wonder if there hadn’t been a sedative jn that drink Husk made her. Alastor was who knew where, Angel only cared that Husk relaxed a lot more when he wasn’t around. 

This was the best chance he was going to get.

Let’s get to living. His own words from earlier that night tried to move his mouth, tried to force him forward, tried to stop him being such a damned fucking coward and just say something…

“Actually…I think I’ll turn in,” he seized the rest of the shots in various hands and sank them one by one, trying to wash away the bitterness, “My aim gets real shitty if I don’t get my beauty sleep. And if I’m gonna die tomorrow, like hell am I going down with bags under my eyes. Did it once, never again.”

If he was the kind to hope, Angel Dust might have tried to convince himself he saw disappointment in those slitted eyes. 

But Husk only gave a rolling shrug, collecting up the abandoned glasses, draining them of their last clinging dregs of amber liquid, “Funny, my luck seems to get better when I’m hungover. Sweet dreams, kid.”

Angel Dust chuckled, putting a little swing in his hips, shooting a smile over his shoulder, “Ain’t no other kind with me, baby.”

One last lie for the road. 

At least he didn’t sleep at all, choosing the cloudy headed middle ground of lying back on his bed, staring at the ceiling and prodding listlessly at the ache in his chest. It was like when his tooth had been knocked out, unable to keep his tongue out of the tender, empty gap, no matter how much it made him wince. Fat Nuggets did the sleeping for both of them, snoring on Angel’s chest, every gravelly honk ruffling the feathers pink robe that always made Angel feel like he could hold it together for a few more minutes than he would without it. 

He was angry at himself but that was nothing new, only the reason was old. It had been a fucking long time since he’d promised himself he was done hiding, done paring himself down because someone else wouldn’t like the taste. Lying here, feeling sorry for himself because he was too chickenshit to ask a guy to fuck him, he may as well have been back in 1940, worrying himself sick that his dad would be able to see his secret written on his face. 

Well, Angel Dust wasn’t Anthony anymore. And Angel Dust was losing his goddamn patience. The worst had happened and then some, he’d lost his family, he’d lost his home, he’d lost his life but the one thing he didn’t have to do was hide anymore. Husk was down there, he’d say no or he’d say yes, either way was better than being too damn afraid to know. 

And if he felt more about it, well that was his problem to deal with. It wasn’t like he was going to live much longer anyway. 

Fat Nuggets squawked a little as Angel Dust sat up, displaced from his comfy position. 

“Sorry, sweetie,” Angel kissed the top of his head, trying to make up for it by tucking him nicely in his own little bed, “Daddy’s got some living to do. Last minute and all but you know me.”

A quick check of his hair in the mirror, a quick fluff of the fur on his chest, like he was going down to meet some doll by his car and get swept off the the dance hall rather than going to proposition his surly friend for a quick and dirty end-of-their-afterlife fuck. But there was no harm in looking his best while he did it. 

His reflection in this mirror looked a hell of a lot different than the one in his studio dressing room. There were half a hundred tiny little flaws that would have earned him a sharp, cutting comment from Valentino and maybe worse, depending on the moth’s mood. But Angel Dust didn’t think Husk would care, in fact, he seemed to get further with the guy when he went in the opposite direction to what work demanded of him. So he left them, as much as a disconnected, confused anxiety itched at him, one that hadn’t realized they weren’t at the studio. 

He took a deep breath, holding his own gaze tight, “You’re a pro at this, ain’t nothing you haven’t seen before. You know the steps, boyo, curtain’s up.”

Angel went to the door of his room, feeling buoyed, feeling confident. Until, of course, he ran into something he hadn’t seen before. 

At least it was soft. Though it cursed like a sailor. 

“What the fuck?” Angel yelped, feathers suddenly thumping against his face. 

“Will you keep your goddamn voice down, you’ll wake half the fucking hotel-”

“Husk?” Angel stepped back, blinking in confusion, “Were you…were you outside my door?”

The other demon’s irritation collapsed, fizzing away like an alka-seltzer to reveal the bitch of a hangover underneath. Expressions he’d never seen on that feline face tried unsuccessfully to hide, embarrassment and coyness and a blush barely visible under dark fur. 

“Look, I…can I come in? Please?” he tacked the politeness on the end like he almost forgot it while running out the door. 

“Uh…sure, hon?” Angel Dust stepped to one side, suddenly wishing he’d tidied up a little at any point since he first moved in. Or that the dildos tossed about where a more impressive size. 

Husk didn’t seem to relax a little until the door was closed, until they were definitely alone. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, an old antique in amongst a lot of plastic and rubber, while Angel leaned against the door and wondered how he’d lost control of this so fast. 

Eventually Husk sighed, tail twitching and betraying his nervousness, “Look. Feel free to tell me to take a hike here, fuck knows you’d have the right. But…I kept thinking about what Charlie said. About spending this night living how we wanted or whatever. And I…I can’t think of anything else I wanted to do but…”

Angel Dust knew he was grinning like an idiot but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t every day you got a royal flush laid out in front of you. 

“What? What is it you wanna do, Whiskers?” he tilted his head, faux innocence sparkling in his voice as he batted his eyelashes, “Anything I can help you with?”

Husk’s fur bristled and he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Fuck, I knew you’d be like this, goddamnit-”

Panic gripped him, a terrifyingly certain realization that if Husk left now, if he drove him away, he wouldn’t be able to stand it, “Wait. Sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to fuck with you.”

The apology clearly caught the cat demon off guard, eyebrows rising. A small smile pulled at the edges of his mouth, “Well…guess that was the aim of my coming here…”

The grin came back, feeling more honest this time, more firmly in place. Angel stepped forward, offering one of his hands out to Husk, “Good…cos I was just on my way to ask you the same thing.”

He’d heard Husk bitch about his demon form a lot and in that moment, he could see why. Those ears and that tail were tells you could spot from a hundred miles. And right now they were telling Angel he was damn pleased. 

Husk’s fingers- claws? -were calloused, whether from cards or chips or the keys of the sax he’d apparently played once upon a time. But they held Angel’s in a grip he could be certain of, one he knew instantly wouldn’t let go. 

Angel had jumped on odds far worse than that. 

They toppled onto the bed, swallowed by fur and silk. It took some maneuvering, making their strange forms fit but once they found it, it was fucking sweet. Suddenly there was a solid heat between his legs, something to grind into, fireworks exploding behind his eyes when he did. There was a smoky growl in his ear, a heady smell of whiskey and, fuck, Angel could have gotten drunk just off that. His hands moved of their own accord, two anchoring him to the headboard, the other two taking handfuls of soft, impossibly soft fur. 

“Easy…” Husk rumbled when he pulled a little too hard. 

“Sorry,” Angel Dust purred, splaying his legs wide, rolling his hips harder against Husk’s, “Just feels so good.” 

Instead his hands wandered, finding where fur gave way to feather along that strong, broad back. The moment his fingers brushed there, that unfamiliar muscle, Husk jerked and moaned, the hardness in his trousers throbbing. 

“Oh? Kitty liked that, huh?” Angel tittered, pressing one thumb into a hollow at the base of his wing, earning another strangled yowl. 

“I swear to fuck, if you make me come in my pants like a goddamn teenager, I- fuck, baby, I’m sensitive there- ah…” 

“I’d consider it a compliment, honey, don’t you worry,” Angel cooed, shivering happily at the way Husk’s chest vibrated when he touched him, like he was an instrument he could play. 

“Call me old fashioned…”

Suddenly they were rolling, Angel Dust’s stomach dropping dizzily for a moment until he found himself straddling Husk, who was smirking up at him. 

“But when I’m from?” he finished, voice sounding like everything amber and musk and honey in the world, “If you’re taking a fine man to bed, you let him take his pleasure first. It’s good manners, see? So how about you tell me what you want, Angel?”

