#barely enough to do this

[chaos-bringer-13]

I've seen a lot of people writing Danny as a space ancient and Dan and Dani as ghosts with moon and sun cores, being sort of parts, versions of Danny and therefore weaker. Now, consider: Dan and Dani are both powerful ghosts with really cool cores and stuff but Danny is just some guy™

Dan, who came from an alternate timeline and is kind of from the future but also not, is Clockwork's apprentice and will eventually become an ancient of time. He probably only agreed to have some lessons with Clockwork to understand better what happened to him, but he enjoys his apprenticeship now.

Dani, with her love of travelling, loves seeing all the different places the world offers to her, and that includes space and different planets and maybe even parallel universes, and she accidentally ends up being an apprentice of the space ancient. For now she's probably a baby ancient of freedom or something like that, but she might become an ancient of space in the future.

We can also have something like Dan having a core of destruction or Dani being the Speed Force if you want it to be dcxdp, or any headcanon of yours about their cool powers.

And then there's Danny. And yeah, everyone knows that he's super powerful, but also he's just some guy.

It can go different routes. Does everyone know that Danny is just Danny? Or do they think that with siblings (well, technically a clone and an alternate version, but whatever) so powerful, he must be even stronger? Is Danny actually something terrifyingly eldritch and ancient and strong, almost a god, but he just doesn't know himself? Or is he just really some guy?

Now, because it's obvious that I have a dcxdp brainrot, have a regular "JL summons/meets a powerful ghost" but its Dan and Dani, and they keep mentioning their original/brother who won a fight against them at some point. The JL is very concerned about Dan and Dani's godlike powers, and they can't imagine what Danny is like. And then they meet him (in his human form), and it's just a young adult in casual clothes, very friendly and helpful, with no evident powers. Imagine the confusion. Imagine Dan and Dani, radiating power, in their eldritch ghost forms, admitting that fighting Danny for real is the dumbest thing to do and not even they would succeed... And then there's Danny is jeans and silly t-shirt, waving shyly.

[bogleech]

I still can't fathom what in the entire world I could have ever said or done to make that gerrysherry (also known as spot-the-antisemitism) person come after me, and try every possible way of reframing every anti-war feeling I have as somehow, secretly, anti-jewish. Unless they don't actually believe that, but they hope saying it enough will make people believe it?? I don't know them, never did anything to them, and yet this person has reportedly still spent weeks and weeks boosting the same thread over and over, in which they urge people to boycott my book - something I'm depending on to even be able to afford my home in the future - because they apparently insist I have only antisemitic reasons for wanting to support Palestinians. How would that even make sense?! Jewish people aren't doing anything to Palestinians, a government is. They failed to make any dent in my follower count which just keeps jumping up every day, and I'm technically making more income off my art than ever (even if it still only barely covers cost of living), but I can't get over the sheer principle of someone hoping they could spread misinfo like that with the hope of impacting my ability to live. I've never run into anything that personally vicious before, all over sentiments they just up and pretend I have? For what??

[okaykois]

i’m waiting so patiently for separate ways dlc :-)

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Ten

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: Mentions of cannon-typical violence. Azriel and Y/n have a late night conversation. Fluff and other stuff.

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“Gwyn says hi by the way.” 

Azriel choked on his coffee, bitter flavor rising in his throat. Nesta sauntered into the kitchen, cool eyes glaring at the back of his head. Your familiar silhouette was nowhere to be found. 

Not here. His shadows whispered. With Rhys.

“Calm down you idiot.” Nesta’s voice dripped with unrestrained contempt as she poured herself a cup and sat. His tan skin glistened with sweat after his morning training session, inky tattoos splashing across his bare chest and trailing over his shoulders, down his back, and up to his neck. In the cloudy afternoon light it was difficult to tell where his shadows ended and where his tattoos began. 

“Y/n’s not here. You’ll have to walk around half-naked some other time.” 

Azriel winced. “That isn’t what—”

Nesta brushed him off with a wave of her hand, eyes narrowing over her mug. Azriel felt like a bug pinned down under a microscope. A crushed butterfly about to hang.

“How is Gwyn doing?” he asked gingerly, casually. 

“She’s fine. Believe it or not, the world did not end when you broke up with her.”

Again he flinched. “I’m sorry, Nes,” he whispered rather pathetically. 

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to. But you already know that.” 

There seemed to be no shortage of people he needed to apologize to: Elain, Mor, Emerie, Gwyn, even Lucien — especially Lucien. His cheeks burned to think of the absolute mess of things he’d made. Feyre had been the quickest to forgive him for the debacle with Elain and Gwyn. But as Cassian had mentioned at dinner, there was a reason everyone was staying away from the River House, and the reason was him. 

Two years ago he’d challenged Lucien Vanserra to a blood duel for Elain’s hand. It had felt so right at the time, so obvious: three sisters for three brothers. But it was only when their deaths had loomed over her head with shocking reality that Elain realized what a horrible mistake she’d made. The mistake they’d made together. 

