jasmineandcedar

[jasmineandcedar]

What it Echoed

An Azriel inspired poem

TW: Erasure

This poem is about someone like Azriel, before they meet their Elain. Before they meet someone who hears their pulse and recognizes it, because theirs beat in the same rhythm.

This is about being confined, then used, then misread, until misreading becomes rewriting and rewriting turns into erasure. Until only an imprint remains, like a fossil in stone, and the cost of that erasure goes unnoticed.

(This is a reworked version of a section of my ‘Finding Elriel’ post, turned into free verse. This one is quite sad, so if you want the more hopeful continuation to this, you might want to read that post instead).

--What it Echoed--

It echoed of a boy meant for the sky, pressed beneath weight like a fossil

A silhouette enclosed, Wild and winged, Contained— Until containment defined him

A record of a life never lived.

That echo of a boy turned into the echo of a man— an imprint in stone, where once a pulse whispered.

He offered the remnant, that fragment of the wild thing, Silent, when they mistook it for all there was

For all there once was, he had already learned how to hollow into residue.

Pressed into the bedrock beneath their footing

One layer— then another, and another, until stasis became sediment and sediment hardened into stone.

A fossil in motion— shaped by the weight that buried him.

For erosion began when, beneath what they never saw, the pulse they never checked, they buried the bedrock they stood on.

Needed, but never known

Until not knowing became replacing

Until he disappeared in plain sight— like a living thing fading into stone

Until only the imprint remained.

And no one had ever listened to what it echoed.

[jasmineandcedar]

Recognition is a Sacred Thing | Finding Elriel

I haven’t come back to the fandom to stay. Not yet, at least. But I did just come back from a return to the story where it all started, which opened a door I hadn’t meant to enter, and here I am.

This is not a manifesto. I am not here to persuade in a place where narrative has blurred into noise, when I’ve already found my one clear note. I’m just here to remember. This is simply a quiet reflection on what I recognized in that clear note amid static, and how that recognition became my sanctuary.

This is not me looking ahead. Not for announcements, confirmation, resolution or closure. This is anti-closure, because that’s where yearning lives and yearning is where I live. This is me looking into the rearview mirror, at the story I was already told and the reflection it offered back. This is where I step into my own sanctuary, built in prose and memory, and leave the door ajar--for those who come quietly.

When I first read this series, years ago, I wasn’t looking for Elriel. I wasn’t reading it hoping to find a ship that spoke to me like they do. I was reading for the storytelling. I ended up finding a story written in whispers, in a genre that shouts. Something that started in the margins, slowly being written into the spine of the narrative.

I found it in glances and small gestures.

In a soft word breathed against the symbol of his shame, rewriting a lifetime of pain. Beautiful.

In a question asked, when others made decisions. An outstretched hand that gave her a voice, when the world had always spoken for her. Would you like me to show you the garden?

Peace and quiet.

I found it not just in Azriel, not just in Elain, but in the space between them. A space shaped like a home built inside a battlefield. It wasn’t grand, but intimate.

I wanted to live in it.

Finding Elriel was never a ship, nor a trope, to me. It felt like stumbling into a meadow after having spent years backed into a corner. It felt like reading a story that had listened to me first. A story not written in loud proclamations but in the tension between what is felt and what is allowed. A story not about what is shouted but what is left unsaid. Not about crescendo but about quiet alignment. The kind of love story I didn’t think romantasy made room for. One that didn’t demand attention but drew you in like arms held open in beckoning.

Reading them felt personal. Like I didn’t just read a story, it read me. It felt like Sarah had split my soul in two and given each half a name. Each one resonating with how I move through the world, how I love, how I carry silence and longing and how, sometimes, holding back feels like the only way to survive.

I relate to them.

They might have begun in the margins of someone else’s story, and to some they may not speak the way they do to me. But for those of us who’ve lived in margins--in the shadows or under the weight of a mould made for someone we’re not--it doesn’t take much to recognize what’s unfolding there.

To me, Elriel is for all the quiet souls used to being overlooked.

