Oh This Is Good - Tumblr Posts
okay but. i haven't seen anyone talk about the parallel of percy, at age twelve, stumbling into an unknown camp, holding a spoil of war and hardship in his trembling hands, exuding more power than he knows what to do with. and of percy, at age sixteen, stumbling into an unknown camp, holding the spoil of war and hardship in his trembling hands, exuding more power than he knows what to do with.
Gather round, children. Auntie Jules has a degree in psychology with a specialization in social psychology, and she doesn’t get to use it much these days, so she’s going to spread some knowledge.
We love saying representation matters. And we love pointing to people who belong to social minorities being encouraged by positive representation as the reason why it matters. And I’m here to tell you that they are only a part of why it matters.
The bigger part is schema.
Now a schema is just a fancy term for your brain’s autocomplete function. Basically, you’ve seen a certain pattern enough times that your brain completes the equation even when you have incomplete information.
One of the ways we learned about this was professional chess players vs. people who had no experience with chess.
If you take a chess board and you set it up according to a pattern that is common in chess playing (I’m one of those people who knows jack shit about chess), and you show it to both groups of people, and then you knock all the pieces off the board, the pro chess players will be able to return it to its prior state almost perfectly with no trouble, because they looked at it and they said, “Oh, this is the fifth move of XYZ Strategy, so these pieces would be here.”
The people who don’t know about chess are like, “Uh, I think one of the horses was over here, and maybe there was a castle over there?”
BUT, if you just put the pieces randomly on the board before you showed it to them, then the amateurs were more likely to have a higher rate of accuracy in returning the pieces to the board, because the pros are SO entrenched in their knowledge of strategy patterns that it impairs their ability to see what is actually there if it doesn’t match a pattern they already know.
Now some of y’all are smart enough to see where this is going already but hang on because I’m never gonna get to be a college professor so let me get my lecture on for a second.
Let’s say for a second that every movie and TV show on television ever shows black men who dress in loose white T-shirts and baggy pants as carrying guns 90% of the time, and when they get mad, they pull that gun out and wave it in some poor white woman’s face. I mean, sounds fake, right? But go with it.
Now let’s say that you’re out walking around in real life, and you see a black man wearing a white T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans.
And let’s say he reaches for something in his pocket.
And let’s say you can’t see what he’s reaching for. Maybe it’s his wallet. Maybe it’s his cell phone or car keys. Maybe it’s a bag of Skittles.
But on TV and movies, every single time a black man in comfortable, casual clothes reaches for something you can’t see, it turns out to be a gun.
So you see this.
And your brain screams “GUN!!!” before he even comes up with anything. And chances are even if you SEE the cell phone, your brain will still think “GUN!!!” until he does something like put it up to his ear. (Unless you see the pattern of non-threatening black men more often than you see the narrative of them as a threat, in which case, the pattern you see more often will more likely take precedence in this situation.)
Do you see what I’m saying?
I’m saying that your brain is Google’s autocomplete for forms, and that if you type something into it enough, that is going to be what the function suggests to you as soon as you even click anywhere near a box in a form.
And our brains functioning this way has been a GREAT advantage for us as a species, because it means we learn. It means that we don’t have to think about things all the way through all the time. It saves us time in deciding how to react to something because the cues are already coded into our subconscious and we don’t have to process them consciously before we decide how to act.
But it also gets us into trouble. Did you know that people are more likely to take someone seriously if they’re wearing a white coat, like the kind medical doctors wear, or if they’re carrying a clipboard? Seriously, just those two visual cues, and someone is already on their way to believing what you tell them unless you break the script entirely and tell them something that goes against an even more deeply ingrained schema.
So what I’m saying is, representation is important, visibility is important, because it will eventually change the dominant schemas. It takes consistency, and it takes time, but eventually, the dominant narrative will change the dominant schema in people’s minds.
It’s why when everyone was complaining that same-sex marriage being legal wouldn’t really change anything for LGB people who weren’t in relationships, some people kept yelling that it was going to make a huge difference, over time, because it would contribute to the visibility of a narrative in which our relationships were normalized, not stigmatized. It would contribute to changing people’s schemas, and that would go a long way toward changing what they see as acceptable, as normal, and as a foregone conclusion.
So in conclusion: Representation is hugely important, because it’s probably one of the single biggest ways to change people’s behavior, by changing their subconscious perception.
(It is also why a 24-hour news cycle with emphasis on deconstructing every. single. moment. of violent crimes is SUCH A TERRIBLE SOCIETAL INFLUENCE, but that is a rant for another post.)
Need Spinner to rip Deku a new one
[Warning for some suicidal ideation]
•
At first, Izuku thought Iguchi Shuuichi didn’t hear him. Iguchi did not move. He was still looking away from Izuku. He said nothing, staying quiet for so long that Izuku thought maybe he should leave, and give Iguchi time to process and accept the news. Whatever was going through Iguchi’s head right now.
"...I killed a total of eight people..."
It was so soft and low it took Izuku a second to realize it was speech, that it was even a sound.
“Pardon?” Izuku asked.
“I killed eight people.”
