#eleven writing questions

[mike-haters-dni]

Scalding, unnecessary take that I'm going to use as an excuse to yap about my hyperfixation characters more than anything, but El's character is actually impossible to stick into coffee shop fanfiction No Supernatural Shit AUs. That's Jane you're writing about. Jane and El are not the same person. At all. And like, Jane is interesting to think about, don't get me wrong. I have thought about Jane. I love Jane. She's adorable and vaguely autistic. But Jane != Eleven.

Eleven is the way she is almost entirely because of her experience/trauma of growing up in the lab and having supernatural murder powers. Her main characters traits are being a self-sacrificing hero and not being sure who she is due to the fact she grew up in an isolated sterile inhuman environment. Unless you're directly translating those things into something unsupernatural (like growing up in a fucked up cult or something and like fighting her way out and now she'll fight to protect other people from similar experiences or something idk) you're writing about Jane the normal gorl who got to grow up with a normal personality in a normal world. And like, you can do that. It's fine it's fandom do whatever u want. But personally, the first thing I come up with when I birth an AU is what crazy powers and fucked up backstory we give Eleven here. Also how do we make her and everyone else really fucking cool but that...might be beside the point idk.

The powers have to basically ruin or have had ruined her life at one point. They have to be a curse that she either reclaims or gets rid of at the end. If she isn't tortured she isn't Eleven Stranger Things lmao

And then yeah yeah my next step is to figure out how Mike AND THE OTHERS OK but mostly Mike get involved in this. Which brings me to my next point: Jane and Mike have no real reason to talk to each other. Mike x Jane is just Normal Gorl x Normal Boy which is like, fine sure if that's what you want, but also you kinda just erased everything interesting about their dynamic. You wanna know what makes El and Mike's relationship so compelling? Objectively? I'm objectively right about everything I'm about to say here? Ok their dynamic is this: Eleven is the most important person in the world, and Mike is the only boy who will ever love her. And yeah that second one sounds really sad but 1. yeah it kinda is :) 2. its not really true that's just what El thinks which is like a major theme for her character TO ME, her underestimating how 'normal' she is esp in her later years 3. it also is kinda true because he's the only boy romantically interested in her who actually understands and experienced all the supernatural/lab trauma bullshit and is actively fighting beside her through the plot of the show, and 4. he's literally perfect and also the only boy she'll ever love and need so it all works out.

And to explain the first one, I mean, you know she's saved the world twice right? She kinda literally is the most important person in the world considering its up to her to stop the apocalypse probably in the end? But its not the being important exactly that makes Mike love her ok, that's more of a meta character thing. Like she doesn't have to literally be the key to saving the world and the most powerful being in the universe. Its more that she has to have something really special about her that draws Mike specifically to her and binds him to her permanently and inseparably and he belongs to her forever and ever and they die in each other's arms. Like she deserves. In canon I imagine objectively and correctly that it went like this: Mike is a natural outcast collector and protector due to his pervasive unconscious need to be needed and his fear of losing the few people who like him, who meets the ultimate outcast girl who literally has nothing and needs him in a very real way, and this gives him an excuse to just pour his entire self into her, fulfilling one of his deepest interpersonal needs. The best part is that she's super selfless and amazing and she loves him the same right back so its actually a beautiful thing they get going. Basically the idea of being anything less than perfect for her is so sad and horrible due to how fucked her life was that it drives the already caretaking Mike into overdrive to make her happy. Not at the cost of him still being an individual person, mind you. But that's the vibe. Also let me just say, all the self-sacrificing vibes and obsession and desperation can become toxic under certain circumstances and that is absolutely a feature not a bug. Sorry you don't like watching your faves yell at each other but we are not the same.

Anyway what the fuck was I talking about? AUs? Yeah ok so when translating Mike (AND THE OTHERS...and the others) into other stories there's more flexibility u kno because he's mostly just Some Guy. He really just needs (TO ME) an excuse to be fighting with Eleven (she has to be fighting something with the powers I know you gave her). He shouldn't be directly involved with whatever gave her the powers but he should generally know of and be somewhat affected by it. Or become aware of it/involved with it over time. Like in the show. You get it. Honestly his only real consistent character traits are being kinda moody and being the leader of the party in whatever vague or not way. And being intelligent. Like he has to be leader for a reason. I guess that's a decent base for a character right there.

oh right side note: you have to do something fun with her name. like she was basically branded Eleven by the freak that gave her the powers so u gotta take that energy and translate it into another branded name that has el in it because she needs to get the nickname ofc. unless its a cyberpunk au in which case Eleven is a pretty normal name and she can just go by that lmao.

So the point ig is Jane and Mike break up when they go away to different colleges and don't talk to each other again until their next high school reunion, while Mike and Eleven are...well you should know by now.