“Call it off,” she’d commanded him, blocking Lucien’s bloody, heaving body. The son of Autumn’s sword had been kicked away, scraping across the rock with an eerie scream and disappearing over the cliff edge. But Elain had stayed, soft brown eyes begging, “Do this and I will never forgive you. What we did… it wasn’t right. It was a mistake.”

A mistake, she’d called it. Years of silent longing and bare bone brushes of their hands in dark hallways. All a mistake. Those words had haunted him. They’d chased him into Gwyn’s kind arms where he once again mistook the friendship he felt towards her as love and broke her heart in the process. Add that to his lackluster response to Mor’s coming out and… well he had a lot of work ahead of him. 

He hoped he would be forgiven in time, but that didn’t mean he’d twiddle his thumbs until that day came. He scoured Prythian’s publishers for new releases of adventure, mystery, and romance books — the raunchier the better — and they showed up every month at Cagniv Library like clockwork. The priestesses still thought it was part of a trade bargain with the Day Court. He’d sent Elain and Lucien plenty of letters and gifts, but either they weren’t being opened or they weren’t bothering to respond. He wouldn’t blame them either way. As for Mor and Emerie, they were gone with the wind, too busy infiltrating lands and enjoying an extended honeymoon on the continent to bother with him. 

That cold stillness in Nesta’s eyes transformed into pity. It was hard not to be reminded of her own failures when she looked at him. Seeing him angry. Watching him crawl into the darkest corners of himself and burn every bridge he crossed had been a shock to Nesta’s system. A plunge into freezing waters that brought pain and clarity. 

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Just give them time, Az. They’ll come around. If they did it for me, they’ll do it for you.” “I think our situations are rather different.” 

“I don’t.” 

“You didn’t try to kill anyone.”

She grimaced. “I came close.”  

He stayed silent for a long while. He washed his cup. He dried it. He put it in the cupboard. 

“Can you—can you please not tell Y/n?” he begged. His voice was small and quiet. He’d been a fool in the past and made terrible decisions in the name of love. Mor, Elain, and Gwyn. They’d all lived more in his mind than in his heart — people he could never fully grasp, and therefore never lose. They’d been safe. Easy. 

It didn’t feel that way with you. You felt solid and warm, even if he’d only touched you once. You felt more real to him than anyone else. You felt like someone he could actually have. Which meant he could lose you before you’d even become his to lose. 

“You can’t keep her in the dark forever. Not about your history, not about the bond. If you’re going to learn anything from your brothers, learn that.”  

“I know,” he whispered. “I just want to get it right this time.” He had to get it right this time. “I want her to fall in love with me because she wants me, not out of some sense of obligation. I want…” I want to be worthy of her.  

Nesta shook her head, a laugh escaping despite her best attempts to stifle it. Azriel looked at her like she’d gone mad.

She giggled again. “It’s funny. For a male as handsome and desirable as you, you have the worst fucking luck with women. The Mother must have a twisted sense of humor.” 

Maybe she did. But Azriel was still enough of a romantic to hope that he had learned from his mistakes, and that his bad luck would end with you. 

You shoved the notebook off Rhysand’s desk, loose papers flying out like uncoordinated doves. 

“I told you notetaking was a futile effort.” The High Lord didn’t even look at you, too busy searching for invisible dirt beneath his manicured fingernails.

You groaned and dropped your head against the book he’d handed you two hours before. 

Rhysand had to smile at your frustration. It was a wholly different experience teaching you magic compared to teaching Feyre. With Feyre, her greatest barrier had been her lack of knowledge (and her hatred of him at the time). She’d been thrust into the world of fae without preparation, but it had left her malleable and adaptable. It was like teaching a newborn how to walk — a mind that could absorb more because it knew so little.

But you knew too much. You could spout off magical theory at the drop of a hat. You were a pedagogical master with a thousand mnemonics to your name. You were the first to wake in all of Velaris, making your way to the Library before bodies could fill the streets, and you only returned when the crowds had either turned in for the night or gone out to drink until daybreak. You swallowed every history book on the Night Court, Clairvoyants, daemati, and death gods until you felt untethered from the earth — until your mind began to float outside your body, buzzing with thoughts that never went away. 

But none of that mattered. Your power was an immovable object that couldn’t be controlled by logic or studying. 

You shoved against that power now.

“Good,” Rhysand nodded, leaning against the window, “You’re getting better at it.” 

He lingered in your mind, hovering over the depths of your emotions and memories like a bird ready to break water. It had taken some time before you felt comfortable with the intrusion. Your first lesson together, Rhysand’s presence in your mind had made it impossible to focus. Panic had seized your mind and your body until you could do nothing more than brace your hands and feet against the chair’s leather upholstery. You could have sworn you saw a head of silver hair to your left. The gentle pitter patter of rain had sounded like dripping blood. 

It wasn’t like that anymore. Henna had left you with a useful skill — you could wind your consciousness around Rhysand and keep him there, suspended in that indescribable space where your thoughts lay so he could do no more damage than you permitted him. 