Angel Dust was left with the sudden anxiety of having forgotten his next line in the script. Or worse, he’d never even fucking read it in the first place. The answer, perched miserably on the tip of his tongue was that he didn’t know. 

He’d gotten too used to sex where the only thing that mattered was getting a good review, any pleasure he got was a secondary concern. He’d taught himself to like whatever his partner was willing to give, even when it called him a whore, even when it was too much, even when it hurt. The real pleasure had been the packet of powder or handful of pills that came after or before, not the sex itself. 

His confusion must have shown on his face because Husk’s voice gentled, a paw coming up to lightly cup his face, “You want my mouth or my hands, baby?”

Angel Dust pushed his instincts away, “Mouth. I want you to tell me how I taste.”

Rolling again but this time, he enjoyed the free fall. Now Husk was between his legs, drawing down the sweatpants he wore to bed, just enough that he could free Angel’s dick. Angel kicked them the rest of the way off, letting Husk see all of him, legs falling open. 

“Fuck…” his voice was melodic, hypnotic and hypnotized, “You look fucking gorgeous, baby…”

“And it’s all yours,” Angel panted raggedly, wrapping his long legs around Husk’s shoulders. For however long we’ve got left. 

Husk’s purr sounded more like a car engine on its last legs, a rough and slightly threatening sound, but as he nosed and nuzzled at the base of Angel’s cock, it ran through his body like the best warm whiskey. In the dim light of his room, Angel could swear those spots on his wings were glowing, along with his eyes, which were fixed on Angel’s face like he was getting as much pleasure from watching him as he was from licking a broad stripe across his length. 

Angel hissed, back arching up like his whole body was drawn towards that sensation, “Fuck, watch that sandpaper tongue…”

“Sorry. I’m kinda rough all over, baby,” he didn’t sound particularly sorry, flashing him a grin but he did ease up, hands taking hold of Angel’s thighs, keeping him spread wide so he could bury his face against him. 

In the studio, Angel Dust had marks to hit, lines to gasp out, a camera to play up to. With Valentino, he had to make the right noises, he needed to sound scared, he needed to beg. But here, with Husk, out of reach of a script or a contract, he let moans and gasps pour heedlessly from his lips, he moved his body however it felt good. He was loud, loud enough to blow out a mic, he cursed and babbled things that didn’t make sense, he just felt . 

Eventually the fur around Husk’s mouth was soaked, his jaw slack. He was good at this, unfairly good, lips and teeth and tongue all as skilled as you’d expect from someone who’d made a living by them. But now Angel Dust was the sole focus of their attention and he was drawn tight as a bow, ready to snap. 

“Come for me, baby,” Husk’s rasp was almost animalistic now, “Let me hear you fucking sing.”

Angel Dust was more than happy to give him exactly what he asked for, giving a broken, soaring cry as his orgasm crashed over him, sinking him down into such an overwhelming sensation that he soon lost sight of the surface. Panic threatened but then a voice echoed to him. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes…” his own voice didn’t feel attached to his body so it was free to answer truthfully.

It was those lips that brought him back, a mouth that tasted of salt and opened to warmth, arms coming to circle him and anchor him down. Angel moaned, not able to care that his voice cracked unflatteringly as he did. 

“Baby…”

“I got you, Angel, you did good, you tasted fucking incredible…” Husk’s wings settled over them, shielding him from the pink glow of his room. 

He didn’t know how to tell him that the praise threatened to break him all over again, so Angel took charge this time, needing all four of his limbs to press the stronger demon into the mattress. 

He licked the taste of his own come off Husk’s fangs and drew back just enough to gasp out, “You’re gonna fuck me so hard and so deep that if I go down tomorrow, I’m going down with your spunk inside me.”

“Of course that’s your fucking last wish,” Husk’s laugh was a gorgeous thing, a rough bark that made Angel think of smoky jazz lounges from another time. 

He couldn’t help but smile, even if it was mostly bemusement, he wasn’t used to laughing during sex. It did feel pretty fucking good, he had to admit, having a genuine grin on his face as he pulled open Husk’s trousers. Though it quickly fell into awe at what jumped out and damn near smacked him in the teeth.

“Holy fuck!” Angel grinned in delight, one arm having good sense and stretching out to snag the bottle of lube in his bedside table, “Is that an overlord thing? They took the power but they let you keep the massive cock?”

“Shut up,” Husk rolled his eyes, where they snagged on the two hands now soaking their fingers and reaching around to his ass, “Mm…you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

“Heard a couple of people mention it,” Angel grinned down at him, shivering pleasantly as his hands got to work. 

Husk’s eyes burned in the dim light, “Yeah. But do you know it?”

Angel Dust faltered, eyelids half closed. Another question whose answer flitted on his tongue but he didn’t want to let it go. 

And again, he didn’t have to. Husk pulled him down, bending him near in half to kiss him. Unable to wait a moment more, his slicked hands grasped at Husk’s cock, drawing a hiss out of him that he gratefully swallowed. Angel sighed through the stretch and burn, sitting back and slowly, achingly slowly, every inch of Husk disappeared into him. 

Angel was used to pleasures that dissolved quickly on his tongue and in his nose, leaving cold, bitter metal behind. This was something entirely new, something that felt like it was etching itself on every cell in his body, redefining words he thought he’d known inside and out. Pleasure. Sex. Need. 

“Husk…” his voice was a tremulous, faint thing, like he was afraid to be heard. 

“Oh, I knew you’d be like nothing else, baby…” the other demon groaned, thrusting up into him after a moment to let him settle. 

There was no awkward shuffling now, they moved like a dance, like they could hear some music that didn’t exist outside of their bloodstreams. Husk’s hips rolled, Angel arched, two arms thrown up over his head, two others raking down his lover’s chest, leaving deep grooves in his fur. Before, his mouth had been occupied but now Husk sounded like- what else? -a cat in heat, yowling and gasping.

“That’s it, baby, take it, fucking take it, you feel so fucking good, Angel,” he moaned it like a title rather than just a name, like he’d done anything to deserve it. 

“Aw fuck…” Angel Dust felt like he was going to shake apart, there wasn’t room inside him for all of this, he didn’t know where to put it all. 

But he did know that he was about to come, hard. It was unstoppable, undeniable, and if he was half the pornstar he thought he was, Husk was on his heels. It was in the way his voice had shifted up a few notes, the way his grip on Angel’s hips had grown desperate, the break in the otherwise metronome perfect rhythm of his thrusts. 

And that terrified Angel. All the fear he’d expected to find down in the bar, it thickened the air in his lungs like he’d taken an inhale from a real bad batch. Fuck, please, it can’t be over already. 

But this was a fall that had to end. Husk’s hips shifted, heating that sweet spot inside him dead on and he was lost, every muscle tensing as he surrendered to his release. It was sweet and the low roar of his own name, the heat flooding so deep inside him he could damn near taste it, that was sweeter. This time when he broke, he willed himself to stay in those depths, stay in pieces, there was nothing for him on the surface. 

But there was that voice again. 

“Angel…fuck, that was…that was amazing, I…Angel?”

His muscles must have switched off at some point but Husk had caught him, he was sprawled out across the other demon’s chest, their bodies still joined somewhere within the lovely, thrumming haze where the rest of him used to be. But his eyes prickled, heat running down his cheek, dripping onto Husk’s fur where oh fuck no, he’d felt it…

Angel flinched back from the sting of his own tears, bringing an arm up to try and hide, like there was even any point. He rolled off Husk, hunching down as small as he’d go, shoulders trembling. 

“It’s nothing, I…” What are you doing, idiot? “...don’t worry about it, it’ll stop…” Dumb fucking slut, you’re ruining it! “...just give me a second to put myself together…” Like you have any right, get a grip “I’m sorry.”

“Angel.”

He listened miserably, waiting for the creak as the bed lifted without his wait, waiting for the sound of soft paws on the floor and the click of the door closing behind him. But it never came. 

“Angel, can I touch you? That alright, baby?”

