#acotar ficlets

[animezinglife]

Secrets in the Night

If there's anything Elain has learned during her time in Prythian, it's that some secrets are best kept hiding in plain sight.

Genre: Romance/Fluff/What-If? Post-canon Elucien ficlet with a small dash of Regencycore. More Elucien fics can be found through my masterlist or on AO3. As always, I want to give a shout-out to @lucienarcheron, @zenkindoflove, and everyone else who's been so supportive of these small, humble fics. You've all helped make writing fun for me again, and I sincerely appreciate it!

Everything about this crowd is alive. From the colorful dresses of the females to the glittering lights hovering above and illuminating the rooms, everything about this Solstice celebration that doubles as Feyre's birthday gathering is stunning. There’s a vibrant hum from the crowd as Elain smiles and weaves through them, trying to keep the way her eyes wander subtle. 

She feels him near before she sees him. 

Hears his heartbeat through these walls, echoing through her body as if it were her own.

She doesn’t need to follow the sound. Not for long.

She’s shrouded in his scent–that familiar blend of embers, earth, and cinnamon–before he even speaks.

“Good evening, Lady.” His voice is a low timbre that echoes through her, and she feels a hint of heat prickling at her cheeks and core. She turns, her skirts swishing in the process as she takes in his form. Mother, he is devastating: part of his molten hair is pulled back at the crown, with the rest flowing over the collar of his finely-tailored jacket in a cascade of red silk. It’s a sharp, fiery contrast to the dark green of the jacket, and the subtle golden thread woven at the collar and cuffs seems to only enhance the gold and russet of his eyes. 

“Lucien.” There’s a knowing gleam in those eyes as he offers her a slight, courtly bow. She gives an equal curtsy in response, entranced by the way the corners of his mouth twitch upward and curve into a smile.

The bond hums between them, pulsing so loudly in her mind she thinks surely others must hear it. Yet all around them the Night Court’s guests carry on with their evening, laughing and drinking and chattering without notice.

Of course, Elain knows both she and her mate know better: know it’s rare that Feyre and Rhys aren’t aware of everything happening within their own walls. They know that Nesta is always watching like a hawk, and that Azriel has eyes–and spies–everywhere. Nothing hides in the shadows here.

She’s been cautious where Lucien is concerned–there are no secrets there, not truly. They’ve simply mixed some truths while not divulging others, and as far as either of her sisters know–as far as Elain can tell–they’ve grown to accept that she’s no longer willing to let the circumstances of their mating bond control her. She's told them as much. That if her mate must be present to discuss courtly matters or join them for a holiday, she’ll have no real objections to it. 

Though that, of course, is only a small fraction of the story.

As the two of them have gotten to know each other, she’s begun to understand why Feyre had been so skeptical initially, and why her own instincts had both pulled her to him with all their strength and why she’d fought against them equally hard.

Lucien Vanserra is a good male. 

He offers her a hand–a bit formally, she notes–and she takes it carefully, letting him pull her into his strong frame. A memory floods through her all at once then: of him doing the same during their recent visit to the Court of Nightmares; of how those awful carvings on the walls and suffocating darkness of the ballroom seemed to disappear when there was only the music and him before her. She had clutched his hand tightly; relished at the warm, strong hand at her back as he’d led her through one waltz then another; some flashier, more aggressive style she’d known she would’ve been lost on without his lead. 

She inhales deeply as they begin to sway in something similar to a waltz, remembering how his warmth and familiar scent had grounded her during that visit; kept her tethered to the music and their dance despite the unease she’d felt every single time she’d stepped inside that dreadful place.

How he'd made her feel safe.

He’s entirely too easy to be drawn to, she thinks. That still unfamiliar voice, partly from the bond and partly of her own admission, murmurs an addition in the back of her mind.

Entirely too easy to love.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” he asks her, and carefully meets his gaze. 

“I am,” she admits, a part of her surprised by the honesty of that statement. “You look nice.” 

His lips twitch again at that, and her heart flutters as his eyes briefly skim over her. “You look nice yourself, Lady,” he teases, and despite herself, she smiles back. 

Elain is suddenly aware of at least one set of eyes watching over them, and as if recognizing the same, Lucien shifts and guides her so that she knows her back is to their onlooker. Her voice drops low–so low that she wonders if he can even hear her over the music. “Who is it this time?” she whispers.

“Both your sister and the Shadowsinger,” he replies equally softly, and her blush deepens slightly at how carefully he sets his mouth when he speaks, as if barring both from reading his lips. “No doubt trying to make sure I don’t steal you away or ravish you right here in the middle of the party.”