Izuku stared at Iguchi in front of him. It sent a jolt through him, to remember that this man was a criminal, a murderer. He was dull all over and looked like he could barely sit up by his own strength, but Iguchi Shuuichi was a Villain, and he was speaking about the deaths of eight people with zero emotion. "W-What? Are you—this is a confession—"
If Iguchi was confessing, Izuku should go get Detective Tsukauchi, or—
"I plotted with the Front to destroy cities.” Iguchi said. Still toneless. Still looking away. “I watched Gigantomachia crush everything in his path. I led a riot against a hospital. I trampled over a dozen doctors and nurses—"
Izuku blinked. "You didn't actually do that. No one actually got hurt, luckily—"
"I did.” Iguchi said. “I'm a Villain, and I killed countless people.” It was then that he finally turned to Izuku. A blank, unseeing stare that shot right through Izuku. Iguchi’s eyes were pink, but the look in them was so empty that it was like the color had leached out, replaced with a glassy hollow-pink gray.
Izuku flinched, but took a deep breath. “...You did. So it’s good you’re confessing. And now… you can… repent—”
“So kill me."
"What?"
"Kill me,” Iguchi repeated.
Izuku grimaced. “I’m not going to do that.”
“Kill me.”
“No,” Izuku said firmly, and stood up. “I’m going to go get Detective—”
He saw the moment when Iguchi’s eyes bursted with a manic light, as if everything came back, and with it, finally, all the emotions that Izuku had expected when he first came to tell Iguchi his leader’s last words. Iguchi exploded.
“Just kill me!” Iguchi roared, struggling against his restraints, so hard it shook the hospital bed. “I'll–I’ll kill you, if you don't stop me right now! Kill me!"
Izuku’s fist clenched automatically at the threat, the muscle memory of when he had One For All. But One For All was gone, and Iguchi was bound up tight. "I'm not going to do that! I don't kill—"
"You killed him!”
The scream made Izuku reel back.
“You killed Shigaraki!” Iguchi suddenly jerked away again, eyes squeezing shut. He curled in on himself, though he was still yelling. “You killed him, so kill me too!”
“I didn’t—!” Shiga–Shimura Tenko’s body crumbled to dust due to the damage it had taken. Everyone agreed that regeneration had failed at some point, and Shimura was already falling apart. The collapse was inevitable.
“You killed him!” Iguchi sounded hoarse now, as if the yell just before had damaged his throat. “He died. He died in front of you and you let him die. So—” The voice broke completely. “So why can’t you let me die too? Let me die with him."
Ragged breathing filled the room. Izuku let it go on for a count of ten, allowing Iguchi to calm down, allowing himself to find the words. “...That’s not how it works. Shimura Tenko died, but you’re still—”
“Shut. Up.” Iguchi curled in on himself further. “Just kill me and let me die. I don’t care. Just let me… Just let me go see him.”
“You can’t follow him,” Izuku said. In the back of his mind, he faintly thought that Shigaraki would’ve been pleased to see that his League was still loyal to him. “Iguchi Shuuichi, your leader is dead, but you can’t follow him. You have to—”
Iguchi made a sharp, jagged sound, the imitation of a laugh. “I have to. Are you really just some kid, that you don’t get it? I love him.”
Izuku froze.
“...I loved him,” Iguchi said. He breathed out the words. “Shigaraki Tomura. My heart was empty until I met him. He was— I wanted—” Iguchi trailed off. “...I loved him."
The horizon that Spinner was looking forward to, Shigaraki Tomura had said, grinning. It had felt so random, him mentioning one of the League in the middle of battle, as he was destroying Mt. Fuji. If Spinner is alive, tell him—
Were you… acknowledging his feelings? Izuku wondered, tentatively, to those memories of Shigaraki. Did you know? Your last words… did you do that, just for him?
Iguchi was weeping now, tears leaking out of his still shut eyes, trailing down his face and falling onto the hospital sheets. One wet dot, two dots, three, merging into a misshapen, growing stain.
Iguchi was unforgivable. Shigaraki was unforgivable. They had done unforgivable things. But still Izuku had said to Shigaraki, I saw you crying, and he knew he needed to help. How could he not? Someone was in pain, and saving them was obvious.
But now your friend is crying. The immediate, most obvious way to help Iguchi right now, Izuku couldn’t help but think was… if you were here…
And there was a déjà vu too—Gentle and La Brava…
Izuku’s stomach twisted when he realized there was nothing he did for La Brava, when she was crying, knocking her small fists into him. It was Gentle who shoved him off and held her. Gentle was the one to dry her tears.
No one else could’ve done it.
"There's no point in me living,” Iguchi whispered. “My family has disowned me by now. The League is gone. Shi... Shigaraki is gone. There's nothing left. So just let me die."
“I… don’t think he… would’ve wanted you to die,” Izuku carefully offered. “If you were fri— more than friends, he would’ve wanted you to live. Right?”