He managed to nod, surprise mostly shocking his muscles into moving. There was a shift, a whisper of silk and then soft fur as strong arms wrapped around his middle, embracing him with a deliberate light touch that would let Angel pull away at any point. Another heartbeat, slowing as the adrenaline ebbed away, drummed against his back like a knock at the door. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Husk murmured against the fur between Angel’s shoulder blades. 

“Nah,” Angel croaked, inhaling deeply, finding that warm whiskey smell again and relaxing, “We ain’t got the time.”

“Fair enough,” he accepted it easily, much to Angel’s relief, “Just get some sleep, okay? I’m gonna stay right here.” 

 He couldn’t help it, however much it made him feel like a child, “Promise?”

“Of course I promise, Angel,” there was an edge of sadness to his voice, more than the usual, not at having to say it again but at the fact that he needed to ask, “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me. However long we got left.”

Angel smiled grimly. The second wasn’t fucking long enough to allow him the first. Just his luck to find exactly what he’d been looking for in the last few hours he had to live. 

But he would take what he’d been given. Angel always had. 

He turned, burying his face in Husk’s chest, feeling his rough but pleased chuckle, “Best roll of the dice I think I ever made, coming to your door…”

Angel Dust allowed himself a moment to smile at that. To feel wanted. To feel precious. Whatever happened tomorrow, he’d remember this feeling. 

Whatever happened tomorrow, he wouldn’t face it alone. 

[drarryspecificrecs]

2023.11 ~ Top 5 longest fics posted on AO3

1. Seagulls Cause Storms, or the Essence of Chaos by @writandromance [M, 311k]

►Alternate universes never seem as real as our own. Draco felt no differently. He never questioned whether, in a far-off knot of space, he started hating Harry Potter at eleven and never stopped. All he knew was that here and now, it was unthinkable not to love him. /// This is Draco’s story from eleven to seventeen, should the flap of a butterfly’s wing change fate just enough to coax him down a different path.

2. Recursion by @tessacrowley [E, 132k]

►A process is recursive when it defines or contains itself; e.g., the Fibonacci sequence, which determines the next number as the sum of the previous two. But not all recursive processes are mathematical. Recursion can happen in a temporal context when, for instance, the powerful magical force that is true love drags you back in time so it can create itself, endangering the fate of the Wizarding World—not to mention the very fabric of space and time—along the way.

3. Christmas Courting by Kai_Embers [M, 87k]

►‘Christmas Courting’ or ‘Yuletide Courting’ is an ancient ritual that many Pure-blood wizards - and all members of the Sacred 28 - go through when choosing their intended. [...] Draco has no family, limited prospects and a legacy he needs to live up to, so on the 1st of December his name is published on the Christmas Courting list with Blaise backing him through the process as suiters vie for his hand. The Malfoy name is still worth something in the right circles.

4. Strand's Seven Stars by @shewhomustnotbenamed [E, 83k]

►Draco seeks out the help of a detective who is known for his discretion. Despite rocky introductions, Draco and the detective, Harry Potter, become friends as Draco is forced to share very personal information that reveals more about himself than he would have ever admitted to under any other circumstance. Fortunately, Harry is not only understanding of Draco's sexual preferences but encourages him to keep doing what he loves--perhaps with Harry himself.

5. give me touch (‘cause I’ve been missing it) by yaz113 [E, 65k]

►Harry Potter is living the life he'd always dreamed about, happily married to his childhood sweetheart, Ginny Potter née Weasley and playing as the star seeker of the Montrose Magpies. One minor quidditch accident and one trip to the medical center later, Harry finds himself under the spell of Team Healer Draco Malfoy, inadvertently putting his dream life at risk.

—

※ Word count: 1k ~ 10k

※ Word count: 10k ~ 40k

change on the fly by @legen-wait-for-it-drarry [T, 30k]

the earth from a distance by @andthepeople [E, 15k]

The end is renown by @onehundredflamingos [E, 21k]

Falling For U by mik_exe [T, 13k]

The Hierophant by @hsvh-hp [M, 29k]

I Remember You... But It Wasn't Really You by @nakyrah [M, 32k]

Obliviate by ScarletTokugawa [T, 12k]

People You Know by Zoythren [M, 30k]

Rush by @mono-chromia [E, 10k]

Starting Over by Justlikewriting [M, 19k]

—

Ongoing Fest/Exchange

※ Fics would be listed elsewhere.

Harry/Draco Career Fair 2023 | @hd-fan-fair​

HD Sudsfest Lite 2023 | @hdsudsfest

HP No Nut November 2023 | @knot-your-mothers-mods

Sugarfest | @hpsugarfest

Shadows and Spells

[vague-shadows]

@azrisweek 2024 | Day 1: Contrasts

My first fic for this fandom! It's entirely my wife's fault (affectionate).

Summary: Azriel meets Death, whom he mistakes for a suriel, and Death unexpectedly acquires (another) lonely child to look after.

---

Death is admittedly intrigued by the sad little boy locked away in a tower filled with so much death - a little boy with wraith blood flowing in his veins no less - and can’t help but feel the courageous little soul is being wasted, trapped here in this festering cruelty and neglect.  It has been quite some time since Death took on an apprentice - should be quite some time before an apprentice will need to take up Death’s mantle and continue the Mother’s work. Still, it’s as good a reason as any to investigate a bit further.  

The boy sleeps restlessly on the thin straw mattress in the center of the room. Two shackles adorn the base of his atrophied wings at the point where they connect to his emaciated shoulders, and two more encircle his pale, thin ankles.  A heavy chain from each shackle ends at an iron ring bolted into the floor.  

The boy wakes with a start when he senses Death’s presence in the room. Apparently, he has ample wraith heritage to have the Sight, since he shrinks back and raises two tiny, horribly scarred hands in a defensive position on either side of his gaunt face. Before Death can decide whether to offer reassurance, the boy is already dropping his hands. 

“Sorry, I thought you were … someone else,” he says. “They don’t usually put other prisoners in with me.”

His small voice sounds painfully hoarse. Death wonders whether disuse or screaming is the cause of the winded rasp.  For the first time in a very long while, Death’s appearance isn’t marred by some form of fear or misery on the part of the one they’re meeting.  Instead of the usual variations of terror,  the boy’s gaze is soft, with a bright curiousness seen almost exclusively in children. 

“Are you a suriel? 

Keep reading on AO3

[greeenchrysanthemums]

Appearances for the GG rivals au character.

I am no artist, so these will simply be written descriptions with a few images thrown in here and there. These are all subject to change at any time, as well, since this is still in its early planning stages.

For Gem, I imagine she looks a lot like in this gorgeous fanart, except her dress has slits up the side to allow for easier movement and her hair is a low bun with a braid wrapping around the front of her head, like this.

Scott and Impulse wear armour similar to how applestruda draws it in her au, with their cloths in shades of teal and yellow. Scott, I like to imagine, has long, back length hair, that he wears down and covering one eye. Impulse has shortly cropped hair and two little nubby horns that are tipped in black, as well as sharp clawed hands. Scott's teeth are sharp; no one quite knows why.

Grian's eyes are entirely black like a barn owl's and his hands end in sharp talons rather than nails. He doesn't have wings, not anymore at least. He wears a high collared red tunic and brown trousers, but both are rarely seen past the heavy, ankle length, black cloak he hides himself under, which is held closed by a silver brooch in the shape of an eye. The cloak has a hood but he never wears it. He always seems to be sliming, whether that smile is devious or genuine is up for debate. The brooch looks something like this, minus the blue center and the circlular details

Scar wears a similar black cloak, held closed by the same brooch, though he wears his with the hood up, and it has red flower detailing on the hem (so, similiar to his secret life look but its a full cloak). His eyes are still green, though, and he has a single grey streak in his brown hair. His tunic and trousers under the cloak are both black and he wears his shirt just a little bit too open at the top. He also always wears a smile, but pretty much everyone can agree it is deceptively kind.