“We certainly can’t have that,” she replies, giving his hand a light, knowing squeeze. Heat pools in the pit of her stomach as she surprises even herself as she continues, “Besides, I have very particular tastes.” 

"So I've learned."

His thumb traces down the side of her hand slightly, and his eyes gleam as she’s certain the same memory flickers through him. He sends a caress down the bond and, though she doesn’t return it fully, gives him a playful tug through it. Mother, she thinks as heat floods through her and the gleam in his eyes turn nothing short of flame. He might as well take her in the middle of the party for all that look implies, and she realizes–senses–that she no longer feels Nesta’s or Azriel’s focus on her either. The feeling of his fingertips tracing down her spine confirms it, and she relishes the heat she feels from them even through the layers she wears.

It’s a risk, she thinks, the way he’s looking at her now. A look she knows she’s returning whether intentionally or not.

Part of her wants to snake her arms around him: relish in his touch, scent, and taste. That she were ready to act as freely with him under her sister’s roof as she does outside it and among the other courts even when she and Lucien aren't alone. Her thoughts drift to the rolling meadows of Spring; the private, heated moments they’d stolen together in Day.

By the look in his eyes and feeling of his heart pounding so near her own, he’s thinking of them too.

Elain knows whatever act they’ve been putting on won’t last long at this rate, and when the song draws to a close, she takes a step back, and they end in a polite curtsy and bow. She separates from him completely, not bothering to conceal her blush as she turns her attention pointedly to a floral arrangement in a nearby vase. When his eyes follow hers she turns, and as the distance between them grows, she sends another tug down the bond. 

One that asks him to follow.

She weaves through the crowds again, knowing none will question it. There was a time when she would have wanted to hide from the bond; what it made her feel around Lucien. There had been times when she had begun warming up to him when it still overwhelmed her, and she needed to spend time in her gardens to think.

This, she knows, will appear to be no exception.

She’s already wandered through the garden’s neat rows once when he manages to discreetly slip away and join her. She listens carefully: hears nothing beyond the trickling of the water fountain and the sounds of the party inside the estate. Hears nothing but his heartbeat and the way it syncs with her own. 

Confident they’re alone, she closes the remaining distance between them and kisses him, letting out a small, relieved hum as his hand gently rests beneath her chin. Hers find his chest, feeling the elegant fabric of his jacket before sliding over his shoulders. He pulls her closer with his free hand, his other finding the curve of her neck and tracing her jawline with his thumb.

She savors this secret kiss: gentle and lingering no matter how much it makes her want more. Crave more. 

Though it’s neither the time nor the place, and when they finally separate, she lets out a soft, shaky breath. 

It’s like a dream, she thinks as she forces her eyes to slowly flutter open. She takes him in in the moonlight: the red hair, striking beauty, and warm, clever eyes. Breathes in the cool night air and the gardens and him. 

He extends an arm to her, and she loops hers through his. As they begin to walk through the garden together, she finds herself relaxing more with each and every step. While warmth floods through her at his nearness and everywhere they still touch, so does a sense of peace, and she smiles to herself.

She knows their secret will come out eventually, and she’ll be ready when it does. There’s still one left that even Lucien doesn’t know, and it’s one she plans to share with him soon.

One that she’s already spent countless days and nights alike thinking about. One that’s led to her jotting notes down in her favorite recipe books, and one that she’s come to accept at her own pace.

For now, all she needs is this.

[oh-tetrabiblos]

🌸🦇ELRIEL MONTH FICLET #1: Death and the Maiden 🦇🌸

Blood dripping from his fingertips, Azriel stepped out from the shadows into the darkness of the kitchen. He had taken longer than he would have liked with his last assigned job, and everyone in the River House was long asleep.

Reports would have to wait until morning, but he had already known that before letting himself into the house—the excuse ready on his tongue if he had come upon anyone. Anyone but her.

Azriel sensed her sneaky steps down the stairs first, and were he anything other than the spymaster of the night court, he probably wouldn’t have. They had been meeting in secret for so long now, that she had mastered the art of moving unnoticed.

But Azriel would always, always, notice her arrival. If not for the sound of her pacing or the soundless bustling of her clothes, for the painful feeling of anticipation that shook him to the core, or the uncontrollable catching of his breath as she came closer.

