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myboyfriendjake · 10 months

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starlight - park jongseong

summary: when your family decides to move, you're not happy at all. even though your social life is crumbling, you want to stay in new york. besides, what's to say that life in seattle will be better?

alternatively: you move to seattle and learn how to live (2521-esque)

genre: high school au, fluff, angst

pairing: jay x fem!reader

warnings: swearing

word count: 2.43 k

other characters: jake, heeseung, kim chaewon, huh yunjin, sakura, huening kai, taehyun

Chapter One:

You didn’t want to move. You were perfectly happy staying in New York City. Okay, maybe you weren’t happy. But you still didn’t want to move. So what if your social life was falling apart? So what if you had started to hate school because of it? Moving was still worse.

Especially because it was Seattle. No one lived in Seattle. The entire plot of Family Reunion was the fact that the McKellans were moving out of Seattle, not to it. It rained a lot there, was in the North West of the United States, and had no real appeal. Washington State as a whole was uninteresting and gloomy, the whole reason (probably) that Twilight took place there.

So you make it known that you don’t want to move. You complain, whine, procrastinate packing, and make pointed comments at dinner, but your parents don’t give in, and next thing you know you’re on a plane to Seattle, leaving your beloved city behind.

You’d spent summer vacation getting ready to move, and so only a week after you’ve moved into your new home in Seattle, it’s the beginning of junior year. School is starting. Great.

It’s the last Friday before school starts, and you receive an email from the school - schedule, locker, school map… and a guide. Another junior, Jongseong Park, it says. You sigh, trying to ease your nerves about starting all over at a new school, and close your email. You can deal with school later. Now? Netflix.

Before you know it, it’s the first day of school. You walk to your bus stop in the morning, not bothering to start a conversation with anyone there. Being lonely is hard, but being ignored is harder. Why make friends when they never stick around? Music is better, music stays, music fills the silence and never lets you feel alone. So you elect to spend the bus ride with Spotify.

You reach the school, walking into the main office. You take a quick look at the room - it’s large, spacious, airy. There are so many windows, and therefore so much natural light that you feel refreshed. Maybe this school won’t be so bad.

There are a ton of little cubicles in the room, where it seems like the majority of the school’s administration works - there are secretaries, transportation officials, security team people… you eventually walk to the first secretary desk you see.

“Hi, I’m a new student, I was told to come here?” You say.

The lady at the desk smiles warmly, “Yes, can I have your name?”

You give her your name, and she types away on her keyboard, clicking around with her mouse, before she says, “Alright, I’ve signed you in. Don’t worry about being late to classes this first week - teachers are very lax about tardiness for the first few days, and they know you’re a transfer student so they’ll go easy on you. Your guide should be here soon, and he’ll walk you to your classes today and answer any questions you have about the school.”

It’s magical - the second she stops speaking, you hear the door behind you open, and in walks a tall blonde boy. He’s wearing a gray tee shirt, black ripped jeans, and black Adidas sneakers. He’s wearing his navy backpack on one shoulder, headphones around his neck, and he raises his eyebrows in greeting,

“You must be Y/N,” he says, and you nod. “Nice to meet you, I’m Jongseong, but I go by Jay.”

“Nice to meet you too, Jay,” you respond quietly. You can hear your heart beating, nervous.

“Alright, first period…” he glances at his phone, and you try to calm your breathing. This kid is attractive, and you find yourself wondering if everyone at this school is. You’d thought some of the guys at your old school were cute, but this was something else. Jay could be a model. Maybe he is. “Alright, so we’re gonna go to the History wing.”

You follow him down the hall, looking around at the flyers on the walls - there are so many clubs, sports teams, and charity events going on despite school having just started. You and Jay walk straight for a while, before you eventually turn right into what you quickly figure out to be the history wing - the board of history memes gives it away. You walk past two classrooms, before turning into C104, your classroom.

“We’re here,” says Jay, and you both walk in. There are no assigned seats, instead, you’re asked to pick seats that you’ll use for the rest of the year. You sit down at a seat in the second row, and Jay sits down at the desk next to you.

You’re kind of surprised. You’d thought that he’d walk you to your classes, nothing else, but instead he sits down next to you and makes conversation with you. Either this school is filled with kind people, or Jay is the kindest person on the planet.

“So, where are you from?” he asks you after sitting down, his warm brown eyes showing genuine curiosity.

“New York City,” you answer, “Manhattan specifically.”

“Oh, I love NYC. I want to live in Manhattan one day - it’s such a lively place. I’m hoping to go there for college.” Jay enthusiastically responds.

“Yeah, there’s always something to do there. That’s something I love about it.” You reply. You open your mouth, wanting to ask him a question, but then your teacher starts talking.

“Welcome to American Government, I’m Mr. O’Neil, your teacher.” He drones on about the class, expectations, topics covered, and you stop listening. You have no interest in government, and all the interest in the boy sitting next to you.

Somehow, your first class finally ends, and next thing you know you’re standing up, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and walking out of the classroom.

“So next…” Jay starts, pulling out his phone, scrolling with his finger, “we both have Math but we’re in different classes. They’re in the same wing though so we can walk there together.”

You nod, and follow him once again. You exit the History Wing, turn right, walk straight, climb up stairs, and then turn into the Math Wing. Your math classroom is first, and you thank Jay, who jokingly wishes you good luck - he mentioned on the walk there that he hates the subject.

You walk into the math classroom, sitting down at a desk towards the back of the room. You hate math. You know you’re gonna hate this class. You sigh, staring at the board - the first slide of a powerpoint on PreCalc is up on the screen - and nearly jump in your seat when you hear a voice next to you loudly exclaim “OH MY GOD!”

You turn to see a girl with long brown hair that reaches just past her shoulder blades laughing loudly at a boy in front of her.

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” she’s saying, “why would you dye your hair gray? You look like a young old man.”

“I look amazing, thank you very much,” he responds. “And it’s not gray, it’s silver. Silver like the moon, like the stars, like the glossy fur on a wolf. I look gorgeous with this hair color, as I always do.”

The girl just laughs in response, “You’re so full of yourself.”

Another boy walks in, with a head of brown hair and black glasses on his face. “Hello Grandpa,” he says to the gray, no, silver-headed boy. Except this boy’s voice sounds different, and when he continues talking you realize that he has an accent. Australian?

You’re unable to figure it out fully because then the bell rings, and your math teacher silences the class, beginning a long, boring introduction to Precalc.

Your next few classes are the same - Jay walks you around, which is somewhat fun because he talks to you, all enthusiastic and funny - but the classes themselves drag on for eternity.

And then it’s lunch time. You’ve been dreading lunch all day, because with lunch comes socializing, and with socializing comes stress. Who are you supposed to sit with? Will anyone let you sit at their table? Will there be any empty tables you can sit at, and if there are, will people think you’re weird?

Once you reach the cafeteria, you find that your worries were for naught.

“You can sit with me and my friends if you want to, Y/N,” Jay says to you, and you just nod, and he gestures for you to follow him, “Over here, that’s our table.”

The three kids from your math class are there, along with a few others who you’ve seen in some classes.

“Everyone,” says Jay, “this is Y/N. She’s new, she’s cool, be nice.”

“We’re always nice,” says the girl from your math class.

“No you’re not,” says silver-hair boy. He then turns to you, and goes, “I’m Heeseung, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you respond.

One by one, they all introduce themselves, and they’re all really nice, and you figure that either people at this school are just kind, or these kids are different. You pretty quickly decide the latter, since they also all look like models, and now that you’ve seen a decent amount of the kids here, you know that that’s not a shared trait among the general school population.

Girl From Math Class is Yunjin, but she just tells you to call her Jen.

Boy With Accent is Jake, and he moved from Australia a few years back, hence the accent.

There’s also Kai and Zuha and Chaewon and Taehyun and all of them are so kind and welcoming and for the rest of the day, you feel like maybe school here won’t be that bad. You now only have one class where you don’t know anyone, and you feel happy, you feel like you belong. They talk to you during class, slipping you notes while teachers drone on, and now you understand why people like school. You’d never experienced any of this in NYC.

They also add you to their group chat, and your parents raise their eyebrows at your constant grinning at your phone that evening. Kai is absolutely hilarious.

“School was good today?” Your mother asks after dinner, and you nod.

“Yeah, everyone’s super nice, I made friends… I’m feeling good about this school thing in Seattle.”

“I’m glad.”

Despite your saying that, you find yourself unable to fall asleep. You toss and you turn, and all you can think about is the people you met today. Did they actually like you? Were they pretending? Why would they want to hang out with you? You find yourself going back to your old school, to your old friends… you don’t want to think about it.

“Y/N, tell him he looks ridiculous!” is the first thing Jen says to you as you walk into math class the next day. Heeseung is wearing a pair of enormous glasses, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing. The large, tacky, red glasses clash with the rest of his style - the neatly combed silver hair, the gray tee shirt and the black jeans.

“You look ridiculous,” you say to Heeseung, “why red?”

“I can pull anything off,” says Heeseung. “I’m proving that point today.”

“You know what you’re proving today?” you all jump at the question from your math teacher. “Trigonometric identities. Here you go, get to work,” he says, handing out worksheets.

You groan at the problems, “I hate math.”

“Me too,” says Jen. “I don’t care about numbers, and doing math with letters is so weird. Like why is x a number now?”

“I love math,” says Jake, “it’s such a gorgeous way to represent life. Like, so much is represented through math. It’s so important for science.”

“You,” you say, “are an anomaly.”

“That’s because I’m perfect,” Jake replies, “one of a kind, absolutely amazing.”

You laugh, and Jen just sighs, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “They’re always like this,” she says to you. “So full of themselves.”

“As we should be,” says Heeseung, and Jake voices his agreement, and you just shake your head, smiling nonetheless.

“Y/N’s disagreement tells me she has a crush,” says Jake after a few minutes, “how else could anyone resist our charms?”

You blush, shaking your head, “I’m sorry to break it to you two, but you’re very resistable.”

“Nonsense,” says Heeseung. “You just like Jay.”

“Where’d you get that from?” you frown.

“You looked at him yesterday like a gold-miner looking at gold,” says Jake.

“The way you said that was so weird,” you say.

“But you’re not denying it.”

You sigh, “Guys, I’ve known him for one day. I just appreciated that he was kind and welcoming.”

Heeseung shrugs, “We won’t stop you from being delusional. Whenever you want to talk boys, though, let us know.”

“Let me know,” says Jen. “You can’t trust those two.”

And conversation erupts again, this time Heeseung and Jake acting hurt at Jen’s statement.

You laugh, turning back to your worksheet, surprised at how fun this math class is.

Pretty soon, it’s lunch time. You walk to lunch with Kai, who happens to be in your art class, your class before lunch. He’s making jokes, imitating the art teacher, and you’re laughing.

You walk into the cafeteria, sitting down in an open seat next to Jen, and Kai moves to sit on your other side, but then Jay walks in. He looks mildly annoyed. He glances at Kai, and then sits across from you.

“So, Y/N, how’s your day been so far? Are these idiots being nice to you?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Jake protests, before starting to recite physics formulas by heart, and then he starts talking about linear algebra and you wonder who allowed him to be in precalc.

Jay just rolls his eyes, before making eye contact with you.

“Yeah, it’s been good. I had no idea that Kai was so good at impressions.”

Jay shrugs, “I guess he is.”

The rest of the lunch period, Jay seems off. Granted, you’ve only known him for a day, so maybe this is how he always is, but he stays pretty quiet, glancing at Kai every so often, before glancing at you. Jen just looks at you, and then at him, and then at you again and laughs. Later on, you swear you hear her whisper to Zuha that “he so has a thing for her”.

taglist: @chaewon-slays

#enhypen #enhypen fic #park jongseong #jay #jay park #jake sim #lee heeseung #huh yunjin #kazuha #kim chaewon #huening kai #kang taehyun #dream writes #starlight ch 1

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fuckmeyer · 7 months

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Ok I have way more to say about ur eclipse rewrite than just this but for rn I just gotta say. the DRAMA of Edward wearing a silk tie to his date with Bella. Of course he did.