Mumbo and Etho wear matching outfits, claiming it is professional since they share a job, but it is something they choose to do not something that is required of them (they are just silly, really). I imagine they are simple outfits consisting of white tunics with black trousers and thick, leather aprons on top (mumbo's is red and etho's is green). They both wear goggles and thick gloves, as well as chunky boots, all for safety since they work with explosives. Etho wears a black bandana on his lower his face. His goggles replace his headband in this look, being what keeps his hair out of his face. His scared eye is missing entirely; he does not have a false eye, it is just an empty socket. Mumbo wears his goggles around his neck when they are not on his face.

Bdubs dresses similarly, minus the apron and goggles, since he works out in the garder. His shirt is white, and he has brown trousers. Over that he wears a thick cloak that is almost always covered in some manner of flora and/or mud. He completes the look with a wide brimmed hat to protect him from the sun.

Cleo is also dresses similarly to Etho and Mumbo but her apron is a plain brown that is stained with soot. Her tunic sleeves are always rolled up to show off her strong arms and she doesn't wear her safety gloves nearly as much as she should, and she forgoes eye protection entirely. One of her eyes is missing (surprisingly not related to the lack of protective wear), replaced with a glass eye of a slightly different shade of green than her organic eye. Her hair is pulled into a much messier bun than Gem's, with frizzy stray hairs going every direction.

Ren and Martyn look like how they are typically drawn in third life fanart. Ren's eyes are red, as well as blood shot, and he almost always appears angry.

Pearl wears a white tunic with flared sleeves tucked into a pair of high waisted black trousers. Over this she has a deep, red cloak that stops at her waist. She has a crescent moon shaped birth mark on the left side of her face. She carries a sword around her waist. Her hair is always down and messy under her hood.

Bigb just looks like a baker, I am not sure how to describe it. But he always seems to have flour stains on his clothes no matter how hard he tries to wipe it off. Big strong arms for him as well.

Skizz wears the same armour as Scott and impulse, and his underclothes are black. The sleeves of his tunic are ripped off and he does not wear his gauntlets. He refuses to elaborate on why. He is a dove avian.

Tango wears a short sleeved red tunic and black trousers with big chunky boots. His hands are clawed, and his ears are pointed; both are tipped in a red to black gradient. His eyes are entirely red. He has a long tail that ends in a tuff of fire that doesn't seem to have any real heat.

Jimmy wears a blue tunic with a brown vest over it. Brown trousers and chunky boots. His sleeves are always rolled up and he is always covered in some manner of dirt, both because of the work he does on the farm, and from being very clumsy. He has bull horns, one of which is chipped. He also has a tail.

I still don't have set roles for joel and lizzie just yet so they do not have designs in mind either, unfortunately.

[nunalastor]

Buckshot Anon here! The analysis of Valentino's death based on cursed mod's headcanon is complete! This was an interesting one, because the processes necessary to properly pin a butterfly took some figuring out how to apply with a living human.

One of the most important elements of butterfly pinning would be to push a pin through the thorax to keep the butterfly in place. This would place the pin at the center of Valentino's chest. The pin or an equivalent tool would then be pushed into the body, but whether the person doing it is willing to break the sternum determines what Valentino would experience.

Break the sternum: The pin would penetrate directly into Valentino's heart, and any shards of the sternum could continue to cause further damage. His body would go into immediate shock so while he may experience pain, shock would overwhelm his senses. He would lose consciousness in the realm of 15 seconds.

Don't break the sternum: The pin would be placed just underneath the sternum, in which case it would stab into and cause a blockage in the descending aorta. Blockage instead of mass bleeding because the pin would be preventing blood loss, which would rapidly start should the pin be removed. As the pin would doubtfully be able to block the aorta in its entirety, a blockage of this nature would result in a slower death provided Valentino was completely still as this was happening. However, even if he were to remain still in spite of severe chest pain he would be experiencing, the simple act of breathing would be enough to cause the pin to move and result in a complete rupture of the aorta with the pin no longer able to act as a blockage, where Valentino would then bleed out entirely within a minute. His body would begin going into shock the moment the pin was pushed into his body, but he could maintain some form of consciousness up until his movements result in more damage to the aorta.

One other factor related to butterfly pinning that could contribute to his death is how his arms may be handled. While butterfly pinning often specifies to pin around the wings instead of in them (therefore he would not sustain further wounds), all muscles in the body are connected and the act of moving his arms upward to mimic a butterfly's position would cause his muscles to lock up and resist any movement, which would result in the pin causing more damage significantly faster, so the rupture in his aorta would become fatal in 1-2 minutes.

In summary: Valentino would experience immense chest pain, but his suffering would be lessened by almost instantly going into shock. If the pin was plunged into his heart, he would lose consciousness in 15 seconds and have gone into irreversible shock. If the pin was plunged in the aorta, he could remain conscious in the realm of 2-5 minutes, most likely closer to 2 minutes when accounting for his muscles resisting against further aspects of butterfly pinning.

👀

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Luke Hallam at The UnPopulist:

For the past seven days, the U.K. has witnessed its worst riots in over a decade. What started off last week as a wave of protests over the horrific murder of three young girls, fueled by false claims about the identity of the attacker on social media, has metastasized into something far more profound: a deep fracturing of relations between communities that threatens to do lasting damage to Britain’s social fabric.

Origin of a Race Riot

Last Monday, a knife-wielding teenager entered through an open fire door at a Taylor Swift-themed dance class in the seaside town of Southport and killed three participants, all girls under the age of 10. He also injured eight more young children and two adults. It was an evil crime, the horror made all the more acute by the youth of the victims and by the fact that someone would target for such an atrocity, of all things, a joyful summer dance party. What came next should be considered a textbook example of how harmful lies can spread on social media. There are generally good reasons to be wary of finger-pointing when it comes to “fake news” and social media’s role in spreading it. But in this instance, it’s hard to overstate the extent of the hysteria that was unleashed. Mere hours after the attack, the killer was seemingly identified as Ali al-Shakati, a Muslim asylum seeker who had arrived in the United Kingdom by boat, and was known to the British security services as a potential threat. Within minutes of the first social media post identifying al-Shakati, the story was picked up by a dubious news organization calling itself “Channel 3 Now.” The al-Shakati story was then parroted by Russia Today, and began appearing in a raft of viral posts on social media, including X, LinkedIn, and Facebook. Right-wing influencers with huge followings, like Andrew Tate, amplified the story, and various posts amassed thousands, often millions, of impressions.

Unrest broke out initially in Southport, Hartlepool, and London. Rioters released smoke flares and set fire to a riot van; they threw trash cans and bottles at police officers. As the unrest spread, it was the far right—an ad hoc coalition of former members of the English Defense League, supporters of notorious far-right agitator Tommy Robinson, and ordinary people swept along on social media—fueling the violence. It was common to see English flags and chants of “English till I die.” Mosques and Islamic centers were targeted in a horrific wave of xenophobic thuggery. It was, in large part, a genuine race riot—not a phrase to use lightly. In the first three days, it was well known that the suspect was only 17 years old, which means that by law they couldn’t be identified in the media. Still, in an attempt to head off the violence, the police released some limited information confirming that the alleged perpetrator of the atrocity was in fact born in the U.K. Nigel Farage, the leader of the populist-right Reform UK party and a newly-minted member of parliament, echoed a widespread fear that the establishment was conspiring with the police forces to protect an illegal migrant for fear of fueling an anti-immigrant narrative, irresponsibly declaring: “I just wonder whether the truth is being withheld from us.”