[inazumaclown]

hi :)

thank you a lot for all the nice reactions to my previous post, it made me really happy, so here some more (they aren't in any particular order, i won't post them all bc they're old and some of them aren't up to my standards)

i really wish i could post the fic somewhere, sadly, i never posted it because i wrote it in my native langage :

french <3

(which is why there were so much words in the first place)

and like....i'm fluent in english but i def can't translate all that. i'm an old woman now. i have a stupid day job. i'm trying to become a stupid professional comic artist. i can't do all that i'm sorry :')

[pendinganchor]

Billy was sitting at the kitchen table— one hand being used to hold open the book he was skimming for the fifth time, the other trapped in a loose thumb war with Steve. He wasn’t sure what Steve was doing— but he started winning any time it distracted him. He wasn’t sure when he had stopped worrying about his father coming home— but he’d pay for that later.

Hushed whispers sounded in the doorway. Billy tensed for half a second before relaxing when he saw Max and El out the corner of his eye. Then he heard the all too familiar sound of Max’s polaroid camera going off.

“I bought that for you two months ago and I’m already regretting it,” Billy groaned, placing his bookmark— that was actually just an old receipt— into his book then letting it fall shut.

“Come on, Billy,” El teased. “You look pretty!”

“Well then, let’s see it.”

Max reached out with the photo in hand. Billy abandoned his thumb war with Steve to grab it— which caused Steve to realize other people were in the room with them. “See what?” he asked, using his now free hand to push up his glasses.

Billy looked at the photo— his face forming into a slight frown. “Why do I look like that?”

Max raised an eyebrow at him. “Happy?”

[corellianhounds]

I don’t want to have to write all the context and justification for the idea I have right now so I’ll just put this on the WIP stack (story of my life), but consider a Temporal Chalice storyline à la TAZ Balance. An artifact so powerful it holds command over time itself, confronting the cupbearer with their deepest fears, desires, flaws, and mistakes, and the ability to act on a crucial moment in the trajectory of their life, whether they realized it was crucial or not.

The chalice lies before them on a raised pedestal. The offer can only be accepted by one of them, and it comes with two caveats: All of time, from the moment they choose to change and after, will be altered.

And secondly: After they change fate, all of their present memories will be gone. History will be rewritten, and they will never be able to tell in which ways it changes or stays the same.

The Mandalorian is shown a fork in the road. A young family in red is suspended in time: to their right is the city street leading to an underground cellar, for the moment empty. To the left, the street continues, and beyond it he spies a previously unseen underground shelter reinforced with cinder blocks and steel. He is being offered the chance to save his parents’ lives.

“… If my own parents don’t die, somebody else will,” Din says quietly. “I know what it’s like to lose them. I can’t wish that on the loved ones of somebody else.”

Boba Fett is shown the back of a Jedi approaching his father from behind in the arena stands. He is ten years old, and he has a gun in his hands.

“… My father was not a perfect man,” Boba said, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. “My path to this point in life would have been harsh either way. I don’t need a second lifetime of hardship to remember.”

“Disgraced magistrate Greef Karga” echoes at the back of his mind as he watches the scene unfold from a third person point of view. He is given the chance to exonerate himself of what he did before being stripped of his title and run offworld before arriving on Nevarro. He has time to escape and absolve himself of any wrongdoing.

There’s a long moment of consideration before Karga speaks, the veteran showman smile nowhere to be found. “I wouldn’t have become a better man if I hadn’t been caught,” he says grimly. “I would have continued doing what I did because I got away with it. The only reason I changed is because I was held accountable.”

Luke sees Dagobah, and an X-Wing. There are two figures outlined in the gloom, one corporeal and small, the other ethereal and old. If he chooses not to go to Cloud City and stays to finish his training, he will have the strength and knowledge needed to end the war sooner, potentially saving untold thousands of lives at the cost of those dear to him.

“… I don’t think I could make the choice any differently, even knowing what I do now,” Luke says softly. “My masters were training me to have the strength to kill my father. I don’t think I would have had the mercy to spare him long enough for him to redeem himself, and I would have lost what little time I did have with him.”

But what about those who may not be able to accept the present as it is? The ones who would have the knowledge and opportunity to right the wrongs of the galaxy and save innocent lives? To undo past mistakes?

Cobb Vanth is fifteen and has just arrived in the next settlement to pick up supplies. If he immediately returns to the orphanage his mother runs instead of staying the night, as he once did, he’ll be able to put out the fire and save a dozen young lives, and his mother won’t be forced to live with the survivor’s guilt for the following week before she ultimately makes the choice that will leave him an orphan too.

There’s a long arena with targets lined up at one end. Her sister, laughing, stands tall and confident in front of the back wall, hands on her hips with an apple balanced on her head. She is alive, and the girl not yet called Fennec Shand stands at the opposite end, her crossbow still pointed low as she squares her feet. She isn’t yet the marksman she’ll become, and she has the chance to avoid the biggest mistake of her life.

Cara Dune sees an office she’s never been in before, a high-rise view of Coruscant from the windows. There is a covey of New Republic officers poring over data showing the plot to frame and kill her entire crew for the crime they didn’t commit, and the evidence to frame her for it when she runs.