SLUTTY

DRAMATIC

EDWARD

CULLEN

he knows what he's doing 😏

#can't say i'd kill for him but Bells sure as hell would #heyo... 😏#anon i am here for ur mind anytime ❤️#by starlight #asks #edit: you just gave me a brilliant idea - i added something into ch 2 LMFAO YOUR MIND ANON YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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esthermitchell-author · 5 months

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So, I decided it wasn't fair to make everyone wait, when the book was done... So I'm not gonna. Coming up... Chapter 1 of my Good Omens fanfic novel, Born of Starlight!

Hope you enjoy all the changes and additions! 😊 (leave lots of kudos and comments! 😉)

#Born of Starlight - Ch.1 - release on AO3!#Keep Calm and ❤️on! 🐍🪽❤️🏳️‍🌈#good omens #good omens fandom #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #azicrow #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable spouses #fanfic

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xradiant · 7 months

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She does have to wonder what this entails. What it could mean for either of them and the arrangement they had thus far honored. Sometimes he was grating to be around, there was always that look in his eyes that made her tense. Did she know what it was? What the reason was? She didn't have a clue except that whenever he was around her it felt like something had come alight in her and she was ready to blame it entirely on agitation. She felt it now, even as he moved closer, even as his eyes move between them. It was like he was trying to look deeper than merely beneath the surface. "Are you asking for a compromise?" She questioned, tipping her chin upward somewhat as she looked up into his eyes. "What would that look like?" Harshly she swallowed down and tried to refrain from - from what? Bloody hell, he did manage to unravel her far too much, didn't he? She would much better he stop then before she ended doing something she'd regret. Now that was something that she wasn't sure what it would entail.

@tothedevilsshow xxx

#interaction ; rebekah & bellamy #tothedevilsshow #ch: rebekah mikaelson #( like starlight )

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claryxjackson · 1 year

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Okay so I had some more ideas for the crossover between Abra and my Dev, and you can tell me if anything feels off to you but I kind of felt like I had to share them (and also I would very much like to be better friends with you so this is me trying to start a conversation):

So I feel like their first meeting would be something like, Steve brings Dev to the tower to meet the other Avengers, and Dev is just like… freaking the fuck out because he’s about to meet actual literal superheroes, only to see Abra there because she was already spending time with Clint, and he sort of gravitates towards her because she’s the only other “normal” person there and it puts him at ease.

The initial conversation would probably be kind of stilted, because Dev is not great at talking to new people (mostly due to his problems reading social cues), but I feel like the more they hung out around each other and talked, they’d wind up becoming pretty good friends.

Dev is actually kind of impressed by Abra’s past as a scam artist, mainly because he sucks at lying and is in mild awe of anyone who’s able to do it well enough to make a living out of it (😂).

And he also really admires her for being brave enough to go out and be a hero, even if it was never really what she wanted, because he was never brave enough to do that, even if it might have been easier for him than her because of his mutation.

Speaking of Dev’s mutation, there are very few people in the MCU he actually trusts with the knowledge of his air manipulation (Steve, Sam, and Bucky, obviously, but also Natasha just because it’s lowkey impossible to keep secrets from her), but I really think Abra would be one of those people that he trusts.

I can honestly picture, though, him making a big deal out of it and being crazy nervous and then making a small tornado in his palm to show her and she’s just like, “Huh. Okay,” because this woman has seen Wanda Maximoff’s chaos magic up close and it takes a lot to phase her now.

Also, I can totally see them teasing each other about their respective relationships, especially once Bucky joins Dev and Sam’s relationship, because Bucky is notoriously broody and intimidating and Clint is… well, Clint.

I’m not really sure what Abra’s doing during The Falcon and the Winter Solider, but I can totally see Dev calling her a few times over the course of the story just to freak out about what’s going on.

“Abra?! You are not going to believe this, Bucky just broke Zemo out of prison. Yes, that Zemo… no, you can’t come to Madripoor just to kill him, we kinda need him for this!”

Oooh, and the thought of him becoming kind of an honorary uncle to Kate once Abra and Clint take her in?? Because he can totally relate to the intense social awkwardness she has, and I can picture the two of them just rambling together for hours and Abra just looking on like, “Oh, great, now I’ve got to deal with two of them.”

But yeah, those were just some thoughts I had!! Again, if any of those don’t feel right to you or if you wanna add something else, I’d love to talk to you about it!! Hope you’re doing well!! 🖤🖤🖤

oh i have so many thoughts to add to this!!

Abra has- very few people who are allowed to call her Abby. and by very few people I mean two: Clint, and Nate because he thinks that's her name. However, I do think she would be perfectly okay with Dev calling her Abby because she likes him. he's her friend which she- can't really say about a lot of people she's met through the avengers initiative.

and she would be so! excited! that Steve even has a friend. because he's her work bestie, she likes knowing that he actually has a friend outside of work, and she likes Dev even more once she realizes he's- almost nothing like most of the people she sees on a daily basis. He's nice and genuine and normal, and it is just so beyond refreshing.

Tbh I think he is also one of the few people she would trust to actually- introduce her kids to. Because- really what are the odds he's going to be some supervillain hellbent on destroying her life?

and yes! when she sees his powers she would just be like "aw. cute!" not even meaning it in a condescending manner, it's just- not a whole lot compared to being put through Wanda's mindmelting reality warp.

and in terms of them teasing each other. that is perfect. and Abra would, every time she sees Dev and Bucky together, just completely unseriously say "you know he tried to kill me, right?"

and! she is actually a part of Falcon and Winter Soldier! She had the week off because Clint had the kids so she figured- why not help out where she can? And she- wouldn't love all the superhero stuff, but she would love getting to spend some time with Dev.

oh okay so this isn't *really* Abra and idk if Dev disappears during Endgame or not, but if he doesn't- I'm just imagining him being Janie's English teacher. and she is- struggling during those 5 years. Clint- really dropped the ball with his parenting and she misses her mom, and she really just needs somebody and Dev was her mom's friend so she would probably end up coming to him for support occasionally.

and then i made some gifs for them bc i just had to. i kind of love them already

#ask: abra #crossover #c: abra & dev #ch: dev khatri #fic: damage control #i think they would be neat as friends #abra griffin #answer #starlight epiphany

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somegirlontheinternet135 · 5 months

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~The Year Was 2023~

And boy, what a chaotic progressive year it was!

This year was a massive change for me, format wise at least. For starters, I started writing my first fic & official au, "Anything And Everything, All Of The Time" which did get somewhat popular over the months and managed to kick off my reattempts in art. Speaking of which, it was only till late in the year when I started writing for "Starlight Starbright," and in turn started drawing for it. To put it sweet & short, my art skills skyrocketed over a span of a single summer! Still continuing to grow!

But like most art and stories, they didn't grow overnight. In fact, I've did a lot of behind the scenes work on Starlight Starbright, further expanding the worldbuilding in Earthbread, and since it strayed far away from the og story, I really went hard on it. I'm excited to share it all with you in the future!

Last but not least are my original works. Admittingly, I don't really talk about them much due to who knows, but next year, I'm willing to change that. I've built quite the collection of original content over the years that I can't wait to share!

Other than that, those were all the things done during the past year & what I have planned for the future! Can't wait for another year!

Be on the lookout for my other projects And as always, stayed tuned^^

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run #cookie run kingdom au #cookie run au #anything and everything all of the time #starlight starbright #small update on the lastest AAEAOTT ch: it's coming along strong! I'm hoping to get it down by the end of the year or at least till Jan #till then I can't make any promises

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tanoraqui · 2 months

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Theory: Elrond effectively wears headlamps like a Dad(TM)

Proof:

Elrond, at least on semi-formal occasions, wears “a star upon his forehead” (RotK book 6, ch.9)—that is, presumably, a pale glowing gem on some sort of coronet. This comes across as very classically Elvish (light, jewelry, star imagery), and a nigh-explicit reference to his father Eärendil. However…

Elrond’s children don’t see as well as Elves, as cited here. If his children don’t, then Elrond, even less Elvish by blood, certainly doesn’t. Now, I will admit that I forget if “Elves can see in the dark” is canon or very popular, D&D-enabled fanon, but it certainly makes sense considering that Elves flourished for centuries or millennia under just starlight, before daylight even existed…and it’s equally reasonable to assume that half-elven night vision is as relatively “weak” as their cited distance vision.

Elrond is the proud father of three, and exhibits traditional Dadly behaviors such as being a little bit of a nerd (loremaster) but also one of the most reliable guys you know, adopting any child left in his presence for a sufficient amount of time (Aragorn), and telling his daughter’s aspiring bf that he won’t be good enough for her until he has a steady job (also Aragorn).

My dad irl, who I promise is a pretty typical Dad, was positively delighted when he discovered casual-use head-mounted flashlights about a decade ago, and has self-satisfiedly worn them on every camping trip and nighttime dog walk ever since.

CONCLUSION: Elrond regularly wears glowing, star-evocative gems on his brow, especially while traveling or at fancy evening parties, and he looks great and it make people respectfully murmur Eärendilion (whether he likes it or not)… But really, it’s not a fashion statement or implicit political position or whatever; it’s because if he doesn’t have some sort of flashlight, he will trip on torchlit steps or walk into low-hanging tree branches in the dark. And it’s so much easier if it’s hands-free! (Especially when he’s spelunking for lost texts!)

His kids all go through a phase of thinking he’s mortifyingly dorky about this, then begrudgingly come to accept that it is really convenient to have a hands-free light for dark nights, caves, etc, and start wearing one themselves.

#lotr #lord of the rings #the silmarillion #elrond #elrond peredhel #elrond half elven #peredhil #theories #headcanon accepted

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sidthedollface2 · 2 months

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A Crown fit for a God (Part 3)

Pairing: Azriel x Fem Reader

Ch Summary: Elain questions Azriels whereabouts. While Rhys places a target on your back after you seek the help of two other Death Gods.