Iguchi made that sharp barking laugh again. “I'm going to jail for the rest of my life. And there is no life I want, not without—” Iguchi broke off.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Izuku tried to say. “You have to live, and things will change—”
“The future has no place for me in it,” Iguchi said. Tears dripped off the tip of his mouth. “I never had one, anyway. After all this, I’m…”
A sob. “If we didn't let him go into surgery… I wanted him to stay, but he was so excited… And I knew he wasn’t himself anymore, I knew All For One was lying to me, I knew all that! But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know what to do. I did nothing, and now he’s gone. I should’ve… I don’t know, I don’t know, but I should’ve done something.”
Izuku bit his lips. This was, at least, something they had in common. “...It was the same for me too. I saw All For One and him being… stuck together. I couldn’t ignore that, so I wanted to help him too. I wanted to save that cry—save him, but…” He sat back down. “Maybe… if we had worked together… If you came to us earlier…”
“...save him?” Iguchi rasped.
Izuku nodded. “I really did. I wanted to save him.”
Iguchi slowly raised his head. “You killed him. You fought him to death. Heroes wanted him dead. Hawks killed Twice and everyone just accepted it. You… You never said anything. What do you mean, ‘if you came to us earlier…’
That hollow look in Iguchi’s eyes was back.
“You never said a single word about saving him.”
Geralt decided to follow up on this lead. Though he was not able to establish the mysterious mage’s identity, he did learn that he had been traveling with Cirilla some time before and the Wild Hunt was after him as well.
hello batman telltale fandom, tonight i come with a not 100% canon depiction of our beloved villain joker with a lollipop 🍭🃏
is it a dream or is it all in the past? i just thought i’d ask
nightwing being hurt in the field, and over comms he can’t get out what was wrong, nearly in shock, and jason puts on his best batman™️ voice and says “robin, report.”
and it snaps dick out of it enough to say concussion, possible broken ribs, and a gash in his side.
no one talks about it, and then a year later, damian does the same thing to tim
so, uh. a while back i bought a cameo for my brother and i from debra wilson, savathun's voice actress. in it i talked about how much we loved her performance in the witch queen and how much closer the campaign brought my brother and i as siblings. i didn't expect her to do it in character, but i took a snippet of where she did, took out our real names, and gave some minor sfx editing + background music for Funsies. and i thought some other destiny fans might enjoy it!
Transcript:
"But I'm not done. Not by a long shot. So... you're closer now than ever before. Well, good for the both of you. I wish I were closer to my siblings; Oryx and Xivu Arath... but I guess some realities weren't meant to be. Not with the life I've lived... But I'll tell you this; perhaps this ... newfound sibling relationship might not be so cohesive. I'm not saying that it isn't... I'm just saying that all things change... with everything that I've seen. And perhaps you are... stronger than you know. More powerful together than you even realize. And I find that spectacular and magnificent. Why? Because the greater opportunity for me to rip you both apart. [sinister laughter]"
YA Soulmate Romance novel where everyone, by the time they turn 16, becomes aware of their soulmate. A person tied to them by the soul, whose thoughts and actions are relayed vaguely over the binding and unbreakable connection they share.
Except, as best science can figure it, the connection is completely random and the other person is, with no greater significance, really just Some Guy.
Some people do marry their someguymate out of conviction that the connection must mean something, but those marriages statistically fare much worse than non someguymate marriages. As it turns out, marrying someone with no existing chemistry, who unfortunately is aware of all your emotions and actions, isn't a stable foundation for a marriage.
A highly profitable sector of technology blooming in the "someguymate-blocking" market, both for personal privacy and MORE than that, to silence all the annoying fucking updates you receive constantly from your someguymate. Endless pseudoscience and homeopathic remedies to dampen signals. White noise machines that advertise themselves as "sleep restorative" and "someguymate notification blocking"
Unfortunate person whose someguymate is in an opposite timezone, trying to sleep at 3am while being bombarded with "your someguymate is driving to work" "your someguymate is getting a coffee" "your someguymate is mad at this traffic" "your someguymate goes car horn honk honk honk honk". Statistically, you're actually lucky if your someguymate shares a timezone even close to yours
High profile terrorist with a tight and well-armed protective unit. Authorities don't try to go after him, and instead try to find his someguymate, who's a middle school teacher in Iowa who constantly hears car bombs.
Befuddled mother walking into a police department, unsure who to report this to, but her someguymate just killed someone. maybe. probably. It was unclear. There was gun fire and some driving into the woods. And maybe that was unrelated to the gun fire but the big heavy thing her someguymate pulled out of the truckbed was almost definitely related.
A lucrative, and highly expensive black market of private investigators and hitmen, paid in secret to set their mark to a rich and powerful man's someguymate, because their client just wants some peace and quiet. Just some peace and quiet. For once.
The someguymate of this rich and powerful man, receiving an inkling she doesn't fully understand, but knowing with icy certainty she is suddenly in danger.
Anyways.
Eddie, who has learnt that if he mealpreps for the week then he can make sure the food lasts and he won't eat too much too quick vs Steve, who has only ever seen one person mealprep and it was his mom when she was getting ready to leave him for weeks at a time.
Bedsides and Breakfasts
Summary: After Azriel comes home battered and bruised, he refuses to eat the meal you've made him... Why?