Ahsoka sees herself as a child, looking up at a young Jedi Knight with a scar bisecting one eyebrow. She knows this scene, has had it etched upon her memory for decades. She could decline his offer and divert her life’s course entirely.

Leia is shown the first time she ever met Vader at age fourteen. She is standing beside the man who raised her as his own, the two of them across from the figure in black. Captain Antilles is next to her and he has a gun in his holster.

Grogu, a child, is given perhaps the most difficult choice of all: The ability to prove Palpatine’s treachery to his masters and prevent Order 66 from happening at all, perhaps preventing the entire war. The tradeoff is that he will grow up in the temple, and he will never meet the man who would become the Mandalorian.

Han Solo is shown the future. His hand is on the door. Leia and Ben are behind him.

[variousqueerthings]

I just imagine this person who comes from this planet. A traveller. This traveller appears somewhat human, but upon closer inspection is definitely not. Amongst one of their most non-human traits, they have the power to entirely change their body if about to die, making them functionally immortal (there are rules about this, but who knows the reality of how often this process -- called regeneration -- can occur). The traveller is established to have been exiled from their home planet from the word go, and seems to have stumbled over earth as a secondary home of some sort, alongside their grandchild

and then the traveller takes on a couple of humans, not intentionally, but it's not so bad, travelling with your family and new friends. But then their grandchild finds a reason to stay somewhere, so the traveller makes the choice to leave them behind, the first time this choice has been made without the consent of a companion. And then the humans leave, but it's okay, because there's a couple more humans coming onboard

that's relatively the template -- a strained, often antagonistic, relationship with their own species, and an ever-growing fondness for the humans who travel with them, whom they realise eventually do need to leave to live their own lives, because this is no life for mortals, but that's okay. Except increasingly it becomes more and more difficult to let go of these companions. many of them travel with them for a good long while, and maybe even expect it to last forever, but it never does. The traveller knows forever (or, near enough), and mortals couldn't comprehend it.

it's a manageable system. It's not exactly lonely, because there's always more companions to not fill in the gaps of the ones who left, but to take up new space. And the person (Doctor, their name is) even travels with a member of their own species for awhile, for the first time since they left their grandkid to a different life, and that's a whole other sort of joy, to be with someone who really understands

brewing in the back of all of this there's civil wars, and a growing hostility between their species and a species whose sole goal is to eradicate all life that isn't like them. And eventually the traveller has to leave earth (after eight or so lifetimes, it's hard to keep track sometimes) in order to fight in this war. and during the course of the war (which is incomprehensibly vast to mortal people), the former traveller's species change and twist into a version of themselves that would rather the entire universe is destroyed than accede. And so this person who is now something else, makes the choice to end it

but whatever this person did, and whatever this person became, is so antithetical to who this person usually is, that they completely repress the existence of this lifetime. For several lifetimes after, it simply does not exist

the person then changes again, but everything is different. Gone is the wonder of the universe, the warmth, the joy. The only thing that truly remains is the strange pull of humanity, and of course, the spaceship with which they keep travelling. And so the person eventually ends back on earth, reminded of all the ways that humans are an incredibly fragile, helpless species. Disinterested in getting emotionally close to them again, because the memories of war supersede everything, and they know nothing good will come of it. Except...

then a human being unexpectedly changes things. And the person -- despite themself at first -- clings on for dear life, because if this human is experiencing the wonder, the warmth, the joy, then so can they once more, through humanity's eyes. And they become the traveller again - Doctor -- but it's a journey to return to the right of that title. And maybe none of what came before matters, the war, the genocide, even having an own species to begin with, doesn't matter. The Doctor can convince themself that the two of them are going to travel together forever, because all those built up lessons of the past about the dangers of mortality and all those previous companions have dissipated to be replaced by one bright point on which they hinge their entire being

and then the companion is ripped away from them. And the next companion is scarred by witnessing a genocide against humanity (just like the Doctor witnessed, and caused, the genocide of their own people), and the next companion is taken too, and many many people die, and the ones who don't simply leave, as they should, and even discovering another member of their species survived only leads to disaster. The Doctor carries the weight tenfold this time, as the universe reminds them that they're a traveller not by choice, but because they have nowhere to go, and nobody who can stay with them

all the joy of that first companion after the war is ripped away, and every single hurt from every lifetime fills the gaps. for awhile that drives the Doctor mad, but even that passes, replaced by a different sort of will to live, despite it all

for the first time in their lifetimes, the Doctor admits that regeneration feels like dying, like someone else takes their place every time it happens, and that they're afraid of it. In this particular life, they feel unfinished, incomplete, broken. There's more to do, it can't just be all that pain and grief, they keep surviving in this body for a reason, surely, they have to survive because otherwise what was it for and how will they remember...

and then they die

and they become someone else

and the story continues, and they keep on travelling

[questionablequeeries]

You Looking At Me Looking At You by Ozzy Osbourne

Steve wished he could run away, be normal again, just…exist. Instead, he was crawling through a gate, falling onto a stained mattress as the mood ring clinked against the chain on his neck. Honestly, he and Dustin had both pretty openly and loudly fought against using the trailergate, but it really was the most logical one they could get to, safer than watergate, farther from Vecna’s house than Creelgate (he’d wanted to call it douchebaggate and was once again vetoed) with a softer landing than Roadgate. He couldn’t help thinking back to when Eddie pointed out that slapping ‘demo’ onto everything lacked any semblance of creativity and found himself agreeing that maybe they just didn’t have it.