Azriel touches what does not belong to him and craves more.

word count: 5.6k

Series warnings: 18+ MDNI, attempted SA, angst, hurt/comfort, light smut, war, including injuries, fighting, sign language, no use of y/n, nicknames, magic, greek mythology, pining, jealousy, azriel with other women (sorry), reader with another man (get it friend ; )

A/n: I had the tickle to write smut so I give you crumbs…for now. I'm a daydreamer not a writer so if you see any mistakes that's how I dreamt it. Lol

*quote from the chaos of stars

Khaos was to be one of the many shooting stars that showered the Night Court skies. The Night Court would be celebrating Starfall, their yearly event to star gaze as spirits made their migration. Had she made her destination they would recognize her as one of their own and welcome her with open arms. Except for the first time the Night Court had in possession four instruments of conquest. The harp, mask, crown, and the horn, commonly known as the Dread Trove; Therefore diverting her journey to The Autumn Court.

~~~~~~~~

Bryaxis roared as he agreed to fight in the war. The reason for the blast; a form of communication, letting you know his end of the bargain was done. A bargain made with the High Lady cementing his plans- your plans. He requested a window below the library to see the sun and stars and most importantly lightning, conjured by you of course. Gods did he enjoy the spectacle, your wrath illuminating the dark sky striking fear and anxiety in peoples bones. The thrill of watching their faces as they waited for that crack of thunder. The sadist in him couldn't wait to be unleashed and bear witness to your fury, cracking of bones and screams in terror. The sweet scent of blood splattered throughout the field. He was giddy with excitement.

Azriel had rushed to the house of wind only to find the inner circle gathered in the sitting area. “Az! I’m so glad you're safe. Feyre and I figured out why the house was so moody.” Elain bounced over to her lover, wrapping her arms around Azriels neck, bringing his mouth to hers in an endearing kiss, running her tongue along the seam of his lips. Azriels arms remained at his sides, as she embraced him. His brows furrowed when she attempted to deepen the kiss.

He had just held you in his arms moments ago, your frame tucked closely within the shelter of his wings. Just the two of you and no one else existed at that moment. Not the flying of splintered bark or decayed leaves from the blast, or the dust, heavy with smoke and mist. He just saw you. Felt the power in your veins, saw the moon and all its stars in your eyes, the ruler of the skies and ruler of his mind.

He already missed the way the stars danced in your eyes as you looked up at him. He wanted to see his shadows dance along glittered starlight, not dirt covered flower beds and baked goods.

Azriel didn’t allow Elain to deepen the kiss, instead he broke apart from her eager mouth and gently pulled her arms from around his neck. “Elain I think we sho–”

“You smell different,” Elain interrupted, sniffing around Azriels chest and neck trying to find the source. “Just stepped on an orange on my way here,” he replied, rubbing the back of his tense neck. Her eyes narrowed, not trusting a single word out of his mouth.

Azriel met Nestas cold glare, a slight shake to her head followed. He was being put on the spot in front of his whole family. Beads of sweat formed along his forehead, wiping his clammy hands along his thighs, he started towards the stairs, “I’m gonna go shower.”

“I’ll join you!” Elain exclaimed, reaching for Azriels hand, intertwining her fingers with his. He silently begged for someone to stop her. To pull her away from what he knew she wanted, what he’s been giving her for the past six months. For anyone to suddenly need her so he could enjoy the scent of your body a little longer. So he could aggressively fist his cock and imagine he was fucking your throat instead.

Slowly Azriel climbed the steps, each step creaked as the wood carried their weight closer to their bedroom. He’d have to imagine it was you instead of her. Your mouth pressed against his lips as he swallowed your moans, hands trailing down your stomach till he reached your wet cunt. Your perfect body pressed against the shower wall as he sheathed himself inside you, taking you over and over and over–

“Azriel? Did you hear me?” It was Cassian that broke his thoughts.

“Sorry, zoned out for a bit. What did you say?”

“Rhys wants to debrief you.” Cassian jerked his head to Rhys' office.

“Now?” Elain whined, “can’t it wait for morning? It’s late.”

“No, he’s right Elain. Better now that it's fresh in my mind.” Azriel didn’t know if he should thank Cassian, the mother or the Gods for sparing him. Elain began to speak again but it was Azriel who seemed to read her thoughts, “don’t wait up,” he finished; releasing her hand that she so tightly held.

Not sparing her a second glance, Azriel followed Cassian to Rhys office, his shoulders more relaxed than before and his shadows seemed to have calmed down. Throwing his arm around Azriels shoulders in brotherly love, Cassian leaned in close and whispered, “you fucken owe me asshole. Now tell me all about her.”

Azriel tried to play it off with a smirk, but a wide smile danced on his lips. He’d get to stroke his cock to the thought of you after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel didn’t sleep in the room he shared with Elain, her once alluring scent now seemed too sweet. Her hands were suddenly too rough from pruning rose thorns and the leftover dirt beneath her nails made him sick.

He knew he needed to find the time to break things off. Cassian had told him that much. It wasn’t fair to lay next to Elain while he dreamed of you. Although Azriel didn’t divulge too much to Cassian about his fantasies, which wasn't the case when it came to Elain.

With Elain he had told Cass every dirty detail, how many times, positions and even sounds. He knows it was wrong. Didn’t think much of it before, as it was spoken between brothers and no one else. It would be different with you though. You were different. He was going to do it tonight. Tonight he would break things off with Elain and devote his efforts in getting to know you.

~~~~~~~

There were strong wards surrounding the Prison in the Night Court, used to prevent anyone from winnowing inside or flying to the entrance. The power needed to pass through the wards was more than you expected. It wasn't till you reached the stone gate that you realized that only the High Lord of the Night Court's blood would open the gate, something that you couldn't manipulate or conjure. You pinched the space between your brows in irritation as you thought of a way to bypass the blood sacrifice. Starting small in order to regain your power you attempted to push at the stone gate, hoping that it would just topple over. It didn't. Since the prison was on a cavernous mountain perhaps a little quake would loosen the rock and stone exposing the entrance for you to just strut right in.

You knelt in front of the stone gate, both knees firmly planted in soil and moss. You closed your eyes to focus on your magic. The sea breeze caressed your wind-chapped cheeks as you listened to the roar and crash of waves when they met the edge of the mountain. You summoned the power of the land through your fingers, plunging them deep into the soil in front of you. With a roar that echoed the strong ocean waves the mountain trembled in fear. The more your arms quivered in pain the deeper your fingers dug into the ground. Every inch rooted into the land caused the mountain rock to shrivel and rumble till small cracks webbed along the stone gate.

Azriel and Cassian were in the middle of breakfast when the floor beneath them swayed side to side, followed by a rolling motion. Dishes broke into pieces as they crashed to the floor, glass and sharp porcelain scattered the ground. Rhys urgently summoned them mind to mind.

There's a breach at the prison, get over here now before she releases them all.

Azriel and Cassian shared a look before they scrambled into their leathers and sheathed their most effective weapons, knives, daggers and swords, preparing for the worst.

Small cracks etched along the stone wall but it wasn't enough to open the gate. With your power almost completely drained you called upon the light. Seconds from opening your eyes to wield a crack of lightning a cool tendril wrapped around your wrist, carrying the smooth echo of ‘Please don’t do this’ in the whisper of Azriels voice.

The soothing touch jolted you. Your eyes shot wide open long enough to see the sky illuminate in a bright flash. A loud roaring sound boomed through the air as a violent strike of lightning slammed into the stone gate, crumbling it to pieces.

When you looked down to your trembling hands submerged in the rich soil, black tendrils seeped from the ground, wrapping up your arms and cooling your hot skin. “I think you like playing with fire don’t you?” Dusting the dirt from your hands you caressed the little shadow and quickly made your way inside the prison, looking at the sky one last time just in case you couldn't make it out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello Bone Carver.” You smiled at your old friend, “Remember that favor you owe me?”

The Bone Carver just rolled his dark eyes. “Whatever you're going to ask me, the answer is yes.”

You beamed, “thank you.”

It had been easier getting out of the mountain than getting in, a flaw in the protection wards you’d fix before you left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel trekked up the mountain you were long gone. Upon entering the prison Azriel was easily able to follow your scent which led him to the Bone Carvers cell. Rhys entered and excused the other two males.

“You sure you know what you're getting yourself into brother?” Cassian questioned, glancing at Azriel with his eyebrow raised. Azriels brows creased as he tilted his head, not understanding what he meant. “She almost leveled a fucking mountain. I love you brother, but I don't think you can handle her,” Cassian smirked, “but I know I can.”

Azriel snorted. They had shared females in the past accidentally and sometimes in the same room. “She’s different Cass. Touch her and I’ll cut off your hands.”

“Don’t need my hands to fuck her Az.” Cassian threw his head back and howled in laughter as Azriel punched his shoulder in jest.

Rhys walked out of the cell and stared at Azriel as if he knew something Azriel didn’t. His violet eyes bore into hazel ones with a look of sympathy, knowing what lay ahead for Azriel.

“What did he say?” Azriel nervously asked.

Rhys didn’t answer as he turned his back away from him, starting his walk back down the mountain. Cassian and Azriel shared a glance, a look of worry in both their eyes.

Back in Velaris, Rhys paced back and forth, his knuckles white from clenching them into fists. The violet of his eyes black with rage.

“She knows about Velaris and can easily bypass the protection wards. Now she knows how to get in and out of the prison. Find her before I do because I'll fucking kill her.” Rhys' tone was low and deadly like a viper ready to strike.

Without another word Azriel set out to find you, again. But this time he was determined to get answers. No more riddles, no distractions. There was a pattern he picked up on. You seemed to befriend the deadlier creatures of Prythian, The Suriel, Bryaxis somehow, and now The Bone Carver. Azriel set his sights on the middle of Prythian where the weaver Stryga was confined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Work out of your home Court was almost complete, the allies that you needed were aware of their duties and were loyal to your mission. Your limbs ached and burned from your travels across multiple courts, the only thing bringing you a sense of peace was this last stop. Possibly the worst, not the person you had to visit but the stench alone turned your stomach.

The severed head in the sac you carried grew heavier and heavier as your final destination grew closer. Crimson stained your clothes leaving them stiff and rough against your delicate skin. Your hair has clumped from the dirt and blood, it’d been days since you had a nice bath. You open and close your mouth as the sour taste of decayed flesh hits your taste buds. Food wasn't easily available but the horrid smell had you doubling over, emptying what was left from your stomach. Sweat now beads down the side of your face. Heavy eyes spot the weavers cottage in the distance. Finally you think.

“Stryga!” You shout, as you rap at the wooden door, “open up!”

Strygas feet shuffle to the door, “must you shout? I’m blind not deaf you insubordinate buffoon,” she scolds as she swings the door open.

Thankfully she doesn't see the way your face falls as you hold in your gag. “I missed you too Stryga.” She beckons you inside, her arm extended towards her cluttered home. “I don't mean to be rude, but I’m in a hurry. It’s not far from now Stryga. You’ll still be able to eat your fill of evil males,” you declare, handing her your sac with the severed head. “I’m going to kill him, both of them. Don’t you worry. Your neck still remains attached to your spine. But I’ll need some help and I’d love nothing more if you fought by my side.”

Stryga lowers her head and you witness her undying loyalty as she motions to kneel before you. “That's unnecessary,” you attempt at grabbing her arm, stopping her bow.

“It would be a pleasure to unleash my wrath for you Khaos, Goddess of creation and decreation,” Stryga pledges as she remains within your grasp. “So, not a buffoon then?” you stifle a laugh at her earlier jab, and for the first time in your presence Stryga smiles.

“No one calls me that anymore.” You remind her, a wave of sadness crossing your eyes as you remember your mission and how far you are from home.

“Buffoon? Or khaos?” She smirks as you throw her a faux glare.

Stryga suddenly stiffened, her ear catching a faint whisper as she tilted her head. Her clawed fingernails digging into the worn wood of the door.

“Stryga?” You whispered, peering behind you at the dozens of trees that seemed unmoving.

“Shadows follow you.” She brings her forefinger to her lips, shushing you, “non threatening it seems,” her brows furrow, "they're captivated.” Her soulless eyes widen as they seem to meet your gaze. “The shadows have stolen from you.”

You don’t have time for her to elaborate. Quickly making you exit and excusing yourself, she shocks you with her parting words. “Do you know what it takes to make a star shine?”

You shake your head as if she can see you. “Darkness,” she replies. “I knew that,” you answer as you take steps away from her cottage, eager to leave before the shadows master finds you. “Then why do you run?” She retorts, crossing her arms as she braces against the frame of her door, a smug expression on her deadly face.