Elain Archeron emerged in the kitchen, shining like the sun at dawn even in the middle of the night. Her sight stole his breath completely. Elain was wearing her night clothes: a pure white dress held by two thin straps on her shoulders, that fell to her mid-calf and clung to her chest and the width of her hips. The scarce moonlight only added to the contrast with her pale, winter skin. Her hair, unbound and wavy, reached her lower back and Azriel’s fingers itched just to graze it.

She was a goddess. Azriel felt the urge to kneel before her and was yet unable to move an inch in her presence.

Elain took the remaining steps towards him, her eyes roaming his body in a quick check-up. Azriel carefully moved his affected hand behind his back, but it was too late. Elain stopped right before him, completely engulfed by his darkness.

It had never deterred her. His past, his power, his broodiness, or his job. Elain Archeron had looked at him, truly seen him, and considered all of it beautiful and lovable. Immersed in his shadows, Elain stood out to him like a beacon in all her pristine glory.

A Maiden, unafraid of Death.

“You’re hurt,” she said, as a way of greeting. Azriel had missed her sweet voice so much in the last few days.

“I cut myself.” Azriel offered, knowing she would catch his little white lie.

Elain pouted, a heavy blow against Azriel’s diligently constructed restraint of 500 years. Years. And he had barely minutes before he couldn’t resist touching her any longer.

“You’re not clumsy.” She bit down her soft, full lower lip and reached behind Azriel’s back for the hidden hand.

The moment Azriel felt the start of her warmth from the half-hug, he was done for. His bloodied hand shot to her hip and grabbed, twirling Elain around until her back was flush against his chest. His other hand immediately reached for her hair, pulling lightly at the roots so she would lean her head to the side. Azriel plunged right into the offered neck and breathed, bloodied hand clenching the fabric a tad too tight at her exhilarating scent.

‘Fuck.’ He cursed mentally, knowing Elain would imagine it in her mind as if he had said it out loud. That much she knew him. “I lost control.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, you tend to do that in the darkness of the night. It seems to embolden you.”

Elain’s flower scent never failed to make Azriel lose his mind. He pulled Elain impossibly closer towards him by her hip and allowed himself half a thought about his hand’s previous predicament and her white dress.

“I stained you. I apologize.” He said, but fisted her clothes in a bundle of folds all the same.

“I don’t care.” Elain breathed out, neck bare against his mouth.

The little vixen was demanding a kiss Azriel couldn’t deny her. Another, and another. A mark was what she wanted against her porcelain, unmarred neck. A sin ought to be punished with the most fervent of hell’s tortures: to maim such a goddess-blessed, unblemished, Maiden skin.

Oh, wouldn’t Azriel love to indulge her. But this was theirs alone for the moment, these encounters. Their story, their passion, their love. Theirs alone. For now.

How much longer would they resist?

A war for her unrestricted touch, the price a lifetime of her companionship.

Azriel was a soldier itching for battle. And death was his touch.

He bit down softly on Elain’s shoulder, eyes rolling back in their sockets at her taste, her scent. Jasmine, honey, and all his.

He lost control, again. He couldn’t be trusted with her.

“You will be the death of me.” He whispered against her ear before descending the path to her neck with smooth, barely-there kisses.

Elain grinned, turning her head upwards as if to look at him.

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around, my deadly wraith?”

Azriel chuckled, allowing her to turn around in his embrace, his shadows a cocoon so tight around her frame that Elain, in all her shining glory, seemed to be floating in a sea of darkness.

Elain reached up to cup Azriel’s face with her hand and smiled so softly at him it clenched his heart. Eyes crinkled in silent affection, Elain looked like a goddess Azriel was more than ready to worship at the altar of.

“Allow me to look at that before I have to go back upstairs.” She said, “I don’t trust anyone else to treat you properly.” It was indeed a lighthearted joke that served both to conceal her actual worry and the tinge of possessiveness he was learning she had for him.

In that they also matched, it seemed.

“However will I be able to say no to that, El?”

Elain grabbed at his dripping hand most delicately and, after a careful inspection, found out the bleeding cut on the side of his palm. It wasn’t deep nor worrisome, but quite bloody thanks to its location.

She huffed, but didn’t let go of his hand and instead fit her fingers between his and pulled him even closer.

“Come,” she whispered, and Azriel almost leaned in and kissed her. Instructions unclear. And the woman knew what she was doing to him. “Let’s clean that up.”