“It’s gone!” Dustin’s loud voice broke through the quiet, running towards…ah, shit.

“Henderson! Dustin, wait!” Steve ran after the kid, but he couldn’t help staring, “Where is he?” He whispered, looking around as if anyone else would have answers.

“Some demobeast probably, well, ate him.” Nancy offered her own suggestion, looking surprisingly green and guilty upon opening her mouth, “It doesn’t matter. We need to go.”

Robin, ever the more comforting, reached out and took Steve’s hand silently, giving it a squeeze and breathing a sigh of relief when she got one in return.

Steve forced his stoicism to take the place of his anger, that Eddie’s final resting place had been so violated. He wanted to scream, rage, start smashing tentacles, but he…couldn’t? His flashlight caught movement in the trees as they walked from the Creel house to the lab (apparently even Vecna wasn’t dumb enough to make his base of operations an easily accessed old house. All it had taken was the death of his everything), and he felt his throat close up, “Um, guys?”

“Shit, that’s a lot of ‘em.” Mike looked to Eleven for a brief moment before shifting his gaze back up to the dozens and dozens of demobats perched on branches, so keenly aware of them, “El? Think you can beat them?”

Eleven slowly nodded, though she hesitated, “They seem to be waiting for something.” She sounded uncertain.

“Vecna?” Nancy clutched her shotgun a little tighter, definitely on edge when both Eleven and Will shook their heads.

Steve couldn’t help letting out a choked cry when the sound of massive leather wings preceded a creature landing in front of them, letting loose with a screech that caused most of them to clutch their ears. Eddie was different, angry, more animal than man, but he couldn’t help breaking formation, running for him, ignoring the cries of ‘Steve!’ As much as he’d ignored his own misery for months, “Is that…Eds, is that you?” He whispered hopefully.

Eddie tilted his head, glowing eyes peering intently at Steve as if he couldn’t decide whether or not he was food. He solved that answer by lunging forward, throwing them both to the ground.

“Eds…c’mon, this isn’t you.” Steve winced at the claws digging into his throat, looking up at the other straddling him and making a sign for everyone else to stay back. This was his fight, dammit. He reached up with a shaking hand and tucked a greasy lock of hair behind an elongated ear, “V-Very metal-looking.” He hissed as fingers clawed deeper into flesh, his free hand moving to hold the mood ring just so gently.

Eddie caught sight of it, glittering by lightning flash, and he sat back as if he was confused. He shook his head, knocking his hair back into a curtain, and then he was gone, taking his bats with him.

Okay, Steve totally deserved the chewing out he got from pretty much everybody as his injuries were patched up but he honestly wasn’t even paying attention. Their mission was to kill Henry/Vecna/One but, as they resumed their march, he realized that he had a new mission. He was Sam, and he was sure as hell bringing his Frodo back from Mordor.

@steddie-week Follow along and read the other parts to this story here:

[of-nyon]

BLORBO MENTION ON THE MAIN SITE!!!!!!

[alexmey-does-an-arts]

yeah ok im watching power of 3 again. eleven you have soo much adhd godbless

[seoafin]

i sincerely hope chatgpt is not going to be the death of critical thinking

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Thirteen & Eleven & Loneliness (Eleven/Amy/Rory writing progress pt. 27)

I'm writing what should be a minor interlude very late in the series where Thirteen and Eleven's timelines intersect for a brief moment and let me tell you, I was not on any level expecting for Eleven to be the one with more emotional baggage considering the fact that he actually spends a lot of this series getting emotionally healthy while Thirteen is just dealing with... a lot but because I intersected their timelines at just the right spot somehow she is the emotionally healthy one in this scenario which just feels all kinds of weird, y'know?

But also writing this scene (and the rest of the series) made me realize why writing these two incarnations of the Doctor have captivated me so much: weirdly enough, considering the fact that they travel with multiple companions at once, they (in canon) feel like the loneliest Doctors to me, the ones who try to keep their companions at an emotional distance, the ones who internalize so much of their baggage and don't let anyone see. Like, writing from their POVs is just opening up all of the cans of worms in terms of self-isolation and trauma and the longing for affection without knowing how to ask for it and being alien and adrift but wanting a connection so badly but never figuring out how to let anyone in without tearing apart their hearts in the process-

And I think I just figured out why I was so interested in giving them someone(s) that they could spend forever with. That they could have that guarantee with (despite their bouts of self-doubt/wrestling with faith&trust throughout this series). Because the sad truth of both of their runs is that they didn't have forever. And they only became more alone as a result (of Eleven losing Amy and Rory, beginning to cut himself off before they died and then losing himself afterward, and Thirteen being too aware of the inevitability of tragedy, leading to her self-sabotaging before she could even begin). And that's the tragedy of every Doctor, I know (save maybe Nine), but it just aches so much more with these two in particular.