You don't spare her another glance but her words linger long after you've left her cottage. With your work away from home finally done you winnow to your home court, disappearing in a cloud of glitter and smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You inhaled the crisp air, holding it in your lungs for three seconds before exhaling. Calming your racing heart and releasing the power that traveled through your veins. You smile briefly as the pressure of water against your body washes away days of dirt and blood. Finally letting your limbs relax, stretching your arms high above your head, reaching for the blue sky wanting nothing but to hold the warmth of the sun. In the peaceful silence of the forest you give yourself a moment of weakness. You allow the ache that's burrowed deep within your heart to break free from its prison. Your body’s screaming for a day a week or even a few hours of rest, where shifting isn't needed, and glamouring your true form doesn’t eat up most of your power. Where wars dont need to be fought and kings don’t need to die. You let your strength rest; to feel your pain shatter the windows to your soul for just a moment.

~~~~~

Azriel followed the sound of hushed whimpers, his shadows jumping from tree to tree. The soft cries soon turned harrowing then muffled, like a palm over the mouth.

‘Broken’

His shadow informed him.

Taking cover in the darkness below a large tree he heard the faint weeping, the sudden scent of citrus invading his nostrils. Your shoulders shook with the force of your cries as you cleaned off your wings. Azriel tried to look away from your bare back as you bathed beneath the mouth of a waterfall. Immediately he noticed your wings, two forewings and two hindwings that tapered towards the end like those of a luna moth.

You can shapeshift, he realizes, the large expanse of your wings covering your behind from view, leaving Azriel curious. But why were you crying? You didn't seem broken like his shadows had mentioned. That's when he saw it. Blood. You were cleaning off blood from your wings. Someone you had just killed he imagines. No, It was your blood. At the base of your wing closest to your back a large slash cut deep, almost severing your wing.

“You’re hurt, I can help you.” His voice rang out over the rushing water, slowly inching forward so as to not seem threatening. Frightened by his sudden appearance you vanish before his eyes, leaving a cloud of shimmering powder, momentarily blinding him. Weaving through the darkness of the in-between, you swiftly emerge, tackling Azriel to the ground, unsheathing his own dagger in the process.

Clothed in nothing but a thin nightgown, you straddle him, truth teller firm in your grip pushing against the column of his throat. His shadows swirled above your head creating a crown of darkness as if you were their queen. Azriel narrowed his eyes, ‘traitors.’

“Why have you looked for me?

Azriels speechless as he beholds your beauty, ignoring your question. His eyes wander over each of your features as if committing to memory. His hazel eyes land on your pouty lips and his throat bobs as his desire consumes him. Instinctually his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, just in case.

“Why have you looked for me?” You repeat, forcing his dagger against his jugular, a bead of blood painting his tan skin. Azriel smirked, the thrill of a dangerous female only exciting him, causing the scent of his arousal to fill the air. “You plan to kill me with my own blade?”

“I could kill you without it.” You counter, the force of your power sizzling through your fingers.

Azriels eyes flutter closed, the scent of his arousal drifting to your nose, a husky scent with a touch of night. “So the rumors are true,” Azriels brows furrow, “the shadowsinger playing hero to a damsel in distress, bedding any female that bats her eyes.”

Azriel then twists his foot around your ankle, using his weight to roll you over onto your back. You drag the blade across his throat as he tumbles you to the ground. His hand firmly grips your throat while the other wraps around your wrist, pinning you to the forest floor. With his knees firm on the ground, caging your hips, your legs resting on top of his thighs, making it easy for you to wrap your legs around his waist. “Who told you that?” He asks angrily, blood dripping down his throat from the shallow slash you gave him.

“Eris Vanssera '' you gasp, the slight pressure of his fingers around your throat arousing you more than it should. Yet the grip he holds on your wrists sends you in a panic as memories from your morning assault come crashing.

The males rancid breath makes your stomach churn as he licks at your cheek. The whole weight of his grotesque body has you pinned down, barely able to wriggle out from under him. With one hand he holds your wrists down above your head as the other fumbles with his belt.

Mid-flight he had collided into you, both barreling out of the sky crashing to the ground. Furious, he had attempted to sever your rare wings. The impact of your fall momentarily ceasing your powers, causing you to fight hand to hand.

Your crying only eggs him on, excitement in his rotten attempt at a smile. You're not sobbing out of fear. No. You mourn the life you have to take. You mourn every life, weather deserved or not. The spark that creates life remains. Rooted deep within you, pushed to the side in order for darkness to prevail.

Loyal to your duties as a Death God by any means necessary, you sucked in the secretions from your lungs and violently spat. Thick mucus covered the fat bastard's face, briefly losing his grip, giving you just enough time to unsheath your knife and drive into his thick skull. Later, you’d gift his remains to a dear friend.

Azriels eyes widened with shock as he felt a sharp pain shooting through him. Grunting and hissing he clutches his side, finding Truth teller lodged deep into his rib, warm blood dribbles from the wound staining the ground he's crouched at. “ Did you just stab me?” he chokes out, wincing as he pulls the dagger free, fingers splayed wide attempting to stop the bleeding.

Scrambling out from under him, chest heaving as the adrenaline flows through you. “You’ll live,” you pant as you stand, dusting off browned leaves from your back and knees. A sigh escapes your lips as you notice a blood stain on your white night dress. All you wanted was to wash up the violence that painted your skin and even then your efforts were futile. Azriels eyes trail up your body as he remains kneeled still putting pressure on his rib, his magic working to heal the open wound.

Anger courses through him as he zeros in on a purple bruise on your inner thigh, visible from how short your dress is. “Tell me who he is and I’ll kill him for you.” Those simple words had meant so much you almost cried at the gesture. While you slaughtered the bravest of males and brought warriors to their knees, destroyed kingdoms for unworthy kings, defended the defenseless not one person had offered to protect you. Countless times you had braved your own storm with not one soul willing to weather the chaos. Despite being used for your endless power, time and time again you still gave more than what you could ever receive in return. You save everyone but who was there to save you? You were one female and strong enough to fight your own battles and conquer without the help of highlords or kings. So why was this male cracking the shield of vulnerability wrapped so tightly around your heart?

Azriel seemed to notice your internal struggle, “come here,” he rasped as he stared through your troubled gaze. The tousled waves of his hair that fell so effortlessly over his forehead looked so enticing your fingers twitched. His hazel eyes had darkened and the way his thick thighs looked kneeling gripped you so fiercely your legs moved on their own volition. Standing on weak knees, his eyes never left yours as he patted his thigh, urging you to place your foot on his strong muscle. You obey his command with a slow nod. Azriel chances a glance at your exposed leg, “who do I have to kill?” He asks, softer this time. His bloodied fingers wrap around your delicate ankle and for once you don’t mind. Strong hands gently smooth over your leg, wrapping to the back of your calf. A shiver runs through you at the simple touch, his attentiveness relaxing your muscles. Slowly he lifts the hem of your gown, just enough to expose the bruise and nothing else. “Tell me whose entire family line should I butcher for touching you?” he murmured against your skin, circling your tender bruise with his perfect nose. “I killed him,” you breathe looking down at this male whose lips are inches away from your throbbing core.

“Mmmm good girl,” he growls, meeting your hooded gaze as he licks your inner thigh followed by a tender kiss. You nearly buckle at the sensation of his lips against your skin. The way his rough hands are caressing up and down the expanse of your leg. Lustful eyes roll back as he deeply inhales the sweet scent of your arousal, smothering his handsome face against the heated flesh of your leg like a house pet greeting their owner. “Let me worship you,” he purrs, his hot breath ghosting over your covered core as the tips of his fingers kiss the space between your legs. Azriel could cum right now just watching you throw your head back as you gasp from his fingers grazing your pulsing core. His pants are pulled tight from his cock pushing against his leathers, wanting to bury himself inside you. He’s willing to wait as long as you need but right now he’ll take whatever you give him.

When your eyes meet Azriels again you don’t miss the burning desire in his beautiful eyes or the outline of his bulge as it strains against his pants, suddenly it becomes too much too soon and before you know it you’ve shoved him away, the yearn clouding your vision clears and your back to being a powerful Death God.

“Is that what you tell the females you lay with? That you’ll worship their bodies like the Goddess they are?”

Azriel hangs his head between his dropped shoulders. Shame of his past finally catching up to him when it matters the most. When what he wants more than anything is threatened by his past mistakes. What was he thinking? Oh Gods and Elain. He was offering to please and bed you while he still hadn’t broken things off with Elain.

“You never answered my question. Why have you looked for me?”

Azriel remains silent.

“Did I offer a service which benefited you or your court?”

“Not exactly.” He answers

“Do you seek to use my power for your gain?” You continue, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“No”

“Do you seek treasure?”

“No” He replies with a scoff.

“You seek power then?”

Azriel shakes his head, “no, not power.”

“Knowledge?”

“Nope.”

“You do not pursue power, nor do you wish to bathe in coins, and knowledge is neither here nor there, so you must be searching for love?”

Azriel stilled.

“Ah, love it is. I regret to inform you, I cannot make someone love you.”

“That's not it. You healed me as a child. You were a stranger that showed me more kindness than my own family, and I've spent my entire life looking for you. Not to ask for more healing or to share your magic with others who may need you, but to offer my gratitude. All these years I’ve wondered what you’ve made of yourself, if you're happy, successful, have you found love or have you married or.. ” his gaze shies away, “or if you’re mated.” His tone is sincere, like he's been practicing those words for centuries.

You narrow your eyes at him, gauging whether he's telling you the truth or not, though you sense no lies. “What’s your name shadowsinger?”

“Azriel.”

“Azriel, I'm sorry but the person you're looking for doesn't exist anymore, but I’m even more sorry that I don’t recall this interaction.”

You watch as his expression sombers.

“I’m very flattered though,” you give him a tight lipped smile and get closer, deciding to sit next to him on the stone flat rock that rims the pool you were bathing in. Hoping to offer the same sincerity, you gently place your palm on his lap. “I suppose I can answer your questions, I feel it's the least I can do since you’ve indeed stalked me all these years.” Azriel chuckles remembering the night he said he wasn't a stalker. “I’m not happy, or successful where coin is involved. I have found love in all the faces I’ve seen and the wonderful friends I’ve made, but I’ve only loved one male.” while heat flushes your cheeks and a smile escapes your lips, Azriel frowns, unprepared for the hurt your answer would cause. “His name is Lucien, but –”

Azriel doesn't hear a word you say after that, the weight of your confession pinning him where he sits. Thank Gods for that because he's sure he’d topple over if he were standing. His mind imagines what Lucien had done for you to love him. What words did he use to make you sigh, what cheesy jokes he told to hear you laugh.

Does Lucien know that your skin feels like the finest silk known to man. Has he had the pleasure of kissing you and taking you to bed?

Azriel can feel his anger bubbling or jealousy he's not quite sure but he's unable to stop the hateful words from spewing out, “Lucien can’t love you, he has a mate! And she's pretty and sweet, she's sunshine and rainbows. She's gentle and soft.–”

“And everything I’m not.”

You finish as you swallow the tight knot in the back of your throat. You turn away from him, wiping at a stray tear that's rolled down your cheek. The truth in his words hurting you more than they should; since you’ve moved on. Lucien has too at least that's what you've heard.

Moving on doesn't cure the sadness or put together the broken pieces of your shattered heart. Forgetting Lucien doesn't erase the years of longing. You could never blame him for leaving you. Out of left field he grew distant, a silent struggle you knew nothing of. And you haven't seen him since.

Azriel places his scarred hand on your shoulder, an apology on the tip of his tongue as well as clarification for his words. He doesn’t get the chance as his touch burns your skin causing you to jolt and shrug him off. Azriel panics as he notices your red rimmed eyes, wet with unshed tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t..what I meant was-”

“No. You're right. How can someone like him love something like me?”

Azriel shakes his head. You thought of Lucien like the sun, brilliant and warm, setting fires to forest floors and warming the coldest of hearts. And you the moon, who only glows with the help of the sun. You had it all wrong. Lucien was just a sly fox sneaking his way into the heart of the moon. How could someone like him love something like you? The real question was how could he not love you?

Females like you were born during a raging storm under the phenomenon of an eclipse. With lightning in your veins, thunder in your heart and chaos in your bones.

He shouldn't feel hope in your sorrow but he’s glad Lucien didn’t choose you. Azriel would choose you; In a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, he’d find you and he’d choose you.*

If he had the chance he’d rewind the clock and say what he actually meant. If not for a chance at forever then to ease your heavy heart. The words he spoke out of jealousy would hold a different meaning had he spoken them out of love.

‘Lucien can't love you the way I want to love you. He has a mate! So you were not made for him, but perhaps you were made for me. She’s pretty and sweet, sunshine and rainbows. But you balance strength and femininity like no one else. You're stunning, and selfless, you glow like the moon and shine brighter than the stars. She's gentle and soft but she can never compare to you. Not then, not now, not ever. No one has compared to you.’

But those words remain unspoken as he watches your figure retreat into the orange glow of the forest. Your beautiful wounded wings gracing the ground with your presence, leaving behind a trail of starlight. It was then he realized you didn't need to be saved, you needed to be found.

