#eri💜

[eternalyoo]

ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ ᴇʀɪ @shanbini ! 💚

[yoohyeon]

blue turquoise and lavender 🙂‍↕️💞

Lavender will be hard since I don’t do either but I’ll party with you with pleasure jfbsjdnjs I am so not cool though, you are 🥺 ily 🫶❤️

Send me one !

[merwgue]

I'm pissed off at the lack of crack shipping in this fandom so

HERE ME THE FUCK OUT AND DONT SHOOT.

Eris and cassian, aka caris

WAIT:

It would begin in a setting charged with tension. Perhaps a formal meeting between courts—a high-stakes negotiation where Cassian, representing the Night Court, would once again meet Eris Vanserra, the calculating and haughty heir of the Autumn Court. The air would be thick with barely concealed disdain. Cassian, his broad shoulders stiff with the need to fight, would scowl as Eris approached, every inch the aristocrat in his pristine armor, hair as red as autumn leaves shimmering in the firelight.

Cassian’s hands would flex, instinctively wanting to curl into fists, but Rhysand’s warning echoed in his mind: This is diplomacy, not a battlefield.

Eris’s eyes would flicker over Cassian, amusement dancing in them. "You’re looking particularly brutish today, General," he’d say, his voice a slow, taunting drawl.

"Careful, Eris," Cassian would growl, "I bite."

But in those heated exchanges, something subtle would shift. Cassian would notice the flicker of something behind Eris’s sharp words—a vulnerability hidden beneath layers of cruelty. Eris, for all his manipulation and cunning, wasn’t as impervious as he seemed. The idea would gnaw at Cassian, whether he liked it or not.

The next step toward something deeper would come not from a shared desire, but necessity. Both courts, forced into an alliance against a common enemy, would demand that Cassian and Eris work together. Rhysand and Feyre would push for it, and though Cassian would hate the idea, he would have no choice. The battlefield would demand cooperation.

At first, their partnership would be a disaster. Their egos would clash—Cassian's brute force against Eris’s strategic mind. But slowly, as they fought side by side, something unexpected would emerge: respect. Cassian would begrudgingly admire how Eris maneuvered the battlefield with precision, directing their forces like a chess master. Eris would begin to see beyond Cassian's brute strength, recognizing the fierce loyalty and protectiveness that drove him.

After one particularly brutal fight, where they narrowly escaped death, Eris would look at Cassian with something akin to curiosity. He’d mutter, half to himself, "You’re not as idiotic as you look, you know."

Cassian, breathless from battle, would chuckle, wiping blood from his face. "You’re not as much of a prick as I thought."

That would be the first moment where the heat between them wasn’t just anger—it was something more complex. A shared understanding, a respect for each other's skills, and maybe even the first glimmer of attraction.

But their walls would only come down slowly, piece by piece. The real turning point would happen one night when they were forced to take shelter in a cave, the flames of their campfire casting shadows on the walls. The air would be tense, the quiet between them thick with unspoken words.

Cassian, ever the direct one, would break the silence first. "Why do you do it, Eris? Play their games? Your father’s? Beron’s? You’re better than him."

Eris’s eyes would flash, his cold mask slipping for just a second. "You think I have a choice, Cassian? You think I enjoy being trapped under my father’s rule?"

The vulnerability in Eris’s voice would catch Cassian off guard. He’d expected the usual snide remarks, but instead, there was rawness. For once, Eris wasn’t playing a game. Cassian would be quiet for a moment before he said, "I don’t know your life, but I know what it’s like to feel trapped."

Eris would scoff, the mask slipping back into place. "Please, you were raised by the Night Court’s High Lord, free to be your brutish self."

"I was raised in a war camp," Cassian would snap, the words coming out harsher than he meant. "I wasn’t even part of the Night Court until Rhys made me one of his own. And for a long time, I felt like I didn’t deserve it. Like I didn’t belong."

Eris would go still, staring at Cassian as if seeing him for the first time. He wouldn’t say anything, but there would be an understanding between them, a shared pain that neither of them had spoken aloud before.

Over time, that understanding would deepen. The sarcastic jabs between them would soften into something more playful, and the tension that once had them at each other’s throats would turn into a different kind of tension altogether. It would happen slowly, almost without them realizing it.

The first kiss would come after a particularly heated argument. Eris, tired of pretending, would shove Cassian against a wall in frustration, his hands shaking with fury. Cassian, breathing hard, would grab Eris’s wrists, the heat between them crackling like a fire. And then, without thinking, they’d both lean in—anger turning into something much more explosive.

Afterward, they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at first. The confusion and denial would eat away at both of them. They would fall back into old patterns, bickering and fighting, but now there would be an undercurrent of desire in every word, every glance.

Eventually, though, they wouldn’t be able to ignore it anymore. One night, after another battle, Cassian would find Eris standing alone by a river, staring out at the water. Cassian would approach, silent for once, and stand beside him.