Finally, on Thursday afternoon, a judge took the unusual step of allowing the media to release the full identity of the alleged perpetrator despite his being a minor, noting that the suspect was only a few days away from turning 18. It turns out that Ali al-Shakati doesn’t exist. The real suspect, Axel Rudakubana, a 17-year-old born in Wales to Rwandan parents, was not a refugee. We don’t know that he’s not Muslim, nor that his motives were unrelated to some sort of Islamist ideology—though, given that only 2% of Rwanda’s population is Muslim, it seems unlikely. Of course, it hardly matters. There’s no earthly justification for violently attacking mosques, harassing the public, and setting fire to police vans.

[...]

Far-Right Xenophobia Capitalizes On Britain’s Integration Issues

There are two things to say in response to all of this: two things that may at first glance appear to be mutually exclusive, but are nevertheless both true. The first is that the right-wing polemicists have long been packaging these problems together into one overarching, catastrophist narrative of British decline. The problem is, there is no evidence that the knife crime wave has been directly fueled by asylum seekers. As bad as knife crime and other problems may be, it is also simply incorrect to assert that the country has in recent years become, in the words of one representative commentator, “a lawless country where there is no justice at all.” What’s more, right-wing catastrophism is hypocritical insofar as it has often been fueled by the very same politicians who were in government until last month, and spectacularly failed to tackle most of these problems. Indeed, it was the Conservative government that slashed the number of police officers and presided over the arrival of a record number of refugees, while failing to find a humane, durable solution for processing them. (In addition, it’s notable that even as one part of the country, Scotland, managed to successfully bring its knife crime problem under control by adopting a community-led agenda, Conservative politicians in Westminster made vacuous pronouncements about law and order that amounted to nothing for most of the country.)

The second thing to say is that there are real problems with Britain’s model of dealing with ethnic and religious diversity. Whenever there is social unrest or communal strife in France, for example, Brits and Americans like to put the blame squarely on the French model of laïcité—an imperfect approach to the separation of church and state that is often caricatured as consisting in naked animus against religious minorities. But Britain’s own highly communitarian approach—which often gives a free pass to the most radical elements within a religious community—does not seem to be faring much better, with the result that elements within some immigrant communities in Britain’s major cities have failed to properly integrate, and, as the present riots show, longstanding resentments have been left to fester.

Over the past week in the United Kingdom, far-right race riots over the UK’s immigration policies and the Southport stabbing have sprung up all over the Home Nations, especially in England.

These riots are fueled by paranoid Islamophobia, anti-immigrant xenophobia, and fake news.

[tomorrowusa]

J.D. Vance is even worse than you think.

[H]is worldview is fundamentally incompatible with the basic principles of American democracy. Vance has said that, had he been vice president in 2020, he would have carried out Trump’s scheme for the vice president to overturn the election results. He has fundraised for January 6 rioters. He once called on the Justice Department to open a criminal investigation into a Washington Post columnist who penned a critical piece about Trump. After last week’s assassination attempt on Trump, he attempted to whitewash his radicalism by blaming the shooting on Democrats’ rhetoric about democracy without an iota of evidence.

Being "evidence-free" is fairly normal for Republicans theses days, but let's continue.

This worldview translates into a very aggressive agenda for a second Trump presidency. In a podcast interview, Vance said that Trump should “fire every single mid-level bureaucrat” in the US government and “replace them with our people.” If the courts attempt to stop this, Vance says, Trump should simply ignore the law. “You stand before the country, like Andrew Jackson did, and say the chief justice has made his ruling, now let him enforce it,” he declares. The President Jackson quote is likely apocryphal, but the history is real. Vance is referring to an 1832 case, Worcester v. Georgia, in which the Supreme Court ruled that the US government needed to respect Native legal rights to land ownership. Jackson ignored the ruling, and continued a policy of allowing whites to take what belonged to Natives. The end result was the ethnic cleansing of about 60,000 Natives — an event we now call the Trail of Tears. For most Americans, this history is a deep source of shame: an authoritarian president trampling on the rule of law to commit atrocities. For Vance, it is a well of inspiration.

Implicitly, Vance favors the persecution of Native Americans. He's a fan of ethnic cleansing.

Vance apparently alters his views simply to further his ambitions.

Ultimately, whether Vance truly believes what he’s saying is secondary to the public persona he’s chosen to adopt. Politicians are not defined by their inner lives, but the decisions that they make in public — the ones that actually affect law and policy. Those choices are deeply shaped by the constituencies they depend on and the allies they court. And it is clear that Vance is deeply ensconced in the GOP’s growing “national conservative” faction, which pairs an inconsistent economic populism with an authoritarian commitment to crushing liberals in the culture war.

A favorite abbreviation of mine for "national conservative" is Nat-C.

Yes, Vance actually follows a monarchist blogger. What would the signers of the Declaration of Independence think?

Vance has cited Curtis Yarvin, a Silicon Valley monarchist blogger, as the source of his ideas about firing bureaucrats and defying the Supreme Court. His Senate campaign was funded by Vance’s former employer, Peter Thiel, a billionaire who once wrote that “I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible.” He’s a big fan of Patrick Deneen, a Notre Dame professor who recently wrote a book calling for “regime change” in America. Vance spoke at an event for Deneen’s book in Washington, describing himself as a member of the “postliberal right” who sees his job in Congress as taking an “explicitly anti-regime” stance.

Those pushing the odious Project 2025, which we should think of as „Mein Trumpf“, are big fans of J.D..

Top Trump advisor (and current federal inmate) Steve Bannon told Ward that Vance is “at the nerve center of this movement.” Kevin Roberts, the president of the right-wing Heritage Foundation and the driving force behind Project 2025, told Ward that “he is absolutely going to be one of the leaders — if not the leader — of our movement.” He would be a direct conduit from the shadowy world of far-right influencers, where Curtis Yarvin is a respected voice and Viktor Orbán a role model, straight to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Viktor Orbán is not somebody any American leader should emulate. Orbán is essentially a goulash Putin.

In 2004, Democratic presidential candidate Howard Dean described himself as hailing from “the Democratic wing of the Democratic party.” If the GOP under Trump has indeed evolved into an authoritarian party, then Vance hails from its authoritarian wing.

So Vance is from the authoritarian wing of the authoritarian party.

Dictatorships are much easier to prevent than to remove. What are you doing in real life to work for the defeat of the Trump-Vance ticket? If you like democracy, you can't take it for granted.

NOTE: Zack Beauchamp who wrote the highlighted article above at Vox has a related book out this month.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

You Are Not the Kind of Boy (Who Should Be Marrying the Wrong Girl): Part Two

A/N: Don't you just love the (squints at the smudged writing on my hand) tradition of fucking a Duke's son? Prompts are made to be suggestions, right? Anyways! Happy Day Two of @sjmromanceweek! I hope everyone enjoys this very smutty part two of Regency Elucien 😉

Read on AO3 // Previous Part // Next Part

“Promise me, Elain.”

It takes everything within Elain to keep her face neutral, to not give away her swirling emotions or where her thoughts have strayed. She keeps her smile sweet, keeps peering up at Lucien from beneath her lashes. She places both her hands on his chest, slowly sliding her hands down, digging her nails in just enough to feel the way Lucien shudders beneath her touch.

“I said of course.”

“Fuck,” Lucien murmurs, his hands traveling further down Elain’s arms until his fingers circle her wrist, squeezing gently around her fluttering pulse. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Elain presses up onto her toes, her lips barely a breath away from his. “Show me.”

Lucien’s hands move to Elain’s jaw, the warmth of his skin tingling across Elain’s cheeks. He tilts her face up to his, bettering the angle, before slotting his mouth firmly against hers. It’s a kiss, a proper kiss, his lips moving and slotting against Elain’s. She sighs and melts against him, drawn into his warmth, into his light. She meets him stroke for stroke, finally giving in to her desire to bury a hand amongst the red strands of his hair.

Both their chests are heaving by the time they finally separate. Lucien seems almost reluctant to pull away, leaning in and stealing another searing kiss. With a soft groan, he pulls away completely, eyes burning beneath the red and orange glow of the setting sun. His lips are already slightly pink and swollen from just that one kiss, and Elain is sure she’s never seen a more beautiful man in her life.