~~~~~~~~

You could cry tears of happiness as you near your humble cottage. Weaving through the tallest of trees and jumping over a running brook with flat rocks covered in moss. A sigh leaves your lips as you take in the place you call home. The wood creaks a familiar sound as you bounce up the worn steps.

Before your hand reaches the bronze knob, the door swings open and warmth envelopes you in a crushing hug. Your melodious laugh echoes in the air as strong arms spin you round and round. Your eyes meet those of amber as he finally lets your feet touch the floor. “I’ve missed you so much,” he admits, as a warm palm cradles your face, gently tracing circles on the apples of your cheek. He wraps his arm around your waist bringing your body flush with his. His heat offers a comfort not found with anyone else. And you allow yourself to melt into him as he softly brings his lips to yours.

His tender kiss turns desperate when you run your fingers through his auburn hair, lighting a fire that only the wetness between your legs can extinguish. The night runs long as this male beds you over and over and the only name that slips past your lips like a prayer is, “Eris. Eris. Eris.”

Part 4

A/n: The Vanserra brothers have entered the chat. 😏 what do you think happened between Lucien and Reader? any guesses?

taglist: @blackgirlmagicforever @going-through-shit @dr4g0ngirl @mybestfriendmademe @isa1b2h3

#azriel x reader #azriel x fem!reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel spymaster #acotar fanfic #acotar imagine #acotar #acotar x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel angst #azriel fanfic #azriel #acrownfitforagod

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ataraxiasflame · 8 days

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In doing some research for my fic, I encountered a few names from different SJM books that seem to be derived from similar origins and I went on a bit of a trip trying to consider all the connections:

When researching some information regarding the inspiration for Helion (the God Helios) I discovered that Helios’s mother is called Theia and his sister is called Selene. Theia, Helios and Selene are all connected through solar elements like light, the sun and the moon.

If we recall from HOFAS, Silene was Theia’s second daughter who Azriel also claims looked like Rhys’s sister. We also know that she too was able to wield her mother’s Starborn powers (which is essentially starlight).

Helion’s power is also light and also has several similarities to Helios:

And I always question the potential foreshadowing of the scene below.

- ACOSF ch 41.

If I had to guess, perhaps Silene or a descendant of hers was married off to a member of the Night Court, which is why Rhys’s sister looks like her. But my real interest is the connection that Helion (and Lucien) has to the Trove, and their potential challenge to the theory that Rhys has a claim to the throne as a descendant of Fionn/Theia. The similarities in name could have been mere coincidence but the effect the trove had on Helion creates that potential connection to Theia and Fionn (I’m not saying he is Silene’s brother but they could be the ancestors to whom he is referring in ACOSF)

Then perhaps this chapter in ACOSF (ch 42) in which Amren urges Rhys to conquer Prythian claim the throne and he declines several times, only to have her respond with this line:

…might suggest that there are others who have equal claim to the throne.

Personally, I hate the potential High King plot line, especially if Rhys and Feyre will claim the throne (I could write an essay on why this would make no sense from a narrative perspective). There are so many references in HOFAS that highlight why Prythian failed under the ruling of one sovereign and we as readers experienced the reign of a sole ruler in book one. It just makes no sense for Prythian to return to a proven failed form of sovereignty, especially with Rhys and Feyre in those positions of power, when they only recently broke free from Amarantha’s reign.

However, should the High King and Queen narrative be necessary to the plot line, I would far prefer Helion/Lucien be the potential challenge to the throne over Rhys. The end of HOFAS even opens questions regarding Nesta’s future in a position of power in Prythian.

High King plot aside; these potential clues do make me even more interested to see how Lucien’s past will affect the rest of his story and the over arching plot of the series, how his power could be even stronger than we expected, how they could come into play with the Koschei plot line and whether he will play a larger role in the political future of Prythian as well.

But most interestingly is that Theia (the mother of Helios and Selene) was the Goddess of Sight and Vision, possessing prophetic powers, and it seems fitting that Helion’s own son is mated to a cauldron-blessed Seer. Mates fated to be together who are true equals in every way.

#elucien #pro elucien #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #elain archeron #pro elain archeron #helion spell cleaver #High King of Prythian #acotar theories #anti rhysand #anti feyre #hofas spoiler #hofas spoilers #sjm crossover

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blindmagdalena · 2 months

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Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 8 )

homelander x oc 18+ escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: After the disastrous spectacle that was Homelander's birthday celebration, America's "disgraced" hero is forced to reconcile with the demons in his head, and what that means for Layla, the woman standing precariously in their path.

additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, threats of violence, themes of abuse, canon deviation. ��

Sleep is a scarcity. Homelander fades in and out of consciousness, but he never truly rests. It’s strange to sleep somewhere he can't see the comfort of his own gaze endlessly mirrored back at him. Those mirrors make the world so much bigger, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind how small it is. What would normally be a dark, claustrophobic thing is now a great deal safer than the open expanse of a stage.

Layla’s warmth and the faint weight of her arm around him is the only thing that keeps him somewhat tethered. Her heartbeat is a steady metronome against his back, her breaths warmly ghosting over his neck and shoulder. It’s been hours, but it feels too soon when the covers move on his skin as she readjusts in her sleep, pulling her arm from him. He lifts the blanket and rolls to face her.

She’s turned away from him, her dark hair fanned out in a wild splay on the pillow beneath her. Light from the unsleeping city spills in through the window, illuminating her figure. It’s strange to see her sleeping in day clothes and not the sleepwear he’s used to seeing her in. She didn’t have the time to change tonight. She was too busy taking him back into her arms, into her bed, into her life. He brushes his knuckles down between her shoulder blades, the disheveled silk of her blouse soft beneath his fingers.

He’ll find out why Starlight’s scent is lingering on her when she wakes.

Sliding closer to her, he flattens his palm over her hip and noses at the line of her throat, inhaling deeply, chasing the scent beneath shampoo and lotion until he finds what’s simply her. Her wine flush has followed her into sleep, her skin warmer than usual. She responds to his touch with a sleepy sigh of pleasure. Even now, the sound of her voice does so much to quiet the storm in his heart. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face into the soft tresses of her hair, gritting his teeth against the urge to squeeze too tight.

The urge to keep.

The urge to break it all apart and let the storm rage. Instead, he keeps himself perfectly still, trying to swallow the thrumming energy coiling in his tense muscles. End this, the darkness in him hisses, tempting him. How many days has he resisted the urge to reach out, not with his hands but with this thing inside him, and ruin everything? Everyone? A flash of crimson is all it would take to cleave this world in half.

But he can’t afford to. Not then, not now.

The only way he made it out of the cold isolation of the lab, far away from the bad room, was by convincing the staff, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was good. He was their perfect man-made hero. Logically, he knows they can’t ever put him back in the bad room. He’d never let them. It doesn’t stop the nightmares.

He folds in on himself, doing his best to forget that he even has power to wield against others—a whim as sharp as glass. Now, just as then, he orders his body and mind to still, to calm.

If Layla had stayed yesterday morning, things would have been different. His tightly controlled grip on her hip flexes minutely. How can she sleep so deeply knowing that she’s ruined him?

What was she doing with Starlight?

The inkling of a deeper betrayal slithers into his mind. He slides his hand up the length of her torso, traversing the familiar scape of her body, and into her hair, coiling his fingers into a gentle fist of it. One twist is all it would take to quiet her soothing voice forever. Would hair ever feel the same to him again, or would it start to smell like burning tears and cornea? The stench of grief hits him so suddenly that his eyes sting with it, and he recoils from Layla like he himself has been burned.

Has she been scheming against him all along, too?

Fucked. He’s so completely and entirely fucked.

He exhales harshly, curling his hand into a tight fist and biting into the meaty curve just below his thumb, muffling a tearful keen. He can’t think back to that morning without reliving how horribly it went wrong, and how the dominos just continued to fall until he was losing his senses in front of the entire world.

Those moments on stage play over and over in his mind, but each instance of them grows more warped than the last. He’s starting to forget what he really said, conflating memories with nightmares. How much of himself did he really let slip? How ugly does the world think him to be now?

He can see the headlines now.

Homelander: America’s Fallen Hero

Homelander: Vought’s Poster Boy Throws a Tantrum

Homelander: Deranged Freak Snaps On Stage

He’s spiraling worse than he did during Stormfront’s smear campaign against him. It isn’t just dissenting opinions and slander—he’s finally given them real ammunition to use against him. The question is: how much, and how will he refute it? He needs to be able to recover from this.

His voice of reason is treacherously quiet. Nothing but the dreadful echo of I warned you.

With his thoughts twisting in on themselves like a pit of angry, writhing snakes, he finds it impossible to stay still any longer. His whole body is plagued with a restlessness that turns into agony. Carefully, he extracts himself from Layla’s side and slips out of her bed. He needs to see it for himself. He needs to understand the degree of damage that’s been done to him.

Stepping out into her living room, Homelander picks up the remote for her television and flips it on, dropping the volume to such a miniscule level that he’ll be the only one to hear it. He lowers himself down onto the couch and stares, watching his body move and speak, seemingly puppeteered by someone other than himself, operating in ways he’s never seen himself behave in front of a camera before.

“I’m done being persecuted for my strength–”

Erratic.

“Persecuted for my strength–”

Unhinged.

“Persecuted–”

Alive.

If they want to take us down, we’re going to take every last one of them down with us.

The sky is just barely beginning to turn with dawn’s light when Layla wakes to a chill that rolls up her spine. Her bed feels colder than it has any right to, and as the fractured events of last night spill back into her mind, it doesn’t take her long to figure out why.

Homelander—who knows if he’ll accept that name yet—is nowhere to be seen.

Her temples throb with the aftermath of emptying a hefty bottle of wine as she lifts herself from bed, running her hands through her hair, breaking apart the tangles with her fingers.

The breadcrumb trail of Homelander’s suit leading from her balcony to her bed tells her that he hasn’t left. The image of him streaking through the sky in the nude does occur to her, though. Straightening her borrowed blouse and tucking it back into the waist of her skirt, she steps lightly through the dark of her apartment, head on a swivel, until she spots her quarry.

Reclined on her couch, Homelander paints an image somewhere between a renaissance painting and a billboard for depression, his body illuminated by the flashing light of the television. His expression is morose, his hand sitting on the couch next to him at an angle, the remote tilted in his loose grasp. As she approaches, he begins tapping on the volume until his own recorded voice fills the empty space between them.

It’s his tirade from last night.

“Hey, babe,” he drawls from the couch, voice pitched low and despondent. The way he pops each consonant makes the pet name sound downright derogatory. “So, what’s the verdict?” He asks, lazily gesturing to the television with the remote. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” His gaze slides from the screen to her, his head lolling to the side with it.