Eris wouldn’t look at him, but after a long pause, he’d say, "It’s easier to hate you, you know."

Cassian would nod, understanding exactly what he meant. "Yeah. Same."

They’d stand there for a long time, the silence between them comfortable now, filled with the weight of everything they’d been through. And then, softly, Eris would admit, "I don’t hate you anymore."

Cassian’s heart would twist at the words. He’d look at Eris, and for the first time, he’d see past the sharp exterior to the man beneath—the one who’d been fighting his own demons for far longer than Cassian had ever known. And he’d realize, with a start, that he didn’t hate Eris either. Not even close.

They wouldn’t need to say the words. Their love would be unspoken, a fire burning quietly between them. But it would be real, undeniable, and powerful.

And it would remain theirs, hidden from the rest of the world. Not until the doors were truly closed.

[robertsbarbie]

Rules: Shuffle your ‘On Repeat’ playlist and post the first 10 tracks, then tag 10 friends to do the same.

tagged by @eddieblrs obviously

(if you all see the majority of these being the same artist mind your own business)

tagging: @deweyduck @personallbest @fearlessplatinums @rorygilmre @caraphernatalia @thekidsarentalright and anyone else who wants to because 10 is a fake number

[stormbreaker-290]

You’re so homosexual,,,,,

Sighhhh,,,,,,, I love you so much, Storm,,, you’re fantastic /silly /gen

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

[makitosh]

Take away the internet from me.

[chiisanaka]

Trying to fight art block, yeah.

Me and @cadriar (we are just brothers)

I already talked about this in private messages, but again, thank you for being there and still not leaving me. If it weren’t for T-Angel and Levaemaa, and if it weren’t for meeting all of you, including you, I don’t know what would have happened to me and where I would be now.

I'm glad I know you, little bro-minipig. :›) /gen /plat

And speedpaint, hehe!

Also special thanks to my friends for inspiring me to draw in the style of TV Girl reference haha

Thank you for your attention! <3

[prythianpages]

What do you mean we get to choose the ending like the fic will be left open to interpretation?

I don’t know how to answer this without completely giving it away since I kind of want it to be a surprise? It’ll make sense once I finish the next part though! 🫶🏽

[taylorswiftdebut]

yall immediately making anything taylor does with her new boyfriend about her old boyfriend is just stupid and mean lmao

[squeakitties]

I'm Mia/Nyan/Meow/Kitty 💖💜🧡🖤 I draw and talk about stuff I like, including a lot of fetish stuff

I have a webcomic @bleedinggodtheory (currently on hiatus, sorry)

My main cast! Pic by @cytricacidart !!

#rubbermon for my concept of ppl turned into rubber pokemon through non-magical means (also my main kink thing) #my art for my art

Here's Mimi! It's me!! (drawn by @raystarkitty !!)

My main OCs and other Sonas below the readmore, with a complete compilation of ALL of my OCs below them!

Mia, Nyan, Meow and Kitty are our main sonas! (Mia and Kitty are drawn by faengelic, Nyan and Meow are drawn by cytricacid!)

Squeaki is a fusion of all of the above and serves as a group sona! (Also by faengelic)

Cameron, Dr. Sylvia, Roffle and Eri are my most relevant and popular non-sona OCs (All but Eri, by lynx3000, were drawn by faengelic too)

And here are ALL of my OCs' biographies!

[yoohyeon]

emerald 💞 and lavender 😈

Biting again 😳 hdjsbdjs ily 💕💞💕💞💕💞

Tell me what you think about me !

[pixelsinmyveins]

Okay so, Dragon Aspects time ^^

Seirye, the Aspect of Light/Harmony

Hellion, the Aspect of Darkness/Void

Inkeri, the Aspect of Spirit

Anuvan, the Aspect of Death (Revan past self)

Erinyes, the Aspect of Life (Eris past self)

Eonormu, the Aspect of Time

Ivrakk, the Aspect of Fire (Ivran past self)

Hiraani, the Aspect of Wind/Air (Neptune past self)

Nemerites, the Aspect of Water (Nemesis past self)

They all supposed to have tails but so far only Nem and Rani have them. ( thank you wifey 💜)

I've been writing so much for these characters and their world, if I ever made it into a book series it would be at least 4 books 😂 I hope to share some of it someday, but for now I'll share pics! I have so many just waiting to be posted ^^

[robertsbarbie]

currently kansas city has a bunch of goats on the loose because we are the most unserious city and everyone in the comments of the news posting is like “praying in four years they multiply enough to over run the city 🙏” “guess our only option it to rename our football team, we’re the GOATs now” “free goats you say” like be so fucking for real 😭

[hrizantemy]

Hi! Can you do a nesta x eris smut scene or where the inner circle is jealous of nesta relationship with others?? We know that nesta is a goddess that everyone worships… if you see where I’m going with this….💜

Okay first of all I’m so sorry I didn’t see this — but yes absolutely I can!!! Nesta being the goddess that everyone secretly (or not-so-secretly) worships? The Inner Circle seething while Eris just gets her in a way they never could? Yeah…

It had been nearly four years since Nesta vanished from the Night Court. Four years since she’d stood, spine stiff, in the House of Wind’s doorway and said nothing at all before she left. Not a goodbye. Not a warning. Not even a last cruel remark. Just gone—taking Eris Vanserra’s outstretched hand and vanishing into Autumn, leaving a silence so loud Feyre still sometimes heard it echo through Velaris.