Through your mind he felt the narrowing of your power. You imagined it like a blanket wrapped around your body, suffocating but familiar. It was this power that laced your skin and made contact with others so hard. You imagined the fabric shortening, creeping up your arms and legs, curling around your torso and squeezing like a snake. Inch by inch you tightened it around you, burying it within your chest instead of carrying it openly like a wound. 

You held a music book between your hands — Nyx’s to be exact. The little Lordling showcased a certain aptitude for the piano his father could only dream of, and being as young and protected as he was, the worst kind of emotion imbued within its pages was agitation. You could hear one of the ballads written within it as clearly as if Nyx was sitting beside you plucking out the melody. 

Tighter. Tighter. Tighter. You swallowed your power. Pulled what was outside inwards. Slowly but surely the music faded away until the book was as all books should be — silent. 

Sweat beaded your brow. This was the most difficult part — not tuning out the music, but keeping the volume at zero. 

Rhysand checked his watch. Waited. Checked it again. 

You lasted thirty minutes before your power burst out along your skin once more like a thousand prickling needles. You shuddered, half-disappointed, half-grateful that you could hear the melody again.

Rhysand clapped his hands, slow and proud. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room was dangerously close to five bells. Rhysand nodded. 

“Perfect timing. We’re done for today.” 

“I can go for longer,” you pleaded. 

“I know you can.” Rhysand pushed off the wall, polished leather boots gleaming. He was wearing his Illyrian leathers this time, the scent of wind still clinging to his skin after a visit to the northern war camps.

Old Illyria lasted thousands of years. The clans used to flow up and down the Steppes, following the tundrabeast that lay claim to those mountainous regions and were said to speak for their god Ramiel — Starbreaker, Night Herder — after whom the mountain is named. They don’t move with the cold winds anymore, even if they’ve kept their names: Ironcrest, Bloodborn, Windhaven, Seawhip, Hawkseed, Timberbane, and a dozen others. And they don’t make sacrifices, although the Blood Rite might be a close—

Rhysand rapped his knuckles on the desk to grab your attention and splayed his fingers wide. “I also know that the moment I dismiss you, you’ll scamper off to the Library to work until you can’t see straight.” 

You shifted in your seat. “I like it there.”

“That’s besides the point. If you keep going at this pace you’ll burn out. Then you won’t be able to help anyone. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

Your eyes widened ever so slightly. You hadn’t thought he’d noticed. “I know what it feels like to burn out and it’s not going to happen anytime soon. I promise.” 

Rhysand suppressed the urgent need to roll his eyes as you gathered your things and walked out the door. “And here I thought I worked too much,” he muttered beneath his breath. 

You carried Henna’s journal tucked within your new Librarian robes — black with ivory detailing and wide sleeves that narrowed at the wrists. You kept a hand on it during late nights at the Library. You ate with it propped open, black splotches swimming across the page like worms. You slept with it beneath your pillow. 

But alas, it would seem the book was going to make you work to wring meaning out of every odd symbol.

You were muttering to yourself as you walked back and forth in front of the fireplace. You’d effectively commandeered one of the reading rooms on the seventh floor, leaving the library only when required for Rhysand’s lessons. Helion’s most recent letter lay open on the table with Cherp’s resting just beneath it. A map hung crooked on the wall, four athenaeums circled in bleeding red ink alongside a list of books that had gone missing — the ones that people knew about at least. 

The Alcove, Ares House, Folkmen’s Bard, and most recently, Argot’s.

 Three Librarians dead. Their throats slit. Blood dribbling down their burgundy robes as they’d sat hunched over their desks. The week before it had been two from Ares House caught swaying from the third floor balcony. 

No one has any idea how it happened. The wards were never set off. Nothing in the Library was disrupted. I tell you this only because you deserve to know what’s happened to your people. Continue your training. Continue your research. Do whatever you need to do. But leave the court business to me, dear. I’ll write to you again when I can.

~ Helion 

“It doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled, drumming your fingers against your hip where the book remained silent. “None of this makes sense.” 

You’d used every ounce of Rhysand’s training on the book. You’d imagined your power sliding over it like water, fire, needles shooting through cowhide, a hammerstrike, every metaphor imaginable. You’d glared at it with an intensity that would have disintegrated a lesser object. 

When that failed, you had moved onto solving the murders and thefts at your father’s court. You couldn’t content yourself with sitting in one of the cushy, high-backed chairs in Rhysand’s office sipping imported tea in porcelain cups while athenaeums were on lockdown. 

The pattern was shockingly simple — Koschei was going after books that could be traced back to him. Books that might give his enemies the upper hand: folktales alluding to him and his siblings, translated texts from old Bauldish that might have proved useful in deciphering Henna’s book, secondary accounts of the age before High Lords ruled. 

If you were Koschei you’d go after Godswoods next — the collection of athenaeums dedicated to religion. Then on to The Gallows — the athenaeum on death and dying. The two were intricately tied to one another, but people tended to write books on dying before coming up with explanations for what comes after. You’d spent a great deal of time there following your mother’s death, and you could picture it now — solemn black bookshelves looping around a circular room that tapered up into a point like a blade pointed to the sky. 

