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#falling asleep at night
nostalgebraist · 5 months
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If Pikachu were real, it would not be a very pleasant animal. An enormous mouse that shocks you like an electric eel. I would run from these beasts
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oifaaa · 1 month
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Fuck your insomniac Tim Drake head canons instead join my team and start pushing the idea that Tim actually has narcolepsy boy can't stop himself from falling asleep even if he wanted to
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xiewho · 9 days
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no time to celebrate
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peachssodapop · 9 months
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in the dark I found my sight And there your name was written large in letters bright! There my faith was! "Worry not!" declared the night
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florencemtrash · 2 months
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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
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“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.
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scrapnick · 5 months
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They’re just resting their eyes guys, they’re watching the movie for sure :)
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peachjelliedd · 5 months
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sometimes u fall asleep on your crush during movie night and that's ok
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thecoolsquirrel · 9 months
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dlartistanon · 10 months
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PtiloSil
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milesdadworth · 3 months
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phoenix wright is the kinda dude to fall asleep anywhere if he's tired enough.
miles edgeworth is the kinda guy who has to have the room at a specific temperature with 1.5 blankets on him, the right pillow(s), the pajamas with his favorite specific texture (the pink silk pajamas are for more than just looking good) and whatever specific background noise playing – sometimes video essays about the steel samurai, sometimes specific episodes of steel samurai, sometimes instrumental/steel samurai ost playlists, some specific streamers who gained popularity playing the samuraiverse cardbuilding RPG roguelike released several years ago or maybe even steel samurai asmr roleplay.
(he is very grateful that phoenix can fall asleep to anything)
(phoenix hates to admit that this has become part of his routine as well. when miles isn't with him he'll turn something on and pretend miles is there.)
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mepomepo · 5 months
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sleepy emmet sleepy emmet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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He is not escaping the sleepy allegations!!!!!!
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biblio-smia · 4 months
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humbly requesting dad!mike,,, like literally anything. this man is so tired but he’s such a dad type of tired if you get what i mean
OH MAN,,,, YEAH! i hope this was what you were looking for!!
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the sun beats down on mike through the thick glass of his windshield, forcing him to pull the sun visor down. he inches forward in the car line - he really should just put the car into park. he's half-distracted as someone behind him honks and it takes a few seconds for mike to realize it's at him, mumbling an apology that will never be heard as he pulls up.
mike needs a recharge. he's surprised himself over the years, watching as he has become the type of person that gets energized from being around others instead of from being alone like he had been for years.
although, this seems to only apply to family - mike still can't stand being around strangers for too long but can feel his battery be replenished the minute he's home.
mike watches as a teacher helps a smaller kid into the car in front of his, watching the parent turn back and make sure the child was buckled up before driving away. mike finds himself smiling and it's his turn now. he can feel his demeanor softening, the anticipation to see a piece that would make him feel a little more whole again rising in his throat. mike smiles at the teacher who leans close to his car, examining the numbers on the tag that dangles from the rear view mirror, quietly memorizing them while she goes back inside to find the child with the matching number.
but she comes back empty-handed. mike tries not to frown but his heart is beginning to race as he rolls down the window, only faintly aware that he is holding up the line.
there's a brief conversation between mike and the helpful teacher who tells mike his child has already been picked up, eyes glancing to the car behind him. mike gets the message, though he'd like to ask for her to just double-check, pulling into a parking spot out of the way of others. his teeth catch the inside of his cheek as he thinks, thousands of thoughts milling around his head.
his nokia begins to ring and mike answers it haphazardly. he blinks quickly once he hears your voice on the other end.
"hi," you start, sweet as ever. "are you almost home?" there's a natural curiously in your voice, the end of your sentence dipping up in question. mike glances at the time - yes, he'd usually be home by now.
"uh," mike starts, a warm feeling settling over his cheeks, suddenly seriously considering that maybe today wasn't mike's turn to pick up his kid. "yeah, i'm almost there."
there's a bit of silence as you hesitate, waiting for an explanation from mike that doesn't come.
but then you pipe up again and mike can hear the smile in your voice. "10 minutes?"
"less," mike promises, saying goodbye with a kiss he wishes he could be placing on your lips rather than against the speaker of his tiny phone.
mike seeks you out quickly, stopping you from pulling out plates for dinner with his strong hold around your body. he presses his lips lazily against your jaw, tickling your skin, voice low as he greets you a little tiredly.
you don't have the chance to ask where he's been before a small body coming racing over, wrapping around mike's legs and asking him for you.
"what took you so long?" a muffled voice whines and mike has to crouch down and wrap his warm arms around his child to begin soothing that tiny frown. "you're usually here early on tuesdays."