She led him towards the sink, where she washed up both their hands. Elain, refusing to let go of his hand, leaned all the way to the drawer she kept some useful supplies in and procured a white cloth for bandages. She tied it nicely around his hand, a kiss to the knuckles her finishing touch. The softness of her lips had goosebumps erupting down his spine, and when Elain cradled his bandaged hand between hers, he lowered his forehead against her own.

“Will I see you at breakfast?” Elain asked, almost shyly.

Azriel nodded against her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Elain allowed herself one last moment in his arms before she forced herself away. They both knew that Azriel didn’t have the will to let her go. Their hands kept latched together as she stepped out of his embrace, fingers intertwined right until the very last moment, before he saw her walk and disappear upstairs.

Azriel remained rooted in place well after the last of Elain’s scent left the room, her warmth just a memory in his mind. As silently as he had arrived, Azriel stepped back into the shadows and left.

In the kitchen, their haven of darkness remained unbroken.

[sunshinebingo]

Gwynriel fluff

One of those days

Feeling tired and numb, Gwyn seeks comfort in Azriel's arms.

800 words

The door opened before Gwyn could knock. Not that she would have done it anyway. Azriel had reminded her enough times that the door to his rooms would always be open for her. Even the House made sure of it when it let her inside in his absence, no doubt knowing how much it helped her to be in his space when she missed him.

The shadows were the first to greet her. They circled her excitedly until they noticed how she looked. Their joy turned into concern. Gwyn smiled at them in way that she hoped would reassure them that she was fine. But just like their master, they often saw through her.

She ignored all of their whispered questions and, with footsteps that sounded heavier than usual, walked straight to Azriel who was already waiting for her with open arms even though his eyes did not immediately leave the papers on his desk. Gwyn did not say a word as she settled on his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. She placed her head on his shoulder and nuzzled his neck, inhaling his scent that she could recognise among a thousand.

Azriel pulled her as close as he could with a hand on her thigh while his other began massaging her scalp with slow, soothing motions.

“Are you alright?”

Gwyn opened her mouth, thinking of a few possible replies to his question. But nothing made it past her lips. She was so tired that she didn’t even have the energy to speak. Perhaps she had lost it on one of the endless stairs between the library below and his office.

She let out a heavy sigh. “Mhmm,” was the only response she could come up with.

She felt the shadows caressing her cheek and the exposed part of her legs where her robe had risen up a bit. She felt Azriel’s thumb drawing circles on her thigh. She felt his fingers gently pulling at the roots of her hair. She felt the vibration of his skin when he spoke again.

“Are you not alright but telling me you are just so I won’t worry?”

Gwyn smiled before she realised she was doing it.

“Mhmm,” she replied again.

What was the point in lying when he knew her too well. It was annoying at times honestly. But she was too tired to share her opinion on it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Azriel asked, and Gwyn was certain that, had she had the energy to lift her face from his shoulder, she would have been able to read the question in his eyes without him having to voice it.

She wrapped her arms tighter around him. If Azriel was starting to suffocate, he didn’t complain about it. Gwyn shook her head. She knew that he would understand and read her gesture as, ‘Not now.’

Azriel’s following, “Later then?,” confirmed it.

She nodded.

She would open up and talk about everything eventually. Everything that had caused her mood to gradually go from buoyant to sad, from sad to numb. But right now, what she needed most was his silent support. She needed his familiar scent and his comforting embrace; the steady rise and fall of his chest and the sound of his beating heart as she held on to him.

“Do I have to kill someone? Or kindly threaten perhaps?”

Gwyn’s laugh said what she did not with words. ‘It’s not that serious.’ That, and her tug of a fistful of his hair, might have also contained a hint of, ‘You’re an idiot, Shadowsinger.’

Azriel chuckled as his hand left her thigh to cup her face. Gwyn released another sigh when he pressed his lips to her forehead for a kiss. He asked nothing else, ready to give her the time and space that she presently needed. Although she had already decided that hogging Azriel’s personal space was how she wanted to spend that time.

He didn’t seem to mind that at all. With one of his arms around her and securely hugging her, he picked up his pen from the desk, and resumed his work.

Gwyn closed her eyes and let the worries of the day float away as she filled her mind with the little things that this moment was made of. The sound of pen scratching on paper, the shadows’ cool touch against her skin, Azriel’s soft hair between her fingers, one of his wings protectively curling around her. And soon, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, it was on Azriel’s bed, with the covers all the way up to her chin, her head still buried in the crook of his neck, and his strong arms still around her.

[thevalkyriesshadow]

@azrielappreciationweek

Day Six: Song Of The Wind

Azriel's first experience flying was long overdue and a bit terrifying.