[sunofaraven]

What inspired Love Death + Grumbot?

Sorry for sitting on this ask for so long! This was a way harder question to answer than I anticipated, and I apologise in advance for the very long post XD

I started working on LD+G back in January 2023, just after the end of the Hermitcraft/Empires crossover event. I had just finished writing Soulbound, my first fic, and I was itching to start another. And... I was missing Mumbo. Grian was missing him too and Emperor Grumbot was ready to destroy a whole universe just because Mumbo wasn't in it; I was defenceless against the "I miss Mumbo" brainrot.

The initial idea for LD+G was more of a gritty, steampunk, two dudes and their cryptic robot son against the world thing. I wanted to write an apocalypse fic (I've actually got several original novels that are apocalypse/dystopian novels--I am only a little addicted to the genre...), and Cub was doing his whole sculk thing on empires, so it seemed as good a cause for an apocalypse as anything else. You can see all this in the very first notes I ever made for the fic:

But, see, I LOVE zombies. I blame The Last of Us. I'd spent 2022 trying to play through the second game and getting frustrated with its cynical take on the world. It just doesn't feel believable to me that humanity would be at each other's throats. Sure, people are scared and impulsive, but it takes a lot for the average human to hurt another. Our strengths lie in our adaptability and how we support each other in times of need!!

Anyway, once I veered away from steampunk and started down the zombie route, a big inspiration for some of the characters was Hybbart's Rancher Apocalypse AU (I blame them entirely for my Ranchers obsession tbh). They also had some pretty fun ideas about the role of sculk in an apocalypse, and since I come from a biology background, the opportunity to have a symbiosis between zombies and sculk was just SO much fun for me.

So then, why did it become a story about grief? Well... I felt pretty trapped in my personal life at the time, so initially LD+G was both a way to process that and some much-needed escapism. I don't remember exactly when or why I decided that Grian was infected, but I do remember writing like I'd been possessed in early 2023. I wrote a whole list of scenes/moments that I wanted it to contain and then the plot just kinda... fell out of me one day.

To be melodramatic about it, I have written a lot of novels in my life, but none that felt so akin to bleeding out on the page as this one did. I needed to write this story, to have a place to channel my emotions as well as my eternal mcyt brainrot. I wasn't mourning a person, exactly, I was mourning my own perceived lack of agency and trying to gather the strength to end a whole chapter of my life and start anew.

So I wrote about love, I wrote about death.

And I wrote about Grumbot.

[nolanhollogay]

"what's your ideal type?" "you." + jjedgar😊

jjedgar secret date time!!!

+

"What's your favorite movie?" JJ asked, taking a swig from his soda can.

He was on the beach with Edgar, the two of them playing twenty questions. He was quite proud of himself because it only took five minutes of convincing to get Edgar to sneak out instead of the usual ten. He hoped that meant Edgar was excited to spend time with him and not that he'd just worn him down enough to get him to come.

Edgar whined, pouting at him. "That's too hard."

He was sitting in JJ's lap, knees pressed into the sand, arms around JJ's neck. JJ wasn't entirely sure of the most respectful way to hold onto him, seeing as it was only their fourth date – not that he was counting or anything – and Edgar was a good boy who was probably unaware of the way he was tempting him. So his hands were behind him, holding him up and curled in the sand, stopping him from making the wrong move.

"Too bad. You gotta pick," JJ said.

"Meanie," Edgar said, pouting even harder. "Uh.. If I had to pick, like someone was holding a gun to my head and said, "Tell us your favorite movie right now or I'll pull the trigger!" I would probably pick Psycho. Like, The Hitchcock movie." Wordlessly, he reached over, picking up JJ's soda and took a drink. JJ's brain short circuited, distracted by the line of his throat and the fact that Edgar's mouth had been where his just was – even though that was stupid because they'd literally kissed before, with tongue and everything.

He managed to find his tongue before the silence between them got weird though. "I tried to get the guys to watch that with me once, but Pope already knew the twist so he didn't care, and John B and Nova were too busy making out, and Mikey fell asleep five minutes in."

Edgar laughed, the sound making JJ's insides sing like always and he pressed his right hand to the side of JJ's neck. It was cold from the soda can, and JJ couldn't blame the heat on his skin on the summertime weather. "Oh yeah, nothing more erotic than brutal murder."

JJ wasn't sure if it was better or worse to mention that sometimes horror movies did make him a little hot under the collar. But his mouth wouldn't work anyway, not with his brain being too preoccupied playing the way Edgar said "erotic" over and over.

Edgar smiled down at him, looking like something out of one of JJ's dreams. He was all windtossed hair and dark shimmering eyes, and he glowed blue in the moonlight, looking alien and sexy. "Okay, my turn, right?"

JJ nodded, swallowing hard.