Warnings: Angst, character injury, fluff
Author's note: For context, Y/n is Helion's bastard daughter. In an earlier draft of my other (very long) fic, The Shadowsinger and The Inkbird, this was going to be a scene that takes place after Azriel gets hurt during the Battle on the Lake where Y/n figures out Azriel is her mate. I wanted to finish it up and get it out there because I don't want to say goodbye to that story just yet and I wanted to get back into writing so.... here ya go!
The Townhouse sang quietly as it worked. Its melodies lay in the shifting curtains that shook off dust into the wind. Its lyrics in the whistling teakettle. You liked these sounds as you moved about the kitchen, preparing your tea and a crust of bread slathered with butter and jam.
When the Townhouse was empty, you didn’t need to fear your power — there was no one around for you to touch and steal memories from. Mor had tried to drag you out to Rita’s that evening — “Rhys says you’ve learned to keep your Clairvoyance at bay! Come dancing with us!” — but you couldn’t muster the courage or the energy.
Besides, you were awaiting a certain Shadowsinger’s arrival.
“Won’t you come back and make me your home? You who’ve stolen my heart as simple as a whisper, calm as a storm,” You hummed to yourself. You swore the Townhouse sighed in contentment. “Do you like my silly little songs then?” You mused.
The lights shone a little brighter, crackling the air with a flicker of energy.
You were singing about Azriel — of course you were — and blushing all the while. He’d been the first to truly speak to you — the first to notice you — and the embrace you’d shared in Rhysand’s office had left you breathless for days. You could still feel the ghost of his breath against your neck as you’d buried your face in the hollow of his throat. The cracked leather beneath your fingers and the short hairs at the base of his skull you’d caressed as lovingly as any flower. It was the first time you’d ever been touched like that. Like you were something worth holding onto.
When he was gone, the Townhouse felt too empty. You felt too empty. Even now, the edges of your patience frayed like a worn shirt without him.
You spent the evening’s hours combing through every book you’d managed to lug over from the Library. It was quick, but taxing work as every touch against the weathered binding allowed you to absorb its knowledge without you ever having to lay an eye on the page.
When the candle flickered dangerously close to your books and the dull throbbing behind your eyes had gone on for too long, you blew out the light and could do no more than curl up on the sofa before falling fast asleep.
The whispers of shadows woke you. You couldn’t understand the words hidden within their overlapping voices, but their panic and relief were heavy in the air. You could almost taste their meaning on your tongue.
“Y/n,” Azriel moaned. He leaned heavily against the open door, forcing it open against the drag of the carpet. His sword clattered to the ground before his knees. “Y/n,” he called out again, more urgently this time. He prayed to the gods you were home. He’d flown through the night, tattered wings struggling to keep him aloft, to make sure he’d see you again… just in case.
Blood and iron burned your nose and your sleep-swollen eyelids split open. “Az—” Your knee slammed against the coffee table in your struggle to escape the blankets. “AZ!”
Azriel was always greedy for the sight of you, and that familiar tug in his chest tightened as you rounded the corner and sprinted towards him. You tripped where the hardwood ended and the carpet began, throwing his arm around your shoulder.
He smiled softly at you. Three months ago, you’d been too afraid to touch anyone. Now here you were half-supporting his weight as he staggered to his feet. He stole a few precious seconds to lean his head into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent. For a moment, he believed it would be enough to heal him.
“How bad is it?”
“Three arrows in the right wing, two in the left. Fae bane.”
“Anywhere else?” You both stumbled down the hallway back from where you’d come.
“I may have been stabbed a few times.” He offered the piece of information casually, like he was complaining about the price of eggs.
“What’s a few?” Your eyes were wide as the moon. Searching, searching, searching for wounds.
“Ten?”
Your growl tore through the quiet of the night.
Your hands were slippery with blood, and Azriel almost slid out of your fingertips as you deposited him against the table. You flung your arms out over the hardwood tabletop sending bottles of ink, pens, and sheafs of papers clattering to the floor before rolling Azriel onto the top and forcing him to lay down.
Under the chandelier, Azriel looked ghastly. The warmth was drained from his skin and the hollows of his eyes and the fullness of his lips were tinged purple from cold. His eyes drifted apart from one another.
“I need you to stay awake.”
“I will.” His words were slippery as soap on porcelain, syllables sliding into one another as he promised you he would be alright and that he had suffered worse before.
“Stay awake!” You commanded him and his eyes sharpened ever so slightly on your figure as you tore through the cabinets in the corner.
Where is it? Where is it? Glass bottles clinked and tottered on rounded bottoms. There!
You snatched one of the pale green bottles lining the back wall and bit off the cork top with a grimace, spitting it out onto the floor. You could taste the medicine inside coat your teeth with an acrid film.
“Hey, hey, hey.” You slapped Azriel’s cheeks to keep him awake. “Drink this.”
Azriel’s lips parted immediately and he accepted every bitter drop you forced down his throat. It wasn’t a cure, but it would help stabilize him long enough for help to arrive. In the time it took for you to call out to Rhys and light the candle that would wake Madja and call her to the Townhouse, Azriel’s cheeks had flushed with some more color.