For those who are misread and told their story doesn’t deserve telling because it doesn’t demand to be heard over anyone else’s.

For those who’ve had to shrink themselves to survive the noise and mould themselves to the shape of someone else’s clay, just to survive.

For those who’ve learned to speak in glances and care in silence. Who’ve loved in secret because their love is wrong by the standards of someone louder.

For those who respond to the unsafe with internal exile, because they have nowhere left to go but inward.

For those who give trust slowly and carefully but give it fully when they do.

I am grateful that this is a story Sarah gave me even if it was never a story that yelled to be told.

So, what was the story I was given? What was it I found?

I found reverence. I found Azriel.

I found him neither in loud proclamations nor in battlefields, but in the tiny shape of a boy who once couldn’t speak and was punished for it. A boy locked in silence and darkness, who learned that shrinking was safer than asking to be seen. A boy who wore his silence like the dark surface of a still lake. Unreadable, but hiding a world roaring with the life he was never allowed to live. A boy meant for the sky, instead pressed beneath weight like a beautiful fossil. An echo of something wild and winged that should have been free to soar, instead preserved only because it was forced into compression.

The record of a life never lived.

Until he wasn’t just contained, he was containment incarnate.

A beautiful fossil in motion.

I saw that quiet boy turn into a quiet man who offered all he had--himself. And when the world took it, and took it for granted, he learned to vanish inside what was left.

He waits in silence, listens more than he speaks. He carries emotion like a blade tucked between his ribs because he feels everything so deeply that one wrong move feels like it would ruin him.

Restraint becomes the only form of survival.

He feels everything but says nothing. Not out of coldness, but out of reverence. Because he is the kind of man who follows the laughter of the woman he loves, just so he could be witness to her joy.

He rubs his temples when the room gets too loud, but when it’s only him and the woman he loves, he laughs softly at a joke meant for his ears alone.

He hides at family dinners, not because he doesn’t care but because caring hurts when you can’t act on it and your love language is acts of service.

He’s a man who would rather suffer in silence than disturb the shape of a precious memory. A man who would rather endure the ache if it means preserving the gift that made the world a little gentler, when gentleness has always been the shape of his sanctuary. The gift of a headache powder, meant to soothe but never used. Becasue in a world that won’t allow their love, memory becomes its only home.

It isn’t detachment, it is depth. It isn’t coldness, but reverence. Not passivity, but restraint. Because his reverence isn’t allowed an outlet. And then it folds in on itself like a dying star.

He’s not a man with nothing to say, but one fluent in a language most never learn to hear.

The kind where love isn’t declared--it’s enacted.

Shaped into gestures laid gently at another’s feet, asking nothing in return. Always there, offering everything, never assuming it would be seen, never placing himself at the centre of the giving. And when the offering goes unnoticed, no one thinks to ask what it cost to give. Becasue when care is quiet and offered willingly, it is easy to assume it comes without effort.

But even a wellspring can run dry.

I found a man pressed into emotional stasis by a world that only wanted him when he was useful. Carved into a pillar others leaned on--never once asked what it cost him to bear their weight. Because when the surface is still, no one asks if there’s a pulse, only how much more weight it can bear. And then the weight piles on, until stasis becomes sediment, and sediment hardens into stone.

A beautiful fossil in motion, shaped by the weight that tried to bury him.

But even a stone erodes.

They didn’t just forget to check if his heart was beating before they buried him. They etched assumptions into his surface, just like they did to the boy who once couldn’t speak and was punished for it. Who became the bedrock they stood on.

Needed but never known.

Until not knowing him became rewriting him. Until he disappeared in plain sight, like a statue fades into ruin. Until he felt nothing, was nothing. Until only silence remained. And no one had ever listened to what it said.

But someone else found him too, and she didn’t flinch. She doesn’t try to crack the stone. She traces it--like fingertips over ancient inscriptions. She doesn’t try to break down walls by force. She is simply soft enough to slip through the cracks. Like mist sweeping through moors or a seedling breaking through concrete.

She joins him where he is already hiding.