He bit his lip as he thought, before making the cutest little noise in the world. "I got one," he said, excitement written on his face. JJ felt like he'd been punched. "What's your ideal type?"

JJ didn't even have to think about it. "You."

Edgar rolled his eyes, smile never faltering. Obviously unconvinced. "Shut up. I'm asking seriously."

"I'm being serious," JJ replied. "You're like my dream boy."

Edgar curled in on himself, obviously unsure of what to do with that. Still not believing him. "I–"

"I mean it, Eds. You're nice to me, you're nice to everyone, and you don't treat me like I'm stupid. You're loyal and you care about your family. You're funny as hell and, like, the biggest dork in the world. Doesn't hurt that you're like the prettiest boy on the planet," he shrugged, trying to play his spiel off as casual, "Every time you agree to go out with me, it doesn't feel real."

Edgar used the hand still on his neck to pull him into a kiss.

"You're so.." He didn't even bother finishing his statement too busy knocking JJ into the sand with the ferocity of his next kiss.

[cowardlylearningtobebrave]

.

[choberr]

2 am headcanon shitpost

seriously wtf happened to him did he become a chrono stone like his ancestors or smth

[florencemtrash]

He Feels Safe With You — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel's sleeping habits begin to worry you, but after a conversation with Cassian, you realize you've misinterpreted the entire situation.

Warnings: Major fluff. Like tooth-rotting sweetness. Sleepy Az.

Author's note: I should be sleeping because I have work tomorrow but instead I've chosen to write this oneshot and I have no regrets.

It was starting to become a problem now. 

You cocked your head to the side, cradling a cup of tea in your hands and watching Azriel as he continued to sleep soundly in your bed. You had the windows cracked open and the early Autumn breeze swirled indoors with the scent of lavender, bergamot, and the strawberry jam you’d slathered over your toast. You checked the time once again on the glossy marble clock face. The arrow-shaped hour hand clicked ever closer to 11am, the minute hand close to overtaking its competitor. 

10:55am and Azriel was still asleep. 

The sheets clustered loose and low around his waist, mimicking the curling of his shadows up and down the ridges of his spine and across the delicate membrane of his wings. His wings hung loose and relaxed, stretching off the edges of your bed and caressing the floor with a lover’s touch. You blushed at the sight. When you and Azriel had first started courting each other three years ago, you’d thought through the mechanics of housing an Illyrian warrior in your bed — should you buy a new bed frame and mattress? Did you even have space for it in your apartment? The answer had been no to both, and yet Azriel loved when your daytime activities ended here instead of at the townhouse. If he cared about having to walk sideways to avoid the bookshelves in the halls or having to crouch to avoid the overhang above the staircase, he didn’t mention it. 

Three hours ago you’d woken up beneath the gentle weight of his wings, untangled yourself from Azriel’s greedy limbs, and crept down the stairs to your kitchen, bleary eyed but well rested. But that was three hours ago! Since then you’d brushed your teeth, washed your face, and eaten breakfast, and still the Shadowsinger hadn’t stirred. You were beginning to question whether he truly was the Spymaster of the Night Court as you sat in your velvet chair and admired your lover. You traced all the subtle movements of his body as he muddled through dreams you could only wonder at — the creasing of his brow, the slack line of his lips as he breathed, the twitching of his fingertips as he reached for some phantom object. 

The clock struck eleven and you sighed, gathering your plates but leaving Azriel’s pile of toast, butter, and honey alone. You also left the teapot and its mismatched cup, blowing magic over its lid in a silent command to keep its contents hot until Azriel awoke. 

“I’ll be down in the shop,” you whispered to his shadows, trusting that they would relay the message when their master finally decided to grace the daytime with his presence. 

One by one, shadows slipped off Azriel’s skin, curling around your ankles and wrists in a silent plea to stay. You shook them off like one might a needy child, promising you’d only be two floors down. 

The artists’ corner in Velaris was an eclectic array of compact townhouses, each outwardly dressed in their unique, dazzling finery. Your townhouse was squished between a painting studio and a luthier’s. The painting studio’s owner seemed intent on changing the color of the wooden sidings every other day and the drawings scribbled over the windows every other week. Today it was periwinkle blue to match the hydrangeas overflowing from the window boxes. 

You nodded in approval as you flipped the apothecary sign over from “Much apologies, please try another time” to “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” The blue would match your tulip yellow sidings and the clean white accents of the luthier’s. Last week it had been red and that had looked gods-awful. 

You busied yourself in the shop, crushing up lavender and herbs and boiling mugwort in fire-stained glassware in between flurries of customers until the medicinal stench in the air grew thick and strong. You were used to it by now. It smelled clean. Like home. 

You were finishing tying up a bundle of teabags when Cassian came in carrying a sturdy wooden box under one arm like it weighed five pounds instead of fifty. You snapped out the wrinkles of a cloth bag, dropping the teabags and five vials of sleep serum for the nightingale-winged nymph in front of you. 

“Four feathers and three strands of hair, as we bargained for,” you said, sliding the bag across the counter. 