No one had taken it well. Not Cassian, who had torn through the skies that first night searching for her, wings trembling with desperation. Not Azriel, who had returned after days of hunting, jaw clenched, shadows curling tighter than usual. Not Rhysand, who had been silent—too silent—until the rage cracked and boiled beneath his skin. And Feyre—she hadn’t known how to feel. Betrayed, maybe. Confused. Heartbroken. Not just for her sister, but for all the ways they’d failed to reach her. And yet… a part of her had understood. Nesta had always needed to burn her bridges before she crossed them.

The High Lord of Autumn had died within a year. Beron Vanserra’s corpse had not even grown cold before Eris took the throne. There had been whispers—poison in the goblet, a final push down marble steps, a daemon’s deal struck in blood. Feyre hadn’t cared. None of them had. Not until it became clear Eris wasn’t just ruling. He was changing things. Slowly. Deliberately. He had cut out the rot of Beron’s court and begun building something new.

And Nesta—Nesta was by his side, not as a consort in the shadows, but as his Lady. No one had officially confirmed it, not even the Autumn emissaries, but there was no mistaking the circlet she wore, nor the weight of her silence when questioned. Nesta Vanserra. Feyre hated the sound of it.

Now, seated at a polished table of pale stone in the Dawn Court’s grand solar, Feyre stared across at her sister. Nesta sat beside Eris, dressed in rust-red silk and gold, her hair braided back in a severe, elegant twist. She hadn’t looked at her once. Hadn’t even acknowledged her presence—hadn’t flinched when Rhysand entered, hadn’t shifted when Cassian, silent and brooding as death, took his seat at Feyre��s side. There was nothing in her face. No hint of warmth, no flicker of recognition. Just cold, Autumn stillness. A queen carved of ember and iron.

Thesan’s voice droned on—talks of land disputes, reparations from Hybern’s fallout, trade routes and border control—but Feyre barely heard him. Her gaze was locked on Nesta. Wondering how her sister had become so unreadable. Wondering what had been broken, or reforged, to make her stay. Wondering, perhaps, if Nesta had finally found peace in a court built on ruin and fire. Or if this—this poised, distant creature across from her—was just another mask, worn so tightly that even Feyre could no longer see where the real Nesta began.

The conversation lulled only briefly before Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court, folded his pale hands atop the crystal scroll he’d been reading from. His tone, though unfailingly pleasant, held the subtle edge of irritation—a diplomat’s exhaustion with theatrics. “We’ve heard from Summer and Day, and now from Winter,” he said, his golden gaze drifting across the table. “Spring has remained neutral. Night… silent. But it is time we all speak plainly. The borders are strained. Tensions still flare in the East. Trade stagnates in the North. Peace has been a word more often used than practiced.”

He looked around the table, then added carefully, “Perhaps the Lady of Autumn would care to begin?”

A pause. A tightening of shoulders. A few glances—Feyre felt them, like thorns pricking skin—darted toward her, then to Rhysand, then to Nesta. Even Lucien, seated at the end of the table like a piece no court quite knew what to do with, leaned forward slightly, as if bracing for a blow.

Nesta moved with the elegance of a drawn blade. She did not shift in discomfort, nor cast even a glance toward the Night Court contingent. She simply lifted her chin, placed her hands—graceful, ungloved—on the polished table, and said, “Autumn will not allow itself to become the battlefield for another war. Nor will we play passive witness while other courts suffer. Trade must resume. Travel must be safe. And the treaties of old are no longer enough.”

Her voice was low and smooth, like fire licking at old paper. The accent she had once shared with Feyre was faded now, reshaped by courtly diction and diplomacy. There was no venom, no heat, only clarity—a terrifying, cold certainty.

“We have begun restructuring our northern routes,” she continued, speaking as though she had been born for it. “The rivers are open again to cargo vessels, and the mountain passes will be cleared by next month. We are prepared to share resources and militia aid to any court that requires it. But we will not offer that aid freely. If this peace is to mean anything, it must be held by more than hope. It must be held by consequence. Agreements that are broken will be met with retribution.”