She never demands that he speaks, she simply listens to his being. She brushes the dust off the fossil--not to expose him, but to see him. To reveal that echo of a life never lived until she hears its pulse.

And then he comes alive.

In the strange, disorienting way of someone rediscovering their pulse. A hand offered. A soft chuckle. A small smile he can’t hide.

And then she blushes and takes his hand.

She gives him soft things. Not to impress, but to comfort. Gifts shaped into memories, where their love is safe. Settling like moss on stone--soft, quiet and alive.

She says, “I saw how the world wears on you. Let me make it softer. Let me let you rest.” In return, he takes the weight off her shoulders and says, “Sit, I’ll take care of it”.

In a world full of warriors, he centres the quietest woman in the room.

Because she listened for the pulse no one else had sought.

I found grace. I found Elain.

I found a girl shaped by the expectation to be pleasing and palatable. A girl who learned to measure her own presence carefully, to make herself small to keep the world around her undisturbed, just to preserve the only version of peace she was allowed.

Her silence was mistaken for emptiness. Because she lived in a world where speaking yourself into being was required, so if she said nothing, she must be nothing.

A girl who was assumed oblivious because she didn’t correct their assumptions.

Who stayed silent not because she was empty--not because she was nothing--but because her inner world was too sacred to her to pour it into anyone who hadn’t shown they could be trusted with it.

I found a girl that turned into a woman suffocating beneath the comfort others built on her erasure and, still, she remained kind.

She’s so soft, people assume she’ll break under pressure. But her softness is never fragility, it is fortitude. She doesn’t break. She isn’t delicate. She's Like lavender, softening the air after storms and drought. Like hydrangea, shifting hue with the soil beneath her.

She bends, adapts, and survives--and still offers kindness.

She’s not passive, she’s attuned.

She doesn’t interrupt a room, she reads it. She sees what hurts and doesn’t demand an explanation. She simply answers, without having been asked to. That is not passivity, but the most deliberate of actions. That is a gardener. One who tends not just to plants but to people. One who doesn’t just make things grow, but notices what’s buried beneath the surface.

She is what would emerge if sunshine were given form. Someone nurturing and life-giving.

I found a woman who builds things. Who creates warmth and peace with her own hands and offers it freely. Her gifts are not performative, but precise. Not posturing, but personal. A joke no one else would understand. A remedy only someone who had been watching, and cared about what she saw, would think to give.

Someone else found her too, and he didn’t try to mould her into something louder. He doesn’t look at her as if her softness is a symptom or a flaw, as if she can’t possibly know her own mind. He never tries to protect her from herself but protects her right to be herself. He doesn’t need for her to prove her worth but simply recognizes it.

He sees her, quiet and attuned and fluent in his mother tongue. Spoken not in words but in silence and offerings.

He understands that her silence isn’t absence.

It is presence, veiled.

Pulse, buried.

Like fossils whispering of a world before language. Like roots humming with life beneath a garden. He knows that, sometimes, silence is the loudest kind of saying--if someone only knows how to listen.

He is not a rescuer but a refuge. A quiet clearing.

A man who offers not demands or conditions, but presence. And for the woman whose life was always ruled by the expectations of others, that kind of love isn’t just comforting--it is clarity. It is realizing that she never needed to become anything louder to be worth love.

That kind of love is permission. That she doesn’t have to speak herself into being, she already is. And who she already is--graceful, attentive, and caring--is not only enough, but it is revered.

She blushes, he waits. She offers, he stays. And then, she permits.

And in that rhythm, something grows. Neither fast, nor loud, but steady and alive. A trust born not of words, but of gestures. Of presence. Of fluent silence.

Their mother tongue.

I found a sanctuary. I found Elriel.

I found a love story that began in the margins but never as an afterthought. A romance that is as structured and intentional as a sonnet--restrained, precise and elegant--because what is being said is too sacred and intimate to pour freely.

A thing of secret, lovely beauty passed from hand to hand in silence.

It’s a romance that lives in glances and brushing fingers. In offerings, and in the weight of words not spoken aloud but through actions and through how the body always betrays our innermost longings.