The nymph nodded in approval, extending out a wing and shoving her fingers into the pillowy softness. She tested for loose feathers ready to pull.

“You’re a godsend, Y/n, has anyone ever told you that?” She pulled out three feathers, closed her wing, and started testing the feathers on the other side. “Finnigan’s was asking me for ten. Ten! Can you believe that? If I hadn’t found you in time I’d have been reduced to a plucked chicken.” She was much less precious about her mousey brown hair and yanked out three strands at random. “Oops, you get an extra strand today,” she sang, dropping the feathers and hair into the jars you held out. 

“Well it’s a good thing you found me then, Moricka.” 

“Honestly! I understand he’s got a large studio space he’s renting in the thick of the Palace, and even I will admit the ambiance is rather professional—” 

Cassian raised his brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred lips as he continued to stand motionless in the doorway. It was true your space was more… homey than Finnigan’s, but your expertise shined in intimate spaces. You liked the control and the familiarity that came from running a smaller business and you wouldn’t give it up for the world. 

“But I do think the success is getting to his head. You both studied under Lady Madja so I don’t see why—” 

You nodded absentmindedly. It was always like this with Moricka. The songbird in her made it difficult for her to stop talking, but at least her voice was pleasant. 

She threw her hands up in the air before finally catching wind of another presence in the room. Cassian waved at her with a wink and an orange blush creeped onto her full cheeks. He tended to have that effect on fae with his towering size and the wild beauty of his chiseled jaw and smattering of scars over his cheeks and brow. 

“Oh… oh dear, I didn’t realize you had another customer. Oh my goodness I’ve been talking your ear off all this time and you’ve been too kind to say anything. You’re a godsend, Y/n. A godsend! I don’t know what I would do without you, although I should really be letting you go now.” She grabbed her things and sidestepped the range of Cassian’s wings, trying and failing now to gawk. “I’ll see you soon enough again I’m sure.” 

“I’ll be here.” You sighed in relief when the doorbell rang behind her petite frame, the inoffensive smile you offered all your customers sliding off your face like oil on water. Cassian chuckled, dropping the box onto the countertop with a dull thud. 

“Long day?” 

You pulled out a stepstool and began rummaging around through the box, pulling out jars of squid ink, bark trimmings, buttons, and one particularly nasty jar containing a large eye suspended in yellow goo. “It’s not even three.” 

“Did I stutter?”

You tapped the glass and the eye swiveled around to look at you, pupil enlarging and constricting with a stutter. “Yes, yes very good,” you muttered your praise and Cassian fought hard not to shiver. He had a stomach for a great many things, but some of the specimens you handled tested his resilience.

“Thank you for bringing all of this. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.” 

“Perhaps you could do the same for me and tell me where my brother is? I’ve been looking for him all day.” Cassian leaned forward on the counter, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Are you holding him hostage, Y/n? Are you using your feminine powers to bring the poor male to his knees? I must admit, I didn’t imagine you as the kind capable of kidnapping. Or shadow-napping, shall we say?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m hardly holding him hostage.” You gestured down the hallway past the bookshelves and the cases of empty glassware where the light from the staircase glowed like an iron eye. “He’s upstairs sleeping.” 

Cassian furrowed his brows, stepping around and past you. He kept his wings tucked closer to his shoulder blades, careful not to upset the cramped organization you maintained in your shop. 

He smirked. “Still? Are you sure you didn't work your feminine powers last night?” 

You glanced out the store window. A few fae lingered outside the coffee shop across the street clutching takeaway boxes against their chest as they chatted and sipped their drinks. The street was otherwise empty. For now, you wouldn’t have to deal with any customers. 

You looked back at Cassian. “I actually wanted to ask you about that.”

His brows furrowed. “About feminine powers?” He'd meant that as a joke.

“Gods, Cassian let that go.” You wrung your hands. “I wanted to ask if Azriel was alright? Has he seemed… normal to you?”

“I don’t know, has he?” Cassian lowered his voice, sinking into one of the stools by the clear glass medicine cabinet. “From what I can tell he seems well. Happy.” 

Although happy was an understatement. Ever since you’d stumbled into their lives with Madja’s accolades and your wry humor, Azriel had been a goner. You’d pulled emotions from him as deftly as a spinster with a pile of wool, reduced him to a reverential, lovesick mess, and imbued his existence with a color not even Feyre could mix up. Which made it all the more confusing why you looked so nervous.

“You’ve seen more of him than I have, Y/n.” Cassian said. He braced his elbows against his knees, turning serious. The faint bags under his hazel eyes hinted at sleepless nights spent fussing over Neera. It was their fault really, any daughter of Nesta and Cassian was destined to be restless and particular.

“He just… he’s been sleeping more. Falling into bed early, but waking up late. Sometimes we’ll be reading together or just existing side by side and when I turn to face him, he’s dead asleep on the couch.” 

Cassian’s lips twitched, slowly stretching into a smile. You plucked a hemp bag off one of the wall shelves at random, tossing its contents into a mortar and beginning to grind just so you could have something to do with your hands. 