Feyre could feel Cassian tense beside her, could feel Rhysand’s power flicker like stormlight under his skin. Nesta went on, undeterred. “Autumn is ready to sign a new accord. One forged not on the ideals of the past, but on the reality of the present. We do not forget the war. We do not forget who stood and who fled. And we will not forget who remains silent now.”

Silence fell—true silence. Even Thesan’s ever-poised face showed a flicker of surprise. No one had expected Nesta to speak. Not so directly. Not with power laced beneath every word like a gauntlet of molten steel. And when Eris finally leaned back, amusement curling faintly at the corner of his mouth, he didn’t interrupt her. He didn’t correct or temper her words. He let her speak for Autumn as if the title she wore was not merely ornamental—but earned.

The silence stretched taut, brittle as glass. Feyre felt it in her bones, the way the room held its breath in the wake of Nesta’s words. It wasn’t just that she’d spoken—it was how. The steel in her voice, the certainty in her posture, the way she had commanded the space like it was hers by right. Not a woman plucked from the gutter, not a sister burdened by grief or shame or the ashes of war—but a High Lady in everything but name. A wolf cloaked in fire and blood-red silk. And the worst part was—Feyre didn’t know whether to be proud or afraid.

Then Rhysand spoke.

His voice was velvet and venom, the kind that softened right before it sank its teeth in. “Bold words, Lady Nesta,” he said, drawing every eye in the chamber toward him. His expression was calm, unreadable, but Feyre could feel the current shifting under his skin, dark and cold and rising like a tide. “Especially from someone who abandoned her people without so much as a backward glance.”

There it was. The first strike.

Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Eris turned slightly, as if to speak, but she touched his arm once—barely a gesture, yet enough to still him. She looked only at Rhysand, and something flickered in her eyes—faint, too quick to read. Then it was gone. Only the silence remained.

Rhysand leaned forward, his hands clasped, elbows on the polished stone. “You speak of peace, of structure, of unity—but let’s not pretend your presence here isn’t a power play. Beron is barely cold in his grave, and already you sit at Eris’s right hand, draped in the spoils of your new allegiance. You speak of not forgetting who fled—but remind me, Nesta, who exactly ran first?”

“Enough,” Thesan began, but Rhysand didn’t stop.

“You fled from your court. From your family. From your responsibilities. You left the House that fed you, the court that sheltered you, the people who mourned you. You vanished and reappeared with a new title and a crown no one saw placed. And now you sit here as though you built this peace from ash and blood. Don’t lecture us about consequence.”

Nesta rose.

Not abruptly, not in a way that suggested she was shaken or angry. But like smoke rising from the heart of a fire—slow, inevitable, consuming. “I fled,” she said, her voice low and steady, “because I was drowning. And I found no lifeline in Night. Only hands that held me under.”

The words hit like a slap, and Feyre felt something in her chest fracture.

“I did not take Eris’s offer out of ambition. I took it because it was the first one that did not come with a leash. He did not ask me to kneel. He did not ask me to be good. He asked if I wanted to start over.” Her gaze swept across the room. “And I did.”

The silence returned, but this time it was sharp. Charged. Not even the wind stirred outside the high glass windows of the Dawn Court. Only the echo of Nesta’s voice remained, heavy in the air like smoke refusing to clear.

And Feyre, heart hammering in her chest, realized that no matter what side Nesta stood on now—she had never been more powerful. Or more alone.

Eris didn’t speak right away. He let the silence simmer—let the weight of Nesta’s words soak into the stone walls and polished floor of the Dawn Court’s solar. There was a sharpness to him even in stillness, like a blade resting beside a hearth—waiting, not idle. His crimson tunic, embroidered with delicate golden leaves, shimmered faintly in the sunlight filtering through the glass dome above. A cruel, quiet opulence. He ran a single finger along the rim of his goblet, watching the others like a fox studying the henhouse, his golden eyes glittering with something that almost looked like satisfaction. Or perhaps warning.

And then, softly, he said, “My Lady speaks not out of ambition, but from memory.”

The room bristled—Feyre felt it again, that tension like lightning under her skin. She looked toward him, and the sight of Eris Vanserra so at ease, so utterly in control beside Nesta, sent a cold trail of unease down her spine. This wasn’t the jaded, smirking heir of Autumn they had known for years. This was a ruler. And he was dangerous in a new, chilling way.

Eris stood now, but not with fanfare. His movement was smooth, practiced. Every inch of him spoke of courtly precision and leashed violence. “The truth is inconvenient, I know,” he said, voice calm as ever, almost bored. “But let’s not pretend that the Night Court has ever handled its own well. I remember how you all treated her—like a problem to be fixed. A beast to be tamed. You cloaked it in kindness, of course, in missions and offers and friendship, but it was always conditional, wasn’t it?”

He turned slightly, gold eyes finding Rhysand. “Be what we need you to be, or be nothing. Be grateful, or be gone.” A thin smile curled his lips. “Well, she is gone. And I would suggest you all start adjusting to the fact that she is never returning to your little court of starlight and half-truths.”