Because even the quiet ones have crushes.

You see it in the bob of a throat, the sudden stillness of breath, a smile blooming, cheeks blushing. In the aching pauses where no one says it, but everything is already said through gazes that linger.

You see it in how she doesn’t ask him to speak, yet he speaks more freely with her than anyone else. You see it in the way he never asks her to be bold for him, but she is anyway. Like a secret, lovely and slightly wicked thing, wrapped in the quiet of night. And he just chuckles softly, as if to say, “don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe.”

It is the kind of romance I didn’t expect to find in this genre. I braced for spectacle, loud declarations, drama and battles. Instead I found that romance shaped not like a battlefield but like a home. Soft and comforting. Not like raging fires or burning embers, but like the warmth of flickering tea-lights in a kitchen window.

They don’t have the banter of enemies turning lovers. But the intimacy of two quiet souls looking at the world and finding each other in its quietest corner. Their jokes are whispered behind the world’s back, meant only for each other. Not through a dynamic of antagonism but one of allegiance with each other, against a world that always misunderstood them. An intimacy so deep its' painful.

After never having been fully seen, after having given up on translating their beings into the language of a world that never bothered to offer them the same courtesy, they found someone who understands them without needing translation. Without needing to bend or mould or change.

They see each other as they are, not as the world demands they be. They never try to fix what is tender, they never try to harden what is soft. They offer not challenge but presence, space and a place to breathe.

Azriel is reverence. Elain is grace. Together, they are a sanctuary.

A clear note amid static.

An exhale.

A place where nothing needs to be forced into clarity, because they have already chosen to meet each other in the dark, where no one else thought to look, in the quietest corner of the world. And in that corner they’ve seen each other.

To me, Elriel is what happens when containment is finally allowed relief. When longing is not ripped apart by rushing, but softened into something peaceful and deep. When people who have always held their breath around others finally find that one person who lets them exhale.

It’s that open meadow after a lifetime backed into corners or pressed beneath layers of weight.

Elriel was not a pairing I came looking for. It is one I recognized. Because it spoke a language I already understood.

My mother tongue.

I don’t want to stop writing whatever this is, because I don’t want to leave this sanctuary.

This was meant to stay a private reflection, but I’ll make my holy place open to the public just this once.

To me, finding Elriel was like stepping into a sanctuary. Finding Elriel was like being seen. Quietly, from across a loud room, by someone who already spoke my language, even when I hadn’t said a word.

Perhaps this post should have stayed a draft. But recognition is a sacred thing. And I wanted to honour it.

And I didn’t want to leave on a note of weariness. I wanted to leave on that clear note I found amid static.

I wanted to leave something beautiful behind, before I go.

I’m closing the door to this sanctuary again, for now. But I’ll leave the key under the flower pot. In case I return.

Or in case you want to.

[jasmineandcedar]

Stepping away

I have written and rewritten this so many times it now turned into a full-blown incoherent ranting essay but I don’t really care anymore. I am trying to remain my usual level-headed self but I will allow myself one rant before I’m out. (Proceed with caution—I will be mentioning the pliant bones pile of shit below)

Until recently, I hadn’t fully grasped how vile this fandom can be. Blocking and filtering kept things tolerable for a while, but the closer we get to the announcement, the harder it becomes to escape the vitriol.

This has been my first fandom experience. I enjoyed ACOTAR offline for six years. It was a peaceful, enjoyable part of my life. Nothing about my love for the series has changed. The only thing that’s changed is that I no longer want to be part of this fandom.

(I have edited down this post a little since I first posted it, because I just don't want to be involved in any of this. I wanted it to be clear that I don't think this has to do with ships at all and I dont mind at all who people ship together. I also don't really want any of this to be seen, but I didn't want to just disappear.)

With the resurfacing of the ‘pliant bones’ garbage, the past few days have been the straw that broke the camel’s back for me. And that camel had been struggling. Holding itself together through sheer willpower. I’m surprised it lasted this long.