You finished writing your letter to Helion, along with the list of books you wanted pulled from the archives. Cagniv Library may have been a glowing beacon in the Night Court, and a place of sanctuary for the priestesses, but it was nothing like you were used to.

You held the paper out in front of you, Helion’s glimmering pen tucked behind your sharp ears, and blew. The black letters lifted off the page and faded away like a breath in cold air. The message was already writing itself back into existence in Helion’s office.

“It doesn’t make sense.” 

You scribbled out another note, this one for yourself with another pen. You ripped it to pieces and fed it to the fire. 

What was Koschei looking for now? Was he still looking for the book that now rested against your hip, or had he turned to some other prize? And why kill the Librarians and set all of Day Court on high alert? 

Henna had been careful. She’d stayed hidden until she was forced to tear down the Alcove to get the book. Whoever was causing the killings now was either a showman or a fool. They left bodies hanging from rafters. They carved smiles into throats. They let the Librarians know what they were stealing whether they meant to or not. They left patterns scattered among wreckage for someone like you to figure out. 

It all felt… juvenile for lack of a better word. Someone young. Someone who wanted to prove themselves in a loud way. Someone whose ego hadn’t been tested yet and wasn’t listening to Koschei’s commands in their entirety. 

Azriel. 

You couldn’t help but think of him. 

Azriel was nothing like that. 

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t vy for attention. He didn’t seek the light in a room. His confidence was quiet and true. His kindness took the shape of the shadows that lingered by your ankles. It took the shape of the robes you wore now. He was the only one who’d seen them at The Alcove. He was the only one who could have requested the court seamstress to make a copy and leave it hanging in your closet.

No. Azriel was nothing like that.

Azriel’s eyes lit up like embers when you slid through the front door, weary but bright-eyed and cradling your journals against your chest. The shadows he’d left behind with you slithered across the floor like mist. 

She’s been in the Library all day. Working. The shadows whispered in his ear. She thought about you. 

Azriel smiled. He’d thought about you as well. “I was wondering where you’d gone.” 

You gasped, closing the door louder than you intended. You’d developed a talent for sneaking in and out of the River House unnoticed to the point where Cassian considered hiding bells in your pockets. Nyx had tried to do it as a joke, but you’d caught him giggling too loudly in your bedroom. 

You brightened immediately, a broad smile appearing on your face. Azriel felt his heart leap, then quiet as he caught the scent of parchment paper. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow?” You whispered, tip-toeing through the dimly lit hallway to where Azriel was in the sitting room. You sank into the couch with a groan. The hardwood desks at the Library had not been kind to you. 

He shrugged and brushed back his wind-thickened hair, shifting to face you better. A crumb-coated plate lay on the table and he still wore his leathers. He must have just arrived home. 

“I flew as quick as I could. I wanted to be home.” With you. 

He’d gotten so used to the feeling of you sleeping across the hallway that he’d flown the last three days without sleep. It was worth it to see you again. From the looks of it, you’d not fared well in his absence either. Your eyes had that glassy, half-there sheen: a perfect mixture of exhaustion and mind-crackling clarity. 

“And how were the Mortal Lands?” You tucked your knees beneath you and leaned against your hand, fighting the sleep that seemed to grapple for you now that Azriel was home. His wings were spread wide and you resisted the urge to close the last few inches between you and the talon that glimmered in the faelight like obsidian glass.

You’d never been that far south. You’d never had reason to. But Azriel flew far and wide. The Continent was now Mor’s domain, but the secret goings of Prythian and the Mortal Lands belonged to him and him alone. The Spymaster of the Night Court. The Shadowsinger.

Azriel shook his head. “Quiet. Koschei hasn’t touched them yet as far as I can tell, and the Mortal Queens don’t care. They seem to think that they can handle Koschei because he’s agreed to bargains with them in the past.” 

You made a noise of disapproval. “Like they handled Hybern? The only reason they’re still standing is because fae fought their war.” 

The scattering of human armies that had arrived on that battlefield had belonged to no crown. They’d either fought for the bloodlust or the money. You could respect them for that. 

Azriel tipped his head to the side, following the curling of his shadows around his shoulders. “But they are still standing. They don’t know what we sacrificed to keep them safe. That’s the problem with humans. They forget too quickly and get complacent” 

“It would seem we have the opposite problem. We can’t help but remember everything,” you said, with no small amount of bitterness. 

He wanted to keep you talking. He wanted your thoughts. Wanted to fall asleep to the sound of your voice after three weeks of silence. You weren’t aware of it, but the bond had felt thin the further he’d traveled away from you. Like a tightrope stretched to its snapping point. Now that he was back, and you were here, his heart didn’t feel like such a strenuous burden.

He smiled. “I think that’s just you. I know plenty of fae who are forgetful and empty-minded.” He leaned back, stretching his wings out to the side, and winced. They were whipped raw and tender from the flight. 

Without thinking you got up and moved to the fireplace, feeding wood to the flames until it crackled happily. There was a reason Cassian and Azriel loved to bath their wings in sunlight every chance they got. The heat helped the soreness and eased the wind’s rough edge. 