Any concern or lingering sleepiness in her face is swiftly replaced with bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“‘Excuse me?’” He mocks, pitching his voice up condescendingly. Her expression hardens as he stands, the remote bouncing along the couch cushions where he tosses it. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing anything with you,” she responds tersely. She’s never been a morning person. Compound that with the ache in her skull and the naked pain in the neck standing in front of her, she’s not feeling her usual bounty of patience. Last night, he was a weepy, sopping mess. Now she doesn’t know what to expect from the tight line of his shoulders, or the agitated curl of his upper lip. “I have no idea what it is you think you’re picking at.”

“Since when are you and Starlight pals, then?” He hisses through his teeth.

Shit. Annie. She never sent that text.

“Since yesterday,” she answers, her calm stretched thin. “She saw me at the elevator. She offered a shower and a change of clothes. That’s all.” She doesn’t find it necessary to explain why Starlight might have offered such a thing. He knows exactly how she looked when she left his penthouse, bruised and disheveled.

The memory looks to serve as a crisp slap, some level of clarity filtering into the incensed glaze of his eyes. His grip flexes, and he bares his teeth in an animalistic flash of frustration. He isn’t willing to accept fault for that yet.

“Stop fucking lying to me!” He snaps, the sudden jump in volume startling her. He advances on her sharply, halting her step backwards with an iron grip, his palm against her throat, his thumb and index finger notching perfectly behind the curve of her jaw below her ears. The contact is minimal, and yet the strength in those two fingers alone is more than enough to hold her firmly in place.

“You’re all the fucking same! Agendas, lies, all of you trying to control me, use me, and you—you’re exactly the fucking same. You’ve taken everything from me,” he snarls. Despite his fervor, his grip remains remarkably controlled. Sometimes it’s as if his mind and his body are two independent entities: one an unstable, emotionally malnourished psyche, and the other a finely tuned weapon.

The human mind wants dangerous things to be ugly, but even now, Homelander’s twisted, angry expression is not an ugly thing. Though adrenaline surges the thrum of her heart, it isn’t laden with the fear any reasonable person would have. The thrill coursing through her isn’t rooted in some comfort that he won’t hurt her. It’s the knowledge that he—more devastating than any man she’s ever known—absolutely will if not handled correctly.

It’s like holding a thundering storm in her bare hands.

Layla stares wide-eyed and astonished, so thoroughly unaware of what he’s accusing her of that she struggles to speak around the hard lump in her throat. He leans closer yet, clutching her with all the same strength, tenderness and menace of the ocean cradling a ship.

“I killed her,” he whispers, the words passing between them like a confession to God himself. He’s so near, she could rest her forehead against his if she wanted. “I killed her for lying to me. I’ll kill you, too.”

Madelyn Stillwell. The name returns to her like a ghost, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Or was it Stormfront? The unnamed mother of his child? One was the victim of a domestic terrorist, one committed suicide, and the third is yet undetermined. All of them are apparent casualties of Homelander’s turbulent presence in their lives. Is she to be the fourth in a string of tragedies? Rage swells so suddenly in her heart that she almost chokes on the fire of it. What right does he have to interrogate her and threaten her?

“Are you glad?” She asks, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hand holding his wrist in turn. “Are you glad to have killed her?”

His expression flips as if he’s been struck, crinkled brows shooting up. “What?”

“Will you be glad to have killed me?” She asks tightly, her nails biting ineffectual crescents into his titanium flesh. Her tone is sharp and no longer meant to soothe. She speaks to cut. “Or will you just be even more alone?”

Like hers, his eyes turn glassy. “No,” he says softly. She doesn’t know if that’s an answer or a plea.

“Let me go,” she tells him firmly, fighting to hold onto the fires of her own indignant anger. His abrupt flashes of softness and vulnerability compromise her resolve.

“Go where, Layla?” He snaps, suddenly loud again. His broken desperation and seething anger make his voice reedy. “Where the fuck could you go that I wouldn’t still feel you? Kill you, fuck you, love you; you’re in my fucking head!”

You’re all the fucking same!

She isn’t dead, but he’s treating her like a ghost nonetheless. As if she’s already one of the many specters haunting him.

“You love me?” She asks him, snatching that precarious lifeline out of the messy slurry of his words. She’s not sure that he knows the meaning of it.

Does she?

The tension in Homelander’s face goes slack, stricken to hear those words fall from her lips. His mouth opens and closes as he tries and fails to form the right words. It’s too vulnerable to say yes, and too complicated to say no. Ultimately, he can’t bear to answer first.

“Do you love me?” He asks, defensive, as if she were the one who brought the terrifying gravity of love into the equation in the first place. The weight of it turns her tongue to lead.

There’s an adolescent sense of fumbling in this moment that would be endearing if he were not clutching her jaw with inhuman strength, the whispered promise of her death hanging over them like a creaky guillotine. In another life, this could have been a very sweet confession.

“Do you?” He prompts her again, desperate. He cups the back of her head with his other hand, taking a step closer. His chest bumps her forearms where she has them tightly braced, hands clamped tightly over his wrist. It’s a meager barrier to uphold, but she does so steadfastly. His hold on her is suffocating, his agonized ocean eyes filling up her vision. He’s larger than life, leaving space for little else in her life ever since he crashed into it.

Even when he’s gone, she is consumed by him like a fever that refuses to be sweated out. When her career first began, she knew well enough not to entertain superhumans. It wasn’t a bias she held against them per se, but the opposite: she knew from the start that she would become intoxicated on the danger of them. Homelander is the epitome of everything she’s ever been too afraid to let herself love. He’s the first person to ever be enough of a risk to scare her, and enough of a reward to satiate her. She can feel her destruction lurking in him just as plainly as her parents found their own in their shared thrill seeking.

“I want to,” she whispers, a secret she’s denied even to herself until now. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”

He exhales roughly, something like hope softening the tension in his expression before he screws his eyes shut, another wave of agony contorting his features. His forehead thumps gently against hers. “I don’t know—I don’t know how else to be. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make it easy.”

Finally, he releases her jaw from the snare of his grip, only to take either side of her face between his hands, pulling away to look at her. He’s always been younger than her in a multitude of ways, but in this moment, the agonized youth in his eyes takes her breath away. “I was—I was made to be loved. I was supposed to be everyone’s hero. They poked and prodded me, manufactured me in a-a fucking lab to be perfect, but no one—”

Layla’s eyes widen, her heart seized. What?

Homelander bares his teeth like a wounded animal, breath hissing in and out of his clenched teeth as tears roll down his cheeks. “But no one does, no one fucking does, no one loves me,” he says through his teeth, nearly choking on the words. “I don’t understand how to make it easy, Layla,” he sobs, hands shaking on either side of her face. She can’t tell if it’s from sheer emotion, or the restraint it takes not to crush her between them.

“So just—tell me what I need to do, please,” he begs her, devastatingly beautiful in the same way the sprawling webbing of a shattered mirror is. “Tell me how to be easy to love.”

Breathless, Layla stands there with her heart bleeding so freely, so painfully, that she swears there’s warm blood soaking onto the pristine white blouse she wears.

There is a monster in Homelander. At times, she can feel the claws of it in his grip on her. Hear it growling in her ear. When it comes to handling monsters, banishment is always the remedy. Slay the beast, free the man. Homelander’s monster is not so easily felled, nor is she certain it should be. He was not born with sharp teeth and claws. From what she’s gathered, they were filed into fine points long before he was a man.

People like to think of the monster within them as an outside force. Corruption, propaganda, the devil. Layla has spent enough time in bed with people’s deviance to know better. The proverbial devil is not outside of humanity, but embedded deep within It cannot be safely extracted any more than a beating heart can.

But corruption isn’t a heart—it’s a stomach.

It craves and yearns, it twists and aches and growls when hungry. Just as Eve ate of the apple, humans take bites of sin to satiate their monster. Like people, monsters come in a wide variety of shapes, temperaments, and cravings. Some beasts can be satisfied with a nibble here and there. Others require more. Some never learned how to know when they’re full.

After all he has been deprived of, Homelander may never be truly satisfied, but does that mean he doesn’t deserve to be fed at all?

No, Layla thinks. It doesn’t.

Both of their faces are streaked wet with tears as they hold one another’s gazes. Gingerly, she brings her own hands up to cup his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. “Okay,” she whispers, afraid her own voice of reason will hear her. “Okay, my darling.”

Relief helps smooth the crease between his brows, but it doesn’t dissipate entirely. “Say it,” he urges her, the hands still upon her face giving the faintest nudge. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” she says, teary and quiet, but with conviction. She leans in, and he allows her to, no longer holding her firmly in place for fear that she might suddenly vanish. “I love you,” she says again, a promise that ghosts his lips. He shudders. “I love you. You’re in my head,” she says, echoing his own words back at him. Her lips brush against his in a not-quite kiss. “You were from the start.”

He exhales a pained, keening sound, pushing his fingers into her hair and pulling her deep into a feverish kiss. His hunger for her is voracious, and his desire is a force she might not withstand—not by virtue of its violence, but because of its sheer magnitude. He kisses her fiercely, one arm slipping around her middle to keep her body from bowing under the weight of his love.

“I love you, too,” he breathes, the relief in his voice palpable. She takes the air of it into her lungs like it might save her. “I love you so fucking much.”

It’s dangerous, she knows, to trick herself into believing she can satiate his mountainous hunger. Danger is like an ice bath, though. You grow accustomed to the bite of it.

Morning light creeps slowly into Layla’s condo. Homelander trails her as closely as her own shadow, breathing in against the crook of her neck while she cooks breakfast. He’s partially dressed in his undershirt and underwear, his suit folded neatly upon her vanity for the time being. It’s nice to feel his arms around her without the obstructive padding of his suit. Without the bulk of it, she fits more closely against him, his superhuman warmth like a particularly cuddly space heater pressed against her back.

“One egg or two?” She asks him, plucking one from the container on the counter.

“Mmm… Two,” he says, the deliberation making it sound more like a trivia answer than a preference.

She cracks four eggs into the pan, one at a time. “Over easy, medium, hard…?”

He grins against her neck, and she gives his hand at her hip a playful little swat with the back of her silicone spatula. “I dunno,” he says, nuzzling her. “However you like it.”

“Have you never had eggs before?” She asks, looking back at him.

He’s got his chin propped up on her shoulder. His gaze flickers up from the sizzling pan to meet hers. “Just scrambled.”

…I was made… manufactured in a fucking lab…

She swallows a small lump in her throat, turning back to the eggs. She flips them all over easy and plates them with the toast. When she takes the toast off of the plates and begins slicing them into strips, Homelander makes an inquisitive noise.

“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, shooing him to the table as she plates their breakfasts and carries them to the table.

Homelander sits, and she sets his plate down in front of him. She sits on the adjoining corner to his, but within seconds he has a grip on her seat. The chair legs groan as he slides her closer to him, smiling at her look of surprise. “That’s better,” he says, his knee bumping hers.

He’d likely prefer she be in his lap. There’s always a lingering sense that she’s never quite close enough, even when they’re pressed tightly against one another. He might not be satisfied until he finds a way to open her up and crawl inside.

Huffing a small laugh, she gestures to his plate. “Use the toast sticks to break the yolk,” she tells him, and then demonstrates on her own meal, jabbing a piece of toast into the soft yellow yolk, coating it properly before taking a bite.

Blinking, Homelander does the same. He hums appreciatively, nodding with a mouthful of food.

“My gramma insisted that all food tastes better when it’s dipped. She always made my breakfasts this way,” she explains, her smile tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. “I can’t remember the last time I did it for myself.”

Silence follows. She glances up to find Homelander staring intently at his plate, a cut of toast pinched between his fingers, dripping yolk back down onto the egg. Layla takes a breath to speak, but that inhale is all it takes to snap him from his thoughts, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers.

“Ryan would like this, I think,” he says. She can tell he’s working to keep his voice conversational.