I am sure that most people in this fandom don't agree with the implications of this 'theory' but every time it resurfaces, it spreads in ways that make it impossible to avoid. It has become one of those cyclical shipwar debates, and ‘women with fertility issues’ are caught in the midst of it. Women who do exist and deserve better than this discourse. It is, in fact, more common than some might think to either struggle with fertility or not be able to have children at all.

I joined this fandom excited about Elriel. I never thought that excitement would turn into being constantly reminded of one of my life’s biggest pains. I never thought I’d have to filter the words ‘womb,’ ‘children,’ ‘pelvis,’ just to be part of the ACOTAR fandom. Because I could never have imagined a scenario where a couple that want each other being separated due to perceived fertility issues would be considered part of the basis of romance between another pair.

It’s the foundation of tragedy.

Even if one does not struggle with this oneself, it should be possible to imagine the pain of not being able to have children with the one you love. But people throw this argument around like they’re discussing the weather. Over a fictional ship! For some people, this is not just a hypothetical. It isn’t just an abstract concept. It isn't a dainty little literary device. It is a reality, and it is damn hard pill to swallow. In many cultures, the ability to have children is considered the very essence of womanhood, making the inability to do so an existentially painful reality to come to terms with.

I’m leaving. I don’t know if I’ll come back. Maybe if the hostilities die down, I will. I wanted to have fun alongside others who love Elriel and the other characters. I wanted to anticipate Elain’s book together. And I have had fun, but at a cost I’m no longer willing to pay.

To those who stay and continue creating—writing fics, poetry, theories, headcanons, and doing art—you’re the ones actually fighting the good fight, trying to make this space fun. Those who ride at dawn for the fics and the art. I tried to do the same. Five months was all I could manage. Now, I surrender. I’m no Elain. I’m not a rose in a mud field. I’m a miserable twig drowning in the dirt, who just wanted some goddamn memes and joy in life.

So, I’m going back to my peaceful offline existence. Enjoying my ACOTAR memes and inside jokes with my fiancé.

I’m going back to peace and quiet.

(Sorry for ranting)

[jasmineandcedar]

Yes! In their own unique ways, the Archeron sisters have fundamentally changed Prythian for the better. Each of them has shown a different kind of strength. Feyre proved that females can lead, Nesta proved that they can fight, and Elain will show Prythian that no one has a claim on a female. She has the right to choose who to give her heart to.

I love the Archeron sisters so much. They are each complex and layered characters, with flaws and imperfections that make them feel real. They have all been affected by their own traumas, dealt with it and healed from it in their own ways. They each represent a different facet of womanhood. They show us the different kinds of strengths that women find in themselves to overcome any trials and tribulations. They show us all the different ways that women are capable of fighting, loving, healing and growing.

It breaks my heart to see some of the fandom pit them against each other when time and time again, throughout the books, the sisters have always chosen each other, protected each other, forgiven each other, defended each other and loved each other when it really comes down to it. Sisterhood is different for everyone, and sometimes it’s not meant to be easy or perfect. Sisterhood is seeing each other’s worst selves, then apologising and forgiving and healing from it.

This series, at it’s very core, is about the Archeron sisters, their journeys and their connections. I cannot wait to see them continue to heal and grow together. Imagine what a force the three of them will become, Prythian have changed because of them and will continue to be changed because of them. That’s how powerful they are. The destiny they are tied to.

[jasmineandcedar]

One of my biggest hopes for the Elriel part of Elain's book has always been that Azriel's hands will not be described as 'he reached out a scarred hand' or 'those brutalized hands...' as others so often perceive them.

I've always hoped that, from her point of view, they will simply be 'his hands.'

Feyre noticed them at once.

Nesta noticed them.

Mor jerked her hand away like they burned her.

Rhys explained them.

Cassian acknowledged them.

Only Elain never saw them. She who Sees and notices everything, never saw them.

She asked him whether he feared flight the first time they met.

When he offered his hand to her, she took it and walked with him.

He was always beautiful to her. All of him was. She said so to him.

Because our scars are invisible to those who love us.

Perhaps, Elain loved Azriel longer than we assume.