It also drove color into your cheeks and set your hair alight in a soft golden haze. You were a marvel. An angel with a halo to match and Azriel drank in the sight. 

“Like who?”

“Cassian.” 

You smirked and chucked the last of the wood into the flame’s gaping mouth. 

Cass was far from empty-minded, but after decades of being feared as the Lord of Bloodshed he was grateful that people loved him enough to be just a little mean. He gave and received friendly blows like kisses on the cheek and smiled all the wider for it. To threaten his life was the same as saying I love you. It must be why the Mother had made Nesta his mate. She said I love you to him all hours of the day. 

Azriel asked you what you were thinking, and when you told him he felt some of that pain slide off his shoulders like rain. He threw his head back and laughed until his chest started to hurt again and you thought about how rare that sound must be, and how much you loved it. 

“How are the others? Rhysand told me Feyre’s sister is down there along with your friends.” 

Azriel sobered up quickly and cleared his throat. “Yes. Elain, Lucien, Jurian, and Vassa.”

His voice caught on two names: Elain and Lucien, and it didn't escape your notice. He sounded... nervous.

“And? Are they alright?”

He rolled his shoulders and looked out the window to the inky black sky. Vassa would be sleeping now in her human form, and if she was lucky, she’d wake up in the morning still within the manor’s grey stone walls. Safe. Home. 

He shook his head gravely. “They’re nothing short of terrified. Koschei has Vassa under a spell that would normally keep her tied to his lake. He let her go during the war against Hybern and he’s been allowing her to stay, but… everyone’s just holding their breath and trying to prepare for the day he’ll take her back.”

You shivered and wrapped one of the spare blankets around your shoulders. You couldn’t imagine a life where every waking moment held the risk of being torn away from everything you held dear. The anticipation would have broken you more than the act itself. 

“I’ve heard of her. The firebird.” You murmured softly. You imagined a creature with glowing eyes, blue-red feathers streaking behind like ribbons set on fire. Azriel narrowed his eyes in confusion, and you explained, “Ares House records all wartime information. I read the reports. We’re very thorough.”

Azriel smiled. “I would expect nothing less.”

Silence passed in comfort, and you couldn’t stop thinking about Vassa.

“Do you think they’d be able to stop it if Koschei did make her go back?” 

“I don’t know, Y/n.” And it was driving him mad to have Koschei hanging around like a forgotten word at the end of his tongue.

“I hate this,” you spat out, “The not knowing. I hate it.” 

Azriel stared at you, hazel eyes silently begging you to continue. Shadows curled around your body, gently tugging you closer to him until your knees were a whisper away from touching. 

You both sighed softly into the quiet air. Even the River House seemed to be at rest for the night. The usual background hum of cooking and cleaning were absent. It was just you and the Shadowsinger. 

“How are things going? With the book?” 

You slipped your hand through the slit in your robes and pulled it out. The gold chain rustled, glowing faintly from your touch. 

“It’s going.” You shoved the book back out of sight. You couldn’t even stand to look at it after the hours you’d spent agonizing over its pages. “Rhysand’s been teaching me to contain my power better. I can actually touch some things now.” 

But not him. Still not him. And it was killing you. 

Azriel gave another one of his small smiles. The ones that never failed to make the world a smaller, more manageable place. “That’s good.”

“I just… this may sound silly but, I’m not used to things being this hard. With my powers a lot of things just sort of came naturally for me. But now people are dying and I’m just sitting here on this very expensive couch and I can’t do the thing I was brought here to do and I… I don’t like feeling this useless.” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Azriel murmured. He closed the space between you even more, shadows hovering over your face in silent permission. When you didn’t pull away they brushed back the strands of hair that had fallen over your face with a cool, silky touch. 

Azriel was all calm darkness and you imagined that if you reached out to touch his chest your hand might just slip through him like he wasn’t there at all. He seemed too good to be real. 

But he was real, and he was sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath fan your cheeks. 

“You’re not useless. Never believe that. Not even for a second. And even if you were useless, it wouldn’t matter. You’re worth more than the things you can do, remember?”

“I remember.” Your voice was quiet and thick. 

You rested your cheek in the crook of your arm as you gazed at him wearily. 

Azriel kept his hands out in the open, one hand reaching across the couch cushions before stopping mere inches away from yours. His shadows closed the remaining distance, slipping in between your fingers to mimic Azriel’s touch. 

“Did you uncover any more secrets of mine while I was gone?” Azriel asked as your eyelids began to droop. 

“I confess I forgot to look. But maybe now that you’re here, I’ll start again,” you mumbled into the encroaching dark.

“I look forward to it,” were the last words that filtered through your ears before you fell asleep to the untranslatable whispers of shadows. 

Nyx bounded down the stairs, leaping the last six steps before landing soundlessly on the floor with a soft bend of his knees — just like Azriel had taught him. Feyre gave a proud nod before ruffling his ebony hair and Rhysand beamed. 