Rhysand’s power darkened beside Feyre, as if the very air recoiled from Eris’s words. Cassian’s hand twitched where it rested against his sword belt, but Eris didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as glance at him. His attention was fixed only on Rhysand, as though this entire performance had always been for him.

“Autumn is no longer a fractured court ruled by the whims of a tyrant. It is mine. And I will not allow it to be spoken down to, diminished, or used. Nesta rules beside me. She is not my pet, not my project. She is my equal.” He paused, letting the words settle, and there was something like steel beneath his voice when he added, “And any insult to her is an insult to me.”

The implication hung in the air like a blade.

Feyre swallowed hard. Across the table, Nesta hadn’t moved—hadn’t even blinked. But the faintest motion of her head, the way she inclined it just slightly toward Eris… it wasn’t affection. It was recognition. Deference. Respect. There was a strange, terrible intimacy to it. The kind that wasn’t born in love or passion, but in survival. In fire forged alliances.

Eris smiled then, just a flash of white teeth. “Now,” he said, drawing the attention of Thesan and the others once more, “shall we return to the discussion of peace treaties, or shall we continue airing personal grievances disguised as diplomacy?”

And just like that, with a flick of his wrist and the cold brilliance of his poise, Eris Vanserra shifted the balance of the room. He had taken control of the conversation. And the worst part—the most terrifying part—was that no one stopped him. Not even Rhysand.

Tarquin’s voice broke through the silence again, and this time there was a different note in it—measured, deliberate, but no less resolute. He sat straighter in his seat, his golden skin catching the soft light of the Dawn Court’s great dome, his sea-glass eyes focused not on Rhysand, but on Eris—and then, deliberately, on Nesta. “The Summer Court will stand with Autumn,” he said. His words were not loud, but they rang with clarity, as undeniable as the crash of surf against a cliff. “We will support open trade through your rivers and ports, and extend the same to our own. If you seek a new accord rooted in structure and accountability—not fear—we will sign it. If you extend peace, we will return it.”

He didn’t smile, didn’t perform his alliance for the room. He simply laid it down like a stone in the foundation of something new. “We’ve spent too long nursing old wounds and waiting for old grudges to heal. The world has changed. It’s still changing. We can either move with it or be crushed by it. I choose to move forward—with those who are willing to rebuild.”

Feyre felt Rhysand stiffen beside her, the cool, slow press of his power shifting beneath his skin. But Tarquin didn’t even glance his way. His focus was unwavering. His loyalty, quiet but firm.

Then Kallias stood, the fur-lined mantle of his rank draped around his shoulders like a second skin. Viviane rose with him, her hand brushing briefly against his—unspoken unity between them as clear as ice under moonlight. “Winter agrees,” Kallias said, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air that now whispered through the solar. “We’ve had enough of isolation. Enough of old debts and colder silence. If Autumn offers peace, and demands honor to uphold it, then Winter will honor it in return. Our caravans will resume their routes through your forests. Our soldiers will not march past your borders unless invited.”

Kallias nodded once, firm. “Winter stands with Autumn. For peace. For trade. For what comes next.”

And there it was. A shift in the axis of power. Not shouted, not dramatic—but unmistakable. Tarquin and Kallias had both spoken, and with their courts behind them, the room no longer tilted so heavily in Night’s favor. The old alliances, once ironclad in the aftermath of war, were fraying. Nesta had not only survived—she had reshaped the board. And Feyre sat in stunned silence, wondering if any of them had ever truly understood her sister at all.

The air remained heavy with the weight of declaration and shifting allegiance, but Thesan—ever the graceful mediator—broke the tension with a slow, measured breath. His sun-gold robes shimmered as he leaned forward, lips curving into a subtle smile that was equal parts diplomatic charm and genuine amusement. “It seems,” he said lightly, “that the tide is changing faster than some of us anticipated.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter—strained, uncertain—moved around the table. But Thesan didn’t press it. Instead, he reached for the scroll resting near his elbow, one sealed with a pale green ribbon. He held it aloft between two fingers, the wax mark of the Spring Court glinting under the stained glass light.

“Though High Lord Tamlin could not be here in person,” Thesan said, unrolling the parchment with practiced elegance, “he did see fit to send a formal letter regarding Spring’s current position on the matter of open borders and regional cooperation.”

He read it aloud, his voice steady and melodic, made for diplomacy. “The Spring Court recognizes the necessity of cross-court collaboration in this era of rebuilding. As such, we will begin opening our southern borders to trade routes passing through both Autumn and Summer. The court is stable, its lands recovering, and we offer our hand to those who approach in good faith.”