[jasmineandcedar]

In my slightly headcanony version of this scene, dude went full peacock mode. I don't think he read a single word of those reports. His mind went, "If I flex my wings like this and the sun hits them just right... yeeees, that should impress her" 👀. He was having the time of his life.

Sprawled on the chaise longue...

... or the power Elain's presence has on Azriel.

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports—likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City—the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it.

"Why not make them mates?” I mused. (ACOWAR)

This paints such a beautiful picture. The whole 'Would you like me to show you the garden' scene is my favourite between them, because I think it shows what they provide for each other. Attentiveness, safety, and peace and quiet.

Can you imagine how relaxed and safe an Illyrian male would have to feel to be sprawling and sunning his wings in someone's presence? That little detail always gets me. Not just the wings, but the sprawling. And the fact that it's Azriel, who is never particularly relaxed.

Sprawling.

That's got to be the most relaxed way to be lying down. And it's got to be the most relaxed we've ever seen Azriel. It seems almost surprisingly relaxed, given how they haven't known each other for very long, and Azriel is often quite formal and courteous. Still, he's sprawling. There's no awkwardness or tension at all if you are comfortable enough to be sprawled across a chaise lounge in someone's presence. It tells me so much about how he feels about Elain and her presence. He's safe and relaxed. Azriel, who is almost never relaxed, and I doubt he's ever felt very safe. It makes this scene feel so precious, peaceful, and right to me. Azriel and Elain, in the garden. Right after Elain saw beauty in his hands after having been lost to her visions for so long. And now she got her sunshine, sitting comfortably with Azriel in her precious garden.

Elain is really his peace and quiet. And he is hers. The clinging is mutual. Reciprocal.

No wonder it's this scene that causes Feyre to question why they're not mates. It makes so much sense.

Just this one scene gives me so much joy and contentment. It's simply beautiful. Can you imagine a whole book with the two of them? It's become almost an abstract concept to me after all this time, but at some point, we will have a book in our hands full of the two of them.

[jasmineandcedar]

Sprawled on the chaise longue...

... or the power Elain's presence has on Azriel.

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports—likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City—the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it.

"Why not make them mates?” I mused. (ACOWAR)

This paints such a beautiful picture. The whole 'Would you like me to show you the garden' scene is my favourite between them, because I think it shows what they provide for each other. Attentiveness, safety, and peace and quiet.

Can you imagine how relaxed and safe an Illyrian male would have to feel to be sprawling and sunning his wings in someone's presence? That little detail always gets me. Not just the wings, but the sprawling. And the fact that it's Azriel, who is never particularly relaxed.

Sprawling.

That's got to be the most relaxed way to be lying down. And it's got to be the most relaxed we've ever seen Azriel. It seems almost surprisingly relaxed, given how they haven't known each other for very long, and Azriel is often quite formal and courteous. Still, he's sprawling. There's no awkwardness or tension at all if you are comfortable enough to be sprawled across a chaise lounge in someone's presence. It tells me so much about how he feels about Elain and her presence. He's safe and relaxed. Azriel, who is almost never relaxed, and I doubt he's ever felt very safe. It makes this scene feel so precious, peaceful, and right to me. Azriel and Elain, in the garden. Right after Elain saw beauty in his hands after having been lost to her visions for so long. And now she got her sunshine, sitting comfortably with Azriel in her precious garden.

Elain is really his peace and quiet. And he is hers. The clinging is mutual. Reciprocal.

No wonder it's this scene that causes Feyre to question why they're not mates. It makes so much sense.

Just this one scene gives me so much joy and contentment. It's simply beautiful. Can you imagine a whole book with the two of them? It's become almost an abstract concept to me after all this time, but at some point, we will have a book in our hands full of the two of them.