The sight did little to ease your worries as you worked on unbuckling the straps of his armor. Piece by piece they fell away with a wet thud on the ground.
He grabbed your wrist before you could run in search of something to cut off the clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Elain had left gardening shears on the back porch. Perhaps the kitchen had scissors?
“Stay.” He begged. “Please stay.”
“Rhys and Madja will be here soon. I just need to get something to help you.”
“Then stay.” His grip turned desperate, short nails digging into your forearm. “Stay and help me. Don’t leave me.”
Azriel might have smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain. His hand slid up the curve of your arm to hold your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw.
“I wanted to see you just in case.” His chest rattled with the effort, “Gods, I missed you.”
He’d been gone weeks on the Continent, scrounging after every whisper of Koschei’s name as far as the eastern mountains. He’d scavenged and raged. Killed and tortured. And he’d missed you all the while. It was what had possessed him to fly all the way to Velaris, when he would have been better off breaking into the Day Court and throwing himself at the mercy of Helion — your father.
You felt the tears prick at your eyes, angry and hot. “If you say another fucking word like you’re about to die, I will kill you myself.” You were not prone to violence, and Azriel felt some pride that he could elicit such an emotion from you.
Luckily for you both, Azriel didn’t get a chance to say anything else, and you didn’t get a chance to murder him before Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Madja were bursting through the front door and following the blood-red trail to the dining room.
Azriel squeezed your hand once more. “Stay with me.”
“Where else would I go, Az?” You whispered, pressing a quick kiss to the palm of his hand before the others crowded close.
You stayed at the head of the table, one hand always holding onto Azriel’s. He swallowed his pain, the faintest groans slipping from his lips as arrows were pulled out inch by bloody inch. It was no easy thing to endure, not even for Azriel. Wicked barbs lined the arrow shaft and caught onto the delicate membrane of his wings no matter how Madja twisted, pushed, and pulled.
One particularly harsh wrench had Azriel crying out, his nails digging into your arm and drawing blood.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, feeling your skin break beneath his nails. His skin was tinged green now. A sickly sheen covered his face and fell over his eyes.
“It’s ok. It’s ok. Just look at me.” You grasped the sides of his face. “Look at me.”
Once again, Azriel was ready to listen to your commands. His eyes never left yours, not once, until the last of the faebane-tipped arrows dropped onto the table with a menacing ring of metal on wood.
Feyre closed his wounds as best she could, but the flesh inside would take longer to heal. For now all they could do was carefully wipe the blood from his body and carry him up to his bedroom.
You lingered by Azriel’s side long after he fell asleep, fingers twitching with nerves as you counted every slow and steady breath of his.
“Y/n.” Feyre gently touched your arm. “He’ll be alright.”
You nodded, still watching Azriel sleep. Then, to your mortification, you burst into tears. Your clothes were drying stiff with sweat and blood — none of it yours — and the red handprints Azriel had left along your arms were turning to copper rust.
She shushed you, softly tugging at your arms.
“He-He asked me to stay,” you said between gulps of air.
“He’d want you to be clean and well-rested, Y/n. Don’t let him wake up feeling guilty.”
If it weren’t for Feyre, you would have remained glued to the floor of Azriel’s room until you became one of the faces trapped in the wooden floors. You let her lead you across the hall to your own room where she filled the tub with warm water and soap.
“Shit,” you mumbled. Your fingers shook so much you couldn’t undo the buttons of your dress. Shadows, loose and long as stalks of grass, wound around your back, plucking the buttons undone without a word.
“He’ll be alright.” Feyre repeated this phrase many times as you scrubbed off the night’s events and turned the water copper brown. The magic of the Townhouse whisked away the grime almost as quickly as it appeared until you sat in a sudsy bath, milky and clean.
“What happened to him, Fey?”
“From what Rhys and I can tell, Koschei had over a dozen archers lying in wait for when he returned to Prythian. We’ve already warned Helion.”
You nodded. Your head felt heavy on your neck, like a doll with a snapped neck.
“He nearly died.” Once the words were out in the open, fragile and pure, you broke down again, knees drawn up to your chest in the tub.
“But he didn’t.” Feyre smoothed back your dripping hair. “It will take more than arrows and faebane for Death to steal him from us, Y/n.”
Gods you hoped that was true, or else your heart might give out every time Azriel walked out the door.
You returned to his side the moment you were clothed, hair still dripping onto his gray bed sheets as you leaned forward from your chair and held his hand. He slept on his stomach, wings flared out and peppered with white gauze like a patchwork quilt. Beneath the drape of his blankets you knew more gauze covered his chest and stomach, dotted with blood like blooming roses.
You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you awoke to a deep ache in your back and a faint choir of voices in the air.
Shadows.
They kissed your cheeks, cool and soft, urging your eyelids open. Azriel was already awake and sitting up in bed with a grimace. One hand clutched his side and a leg hung over the edge of the bed, like he intended to stand. When he saw you, his hazel eyes widened. First in alarm. Then in guilt.