Lucien grabs Elain’s hand again, but this time, he starts to lead her across the grass and the field and toward his family’s estate. With their fingers laced firmly together, Lucien guides them both to a door along the western wing, yanking it open and tugging Elain inside.

Elain expects them to have stepped through a servants’ entrance, perhaps to have snuck in through the kitchen or even the servants’ quarters, but instead it appears to be some sort of drawing room overlooking the gardens. Lush rugs cover the floors, thick, gorgeous curtains framing the tall windows along the walls. Whether Lucien notices Elain’s shock or confusion, he doesn’t stop, pulling Elain out of the room into the main hall beyond and toward the large staircase.

“Lucien,” Elain hisses, squeezing his hand tighter. “Aren’t you worried someone will see us?”

“Let them see,” Lucien offers over his shoulder. “They should get used to the sight anyways.”

Lucien turns back around, continuing up the stairs and pulling Elain behind him. It’s just as well. It means that Lucien doesn’t see the way Elain’s face falls, the way she swallows hard. She supposes she should have known. Of course, someone as beautiful as Lucien, a Duke’s son, was sure to have the attention of many in the ton. Of course, Elain isn’t the first person to pass through these doors with him. After she walks away, she’s sure that she won’t be the last.

“Elain,” Lucien’s voice draws Elain out of her thoughts.

Elain blinks a few times and realizes that they’re now standing in a bedroom. It’s like stepping inside an autumn wood. The walls are hues of oranges and reds and golds, curtains fluttering in the early evening breeze of the opened window overlooking the lake. A large four poster bed of dark wood sits in the center of the room, dark green blankets draped across the mattress.

“Elain,” Lucien repeats, his fingers gentle beneath her chin. “If you’ve changed your mind, we can–”

“No,” Elain quickly cuts him off, curling her fingers into fists in her shirt. “No, I want this. I want you.”

Lucien groans again, burying his nose against her hair. “Hearing you say those words… it’s going to be the death of me.”

“Perhaps that’s my plan all along.”

“What a way to go it would be. I’d meet the Mother smiling.”

“You really are a scoundrel, Lucien Spellcleaver.”

Lucien’s smirk has Elain’s heart thudding harder still between her ribs. “Your scoundrel, Elain Archeron.”

Before Elain can even really think on those words, Lucien’s lips are back on hers. One hand curls around her jaw, holding her exactly how he wants her, the other curling around her waist and pulling her close again. His tongue slips into her mouth, curling and drawing a moan from her, as he presses her back against the wall.

He pulls away but he doesn’t go far, trailing his lips along her jaw, down her neck. Heat fires down Elain’s spine, and she presses her thighs together against the flare of warmth low in her gut, as his teeth nip right at her pulse point, sucking the skin between his lips. His hand finds the sleeve of her dress, pushing it down her arm and exposing her collarbones for him to trace his lips across.

“Lucien…” Elain whispers, her voice breathless and chest heaving.

Lucien lifts his head, and Elain is quick to draw him back in for another kiss, already drunk off the taste of him. Already desperate to keep him pressed here against her, their lips sealed firmly together.

“Keep saying my name,” Lucien murmurs against her lips.

“Lucien,” Elain moans, her head falling back against the wall as Lucien’s fingers knead her breast through the fabric of her dress.

He drops down to his knees, Elain blinking in confusion and able to do nothing but watch as Lucien gathers up the skirts of her dress, ducking beneath them. She nearly jumps in surprise when she feels his fingers on her ankle, his touch slowly sliding up over her calf, her knee.

“What are you doing?”

“Something I have long dreamed of,” Lucien answers, his fingers making surprisingly quick work of her undergarments.

Elain feels truly exposed, and she can’t decide if it’s better or worse that she can’t quite see Lucien beneath her skirts. But she can feel him. Feel the heat of his gaze burning straight through her skin. Feel the way his fingers curl into her thighs. Feel his hot breath where it fans out across her cunt. She can feel her own arousal damp and sticky against her thighs, a thrumming need that matches the pace of her pounding heart.

She lets out a squeak of surprise when Lucien licks a thick stripe over her, the sound spilling over into a moan when his tongue finds her clit. Lucien repeats the motion again and again, and Elain has to press a hand over her mouth to keep in the choked out sounds threatening to escape. Especially, when Lucien lets out a groan of his own against her, Elain able to feel the vibrations all the way down to her toes.

“Oh my gods,” Elain sighs, starting to rock her hips against Lucien’s mouth and his ministrations.

Lucien’s grip on her thighs tightens, lifting one of her legs and settling it over his shoulder. It fully opens her up to him, allows him to feast like a starving man, like this is the only meal he’ll ever want. The magic he works with just his mouth draws endless moans past Elain’s lips. It’s licking long, slow stripes and then swirling his tongue in circles over her clit. It’s sucking her clit between his lips and then his tongue breaching and fucking up into her.

Each change up, each groan from Lucien, has Elain grateful for the wall at her back holding her up. Time slips away from her, every point of her body and mind and soul focused on Lucien and the way he works her body. Her toes curl, that heat low in her gut tightening like a coil, like a bow being strung back and ready to strike. Blissful release seems within reach, glittering just ahead of her outstretched hand.

“Lu… Lucien… oh gods.”

It’s the only warning Elain is able to give before her orgasm sends her tumbling down headfirst. Her thighs squeeze around Lucien’s head, her back bowing forward off the wall, as heat rushes through her veins. The hand over her mouth does little to hide or disguise her loud choked off moan, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Elain only hopes there aren’t too many people in this wing of the estate.

Lucien slips out from beneath her skirts, his lips and chin shiny and slick. Elain can feel embarrassment beginning to flood through her cheeks and heating the tips of her ears, but then Lucien makes a big show of licking his lips, eyelashes kissing the golden skin of his cheeks as his eyes flutter. Somehow, he makes the obscene sight beautiful, and all the heat in Elain’s face quickly simmers and begins to flush down her chest instead.

Lucien clambers back to his feet, crowding into Elain’s space again. His hand comes up to cradle her cheek, thumb dragging across her bottom lip. “Elain Archeron, you are something else.”

“You better mean that in a good way,” Elain fires back, daring to nip at his thumb in retaliation.

Lucien chuckles, Elain able to feel it where their chests are pressed together. “Always.”

Before Elain can say anything else, Lucien kisses her again, deep and thorough. Elain moans against his lips, able to taste herself where he slides his tongue with her own. Without breaking the kiss, Lucien’s deft fingers work at the fastenings of Elain’s dress, tugging and untying until her dress is nothing but a puddle of fabric at their feet. The tearing of her bodice echoes in her ears before that too joins the discarded items. He only pulls back enough to tug his shirt off and toss it aside, and Elain has never been more grateful when he dives back in for her neck only because it allows her to simply stare.

Elain is surprised no one has painted Lucien before, that there aren’t statues of him cast in glowing marble. There should be. Hard cutting lines of lean muscle make up his chest and his arms, golden bronze skin on full display. Elain wants to dig her fingernails in and scrape down all those lines. Wants to lick all those lines. Especially the v-lines, like a tantalizing arrow leading beneath the waistband hanging low on his hips.

Lucien’s hands find her thighs again, and Elain lets out a squeal of surprise as her feet leave the ground, Lucien lifting her up with ease. She wraps her legs tightly around his waist, her arms scrabbling to curl around his shoulders. Lucien walks them over to his bed, depositing Elain against the soft blankets and pillows.

He wastes no time covering Elain’s body with his own, the heat and weight of him pressing her back against the mattress. His lips kiss and nip along her neck, traveling down across her collarbones until finding home at her now exposed breast. His tongue moves in those same delicious circles he used on her clit, swirling over her nipple until Elain is arching up against him with a choked moan. He switches to her other breast, laving the same attention, before he continues his path downward. Along her sternum. Down her stomach. Across her hip bones.