Thesan paused, lifting his gaze as the scroll curled faintly in his hands. “Tamlin further writes that while he has no immediate intention of signing a formal alliance, he does not oppose the restructuring of trade agreements and will abide by any newly ratified treaties agreed upon at this council. In other words,” he said with a soft chuckle, “Spring is prepared to cooperate—and quietly.”

Around the table, there were nods—some surprised, some approving. Eris didn’t even bother to hide his smirk, and beside him, Nesta remained still, her hands folded neatly before her, eyes unreadable.

Thesan smiled again, folding the scroll with crisp precision. “It would appear that, for the first time in a long time, the courts are beginning to speak the same language.”

Helion lounged back in his seat like a lion sunbathing on a marble dais, the golden embroidery on his robes catching the light as if the Day Court itself had stitched the stars into the fabric. For all his ease, there was a watchfulness in his gaze—sharp, amused, and entirely unbothered by the tension winding tighter around the table. He tapped one ringed finger against the arm of his chair, then lifted his gaze toward Thesan and said, in a voice as rich and smooth as aged wine, “Well, it seems Day will have to join the celebration.”

His words carried with them the warm glow of sunlight, but underneath was the bite of something more cunning. “The Day Court is prepared to open its southern routes and offer trade to Autumn, Summer, and Winter alike. Our scholars have long anticipated the need for new accords—ones that reflect the current state of power, not the remnants of old grudges. We’ve already begun preparations to establish embassies in border regions, and I’ve instructed my court architects to draft plans for a joint market initiative near our shared edges with Autumn and Summer.”

He smiled faintly, almost lazily, but there was weight behind the words—an unmistakable signal that Day would not be left behind in this emerging alliance. “We are ready to sign the new treaty, assuming the final terms are as mutually beneficial as promised.” He glanced toward Eris and Nesta, then gave the latter a slow, approving nod. “It is refreshing, truly, to see power used to build rather than dominate. You’ve constructed something worthy of respect, Lady Autumn.”

Feyre felt Rhysand go still beside her. Not a twitch. Not a sound. But his shadows coiled tighter like snakes preparing to strike, and the flicker of power beneath his skin turned colder, sharper. She could feel him calculating—measuring the weight of each word spoken, watching the table he had once dominated slowly turn without him.

Helion, ever the showman, folded his hands together and turned his bright, clever gaze directly on Rhysand. “Which means, unless I’ve miscounted—and I rarely do—Day, Summer, Winter, Spring, Dawn, and Autumn are all prepared to move forward. Which leaves only Night.”

Silence.

“Curious,” he added, with the arch of a single brow and a tilt of his head that dripped with theatrical flair, “how quickly the world shifts, doesn’t it? Night once led the charge. But now… it seems the stars have gone dim.”

It was a masterful blow—wreathed in elegance, wrapped in gold, but no less devastating for its beauty. Feyre’s pulse roared in her ears. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room swinging toward them now. Toward Rhysand. Toward her.

And across the table, Nesta did not flinch. She did not smirk. She simply watched. Cold and quiet. Waiting to see what her former court would do next.

The air was so tight with tension Feyre thought she might choke on it. Shadows licked at the edges of Rhysand’s frame, faint and flickering like the final coils of smoke from a dying fire. He hadn’t moved a muscle during Helion’s calculated strike—hadn’t even blinked when the High Lords had spoken in turn, pledging trade, allegiance, and cooperation with the court of Autumn. Not a single ripple of power escaped him, but Feyre knew him too well. She could feel it—how the silence was not strength, but pressure. Cracking glass. Fracturing pride. He had been backed into a corner, and Rhysand had never been a male who tolerated corners well.

He stood slowly, every inch of him a portrait of polished elegance and simmering restraint. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth, but it scraped like ice against glass. “The Night Court,” he said carefully, “will consider the terms of this alliance. We will review the proposed treaties, assess the implications for our existing borders and trade routes, and determine the best course of action for our people.”

It was noncommittal. Political. A vague promise wrapped in courtly language. But everyone at the table knew exactly what it meant.

He was cornered. And he was buying time.

Feyre watched the way his violet eyes scanned the others—assessing, weighing. His gaze lingered on Eris for a breath too long, unreadable, before it drifted to Nesta. Still, she didn’t move. Not even to look away. She simply met his stare, calm as a queen carved from cold stone. And Rhysand… for the first time in years, Feyre saw something unfamiliar on his face.

Uncertainty.

He turned to Thesan next, offering a faint, tight smile. “I trust the Dawn Court will allow us a few days to draft our response.”

Thesan inclined his head graciously, though the glint in his eyes said he had heard exactly what Rhysand hadn’t said. The entire room had. There had once been a time when Night would have led the charge—when Rhysand’s voice alone would have turned the tide. But now, he stood on the edge of a new order—one that had formed without him, and was solidifying by the moment.