“Az?” Your voice felt crusted with smoke and sleep and you did what you could to straighten the crook in your neck and your spine from the odd position you’d fallen asleep in. ““You’re not supposed to be sitting up.” Your bones cracked obnoxiously as you moved for the first time in hours, and the guilt in his gaze deepened.
You pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the gauze scratch your skin, but he did not budge.
“Az, you need to lay down. What were you even doing up?”
Azriel’s eyes flickered off to the side. “I was… I was trying to move you to the bed.”
You swallowed your yawn and blinked in disbelief. “Azriel, you’ve just been shot and stabbed. You need to lay back down.”
He grabbed your wrists, tugging you forward until you almost collapsed against his chest. “There’s space on the bed. I want you to be comfortable.”
“The chair is fine, and you are hurt. Now, please—” He did not move. No matter how you reasoned with him. No matter how you tried to shove him back beneath the covers.
“I will lay back down under one condition.”
You frowned. He was much more stubborn when he was injured. “What condition?”
“Sleep on the bed. There’s plenty of room.”
“Az—”
“Please.” His hands slipped into yours, fingers pressing against the pulse of your wrists. “Y/n, I will be comforted with you beside me.” He held up his finger before you could sleep. “And not in that gods-awful chair. You’ll wake up crooked.”
“I’m not a stalk in a storm,” you grumbled, because it only seemed appropriate that you should fight him on this. Otherwise, you’d have to admit that the thought of melting into his bed set off fireworks in your stomach, exciting and terrifying at the same time. You’d also have to admit the scent of mountain air embedded in every inch of his room brought you comfort. You could lay your head on his pillows and sleep for an eternity.
I shouldn’t be here. But you let him tug you closer to him. You slid your legs over his waist, calves catching on the waistband of his pants and dragging in a way that had your heart leaping into your stomach until you were safely on the other side of him.
Azriel’s bed was massive — over 12 feet across to better accommodate the span of his wings. You moved as far away from him as you could without eliciting offense and stared at the window.
Your muscles clenched as he shifted closer to you, wings rustling against the silk sheets and whispering as he got comfortable. Every time he so much as shifted, your back prickled, as though you had eyes there that shifted to soak up every inch of him.
He’s hurt and I’m taking up space and—
He reached out his arm and his fingertips brushed against the curve of your back. You stiffened like you’d been struck by lightning. If Azriel were awake, he would have apologized and wrenched back his hand as if burned. But he was fast asleep and the touch was a natural movement he made in his dreams where he was imagining that you were closer to him. So close that he could breathe down your neck and feel you melt beneath his touch.
You didn’t sleep, as much as the lull of his breathing threatened to sink you into sweet and comforting dreams. The sky was but a lighter shade of black when you were slipping out of bed with barely a whisper. Miraculously, Azriel did not awaken, and his shadows ghosted over the floors drowsily.
You were no stranger to dawn as you padded down to the kitchens. You hummed to yourself, cracking eggs over a well-greased skillet with onions, tomatoes, and peppers tossed in. They bobbed up and down in a sea of yellow like ducks on water. Potatoes browned to your right, their skins crackling and spitting grease as bacon popped and sizzled beside them.
You ate as you went, plating the final meal for Azriel, who—if you knew anything about him—would be waking shortly after the first rays of sunlight split his shadows in two.
You slipped back into his room as quietly as you’d left, and then nearly leapt out of your skin to find a dark mass of shadow covering the bed.
“You’re awake,” you said blankly.
Azriel propped himself up onto his elbows, back rippling as he forced his stiff and swollen wounds to stretch until he could sit up in bed.
“Where did you go?” There was but a faint slur to his words. “You weren’t here when I woke up.”
“I was making breakfast.” You dragged over the ottoman from the foot of his bed as a makeshift table. “Did you brush your teeth already?” Not that it mattered. A sour mouth wouldn’t keep him from a meal if he was hungry.
The flash of fear in his eyes was so subtle, so brief, that you missed it.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well that doesn’t really matter. Madja said you should eat first thing. Oh!” You plucked a purple glass bottle from his bedside table. “And she said to drink this with a meal.” You pushed it into his hands, reluctant as they were to take the stoppered bottle from you.
“I can’t imagine eating right now.” He said, shaking his head. His cheeks puffed out and he swallowed hard. “The smell… it’s… I can’t stomach it.”
You frowned at that. He liked your cooking. It was only due to circumstance that you hadn’t been able to cook for him in months.
“Can you please try?” you begged. “Just a bite.”
His skin turned pallid and the dark marks beneath his eyes stood out. He picked up a fork with a trembling hand, stuck it into a potato, then dropped it as if it burned. Suddenly, he regretted asking you to stay the night. Guilt ate away at his stomach, twisting it like spaghetti on a fork.
You sighed in dejection. “I’ll bring it back downstairs.” You said. You began collecting the silverware from where you’d left them by his side.
“I’m sorry.” He murmured, catching your wrist in his hand.
You smiled softly. “Try and get some rest.”
“Will you be back?” His words caught you by the door.
“You won’t even realize I was gone.”