[jasmineandcedar]

Beyond lust

I stepped away from the fandom for a few days to ponder the important things in life (elriel), the mysteries of existence, and at long last, I am ready to share my wisdom 🙃

I love how soft and sweet and precious Elain and Azriel are together. I could read an 800+ page book of them being sweet and fluffy together, and I'd die happy (it might actually be my one-way ticket to the afterlife). But, I'd like to take a moment to praise the lord our heavenly father for Elriel's lust--that beautiful, misunderstood thing--which entered the chat not a moment too soon nor too late in the most glorious slow burn of the ACOTAR series. That sweet and slow buildup is what makes the lust all the more glorious to me. Elriel--the gold standard of romantic pacing!

When some say Azriel is lusting after Elain, I say thou art not doing him justice! You do not give him enough credit for the boundless depths of his desire for Elain! Lusting doesn't quite cover how utterly, desperately, obsessively down bad Azriel is for Elain. Lust is but for mere mortals. Azriel has transcended mere lust. He has entered a new realm of yearning so intense it defies language. He is beyond lust. He is down bad in ways that should be studied.

His desire for Elain, the goddess, is so intense our guy went from lingering in doorways, stealing glances and brushing fingers, and then completely malfunctioned when he got to put one blessed hand on that absolutely immaculate neck. He was reduced to near groaning in her face from one sanctified touch.

And let's not forget about Elain, because she is to be equally credited for the unhinged tension here. Some like to pretend she was but a passive participant, but nay! She practically grabbed that blessed hand and placed it on her immaculate neck with that offer and permission. She was ready to go. She was saying yes with her whole bosom. And wouldn't Azriel like to get his mouth on that.

And it makes sense.

After spending so much time gravitating towards each other, after mutually clinging to each other for peace and quiet, after that one solstice night when elain gifted him that holy tylenoly and went, "have you seen my flower beds?" 🌸🥰🌸 past 3am and Azriel probably went, "bbg my knees buckle before your beauty" 🦇😍🦇 they are now so into each other that as soon as they got one single moment alone again and Elain went:

✨️yes✨️

They both went full on:

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, etc etc...

Praise the Lord.

[jasmineandcedar]

Oh damn. I've been staring dreamily into her eyes for about 20 minutes.

Elain Archeron, waiting in a veil.

[jasmineandcedar]

Finding this was like finding an oasis in a desert. Thank you.

WIP: Sin & Salvation

In which Cass and Az act like slutty little teases.

Whatever spell that had overtaken Nesta seemed to have broken because she sighed and rolled her eyes towards Cass. He only smirked back at her.

Elain cleared her throat. “Yoga, actually.”

Cass arched a brow at Nesta. “You're going to do yoga?” He asked flatly. Disbelieving.

Nesta glared at him. “I was going to try.”

The disbelieving look on Cass’s face grew. Nesta cut him off before he could say something else snarky.

“Shut the fuck up, whatever you're about to say.”

Cass snapped his mouth shut.

Az approached Elain and planted a light kiss on her cheek. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Sweaty.”

Elain swallowed again, turning pink.

Cass cleared his throat and gave his brother a meaningful look. A look that only a brother could read. A look that said, “These two women are drooling right now. Let's give them something to eat.”

The corner of Az’s mouth tipped up. “Stay,” he said to Elain and Nesta. “We're almost done.”

“Alright,” Elain answered, still seemingly unable to look away from the sweat glistening on his bare chest. She sat down in a chair, Nesta following her with an annoyed huff.

The brothers took up their stances again now that they had their audience. Ready and willing to be objectified.

[jasmineandcedar]

This one might be one of my favourites. I want this trio with this energy in Elain's book 😂

"Eyes that promised death" and "murder on her mind" and then there's sweet Elain, the Kingslayer 🌸🥰🌸

Elain visiting Vallahan and attending a ball on behalf of the Night Court, with Azriel and Mor as her protection squad. Some fae royals and upper echelons approached Elain to engage her in conversation. They have all heard about her devastating beauty and had been dying to behold her beauty with their own eyes. When Elain curtsied and introduced herself, Azriel noticed where their eyes were glued to.

His wings shifted in agitation, which earned a haughty sneer from one of the fae princes. “And what are you? Her bodyguard?”

“I’m her husband.” He said with a straight face and eyes that promised death.