Feyre’s hands curled in her lap beneath the table, her palms slick with a cold sweat. She could feel the fracture lines splintering beneath their feet. Not just in politics. In power. In perception. They had ruled as the court of innovation, of rebellion, of glory—and yet now, it was Nesta who had turned rebellion into a crown, who had built something fierce and functional out of her own ashes.

Rhysand sat again, slower this time, as if to remind them all he was still a High Lord. Still power incarnate. But Feyre knew the truth. She saw it in the fine set of his jaw, in the coil of shadows that would not settle.

He’d just been outmaneuvered.

And Nesta hadn’t needed magic to do it—only a voice, and a table of ears finally willing to listen.

[frownyalfred]

That "Hal Jordan sending Bruce an admiration message first thing before potential death" post you just reblogged has convinced me of the Hal having a fucking crush. Clark is the guy who will not say a hecking thing and follow the object of his affections around and Hal is the guy who would tug on the girl's fucking pigtails. This man hears that Clark and Bruce decided to have/had casual sex and immediately ups the asshole-ery to 175%.

God I love them 💜 Batlantern/Superbat SUPREMACY.

[shadowdaddies]

Ready for another azriel request??? I’m rereading the series right now so I’m BEGGING for some azriel action😭 I was thinking something a little angsty maybe azriel and the reader (obviously mated) get into an argument or he snaps at her or something like that (you can decide) and so she starts to distance herself and one day she gets attacked or kidnapped or something (again you can decide) and azriel is panicking and stuff. I just really want some groveling or begging or something idk. Ending with fluff obviously. Sorry all of my requests are long and detailed😭 thank you thooo❤️

hey love! I planned this out awhile ago but I've been busy with visiting family; thank you for the request as always💜

There With You

Azriel x Reader

warnings: reader is captured but no explicit torture, miscommunication trope

The rustling of leaves sounded to your right, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at your hip as you and Azriel looked to the source of the noise.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding blew from your lips at the sight of the crow landing in the tree, dried Autumn leaves drifting to the ground beneath the creature.

Allowing your hand to drop from your weapon, you continued your walk through the wood, the distraction of the bird causing your misstep. 

The branch underneath your boot cracked in an echo that seemed to silence the rest of the forest, the world growing eerily quiet around you for a moment. Azriel stood still as stone to your left, hazel eyes simmering with something akin to anger.

“You need to be more careful,” he murmured, voice as soft and cutting as the cool wind that whipped through the air. Holding back the sigh that aimed to leave your lips, you hissed through your teeth, gaze slicing to meet your mate’s. 

“I stepped on a branch, Azriel,” you retorted, face growing heated at the awareness of how something as small as a snapping branch could blow your mission. Nonetheless, the condescension with which Az was speaking to you was enough to lead you to dig your heels in for this argument. “A cracked stick in the forest isn’t going to summon the entire Autumn Court,” you muttered bitterly.

A scarred hand took your arm in a gentle but firm grip. “You know well that we do not need to summon the High Court. A farmer looking to gain favor with Beron could see us. That is all it would take to destroy the mission...” he trailed off, removing his hand to drag it over his tired features. 

“I told Rhys this was a bad strategy. He knows how much more difficult you make this,” your mate grumbled, barely loud enough for you to hear. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stopped abruptly.

Azriel’s eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly as his head turned to you. Before he could speak, you raised a stiff hand, pausing him in his own tracks. “I make this difficult? I didn’t realize what a burden I am, Azriel.” The words spewed from you in a fountain of anger, welling up inside, hands clenched at your sides.

“Let’s go in different directions. We’ll cover ground more quickly, and we can find the book and get out of here... without making this anymore difficult for you,” you shot over your shoulder, shaking off the shadow that tried to keep you from walking away.

A soft huff sounded from behind you, betraying the feelings of guilt you could feel through the bond before you shut it off. Drawing your dagger, you angrily whacked at any branches and leaves that dared cross your path, stomping through the wood in search of the book Eris had taken from his father’s study for you. 

Blinded by your anger, you missed the sound of soldiers being winnowed in behind you until it was too late. The rush of leaves on the wind perked your ears, but by the time that you turned to see one of the Vanserra brothers behind you with his guard, a circle of fire had engulfed you. 