He doubted that very much. Still, he settled back in bed, rolling onto his stomach to keep its rumbling at bay. He was quite hungry.
You closed the door behind you, carrying the untouched plate of eggs and potatoes. Cassian stopped his whistling as he made his way down the hall, a teasing smile playing at his lips until he caught sight of your dejected expression.
“What’s got our resident Librarian frowning? Did someone misplace a book in the House?”
You didn’t rise to Cassian’s jests. You cast a sullen glance back at Azriel’s door like it was personally responsible for everything, and shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten since he’s been back and I’m starting to get worried. I read up on Illyrian anatomy weeks ago and he should be fine enough to eat by now.”
Cassian leaned down, taking a careful sniff of the plate before grabbing hold of a butter and rosemary roasted potato and plucking it in his mouth. It was cold and the butter had hardened into a greasy slick, but it was still good. He told you as much as he walked with you back to the kitchens, stealing slivers of potato as he went.
“It’s nice to know my cooking’s not at fault.”
Cassian jerked back in surprise and sudden understanding. “You made him that?”
“Yes. I know the House has its own will, but I like to cook. And it still feels strange having food just appear out of nowhere.”
Cassian fought with all his might to keep the cheeky grin from his face.
Poor Azriel, forced to go hungry because he was still too much of a sheepish fool to tell you about the mating bond let alone accept it.
He clicked his tongue. He loved his brother to the grave and back, but Azriel had a horrible habit of getting trapped in his own mind. Cassian had hoped you would help with that, given you suffered similarly.
“I wouldn’t take it too personally. Azriel’s a picky eater. Always has been.”
That was a complete and utter lie. Growing up in the Illyrian war camps meant you either starved or ate whatever gray-brown mush you could get your hands on. Rhysand and Azriel had been quicker to move on from the rugged Illyrian lifestyle, and Rhysand especially had used his High Lord privileges to cultivate a refined and expensive taste, but if they were hungry and limited they didn’t give two shits what went in their mouths.
“I didn’t realize you could afford to be picky in a war camp,” You grumbled. You dropped the plate’s contents onto a skillet, patiently waiting for the House to light a toasty fire. There was no need to let good food go to waste.
You thought over it, some minor irritation settling in that the Shadowinger had rejected the food you’d worked to make. It really didn’t make sense that Azriel would be so particular about food. Or anything for that matter. He’d always struck you as the practical, bare-bones sort, and you knew him well enough now to know that was true. His very job required it of him. But then again you couldn’t remember the last time he’d accepted any food that you’d offer-
You froze. Oh. Oh.
The first night he’d visited your apartment in the Day Court, he’d refused your tea and cakes before leaving abruptly. You’d agonized over that night for months, trying to figure out what you might have done to scare him off. But he’d been so kind and shy afterwards and then the whole matter of Koschei had arose and you’d never given it much thought because he just seemed so familiar and... Oh. OH-
“BASTARD!” You spat out in shock. The skillet dropped to the stove with a sharp cry that had Cassian blinking. He’d never seen you like this. So…agitated.
Had you always been this dull? A year ago you might have been able to blame it on your naïveté, but you weren’t so socially misinformed now and yet this was a bit much. And… oh you couldn’t wrap your head around your own stupidity to even begin to think about a mating bond with…
A mating bond with Azriel. You… you were his mate. He was yours. And you were his. And suddenly the pieces of it were falling into place so quickly you thought you might be crushed beneath the weight.
Mate.
Even the thought of the word crashed around your mind incessantly, like an anxious dog trying to settle down to sleep. Yet it all made such perfect sense. The way Azriel always found you when you were in danger or grieving. The awful days when Azriel had been away and you’d felt like a piece of your body had been severed. The way that the world felt right when he was beside you. Maybe it was the bond, maybe it was just something born out of love, or maybe they were one and the same. It was impossible to tell but it didn’t change anything.
Mate.
Cassian glanced sideways at you and said cautiously, “We’re both bastards, Y/n. I don’t think that’s much of an insult coming from your mouth.”
Your eyes snapped to his, suddenly remembering that he was in the kitchen with you. You brandished a fork in your hand like a weapon, pointing the pronged end up at him like he was a piece of meat to be skewered. You were shorter than him, but the sharpness in your eyes made him pause.
“You.” Such a simple word, yet it sounded so threatening. “You knew didn’t you?”
Was he sweating? The room felt warm.
“I don’t know what-“ You snatched his wrist and with your magic, you stole the information from him that you needed. It was as easy as plucking a flower from a field.
Fuck. Cassian groaned at the same time you did. You knew now. Not that you really needed confirmation from Cassian. Still. It was rather embarrassing to learn you were the last of… well everyone to know, even if it was your fault for not noticing the signs. In your defense you had been preoccupied with other matters…
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” You muttered, heating up the remaining food with a great deal of force before setting down a fresh tray, plate, utensils, and mug of tea on the countertop.
You keep muttering to yourself, your joy disguised by your embarrassment and no small amount of shock. Cassian watched nervously as you prepped the plate.
You’d no sooner growled, “Move,” before Cassian leapt to the side and you set off out the door and down the hallway back to Azriel’s room.