“Ryan?” She echoes, though it clicks a second after she says it.

“My son,” he confirms, clearing his throat gently. She shares his trepidation as he enters this particular topic of conversation, considering the fallout the last time it was broached. He dips the toast again and takes another bite, seemingly buying time with deliberate chews.

Layla bites her tongue, choking back her own knee-jerk response. She likes children just fine, in theory. She’s had very little practical experience. Still, words of unbidden advice bubble up on her tongue as if she’s an expert. She wants to tell Homelander to go to the boy, talk to him. He told her that she had taken everything from him, presumably referring to his very public meltdown, but that isn’t true in a number of ways. He has a son out there somewhere, confused and without either of his parents.

It sets a sympathetic churn in her gut. Grieving her own parents as a child made an adult of her far too soon. She may not have raised any children herself, but she can speak as a child who was left behind.

“He’s nine. He’s strong,” Homelander continues tentatively. “I mean, really strong. Strong like me,” he says, pride underlining each word, driving out the hesitance. “He’s so much like me. I never thought I’d see it, but he’s real. He’s—” he breaks into a small, incredulous laugh. “—He’s a miracle. A real, born miracle.”

Unlike you, she surmises from his tone. He said that Vought had made him. The world has been rocked by the revelation that supes are the result of Vought’s pharmaceutical ventures, but the way Homelander talks of his son makes him sound different. An exception to that fact, somehow.

“You should go to him,” she encourages, still holding onto a level of cautiousness on the matter. “I was left behind by my parents. I don’t wish it on anyone.”

“I didn’t leave him behind,” Homelander corrects sharply. She was right to tread lightly. “He left me,” he says, though he doesn’t speak with anger so much as he does woundedness. He’s never expressed anything but love—bordering on reverence—for his son, and yet he has completely roadblocked himself from reaching out.

It’s complicated, he told her before.

“He’s nine. It’s not his job to uncomplicate things or bridge the gap,” she says as gently as she can muster, though even she can hear the weariness in her own voice. “It’s yours. He needs you to be the adult, to help the world make sense. It’s one thing to give him space, but you can’t abandon him.”

At first, there is a flash of petulant defiance in Homelander’s eyes, obvious in the tight set of his jaw. To Layla’s relief, however, it fades into quiet consideration. He looks back down to his half-finished plate.

“You can’t take personally what anyone, much less a child, does out of grief,” she says softly, reaching out to put her hand atop his where it rests on the table. “Ryan needs wisdom. Support. People who love him. He needs his father.”

He looks up at her with a level of vulnerability in those ocean blue eyes that never fails to pull her into the depths. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says firmly. To this day, she can’t imagine what she wouldn’t do for just one more day with her own father.

Slowly, the wateriness of his gaze becomes a sparkle. Homelander smiles. He has as many smiles as an ice cream shop has flavors, and this one says he’s just had an idea.

“What?” Layla asks after a beat, an edge of suspicion to her tone.

“Nothing,” he says placatingly. His smile shifts. She knows that flavor of smile. That one means he’s lying. “Just relieved is all. Could I use your phone?”

It’s a wonder the ease with which Homelander glides from mood to mood, as if he puts each one neatly in a box before he takes out the next one. Layla only hesitates for a second before she nods, sliding out of her chair to go and fetch her cellphone. She still needs to text Annie.

“Jesus,” she says softly, staring at her screen with a deep crease in her brow.

“What?” Homelander asks, leaning in his seat.

She has thirty missed calls, and about as many text messages.

THIS IS ASHLEY BARRET. HAVE YOU SEEN HOMELANDER? IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS, PLEASE CONTACT ME. PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS. MISS ALDEN PLEASE CONTACT ME AND ONLY ME IF YOU HAVE SEEN HOMELANDER. IF YOU CAN PLEASE INFORM HOMELANDER HE IS UP.

Ashley Barret. Layla recalls the name from Homelander’s initial booking. She had been the one to handle the details and arrange payment.

“Ashley Barret is very desperate to find you,” she says, reading the texts as she walks back towards him. “She says that you’re… up.” She stops at the table, looking at him. “What does that mean?”

The chair legs scrape audibly against the floor when Homelander stands up. “Give me that,” he says, taking the phone from her outstretched hand. His expression pinches tightly as he scrolls through the messages, lips parted. “I’m… up,” he says slowly, processing the words that mean nothing to Layla. With a tap, she hears a dial tone. Homelander holds the phone to his ear.

“Miss Alden–” answers a feminine voice immediately.

“What do you mean I’m up?” Homelander interrupts, a harshness to his voice that Layla doesn’t expect to hear outside of an argument.

“21 points with your base,” Ashley says breathlessly.

Homelander’s expression softens, becoming wonder-like. “What did you say?”

“21 points. They loved your speech!”

He looks at Layla, familiar glassiness returning to his eyes. He lifts his loose hand, which curls slowly into a fist, as if he’s taking hold of something precious, some nebulous concept of grace he had thought lost.

“A massive 44% uptick with white males in the Rust Belt.”

“Yes,” Homelander hisses through his teeth, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Fuck yes! Yes!” With that same hand, he suddenly takes hold of the back of Layla’s neck, pulling her into a deep kiss. Her noise of surprise is muffled against his lips, his tongue a slick demand on hers.

“They’re saying you’re confident and unapologetic!” Ashley’s voice continues to prattle from the phone, though Layla’s finding it hard to pay attention with the way Homelander’s taking a fistful of her hair, bowing her back, kissing her hungrily. “That you’re not afraid to be yourself!”

He outright moans against her lips. She breaks away from him with a gasp, hand pressed against her chest. “Should I give you a moment alone with Ashley?” She asks breathlessly, only half-joking. The man is absolutely alight against her, heat radiating in his touches. The news trips an alarm bell somewhere in the back of Layla’s mind, but she’s struggling to process it in the wake of his voraciousness.

“Christ, no,” he says. The phone hits the ground with a clatter, Ashley’s confused voice continuing distantly on the line. He cups both sides of Layla’s face and pulls her back in, exhaling a pleased little growl against her lips. “Did you hear? They love me. They fucking love me,” he says between kisses, breathless and downright giddy.

Drawing back, he strokes her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs, his smile broad, eyes shining with relief, joy, and something Layla can’t quite place, though it causes a small knot to form in her gut.

“They want me to be myself.”

#this chapter took everything out of me but it's here and i hope to god it doesn't take this long for the next chap #bc i already have portions written and i know where it's all going!!!#blood sweat and tears in this fic fr lmao #homelander x oc #homelander x original character #homelander fanfiction #eat your ego #my writing

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chunkypossum · 1 month

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Poly+ ACOTAR Week Master List

I knew I wanted to participate in @polyacotarweek this year but I even surprised myself at how much I wrote. Starting tomorrow here is what I have planned to post this week!

Day 1: Beginnings || Embers in the Wind

Nesta X Cassian X Eris Part 1/4 || 4k words READ ON AO3

Cassian and Nesta are happier than they have ever been, or so they thought. When their mating bond snapped, it wasn’t only euphoric it was healing. Both Cassian and Nesta had so many years of trauma to overcome to finally learn to love each other properly. So, what happens when they get thrown a third mating bond that they never expected? What happens when their new mate can’t handle the pressure of the bond? What happens when it's someone they thought they were supposed to hate?

Day 2: Comfort || Embers in the Wind

Nesta X Cassian X Eris Part 2/4 || 4k words READ ON AO3

Day 3: Secrets || Embers in the Wind

Nesta X Cassian X Eris Part 3/4 || 6k words READ ON AO3

Day 4: Adventure || Embers in the Wind

Nesta X Cassian X Eris Part 4/4 || 7k words READ ON AO3

Day 5: Favorite Tropes || A Dance Named Starlight - AU

Cassian X Nesta X Eris X Azriel 7k words READ ON AO3

Fake wedding dates + a little bit of jealousy, plenty could go wrong, but what about all the things that could go right? Nesta and Cassian are on a break but she can't show up to her sister's wedding alone. Who better to accompany her than the ostentatious brother of the groom, Eris Vanserra? Thankfully, he is also newly single and ready to make a pointed appearance with Nesta on his arm. Dressed to impress and ready to wow everyone on the dance floor, this pair thought they were ready for anything. What they didn't account for was just how tangled their heartstrings would become.

Day 7: Free Day || Lighthouse in the Woods

Azriel X Eris X OC Prologue + Ch 1/4 || 9k words READ ON AO3

The New High Lord of Autumn isn't fairing too well with his new reign. Luckily his allies in the Night Court are willing to send him aid. The Spymaster is just too good at his job however, and the High Lord isn't quite sure how to let him go when his problems become manageable again. When a budding friendship turns into something more, they're going to have to decide how they define what a family is and where to call home.

If anyone would like to be tagged, please just ask! <3

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myboyfriendjake · 10 months

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nothing like listening to 'what am i' while working on a fanfic

#i'm writing ch 2 of starlight and hearing about the sunset turn #into sunrise like #spotify knows what it's doing #enhypen #park jongseong

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redyarns · 3 months

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resist much, obey little (ch 1)

Alastor had a noose around his neck.

There was only one person who could loosen it.

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Temptation had never strung Lucifer along. He was an angel of Heaven no matter what anyone else said, and he had never fallen whim to any of the sins that humans were so eager to do.

And Alastor, a demon and a sinner who had fallen even further after death, was the most forbidden fruit of all.

He was the very embodiment of blasphemy.

But by God, did Lucifer want him.

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Knock-knock.

Lucifer let out a weak groan as he slowly let his arm slide off his eyes and off the side of the couch. Red starlight drifted through the torn curtains of a nearby window and nearly blinded him even with his eyes closed, and he had to squint and blink half a dozen times before he raised a hand and scrubbed at his face.

Knock-knock.

“Give me a second,” he called to the idiot who kept banging on his door.

He felt like, well. He felt like someone had take a grinder, stuffed him inside, made him into a sausage, and then shoved said sausage into all their orifices.

He hadn't felt this tired, this pained, in a very long time, and he liked to think he had a high pain tolerance. Nothing had hurt him quite as much as the Fall, or when Lilith left, or when he had to acknowledge his subjects, but he still couldn't quite shake the bone-aching exhaustion as there was a small rustle beside him along with a coo.

Knock-knock-knock.

“I said in a minute!” Lucifer barked again, the infuriating sound pacified at least for now as his tone shifted into something far more gentle while he curled around the small bundle of warmth that he had fallen asleep with. “My little princess, did you sleep well?”

Charlotte Morningstar was the apple of his eye and she was all the more beautiful because of it. She was tucked carefully in between the solid back of the couch and his own body. There was no one in Hell or even the Heavens that would try to defy him and dare to harm her, but it quelled at least some of the constant anxiety in him to know she was near him.

She waved her chubby fists in the air, her eyes already crinkled at the edges with her delighted smile, and he couldn't help it as he gathered her even closer and buried his nose into her soft, beautiful hair and inhale the smell of baby powder.

“Well, starshine, I guess it's time to see who wants to bother our peace so early in the morning,” Lucifer sighed.

Honestly, what kind of fool knocked on anyone's door this early, much less the devil's himself? He dreamed of strangling the idiot who was standing outside his house; maybe it was a stupid imp who wandered somewhere they shouldn't have, or Asmodeus coming to whine to him again, or even worse, Lili -

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

“How dare you disturb your king's slumber?” Lucifer roared, now fully enraged as he ripped open the door so forcefully that it was torn off the hinges completely.

Bits of wood and debris rained around him as his tail lashed in anger, his horns spontaneously grown out of the crown of his head, and he was only a second away from turning this worthless demon into a husk, only for a piece of paper to suddenly be shoved into his face.