“Wait… shouldn’t we–um…” Elain trails off, not quite sure how to say it. It doesn’t help that Lucien’s lips keep distracting her. “Don’t you want me to do something… for you?”

“What makes you think this isn’t for me?” Lucien asks, spreading her thighs wide until she’s on full display for him. “Did you already forget when I said I dreamt of your cunt?”

“If you keep saying things like that, you’ll never beat the scoundrel allegations.”

“Who says I want to?”

Like a true scoundrel, Lucien smirks and dares to offer Elain a wink before he delves back in between her legs. He focuses his mouth’s attention on her clit this time, his hand coming up to join. He sinks one finger into her, the slow drag leaving Elain gasping. She’s still coming down from the previous orgasm, clenching and fluttering around that single digit, and when Lucien starts to move and curl that finger, she bucks up against him with a shout.

Lucien presses in a second finger beside the first, scissoring and curling them, as he builds up a steady pace. Elain’s head feels dizzy with pleasure, her hand reaching down to grip Lucien’s hair, tugging in time with each moan of his name that tumbles past her lips. She can already feel that heat building again, dangerously quickly. Lucien’s name feels like a chant heavy on her tongue. Or maybe it’s a prayer. Either way, there’s no warning to give this time before release yanks her hard over the edge.

Elain slumps back against the blankets, eyes closed and chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She feels Lucien shift, feels him slide back up her body and settle over her. His nose slides up her neck, along her jaw to her ear.

“Alright, my love?”

Even with her eyes closed, Elain can imagine his smirk, can hear the smugness coloring his tone. “Don’t sound so proud of yourself.”

“Tired out already?” Lucien continues his teasing despite her warning.

With a huff, Elain opens her eyes just so Lucien can see her roll them. She curls her fingers around his shoulders, digging in and pushing until Lucien falls onto his back beside her. Before he can move, she slings a leg over his, settling astride his hips. She leans forward and pins his wrists above his head, her hair a tumbling golden curtain around both their faces.

“Does this look tired to you?” Elain challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Lucien’s smirk turns into a full blown grin, those golden and russet eyes sparking and burning. The sight is enough to have Elain’s thighs tightening around his hips, to have heat licking up her limbs despite the two releases she’s already had tonight. Lucien breaks the hold on his wrists easily, gripping her hips but not moving her. Like he enjoys having her exactly where she is.

“So feisty,” Lucien comments, his voice almost reverent. “Go on then, Elain. Take what you want.”

Elain settles back on her haunches, but suddenly, she finds herself feeling nervous, unsure. She’s certainly out of her element. She traces a finger teasingly along the waistband of his pants, relishing in the way Lucien breathes in sharply, the way his whole body seems to shudder beneath her touch. It makes her feel powerful, daring. She shifts her hand to press her palm against the hard length still tucked away, watching the future Duke groan and toss his head back.

“Not so talkative now,” Elain notes, moving her hand down before sliding it back up.

Lucien’s answering chuckle is breathless and strained. “And yet, I could have sworn it was you chanting my name mere minutes ago.”

“Perhaps I want you chanting my name.”

“Oh, you don’t even have to ask for that.”

He says the words with enough definitiveness, enough casual ease and without an ounce of doubt, that Elain can feel another blush threatening to spill across her cheeks again. She instead focuses on the laces of Lucien’s pants, a distraction for her hands. When she gets the fastenings loose enough, she tugs his length free, curling her fingers around it. It’s heavy and warm in her palm, and Elain just prays her surprise doesn’t show too much on her face.

She had some idea what to expect, had snuck some of Nesta’s romance books out of her eldest sister’s room, but seeing and feeling are completely different to words on a page, and she’s quite confident that Lucien is what many would consider large.

Steeling herself, she tests out moving her hand, noting what pace, what grip, gets the most reaction from the man splayed out beneath her. True to his word, Lucien starts to chant her name beneath his breath, a harmony to the groans Elain wrings from him. Spurred on by the reaction, Elain bows forward, tentatively licking at the liquid glistening on the head.

“Oh, fuck,” Lucien swears, fingers flexing hard enough against her hips, Elain thinks there may be bruises tomorrow. “If you keep that up, this will end before we’ve really started.”

“Then finish it.”

Lucien’s grin is practically feral, all teeth and burning gaze. Before Elain can even blink, his hands are sliding up to her ribcage, one of his legs kicking out to trap her own. He flips them over until Elain is flat on her back, blinking up at Lucien’s looming figure. Somewhere in the move, he’s fully kicked off his pants, strong thighs now fully on display where they’re cradled between her spread thighs.

“This may hurt,” Lucien offers, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the way he drags the head of his cock through the wetness pooled between her legs from her two releases already tonight.

“I know,” Elain tells him, and she does. She heard the way the lady maids spoke before they were dismissed, but this is what she wants. What she came here tonight for. So she lifts her legs and wraps them around Lucien’s waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back.

Lucien closes the distance between them, locking their lips again, just as he lifts her hips up slightly to a new angle. It’s clearly a distraction tactic, but there’s no distracting from the stretch as he sinks in inch by inch. It’s certainly a new and uncomfortable feeling, but it’s also addicting, pleasure cloying through Elain in a way she knows she’ll never get enough of.

She moans into Lucien’s mouth, toes curling against his back. She digs a hand in the red strands of his hair, clutching and tugging as that pleasure only grows, until Lucien is buried to the hilt, their hips pressed flush together.

“Fuck, if I died right now, I would be a lucky man,” Lucien groans, dropping his head into the crook of Elain’s neck. “Wrapped in your delicious, tight warmth.”

Elain can do nothing but whine high in the back of her throat. She clenches and flutters around him, hips rocking up in a desperate chase of friction.

“Do you like that, my love? Telling you what you do to me? Telling you how I’ll never get enough of your sweet cunt.”

Lucien pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward, building a steady rhythm as he sinks into Elain again and again. And again. She feels dizzy on the pleasure he coaxes from her body, each drive of his hips hard and deep, the drag of his cock dissolving her into a puddle of moans and choked off gasps. She slides her fingers down his back, nails biting against the skin, and tries to meet each thrust with a rock of her own hips.

“Gods, the way you squeeze around me is better than any dream,” Lucien continues, lips slipping against her skin. “You were made for me, weren’t you, Elain? Made to take my cock?”

“Yes,” Elain shouts, giving in to the heat pulling her under. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

Lucien’s hand sneaks between where their bodies are pressed together, reaching down to where they’re joined. His fingers find her swollen clit with ease, tracing tantalizing circles to match the snap of his hips. Elain feels powerless to the way he plays her body, to the fire racing through her veins and pooling low in her gut.

“That’s it, Elain. Come for me again. Come all over my cock.”

One more hard thrust, one more stroke of Lucien’s fingers against his clit, and Elain can do nothing but follow the request. With a shout of Lucien’s name, she arches up against him, clenching hard as an orgasm tears through her hard enough that tears prickle the corners of her eyes. She feels weightless, feels like she’s floating.

Lucien continues to rock his hips against hers, stretching out her release as he chases his own. His thrusts start to pick up in pace, start to become sloppy, and then he stills above her. He groans Elain’s name, warmth filling her where he’s buried deep.

Lucien all but collapses against her, and they lay there still joined as they catch their breath. Elain swears that she can hear his heartbeat, swears she can feel it matching the steady beat of her own where their chests are pressed together. She whimpers quietly when Lucien finally pulls back, sinking back against the blankets with a satiated sigh.

Her body feels wrung out in the best way. She’s half aware of the mattress shifting beneath her as Lucien clambers off the bed. Half aware of the sound of footsteps fading and then returning. Only when there’s pressure between her legs do Elain’s eyes fly open, peering down to find Lucien gently wiping a cloth against her.

“What are you doing?”

“A gentleman always takes care of his lady.”