Walls of flame surrounded you, a dome of heat drawing the oxygen from your lungs as black spotted your vision. Opening the bond with your little remaining strength, you felt Azriel’s panic before losing consciousness. 

~~~

You awoke in a damp room, dark save for the flickering fae light in the center of the cell. Head pounding you force your eyes to take in the cold, wet stone, the wall to which you are chained. 

Mouth dry with thirst, your head bobs towards the creaking door, a vaguely familiar figure stepping through it. “Keep this closed. We don’t need anyone above hearing what happens in here.” Dark laughter sounded from the guards as they dutifully closed the heavy door.

The moment the bar slid into the lock, amber eyes shot to you, Eris’s voice laced with concern as he spoke. “Where is Azriel?” he demanded, a soft hand cupping your jaw as he helped you focus on him. 

Swallowing thickly, you gazed up at the flaming red hair, burning whiskey eyes that demanded an answer that you wouldn’t, couldn’t give. “We split to cover more ground quickly,” you muttered, a half-truth. “We were struggling to find the book you left for us.”

The last part came out as a hiss, Eris’s hand dropping from you as though burned by your words. Any sign of pity left his expression, the mask of Autumn Lord slipping on easily. “Of course he would struggle with such simple instructions,” he drawled, looking down at you, a cat toying with a mouse.

An exasperated huff of laughter escaped you at the male bravado. “If you could discard whatever issue exists between you two for one moment,” you shot back, “I would appreciate some assistance - perhaps some context - to our current situation.” 

Yanking on the chains for emphasis, your expression turned from teasing to paled at Eris’s grim reaction. The Lord’s lips thinned as he blew out a quiet breath, golden eyes searching the thick walls of the room before he dared to speak.

“I cannot let you escape under my watch,” he muttered, a hand running through the deep red of his hair, gears turning in his head. “Azriel knows where you are. I have asked one of my more... inept brothers, to guard you while I arrange a meeting with my father.”

Flames danced in his eyes, searing intensity reminding you of Eris’s power when he turned to you. “If any harm comes to my younger brother, be assured that your mate will regret ever crossing the boundary into my Court.”

Something sparked inside of you at his words, the intensity with which Eris defended his family. Respect welled deep inside of you, breath short as you nodded. “I will keep your family safe, Eris,” you breathed, fighting the smile that tugged at your lips as his features softened under the comfort of your promise.

“Make sure your bond is open so that he can sense you,” Eris directed, turning on his heel to leave. You did as he said, opening your bond as you reached out in any direction for where Azriel might be. Eris’s steps halted for a moment, a sharp catch in his breath before he shook his head, hand lifting to knock on the cell door. 

Eris didn’t bother to look back when he strode through the archway, graceful steps leading him from the depths of your enclosure. One guard flashed his yellow teeth in a grin that sent disgust through you, your middle finger struggling to angle in response before he slammed the door.

No sooner had the dust settled from the sliding entryway than shadows swirled in front of you, Azriel materializing in the darkness. Your mate collapsed to the ground in front of you, his knees hitting stone as wings sagged behind him.

“I am so sorry,” he choked out, hazel eyes glowing with unshed tears in the dim light, “I failed you.” Your heart cleaved in two at his statement, shaking your head vigorously as you fought to keep your own emotions in check. 

“Azriel, you didn’t fail me. I am the one who left, who makes things difficult...” you swallowed at those words, shame overwhelming at the thought of holding back your mate, your Court. 

Panic was etched across Azriel’s features as he reached for your chains, regret and love flowing through the bond. “No,” he ground out, “that is not what I meant.” His forehead rested against yours, slick with sweat as the shackles broke free.

A scarred hand found your cheek, the outside world ceasing to exist as Azriel’s gaze focused on you. “I am a fool,” he murmured. “I meant to say that missions with you are difficult because you are all that I can focus on, you are all that I care about. I am the burden, because I would throw away any mission, any Court, any world to keep you safe.” 

His throat worked, voice thick as his lashes wetted with tears. “And yet I still failed you, still nearly lost you because of my own inability-“ 

Arms wrapping around him, you ignored your wrists, sore from the shackles, in favor of twining your hands at the nape of your mate’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Love and admiration flowed both ways through your connection, and despite everything, you couldn’t fight the smile you offered Azriel.

“You are not, and have never been a failure, Azriel. You are my love, my perfect mate, and I should have stayed to communicate instead of trying to prove myself to the one person who I know I don’t have anything to prove to.” 

Azriel nodded, a beautiful smile stretching across his lips as he lifted you into his arms. “You are perfect. And I am sorry that I ever let you forget it,” he whispered, sweeping you into a pool of shadows as he transported you out of the dungeons.

Once more you were surrounded by the crisp air of the Autumn Forest, the moonlight shining down on the babbling brook as you walked hand-in-hand with your mate. “We still have to find the book,” you noted, bumping Azriel’s shoulder in playful reminder.

He laughed softly, hand reaching into the side pocket of his leathers to pull out a small leather-bound journal, waving it in the air. “Found it just as I heard the Autumn soldiers,” he grimaced, eyes shuttering at the memory. 

Your hand found his arm, giving a reassuring squeeze as you leaned your head against him, quiet comfort settling over the two of you. 

“Let’s head home, then,” you whispered. “I could use a warm bath.” You felt Azriel’s lips press against your hair, strong arms scooping you up effortlessly.

Azriel’s warm breath tickled your neck, shadows dancing as the Autumn Court began to fade around you, darkness swallowing the landscape. “As long as I get to be there with you.”