“What the - “ Lucifer said, and he squinted to read the blurry text, a result of staying up far too many nights in a row and refusing to do anything about it.

Hey, Idiot!

Want a job no other can fulfill? Do you want some light shed in your otherwise pitifully empty life?

Are you capable of destroying the very atoms who dare to disturb my own?

Then this is the job for you!

Your King of Hell is in need of assistance!

(Fail and I will rip out your intestines, stuff them with your liver and kidneys, and make you eat your meat sausages while gouging out your eyes to prepare you jelly on toast.)

Details include:

-Changing and checking diapers

-Feeding and napping at appropriate times

-Obliterating anyone who dares to harm Charlie or make her cry

-Entertaining her and keeping her away from that blasted thing called a television

-Keeping me, your boss (and overlord and King of Hell) updated on every activity she does

-Schedule appointments and calls accordingly

-And anything else I ask you because I said so

Contact the number below to get in touch with me, Lucifer Morningstar, to schedule an interview today!

666-666-6666

Lucifer had to read it once, twice, before he managed to dig up some fuzzy memory from about at least four months ago.

He remembered it in pieces; how exhausted he was as he tried to cope with the loss of his wife and the sudden gain of a child; his madness as he tried his best to coax Charlie into sleep, even as she refused and wailed; his internal grief as he tried to understand what to do or how to do it.

He had summoned a succubus and demanded that they put up all of his haphazardly made fliers all around hell. In complete honesty, he had forgotten all about it as soon as the papers disappeared from his desk, as Charlie had proceeded to vomit over his button-up and was wailing again. She'd developed a fever and the night had dissolved into a frenzy to better her as quickly as possible.

He hadn't expected anyone to read the flier, much less even give it a second thought, and his horns and tail slowly disappeared as he pushed aside the paper and glared at the demon who dared to show up right at his doorstep.

The demon was a sinner. He had a soul unlike the hellborne, and seemed to enjoy it, too. He grinned too widely and seemed way too into the dress-red-for-Hell theme, and when he spoke, his voice crackled with the poor frequency of an old timey radio as he said, “well hello to you, my liege! I suppose I might have troubled you this morning, but I’m here about your curious job offer!”

“Why are you here at all?” Lucifer snapped, balancing Charlie on his hip and bouncing her when she began to fuss. She drooled on the lapel of his jacket, but as long as she wasn't crying, that was fine by him, so he allowed her to continue as he snarled, “the flier says to call me at the number on the bottom! Are you as blind as you are disobedient?”

The demon's grin widened just by a fraction of an inch, and he bent down into a deep, sarcastic bow. “My apologies, Your Majesty. That was not an oversight on my part; I just don't have a fondness for those… things.”

“Things?”

“Cellphones,” the demon said slowly, like the word was clunky and ill-fitting in his mouth. He rubbed his chin with clawed fingers in thought and said, “I'm rather old fashioned, you could say, and those little devices with their tiny buttons are beyond my time.”

“Huh,” Lucifer grunted, less than a little interested in whatever the demon was saying. He had most of his attention on Charlie, who was now gnawing on his finger with her gums, and he said, “yeah, whatever you say, grandpa. If you want an interview then come in. But touch anything and I'll kill you.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, sire!” The demon trilled happily as he stepped over the threshold and, bizarrely enough, summoned a microphone staff and used it like a cane.

This demon was an unusual one, even among Lucifer's bunch of vile and annoying little shits he called his subjects, and he wondered if he made a mistake letting him in as he pointed at the now broken pieces of the door and said, “that's your first question. If you really aren't illiterate and you read that flier, then you know I don't want some useless little wimp. Show me how powerful you are and then I'll - “

Magic swelled in the air like a sudden puff of air, and Lucifer blinked as the door was suddenly fixed and placed back on its hinges. Why, the smug asshole even decorated the damn thing with little carvings of microphones all around the edges.

“You didn't let me finish,” Lucifer snarled.

“No need to, Your Majesty,” the demon said, looking rather pleased with his handiwork as he observed the wood. “What kind of assistant would I be if I couldn't at least predict your basic wants or needs?”

Lucifer stared, tilting his head slightly.

The demon didn’t say the words in contempt. In fact, he seemed excited about it, which further solidified the idea that he was a weirdo.

Lucifer was the leader of the Pride Ring, after all, so he was excellent at evoking hilarious reactions by poking at people's sensitive prides, but this demon didn't seem at all offended over the demeaning job of being an assistant.

And to think a powerful demon like this existed at all… his magic from just now was similarly no joke. It was the kind of stuff that tingled across Lucifer's skin and nearly down his back and to his wings, which rustled restlessly when he thought too hard about it.

He always had them tucked away for several reasons, but to think a sinner had the ability to create enough power to have him move even a single feather was… impressive.

It was impressive and he was annoyed about it, which probably showed on his face as he clicked his tongue and said, “show off. Fine. Charlie has to have breakfast now, so come on.”

Lucifer ignored the way the demon's smile crinkled at the edges as he turned on his heel and marched to the kitchen.

It pinched the edge of his mind to see just how destroyed the place was. Various toys, baby contraptions, clothes, and uneaten food littered the place.

It also smelled vaguely like baby powder and oil, and Lucifer himself probably looked like an actual disaster with how his hair was unkempt and he hadn't changed his clothes in three days, but he was too tired to care as he stepped over a mountain of stuffed animals.

The kitchen was no less of a messy tornado than the living room, but at least the high-top was clean.

Lucifer cooed to his daughter as she kicked her legs and squealed in delight when he lifted her into the air and kissed her bare belly, distracting her from destroying yet another piece of furniture.

“She doesn't like sitting,” Lucifer sing-songed, keeping his voice as high-pitched and sweet as possible while slowly starting to lower her into the cushion of the chair. “But as long as you keep her distracted, she can do it with minimum fuss! Right, Charlie? Right, starshine? My wonderful wittie bittie girl, look how good you are!”

Lucifer let out a huge, admittedly rather relieved sigh when she let her chubby legs stick through the opening of the high-too while she bashed her tiny fists onto the table. She only made small, little displeased noises when he tied a bib around her neck and she blew a raspberry, but that was it.

This was turning out to be a great morning, then.

“Go on,” Lucifer said, turning around and crossing his arms as he tried to look as intimidating as possible. It was then that he realized the demon was at least a foot taller than him; the audacity! “Feed her. That's your second question; if you really want this job, you should know how to take care of a baby.”

“Hmm,” the demon hummed. He didn't seem at all perturbed by the hostility nor the near harassment of demands, and he merely waltzed over to the fridge, opening it and bending at the waist to observe what was inside.

After only a moment of looking, he reached in and grabbed several apples, all bright red and crisp. He took care to avoid any of the ones with spots on them, Lucifer realized, and the demon whistled a cheery tune as he juggled four apples easily and then threw them all up at once.

He snapped his fingers and a blender popped into existence, taking the fruits with ease and floating in the air as it blended them into a sauce.

“There,” he said, smug and satisfied as the blender poured out several mini jars of perfectly liquified apples. “Nutritious and well-processed to avoid any chunks.”

“Anyone can blend apples, smarta - smarty-pants,” Lucifer snapped. “I mean feed her. I don't give a shi - crud if you’re powerful and if you've read every single parenting book in the realm. If she doesn't like you, I’ll crush you here and now.”

That was the barest truth of all of this. Lucifer was the most powerful of them all, could destroy any single one of them into dust if he truly wanted, so what did it matter if this single demon was slightly stronger than average?

All demons had the potential to grow just as much as he had, but Lucifer didn’t give a flying rat's ass about that. It simply boiled down to if Charlie liked them.

He refused to have someone be her caretaker if she hated them. She needed love, warmth, compassion - all the things no regular demon could give. She deserved those things, and Lucifer had already given his whole heart to her, but he knew it wasn't enough.

For the first time since he got there, the demon hesitated. His smile waned only by a centimeter, but it was noticeable enough, and he eyed Charlie apprehensively.

After another second of contemplation, he approached her slowly, and Lucifer watched from only a few feet away, his wings threatening to burst out of his back from how tense he was.

He didn't know this demon, couldn't trust him as far as he could throw him, and if there was even the slightest chance that he would hurt Charlie, Lucifer had to intervene and make him eat his own intestines.

Luckily, the demon didn't do such a thing.

He set aside his microphone, leaning it against the counter, and he bent slightly so that he was eye-level with the baby.

Charlie gurgled, a noise of curiosity more than apprehension or fear, and she drooled a little as she stared at him and blinked in question when he curled a finger and a jar of applesauce floated towards him.

“Your Highness, although I know it must be very early in the morning for you, it's imperative to a young demon's health to eat well in order to grow and ascend to their rightful place,” the demon said. “In your case, it's your throne. It would be a tremendous help if you didn't make a fuss.”

Lucifer watched in bewilderment.

This man talked to his Charlie like she could understand a word that he just said. On good days, she could comprehend basic commands of no or stop , but that was the absolute limit.

She didn't even know what her hands were, or had any sort of object permanence! How could this stupid demon expect her to understand any of that?

But instead of flinging applesauce into his face like Lucifer expected, Charlie merely popped her lips, grumbled for a few seconds, and then opened her mouth obediently.

Lucifer's jaw dropped as the demon laughed from his throat.

“Well done, Princess,” the demon said, his eyes crescent-shaped from how pleased he was. He even spoon-fed her with his hand, not his magic, and he continued to speak like she was a grown woman instead of a baby who dribbled most of the applesauce down her chin and to her bib. “You are exceeding my expectations already. I have no doubt you will continue to do so.”

He hummed as she continued to eat, slowly making her way through the jar of fruit. Anytime some of the sauce spilled out of the corner of her lips, he patiently wiped it away with a summoned handkerchief, and he even allowed her to grip onto one of his fingers as he fed her.

Charlie loved grabbing things. It was her way of seeking comfort or validation when she was doing something new, and she had never eaten apples before this. She always loved to tug on Lucifer's hair or his clothes with an iron grip, but she seemed completely at ease as she licked at the spoon and smiled gummily at the demon when he tutted.

“Your Highness, etiquette is important to proper young ladies like yourself,” he said, but his voice was gentle and not admonishing as he rubbed at her cheek again with his napkin. She beamed at the touch and giggled. “Yes, yes. You are forgiven. Now, let's make sure you don't regret your breakfast, shall we?”

Before Lucifer even had a chance to say anything, the demon scooped Charlie up and out of her chair. Her legs kicked like she always did whenever she realized she was about to be carried, and she snuggled against his shoulder as he properly secured her to his chest and began patting her back.

He was burping her.

He had managed to feed her, soothe her, indulge her habit of grabbing things, and he was now burping her.

Lucifer felt like a puppet whose strings were just cut as he sagged suddenly against the counter and had to grip it tightly to make sure he didn't crumble to the ground.

For the first time ever since Charlie's birth, he had a moment of freedom, a moment to breathe, and he inhaled deeply as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair and hysterically thought to himself that he now had a chance to shower.

“Demon,” he commanded as best as he could, but it really sounded like he was on the brink of toppling over as he continued to watch the pair.

“Hmm?” The demon replied, never stopping as he continued to pat Charlie's back while walking in a circle, bouncing slightly with each step so she wouldn't grow bored.

“Your name,” Lucifer said.

The demon grinned at him. It was a disturbing smile, really, and Lucifer had half the mind to wipe it off his smug little face for daring to look so triumphant, but he refrained.

After all, the demon seemed to understand the hidden meaning of his question, and when he spoke, his voice crackled at the edges of his pleasure as he bowed slightly and said, “Alastor.”

“Well, Alastor,” Lucifer said, hauling himself up to his feet and trying to blink away the spots in his eyes. “I hope you know what you're getting yourself into.”

Alastor purred.

“I look forward to working with you, Your Majesty.”

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