She knows. One shadow whispered in his ear. Azriel felt his heart skyrocket and his stomach plunge to the cradle of his hip bones.
She seems… upset.
Upset was a mild word. You were alight with every emotion possible — fury, fear, anxiety, excitement, love — and Azriel struggled to tease them apart. It was like he’d been hit in the chest by a tangle of snakes, each a writhing, living, ever-changing thing. One moment you seemed nervous, the next angry.
“You.” Your knuckles were pale as they gripped the tray. Sunlight molded to your form like a crown, and it became all the more apparent that you were Helion’s daughter — his bastard daughter, but daughter nevertheless.
He scrambled into a seated position just in time for you to drop the tray in his lap with a clatter that sent fork and knife skittering over the dish.
You looked down at the tray, then up at his eyes, wide and molten as amber. “You didn’t tell me.” You didn’t need to elaborate any further.
“I didn’t think—”
“You’re right. You didn’t.” You blinked, suddenly shy. “Did I not make it clear enough that I liked you? That I loved—love you? Or perhaps you don’t… perhaps you don’t want me.” That was a possibility you hadn’t thought of in your excitement to see him again.
Oh gods, you hadn’t thought of that possibility had you? You’d just aggressively thrown food at him, expecting that he would—
Azriel gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him again. Your cheeks were warm and painted with color.
“I always worried I was reading into actions that meant nothing to you. But, never think for a moment that I don’t want you.” He smiled then, a shy, secret smile reserved for you. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
Now your cheeks were burning, but Azriel did not mind feeling this kind of heat on his hands. He let go of your chin, twirling a fork with his fingers like it was a knife. It was one of his few nervous ticks whose knowledge was reserved for the people he trusted. For the people he loved.
“Being with me will put you in more danger than you know.”
“But I expect it will bring me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.” You raised a hand up to his face, twisting away a stubborn curl of hair that fell over his forehead. “And you forget who my father is,” you reminded him. “Maybe it is I who will put you in danger.”
“Maybe,” Azriel whispered. His breath fanned over your cheeks, soft and sweet.
You picked up the fork, lifting it up in between you.
“Eat.” You commanded him.
Azriel smiled, plucking it from your fingers and stabbing a potato. He sighed. “I never could deny you anything, and I would never want to,” he said, before chewing carefully. Cautiously.
You blinked in surprise, instinctively taking a step away when you felt something new and warm begin to burn in your chest, like someone had taken a drop of the molten hazel in Azriel’s eyes and dropped it into your heart.
“Oh.” You breathed.
“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “An unusual feeling, I know.” He placed the tray beside him and he’d no sooner opened his arms before you’d buried your face in the crook of his neck. You wanted more of that warmth in your chest. You wanted to slip into Azriel's skin as close as possible to his beating heart. To feel the mating bond wrap around you both like a curtain to block out the rest of the world.
Azriel groaned in pain, but would not let you leave his embrace. No pain had ever been worth so much.
You forced him to finish eating, even though all he wanted was the taste of you on his lips. “Later,” you promised him. When he was healed and whole there would be more breathless kisses and urgent touches, but for now he had to content himself with eating his meal and drinking his draught. But he would not be denied the press of your skin against his as you slipped beneath the covers and curled up beside him. This time, you fell asleep quickly and your dreams came over you like water.
havent made hoffman art in a while! also i bought an insidious shirt best day of my life
Here birdies, come get your breadcrumbs brainrot.
This ones pitifully soft for you guys.
Imagine a sizey dynmamic where they've just gotten used to eachother. My mind immediately goes to human/borrower given some cultural differences that could come into play but really this works with any sizey dynamic.
So the pair has gotten to the point where they're comfortable with touch. The borrower testing their limits, walking on them, sitting on them etc. They find hands especially comfortable with how soft they are.
The human is lounging on a couch, one leg handing off, and the borrower, instead of asking to be lifted up, just does things the borrower way and climbs their pantleg up. They go to walk up to the humans chest to strike up a conversation but fall short as they reach the abdomen.
Oh.
It's soft.
Frankly unless the person is absolutely shredded to the gills, most body types are gonna have at least some softness, especially at that size, so this scenario can fit a myriad of body types.
They, possibly a bit too comfortable with the human, and not at all familiar with what might be a bit awkward, flop down saying something particularly embarrassing like "Oh- you are soft."
Maybe borrowers like softer/heavier frames, maybe due to their small size they don't hold weight very long- but regardless, they don't see the act as intimate or embarrassing (whichever avenue you're heart wants).
Perhaps the human is a bit insecure, or maybe its just something so out of the blue and oddly intimate that they are just flustered to max. They try to move their friend, but now that an area has been put off limits?? Its far more enticing to the borrower, who's now dubbed it their favorite spot.
"Noooo! It's comfy!"
The human is red. Face burning all the way up to the tips of their ears.
When they realizes it flusters their friend?? Even better. They get a little rise out of the way they squirm, not used to feeling like the one that holds all the chips.
YOU GUYS SEE THE VISON?? YOU GUYS PICKING THIS UP???
UGH. Gimme.