"tuesday," mike muses quietly, picking up his kid as he rises. "today's tuesday..."
you can't stifle your laugh, pressing kisses to both heads and placing two different hands on two different backs
"i think daddy got confused about what day it is," you grin and mike tries to frown.
"you need a calendar," the small voice chimes again, this time muffled from against mike's shoulder.
a laugh bursts out of mike and he moves to move the little body from his arms to a seat at the dining table. "yeah, i think i do," he admits with a smile, walking back over to the kitchen to help with the task he'd interrupted.
mike listens intently about a fight that had happened on the playground, another in the cafeteria, and about spilled paint in art class, stories told through bites of food and details clarified by questions thrown in by you and mike.
it's mike's turn to clean up while it's up to you to wrangle the little one into the shower.
mike loses himself in his thoughts again, mindlessly wiping bits of food off the counter, not realizing you were calling his name until he feels his back-and-forth motion of his hand come to a halt.
"hey," you call, voice as affectionate as ever. "where's your head?"
mike looks into your eyes and blinks for a few moments, before sighing and burying his face in the crook of your neck, seeking the comfort of your familiar scent. "i don't know," he groans and you quietly try not to laugh.
your apologetic hands come up to soothe him, touch against his back soothing his muscles. he picks up his head and looks at you, at your eyes and the curve of your nose and how it comes in to become your mouth. he stares at your lips quietly before pressing his own against them, feeling his body fully relax at the connection.
"ewwww!" a familiar voice shrieks but mike, at this point, is immune. he lingers in his spot for a few seconds, not quite wanting to let go but unable to continue without oxygen.
there's soft laughter from you and mike, reminders that it's time for bed making the smallest person in the room even smaller. then an idea strikes.
"can i sleep with you guys tonight?" the quiet voice pleads hopefully, hands clasped and eyes wide.
you and mike exchange a glance and small smiles. mike scoops the child up, nodding. a deal is struck and small cheers are made.
your kid jumps onto bed enthusiastically and you're worried the energy won't wear off by the time you all need to sleep. you and mike are careful climbing into bed, cautious of the small limbs that lay sprawled out. mike smiles as he feels his arm get pulled by a smaller one, feeling your hand and grinning when he looks over to see you've gotten the same treatment.
there's pleading for a bedtime story and you and mike take turns, adding in new bits and twists - though you have to take over as mike's words begin to turn into incoherent mumbles.
"keep going," mike manages to get out, half-asleep, shifted in his position so his arm is protectively thrown around the two other bodies with him, the tiniest one humming in agreement. your words are soothingly sweet, lulling not only your child to sleep but mike, too.
you comply, continuing to tell the now nonsensical story to a partially unconscious audience, purposefully leaving long bits of silence between each of your sentences. mike's fingers will tap against your waist occasionally, signaling to you that his brain has not fully drifted off just yet.
it only takes a few more lines. you pause your words again, lie still to wait if there's a tap, listen closely to the sounds of quiet breathing. your eyes are adjusted to the darkness and see two pairs of eyes closed, two sets of chests rising and falling.
you're careful not to move too much, pulling the blanket up higher.
"goodnight," you whisper softly, hoping maybe your message will make its way to them in their dreams.
the warmth of two bodies next to yours and the gentle rhythm of breathing take you out quickly, dragging you into the same state as those around you.
throughout the night, the three of you entangle yourselves even more, arms wrapped around torsos and small hands clutching onto the soft fabric of pajamas.
there's really nothing quite like it.
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requests for mike schmidt are open!
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felsicveins · 23 days
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Do you think that julien and jd are going to get together again? Man i am clawing at your leg begging for them to have that happy ending.
Part of me feels julien genuinely loves and cares for jd, and that the guilt of what happened and the shame of what he did follows him like a lost dog. Hes never going to know what happiness feels like as long as he doesnt have his boy. And that eats at him. He feels pathetic for begging but at the same time what does he have left to lose? Dignity? He lost that the day john found out about the lip syncing. About everything.
John might be in a similar boat, having the guilt eating at him. He hates what julien did. But does he hate him himself? Fuck if he knows. All he does know is that the ache in his chest is a pain in the ass and that no matter what he cant go back to alcohol to subside it. So what can he go to? What can he do? He needs to be strong, to set his foot down. But even though he acts like he despises the guy, he still has that fucking wedding ring. He still has that ache. Sure there were others, but those were casual even in marriage. But this? This had a plan. A promise.
And that was broken. Years ago.
I wonder if they’ll ever fix it.
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Nothing will get fixed if no one changes
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mispelled · 7 months
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I've been meaning to draw this for over a year
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orobty · 1 year
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Sweepy Teetlez
Bonus (had to balance out the sleepy drawings with some chaos):
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carnivalcarrion · 11 months
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happy mother's day lmfao
bonus (the girls are fightiiing):
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