“At first I brushed it off, but it’s gotten to a point where I’ll be talking to him — mindless things, but regardless — and I’ll catch him dozing off. He’s always very apologetic after but I…” The mortar and pestle clattered to a stop. “I worry that he’s growing bored of me. Or that he’s sick in a way I can’t help.” 

“Y/n.” There was a smile in Cassian’s voice, and indeed when you looked at him, his teeth were glistening in the soft afternoon haze. His eyes shined knowingly, as if the answer were obvious.

You paused. “Yes?”

“He feels safe with you.” 

You blinked once. Twice. 

“Pardon?” 

Cassian tipped back in his seat, knocking his head against the cabinet with a rattle of jars and glass as he laughed. “He’s sleeping so much because he feels safe with you. It’s probably why he prefers to spend time here instead of at the townhouse and why he’s still dead asleep while we’re sitting here gossiping about him. Three years ago you couldn’t even whisper his name in a crowded room without him appearing from the shadows as if summoned.” 

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. “Oh... I see.” 

Cassian was grinning. “Y/n, I promise you he’s not bored of you. Azriel sleeping is a good thing. The gods know he could use more rest. I think he might be the worst of us when it comes to taking care of ourselves.” 

Something about Cassian’s words had a crack splintering in your chest. You knew about his past. You knew of the horrors burned into the ruined skin of his hands and the weight his duties deposited on his shoulders.

And here you’d been worried over him sleeping past noon. 

Shadows slipped down the stairs, pooling around your feet in a neat circle and kissing the exposed skin of your ankles. Azriel followed closely behind, still wearing his rumpled hair and pants and a shirt he’d hastily shoved his neck and arms into. He hadn’t even buttoned up the slits below his wings, opting to let the fabric swing free and loose and expose flashes of skin as he walked. 

He jutted his chin out in acknowledgement of Cassian and then folded himself over your back, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and dropping his face into the crook of your neck where he breathed in the scent of lemon and lavender and medicine. 

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” he said, frowning. There was a slur to his words.

“It’s past three, brother.” 

Azriel snapped his head up in surprise, squinting at the window and the afternoon sunlight streaking in. The pale cobblestones shone like they’d been drenched in honey. 

“What?” 

Cassian rolled his eyes, patting Azriel’s back fondly and mussing up your hair before walking towards the door. He flipped the sign from “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” to “Much apologies, please try another time.” 

“Goodnight, you two!" He called from over his back. "Remember we’re meeting at Rhys’s for dinner tonight.” He turned, bracing his arms against the top of the doorway and leaning forward like he meant to share a secret. “8pm sharp. Don’t be too late or we’ll get the wrong idea about what you two are up to.” He winked, then whistled down the street, letting the door close on its own behind him. 

Azriel sighed, going back to nuzzling his face in your neck. He peppered the sensitive skin there with kisses. 

“Will you be coming back upstairs then?” He murmured hopefully. "Now that you're finished with work?"

You bit your lip and decided rather quickly that the world would not end because you closed a few hours early. 

You led him up the stairs, past the kitchen and living room on the second floor, and then up to the third floor — your bedroom. The window was still open, the hustle and bustle of the city and the smell of coffee from across the street wafting in. Steam no longer poured from the lip of the teapot, so you knew Azriel had had something to drink, and where you’d left toast on his plate this morning lay only crumbs. 

Azriel dropped to his knees, untying your laces and helping you out of your boots. Then he straightened and tugged at the belt loops of your trousers, silently asking for permission before unbuttoning them and sliding them off your legs. Your shirt, then his shirt, and then his trousers joined the pile of crumpled clothing on the floor.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed, falling face first after you with a sigh. This was his favorite position to sleep in — you comfortable on your back and him laying with his hips slotted in between your legs and his head resting over your heart. 

You sank your fingers into his velvety, black hair. His hums of satisfaction flowed through your body, lighting every nerve with a comforting buzz. 

“Azriel?” You asked him, before sleep could finally claim him once more. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Do you feel safe with me?” 

He pressed his face further into the soft flesh of your chest, bringing his arms up and around your waist before allowing his wings to do the same. The thin membranes glowed red as hot coals, blocking out the most offensive rays of light from outside. 

“When I am with you, I forget that I was ever that boy whose hands got burned. When I am with you, the hundreds of years I spent feeling alone and worthless in this world melt away into nothing. When I am with you — when I am in this place that smells and feels so strongly of you — I can imagine a future that is good and pure and perfect.” He sighed deeply, seemingly ignorant to the pounding of your heart and the waves of feeling flooding your system. “So yes, my love — my Y/n — I do feel safe with you.”

“I feel safe with you too,” you murmured. “I love you, Azriel.” 

You kissed the crown of his head, earning one last smile and a slurred, “I love you, Y/n,” before his jaw went slack and the room went silent save for the mixing of your breaths and the stirring of shadows.

[zickmonkey]

I fucked up the timeline a lil