“I’m her bodyguard.” Mor countered with a delighted smirk on her red lips and murder on her mind.

[jasmineandcedar]

I absolutely LOVE the drabbles you've posted lately. They're so beautiful.

I invite you to imagine not being able to tell past from future.

The dreams you once had all vanish into dust, and others took its place. Dreams so vivid that you can smell the fire, feel the feathers. Almost taste the lake water heavy on your tongue.

It makes you question if you are dreaming. Are you…? Dreaming?

And the heartbeat through the wall. Tum tum tum.

You see the way they all look at you now. They think you’re mad. Suffering the loss of a life, loss of a love. Loss of your mind.

Maybe you are mad. Or just dead? Maybe the Cauldron took more than your sanity and you are now in a limbo.

Gods, how you wish for a light—a beacon of hope—because you’re drowning.

Tum.

Tum.

Tum.

“The Cauldron made you a Seer.”

At last, sunlight.

How can you not be excited to finally see the world through the eyes of a Seer? Elain is coming and I couldn’t be happier!

[jasmineandcedar]

That's our girl.

She's made all of us her bitch purrrrrrrrrrr 💕

[jasmineandcedar]

Elain Archeron smells like jasmine. Lush and sugary, the kind of scent that clings to your skin, stays in your lungs long after you’ve left the garden. That’s not just her scent or a pretty detail.

That’s a warning.

Jasmine isn’t a delicate little bloom, not really. It’s the most horny flower of all time. A flower of seduction. It blooms at night, when the world is quiet, when secrets slip between shadows. It smells like desire and danger, wrapped in soft petals. It’s a flower laced with indole, the same compound found in the scent of human skin, in places meant to be kissed and touched.

Elain, all golden light and careful hands, smells like that.

Because she is not just sweet. She is not just kind. She is something waiting to unfurl. And when she does, when the jasmine truly blooms, oh, it will be ruinous. It will be ruinous in the way night pulls things from their hiding places. It will not be soft or quiet. It will be something that drags you under and makes you forget yourself.

And I, for one, am ready to watch the world burn for her. 🗡️🌸

[jasmineandcedar]

Now that thing, too, shall haunt my wretched mind! Oh, cursed fate--the tortured existence of a feral simp poet!

I regret to inform you that I may have been possessed by the spirit of feral simp Azriel. I have written several sonnets from his desperate, unhinged soul to Elain, and they will not stop. They assail my mind. I fear I may never know peace again.

This blog is no longer mine. It belongs now to the pathetically down-bad, feral simp poet Azriel Allan Hoe (for Elain, on his knees).

You have been warned.

Once silent, stoic--now I sob and plead, O sweet Elain, I am but whipped for thee.

[jasmineandcedar]

I regret to inform you that I may have been possessed by the spirit of feral simp Azriel. I have written several sonnets from his desperate, unhinged soul to Elain, and they will not stop. They assail my mind. I fear I may never know peace again.

This blog is no longer mine. It belongs now to the pathetically down-bad, feral simp poet Azriel Allan Hoe (for Elain, on his knees).

You have been warned.

Once silent, stoic--now I sob and plead, O sweet Elain, I am but whipped for thee.

[jasmineandcedar]

Same! I love how SJM has written their attraction to each other. We're reading fairy fantasy, but their attraction to each other is very human and relatable to many readers, I bet. Being shy and a little flustered. Blushing. Not able to meet their gaze. Elain wanting to fix her appearance. Azriel being very demure and mindful and not able to stay away (and then spending quality time with his other dagger to the thought of her at night).

It's all very sweet (including the nightly solo sessions).

Does Elain has asthma or is this romantic build up?

A little compilation of SJM showing us something is taking our girl’s breath away!

Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, ‘Beautiful.’

The faelights gilded Elain's unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat. “I..." He watched her swallow. She clutched a small gift in her hands. "I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to give it to you earlier."

Elain closed the distance, and her breathing quickened as she again paused, now a scant foot away. She extended the wrapped gift, her hand shaking. "Here.'

“Yes" Elain breathed, like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them.

Elain in the next book.