Headcanon that Dick knows exactly how to make each family member fall asleep even if they're refusing. Everyone acts like it's some kind of magic, but to him it's really simple.
Tim hasn't slept in days? Put him somewhere warm. Lay a blanket on him, sit him in front of a fireplace, put him by a window in a nice sun beam. He'll be out in 30 minutes max.
Bruce is being a problem and Alfred is considering drugging him again? Easy (at least if you can manage to get him out of the cave) Put him in a room with a few of his kids and a TV. Seeing them all safe calms him down enough for the dad instinct of falling asleep ten minutes into any movie to kick in.
Jason's too tough for naps? Chamomile tea. Dick has no idea why it's so effective on Jason specifically but if you give him chamomile tea he'll probably be asleep before he can finish it.
Damian can't sleep? Put one of his pets on his chest. A weighted blanket can also work but if he doesn't want to sleep, he'll just move it off. If it's a pet, he won't dare disturb them and he'll be out like a light.
Cass has been up for too long? Cuddles. Ask her for a hug or to braid her hair when she's sleepy and she can fall asleep standing up. Bonus points if you can get her to go cuddle Tim because then she warms him up (she's like a walking space heater for some reason) and then they both rest.
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Talking about Homelander inserting himself into things…
I’m imagining a situation in which Vought hires a woman, to play the part of his “wife” for publicity. (maybe to answer the whole “who’s Ryan’s mother?” situation / because it’s on brand for him)
There’s NO way he wouldn’t fall for her.
What would be even worse is if she had no interest in him outside of working.
To her, he’s just a job.
To him, she’s his wife.
and sooner or later, she has to accept that.
ANOOOON. i’m gonna give you a peek behind the curtains because you have hit the nail on the head for a fic that i want to write! these notes are so scattered but suffice to say I AGREE WITH YOU 😂 10/10 idea!!
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Haunted Holy & Divine snippet
“When you torture people,” Nesta said, flatly. “For whatever it is they’ve done. They throw them in the dark and they throw them to you.”
There had never been a choice.
Azriel was the bastard son of an Illyrian lord. There was only blood, for him. It would have been swords and battlefields. A lifetime of war. Killing his own, when the disobeyed. Crippling his own, when they dreamt of more.
Azriel’s hands would have always had to do the work- for Rhain, for Shahar, for Rhysand. It was no small thing that had made him what he was, but it was no choice either.
“I mean you no harm,” Azriel settled on saying, nearly soundless. Colorless, as the deepening shadow, his many many forebears in Night’s unholy work crowding close in cold comfort.
It was no physical nearness, but Nesta’s eyes flickered up, following what was not light like a moth.
“What is the point in hurting them,” she huffed. “What is the point, when you?” She made a vast slashing gesture toward him, lingering enough Azriel could not reign in the shadows that slipped, trying to coil around her aching wrist in support. “You don’t need a knife to know.”
No, he didn’t.
And the first century of his work for the throne, Truthteller had been nothing but a friend, a mark of respect: Azriel might carry of sword at times, might have survived training, but he would never carry a blessed blade of his people.
So Rhain had made him one.
Starsteel did not bend for High Fae hands, but it had melted. Become something better, worse, beneath Azriel’s young, unfettered grip.
“I don’t.” Azriel admittedly, softly. “I do not choose what my High Lord asks of me.”
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happy halloween!! he’s got a gift for you!!
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Constantly torn between wanting tired dad Bruce and wanting ‘my children can do no wrong’ Bruce who resolutely believes that his kids are perfect angels, and that anyone who tells him otherwise is wrong.
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Meeting Havik in the midst of a mosh-pit is like meeting a human pin cushion. He’s the sponge for crowd killers— always leaving with a bloody nose and dislocated shoulders. He’s at every show you’ve been to, every set you make a detour to, and he’s always in the mosh pit. Almost enticing you to enter as you stand at the edge. Dropping to the ground by your feet and being dragged up laughing, bleeding, coughing. He’s there, standing across from you as bodies meet bodies and when you step forward, drawn into the music, bashing your skull against the air— Havik is there, waiting for you to begin swinging. Slamming his shoulders into your’s, clutching onto the back of your shirt as you head bang, throwing you into the air and back onto your feet as you fall. Covered in his blood and your sweat. Bellowing with laughter as the drums crash to an end. Your ears ringing as your senses return. “I want to see you again.” He says, clutching onto your forearms, so much taller, barely breathing but so certain. “I want you beat me till I bleed.”
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