Lucien sets the cloth aside, kneeling up onto the bed and over Elain. Fingers beneath her chin lift her lips to his. The kiss is gentle, sweet even, and Elain’s allows herself to sink into it even as her heart shatters and cracks in her chest at the gesture. She knows that she should leave, that now is the time to cut ties and walk away. But then Lucien is climbing back onto the bed, his arms curling around Elain’s waist and tugging her into him, and maybe… maybe she can allow herself just one more moment.

He pulls the blankets up and over their still naked bodies, arms holding Elain close. She rests her head on his chest, her ear over the song of his heartbeat. Lucien’s fingers trace patterns up and down her spine, curling a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Elain…” Lucien begins, turning his head so his lips brush against her forehead. “What I was trying to tell you before…”

“Later,” Elain dismisses, pressing a placating kiss to Lucien’s skin.

Lucien sighs softly, but his arms tighten around her. “Alright, my love. Rest and then we can speak.”

Elain nods her head, focusing on keeping her breathing even, on getting her body to relax. It’s not particularly hard with the weight of Lucien’s arm across her waist, the warmth his whole body seems to exude. Not hard with the safety and contentment wrapped up here in these blankets, in this room, with this man.

But it can’t last.

She counts in her head until Lucien’s own breathing evens out, clearly having fallen asleep, and then she counts fifty higher just to be safe. Slowly, she extricates herself from his grip, slipping off the bed carefully to avoid too much jostling. She snatches up her discarded dress and cloak and pulls them back on, running her fingers through her hair and hoping for the best without any sort of mirror. At least the sun has set and the darkness will help hide any dishevelment.

She tiptoes to the bedroom door and pulls it open, peeking outside to make sure there’s no one in the hall. She turns and looks back at Lucien’s sleeping form on the bed one last time, swallowing hard around the pain twisting and writing between her ribs, threatening to rise in her throat like bile. The heat of tears is a familiar prickle behind her eyes, but she pushes that down too, reminding herself that this is for the best. One final huff of determination and Elain steps out into the hall, the door closing behind her with firm finality.

—

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[leviathan-supersystem]

@yourtoradorasextendedwarranty most of the dogshit in that interminable long argument wasn't even worth addressing but this part jumped out at me as especially moronic and blatantly dishonest.

first i'd like to clarify that i'm not trying to get involved in electoral politics, i'm not interested in trying to prove that republicans are fascist, and i'm certainly not trying to prove democrats aren't. the point i'm making here is simply "these arguments presented here are dogshit"

like, for one thing, the idea of "more state rights"="not fascist" is very dumb. if a state were, say, rounding up black people and putting them in camps, is it non-fascist for them to do that (since it's a state government doing it, not the federal government) and conversely is fascist for the federal government to prevent the state from doing that? if for whatever reason that hypothetical isn't striking a chord with you, maybe switch black people in the hypothetical for, idk, christians.

or to use a more down-to-earth real-world example, which side do you think most actual fascists side with when it comes to state rights regarding slavery? or integration? (and certainly the degree to which fascists and libertarians are in agreement when it comes to whether states/businesses should be compelled to integrate would call into question whether those two ideologies are really "opposites")

"state rights" on it's own has no real political alignment-the alignment of any given "state rights" issue hinges on the question "states right to what"? obviously fascists are all in favor of states having the right to suppress minorities, or impose excessive draconian laws.

which brings us to the subject of what i can only assume it what you were alluding to with this whole "states rights" thing- namely the overturning of roe v. wade- the "states rights" in question is the right for states to surveil women and to lock them in prison for the decisions they make regarding their own personal reproductive healthcare. such personal liberty!

and of course building off of this, trump and co. are not by any means consistently pro-states rights. see the federal abortion ban that has been floated by those in trump's camp- the pose of being "pro states right" was obviously just a tactical maneuver until he could get abortion banned federally.

now, of course none of this proves he's a fascist- being willing to impose draconian measures to control women's reproductive health is widespread among all sorts of right-wing ideologies- but it certainly doesn't prove he isn't one either.

(also regarding "sending taxes overseas"- do trump and his supporters want to stop sending those taxes to israel? no of course not, the parties are in perfect lockstep on that, just one of the many reasons both parties are ultimately worthless)

regarding the "stop putting naked kids in front of our kids" claim- it's hard to know what the fuck you're even talking about here. my closest best guess is that this is about "kids seeing drag"- and if that's the case this is some of the most disgusting misrepresentation of that issue i've ever seen. the whole culture war around kids and drag has centered around parents taking their own kids to all-ages drag shows- so those aren't your kids, and the people they're taking them to see aren't naked. and far from your narrative of the poor best-upon right-wingers just trying to raise their own children in peace, what has actually been happening is right wingers calling for parents who take their kids to see drag shows have their kids taken from them and be thrown in jail.

now, again, right-wingers wanting to take away the kids of progressives is not something i'd consider to be exclusive to fascism. all kinds of right-wing ideological groups support that (although the "taking your kids to see mrs doubtfire is child abuse" shtick is a new spin). you, on the other hand, did claim that wanting to take people's kids away is specifically fascist- so make of that what you will.

[walkingthroughthisworld]

James Earl Jones - US Army

by Blake Stilwell

Jones was an exceptional cadet, a member of the Pershing Rifles Drill Team and the National Society of Scabbard and Blade. The same performance ability that let him excel with the Pershing Rifles led him to the Michigan's School of Music, Theatre & Dance. He knew he wanted to be an actor, but he once referred to his fellow cadets as "the only semblance of a social life."

He initially left the university without completing his degree. With the Korean War raging at the time, he thought he would be sent overseas. But it ended in an armistice later that year, and although he returned to graduate in 1955, Jones' life took a different course.

After graduating from college, he was sent to Fort Benning, Georgia, for the Officers Basic Course and to attend Ranger School. Jones was assigned to the 38th Regimental Combat Team, where he led the setup of a cold weather training command at Camp Hale near Leadville, Colorado.

"Our regiment was established as a training unit, to train in the bitter cold weather and the rugged terrain of the Rocky Mountains," Jones told the Army in an interview. "I took to the physical challenge, so much so that I wanted to stay there, testing myself in that awesome environment, mastering the skills of survival.

"I loved the austere beauty of the mountains and the exhilaration of the weather and the altitude. I didn't mind the rigors of the work or the pioneer-like existence. I thought it was a good life."

Jones was a good officer and soon was promoted to first lieutenant. When the time came to decide whether the Army should be his career, his commanding officer asked him a poignant question: "Is there anything you feel like doing on the outside?"

His father, Robert Earl Jones, had been an actor performing in plays on stage while James was a young man. Jones told his commanding officer he had always thought about following his father's path. His commander told him he could always come back to the Army, but he should pursue his dreams.

After his discharge, Jones moved to New York City, where he studied acting at the American Theatre Wing using his GI Bill benefits while working as a janitor to support himself.

His first acting jobs came in Michigan at the Ramsdell Theatre in Manistee, where he had once worked as a carpenter and stagehand. Just two years later, he was a lead actor. By 1957, he was on Broadway. In 1964, he made his film debut as Lt. Lothar Zogg, a B-52 Stratofortress bombardier in Stanley Kubrick's "Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb."

James Earl Jones' first leading role was in the 1970 film "The Great White Hope," a part he'd previously played on stage. His performance led to his first Academy Award nomination for Best Actor, making him the second Black man to receive the nod.

After a career spanning more than 60 years, Jones has been called "one of the greatest actors in American history" and "the best known voice in show business." He received the National Medal of the Arts from President George H.W. Bush, Kennedy Center Honors from President George W. Bush and the Screen Actors Guild Life Achievement Award. He also has achieved the "EGOT" -- winning at least one Emmy, Grammy, Oscar and Tony award.

But after a lifetime of success, he still remembered his time in the Pershing Rifles as some of the best years of his life. Jones died at his home in Dutchess County, New York on Sept. 9, 2024. He was 93 years old.