Let me. Feyre adjusted the wrappings around Rhys’s chest that kept Velaria’s plump body swaddled and comfortable. Her pink lips opened in a yawn that had both mates sighing. 

“Uncle Az!” Nyx raced forward towards the sitting room and then froze, mouth opened in a surprised oh.

Azriel slept like the dead on the floor, chest rising and falling with the beat of his gentle breath. You lay stretched out on the couch, one arm propped beneath your head and the other dangling over your waist and off the cushions. Your fingers swayed an inch above Azriel’s chest, shadows swimming over his torso and creeping up your arms so that even in sleep you were connected to one another. 

Feyre gasped softly at the picture. The sunlight blanketing the both of you in peach fuzz. The faint uptick of Azriel’s lips and the smoothness of his brow. The way you looked like you were bleeding into him. The black of his shadows and your robes. 

Rhysand rubbed Nyx’s shoulder and kissed Feyre’s cheek.

Let them sleep, Nyx. We’ll get breakfast at Huth’s today.

Nyx let his parents lead him towards the door without protest. He’d never seen Uncle Az sleep so soundly in his life. 

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

Yeah... this slow burn is burning... but I just love it so much and I love writing all the sweet little moments they have and their conversations with one another and I hope you're enjoying it as well.

[deoidesign]

Doing master studies the only way I know how: Stealing them and making them my guys.

(Barberini Faun)

(The Fallen Angel - Alexandre Cabanel)

(Covent Garden - William Bruce Ellis Rankin)

[gemharvest]

Hey Karl you think whenever BF or GF just hit Pico with a random hug no matter the circumstance his face just crumbles into the most vulnerable and yearning look and suddenly the hug lasts for 20 minutes because they don't have the heart to pull away when Pico lays his arms around their backs in the most gentle way possible

(id in alt - do not repost, please ask before using as icon/ banner etc.)

yeag..

Close-ups of my personal favorite shots LOL. I also really like how Boyf came out here but he's already Huge in the piece so he doesn't need a close-up.

Do you ever think BF and GF get super emotional when he's soft with them? This guy, known for his fuckin' Bite with an attitude developed partially for self-defense, melting at their touch and allowing them to see his more gentle side? Something that nobody else will ever get to see?

The demon and the rapper are nice by default. Boyf can be a bit of a menace and Girlf is not afraid to show her demonic side when necessary, but they're kind to others as a default, maybe even to a fault. Not that Pico doesn't ever show kindness to others, but he's usually prickly and standoffish; his kindness could come off in ways that read almost as passive aggression. And yet, around the two idiots (used affectionately lol) he's like putty in their hands.

Anyways idk what I'm on abt really I just think if you gave him the choice he would literally melt into their embraces. Safe, and protected in their arms; for once, he isn't the one who has to do the protecting. I think the worst part of a hug to him would be having to let go.

[tapakah0]

[animentality]

I have always wanted to believe in ignorance over malice, but in the 2024 us elections...

I think it's both.

and I'm not sure if I can see Trump supporters as human beings anymore.

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo getting hit with a truth curse but instead of forcing him to admit to super sad or worrying things it’s things like “it was me who broke the remote” “I saw Mikey prank Donnie and helped hide it because it’s way funnier if he didn’t know who it was” “I rip my clothes to look more like Raph’s because he’s really cool” “my stripes aren’t even red they’re pink!”

[tittyinfinity]

I just remembered that up until 5th grade, all of the sports teams I was in weren't separated by gender. I played basketball and baseball with boys. And we did just fine.

It wasn't until 6th grade when they segregated it by gender. It didn't make sense to me. I was now in softball instead of baseball, because "softball is for girls" and "baseball is for boys" (which confused me bc my dad was on an adult softball team).

Now, my brother's all-male team didn't win a single game. My all-girls team won every single one.

They presented the boys' team with this HUGE trophy, and if you wanted replicas of it, they were $30 each.

My team was presented with a very small trophy. Extras were $5.

That's when I decided gender-segregated sports were bullshit.

[themeraldee]

YOOOO THE “figuring out how to control his strength” fic was SO GOOD, I saw spanking at the end of that, a wee request to expand on that idea mayhaps 👀

Kissing you for enabling me, mwah mwah mwah. I tried going with gender neutral reader for the last one but had to switch to female for this one. Hope that's ok! I'm happy you enjoyed the last one hopefully this one hits the spot!😉

[Masterlist] [A follow up to this]

18+ Only | 1.5k | Homelander x female!Reader | Communicating during sex. Spanking. Riding. Unprotected sex. A dash of dirty talk.

Homelander has been trying to get his paws under your clothes for the past hour of the movie you were adamant you should be watching together. ‘It’s my favorite movie!’ You had said earlier. And not that he has anything against sharing your interests, he loves having every piece of you to himself. But now you are warm and soft against him, cuddling and leaning into him in a way that pretty much puts you in his lap.

He inhales the lingering fragrance of the expensive hair products he got for you. Something in him stirring at the thought of how utterly he’s changing your life, marking you with his touch with every little change he’s making to your routine. Ever since he’s had you move into his penthouse he’s been meddling with every aspect of your life, wanting to add his touch. Just as a reminder that you were his. So anytime you spritz his choice of perfume you think of that and in turn he gets reminded everyday that you make the choice to be his again and again and again.

So it’s no surprise that he’s now peppering your neck and cheek with kisses, pulling you closer no matter how much you protest. “Come on babe, fuck the movie. We can finish it another time.”

“But it’s my favorite…” You pout like a child, trying to pull away but he’s having none of it.

“Shhh. Come on now, don’t be like this.” He’s nuzzling into your neck. His hands wrap around your body, resting on top of your tits, giving your nipples a pinch through the fabric. “Be a good girl for me.” 

Now that sends a shiver down your spine, slowly pooling heat in between your legs. It also gives you a great idea. 

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should spank me for misbehaving.” You’re not facing him but the cheekiness of your grin is audible.

However as much as you’d prefer him to lean into the dirty roleplay of it all, he pulls away, tensing up.

You turn to face him.

“Are you sure? You know I could hurt you.” He’s carrying his worry openly. But just like with the choking you know there’s nothing this man wouldn’t do for you. 

“We’ve been over this baby. Sometimes the pain just makes things feel better.” You caress his cheek, giving him a sweet kiss flush on the lips before you pull away and take matters into your own hands. You lay yourself over his lap, face down, wiggling your ass right in front of him.

Tucking your fingers underneath both the waistband of your soft luxurious loungewear and the panties he’s picked for you, you pull both pieces down to reveal the bare skin of your ass.

“So…maybe you could spank me for not giving you enough attention?” You try to tease him into it, shaking your hips gently to give him the green light.

This does the trick. Homelander places both his hands on your cheeks, giving them a squeeze, really just playing with the softness of the flesh before he remembers what he’s meant to be doing.

Slap.

“Holy shit! Oh-ohhkayy. Fuck. T-that was pretty hard.” His hand is rigid, hard, unforgiving. With his added strength it was definitely a lot for the first slap. So sharp it jerks tears out of your eyes. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” You can hear the fear and panic in his voice. In this instance it’s both at the idea of hurting you and at disappointing you with not being able to do the act justice.

You gather yourself, as the sting slowly eases off. 

“No, no. It’s okay. It wasn’t bad, it was just a lot. Just rub it a bit. It helps with the stinging.” His hand is barely touching you now, almost worried that he could cause more damage but he rubs your sore skin anyway. His touch is soothing. His hands are perfect. Unmarred, not a single scar or blemish and you feel the softness melding right against your ass.  

“Next time, keep your fingers together. Keep your hand loose, relaxed. Don’t make it too stiff.” You give him instructions, not wanting to dissuade him from continuing. It may have been hard and definitely a slap you’d be more likely to handle better as the spanking went on rather than from the start but it was still exhilarating. 

“Homelander,” you say his name, to break him from the trance while he’s still rubbing your ass gently. And as much as that feels good you really want to get the party started so you convey the need for more with a little, “please?”

He takes your instructions to heart and he slaps your ass again. This time a little gentler. With his palm less splayed open it makes a deeper sound which is just music to your ears. 

“Oh fuuuck.” And it feels just as good as it sounds. Really good. Its gentle sting burns through your skin, thoroughly wetting your pussy. Your eyes roll back at the sensation. 

“Was that better?” He asks with gentleness you never expected him to be capable of.  

“Y-yeah.” You slurp back the saliva you feel pooling in your mouth. “It was perfect.”

He takes that as his hint to continue as he lands another. And another one. And more. All in the same spot. Your skin is getting brighter and brighter red. The burn is making your toes curl and your pussy throb.

The more you moan the more he spanks you, alternating between your cheeks until they’re both screaming bright red. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re leaking all over me.” Homelander says in an almost incredulous tone, as if he’s surprised that pain could make you this riled up. Finally, he sees it for the pleasure it gives you.

“Uhh, s-sorry.” You slur, drooling, already having melted into the couch. 

“You’re really fucking kinky, you know that?” 

You laugh at that. “What can I say? I know what I like.” 

“Clearly.” He ran his hand down the hot, red skin, making you hiss. His hands settled in between your cheeks, spreading them out while his other hand made its way to your pussy, sliding his fingers through the mess you made of yourself. 

“My, my, that got you excited.” He shoved two fingers in, meeting no resistance as he pumped them in and out. Even with the TV playing in the background the squelching sound of you is still obscenely loud. You should be embarrassed, really, but it feels so good to finally have something soothe the throbbing pain that’s been building up with each slap. 

“Fuuck. Can I have you, please?” You whine out, really just wanting to get pounded into the couch while you’re feeling all woozy.

“So you want me to spank you, and now you want me to fuck you? See, good girls participate. So hop on sweetheart. You gotta work for it too.” Now he was getting it. With his reservations out of the window, he slips right into teasing you.

You feel yourself flush and throb at his words. He’s so good to you. No matter what, he always makes you feel otherworldly.

With his help you peel yourself off the couch, straddling his lap where he’s pushed down his pants. His cock already hard and flushed red. Just like your cheeks.

You sink down on him, letting out a whimper when your cheeks meet his thighs. The skin on skin contact burns, reminding you of each slap you received. You wrap your arms around his neck for support, but really you just want to be close to him.

He kisses you, as if he’s been starved for it. This whole time you were facing away from him so it’s not like he could have enjoyed your gasps and moans against his lips.

You ride him as hard as your thighs allow, chasing the high of feeling full after the empty feeling you had to take each slap with. With each bounce your ass meets his thighs and your eyebrows pinch together in pain. Good pain. You’re sure he can feel just how blazing hot your cheeks feel.

Homelander grabs your ass from both sides, helping you up and down. His hands squeeze the bruising flesh, making you gasp for air.

“Good?” He asks as he massages the flesh, catching you off guard by another slap.

“Yea-AH!—s’good. Really fucking good.” You mumble, your speech slurring as you lean your forehead against his. It was intimate and debauched at the same time and it didn’t take either one of you long to finish. His cock was hitting you just right and with the added sting of your skin and the occasional slap he landed on alternating cheeks you unraveled on his lap. As you cling onto him with spent, burning thighs he finishes inside you with a few more strokes and you fully collapse into his arms. 

“See? I told you it’d be fun.” You’re panting against him, trying to calm your poor body down. Spent, satisfied and still burning up. You wonder how long you’re gonna feel that everytime you sit.

Hopefully for a while.

“Mhm. You got any more of these great ideas?”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander fic): @infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @nervoussystemss @hom3landr @mrsdesade @nommingonfood

[starry-bi-sky]

danny and officer martinez's relationship in "late at night, when the nightingale sings" in a nutshell:

Martinez: FREAK! GET YOUR FUCKING KID!

Battinson, on the other side of the crime scene: he don't bite

Martinez, with Nightingale firmly attached his arm, visibly biting him: YES HE DO!

*points at them* Danny is the Bugs Bunny to Martinez's Elmer Fudd.

Another Officer: i can't believe you're fighting with an actual twelve year old. Martinez: i swear to god that is not a twelve year old, that is a little hellion that crawled out of batman's shadow one dark and stormy night and decided to dedicate his existence to tormenting me. Officer: Are you really that mad about him putting a sticky note on your back-- Martinez: thats not the point

in danny's defense: the word "freak" is. a mini beserker button for him for.... obvious ghostly reasons, so like, even if its not directed at him, he still very much unappreciates Martinez's insults at Battinson. Danny may or may not be projecting.

he's not going to hurt the guy! not in any serious or permanently disfiguring way at least! But he is going to leave mean sticky notes on the square part of his spine that he can't reach, and stick salt in his 3AM Late Night Crime Scene Coffee, and kick the bottom of his heel while he's walking so he stumbles. And other petty, infuriating things that tally up and boil over, over time.

[thou-babbling-brook]

I think both TURN: Washington’s Spies and Assassin’s Creed III could’ve been cut in half if these three were allowed to be the trio they were destined to be

[jokzs]

I yearn for engiespy cuddling in some corner in the middle of a match like the others aren't being blown up by each other just a few feet away... do you see my vision...

I hope I do see it!

[dykedvonte]

Curly not immediately punishing Jimmy for assaulting Anya is something I don’t think a lot of people are viewing in the complex context for Curly as the superior to both of them and closest confidante they had.

Like I am in no way saying he didn’t under react or fail Anya by not being harsh or direct with Jimmy but it really is the case that he really couldn’t. Imagine being stuck in such a confined space with very little areas to genuinely hold someone if they commit a crime. It’s not like this was an event that occurred before they departed or that they have easy communication with The Pony Express to ask for how to proceed when something like this arises. Not to mention, Jimmy’s relative power in relation to Anya as the co-pilot and second in command, he has the knowledge and access to do something to her had Curly directly punished him in this setting.

They were also Curly’s friends. It’s not just the case of him mediating something between his subordinates but people he is personally invested in don’t want to see spiral further in Anya’s case while also not wanting believe his friend go that bad in Jimmy’s actions. They were both suicidal and Curly putting Jimmy’s stability first is both out of bias but also the fact he’s aware at some level Jimmy is a danger to himself and others if not constantly placated. Combined with the fact he was in denial or just not piecing together what Anya said it’s hard to say what he buying time for and what he had treat as urgent. This isn’t even saying he doesn’t care about Anya but he’s not going jump to the worst conclusions about his friends even if part of him acknowledges the evidence saying so. It’s a complicated thing but he’s still human and needed to process it on top of trying to keep a ship that already took on a lot of water from further sinking, metaphorically.

I just personally think that while Curly failed Anya, it was a scenario where there wasn’t much he could do to the best thing by her safely and like Jimmy, we are underestimating what a good leader would do in a very fragile and tense situation like he was in. By the time he may have been ready and had a plan, things were much too late.

[otaku553]

I got a haircut today and I’m so giddy about it,,,, it is so difficult to explain to my mom why I feel so giddy about the undercut sideburns I got