Terrifying because Rhys and Cassian offered to show him how to fly -- his found brothers and relentless bullies. Maybe that was just how Illyrian brothers were with each other? Maybe that was just how males in general bonded? By pushing him, pulling him back by his wings, tripping him, taking his clothes while he was bathing after training and having to run through the camp naked...

Regardless, imagining two very strapping, young boys showing him how to fly was intimidating. He knew if he didn't get it immediately, he'd be laughed at and ridiculed. So when the day came, Azriel squared his shoulders and braced for the worst. Thank the gods he did because by the end of his session Cassian had pushed him off the cliff a dozen times and Rhys had forgot to catch him on the way down every single time he went careening over the edge.

He was sore, tired, and downtrodden. He went straight to his straw mat on the floor in his shared room with his brothers when they got back, forgoing dinner to mope and beat himself up over not being able to do what every Illyrian was meant to do. He was a disgrace. A poor excuse for his kind. He wasn't worthy of flying...

That night he snuck out of his room with the intention of grabbing something to eat, but instead found himself outside on the old, wooden porch. A sound like a gentle whisper on the wind had brought him out here. It was like a song. His shadows danced around him, urging him to follow. They only danced like this when there was music or a sound so lovely they would vibrate with excitement. Now he was staring out into the dark Illyrian camp around him. Listening for the sound.

A cool breeze blew his shaggy hair, his wings bunching up behind him, shivering.

And there it was again...a song on the wind. His shadows undulated around him. Their dance wild and mad for the music.

Azriel followed it. All the way out to the spot where Cassian and Rhys tried to show him how to fly earlier that day.

His wings flapped once. Twice.

He stepped toe to toe with the edge, looked out over the ravine, and closed his eyes. Listening to a melody that completed him more than anything ever had. More than going outside for the first time. More than getting his first full proper meal after coming to the camp. More than being able to go anywhere he pleased, whenever he wanted.

The song he listened to was the whistling and blowing of the chilly, mountain breezes, a voice that beckoned him to learn it. Beckoned him to be filled with its encouragement --

Azriel jumped. A heart clenching, stomach plunging fall.

Then his wings opened, catching the wind at just the right angle, moving with its music. His shadows swirled around him as he flapped again and again and again and --

And then Azriel was flying.

Five...ten...fifteen feet off the ground. Soaring with amateur grace through the shadowed forest around him. His wings beating to the song on the wind.

Never had he felt something so exhilarating. So freeing.

He could do this all night. All day. He never wanted to touch ground again, but he also wasn't greatly skilled yet and his wings were already tiring. With the grace of a newborn bird, Azriel stumbled awkwardly to the ground. A grove of pines breaking his fall.

When he righted himself, Azriel stood. His chest heaved with the unfamiliar physical exertion. Had he forgotten to breathe while flying? He was already craving it. Already wishing he was back in the air.

He sucked in a breath. And another...and another...

The wind tickled his cheeks, the song playing with the natural phenomenon.

Then tears started streaming down his face in an uncontrollable torrent. But these were not tears he was acquainted with. Tears of sadness or hopelessness. No... these were tears of joy. Of pure, unbridled happiness. Azriel sank to his knees and covered his face, his shoulders shaking with...laughter? Why was he laughing? And crying? What was this incredible emotion that made him feel so good?

Azriel cried and laughed until he was truly satisfied with the outpouring of emotion. Of all the bottled up fears and worries escaping him, even if for a moment.

He raised his face to the moon shining above him, smiling as the wind blew again. Its melody played through his mind, against his skin, along his wings, and with his shadows --

Azriel closed his eyes, smiled, and hummed along with the tune.

[silume]

A Feysand Ficlet (Rated M)

I wanted to write something for @officialfeysandweek but couldn't write anything that completely fit the prompts so this is what we ended up with instead. ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

You can also read this on AO3.

◇

Sometimes, when they found themselves bare and slick with sweat, Feyre would slip into her mate’s mind and stare up at the ancient shields she found there. Black iron gates, endlessly tall and thick and rusted shut with age.

Let me in, she would whisper. 

And they would always open. Every time. Always for her. Anything for her. 

The Lord of Night’s mind was a strange place. Old and dark and twisting like an ever-changing labyrinth. And yet she was always welcomed forth with the most loving of embraces. Her mind cradled like a precious jewel. A baby bird. Treasured and fragile. 

My love, his mind would whisper to hers. My mate. 

It made her feel powerful, having this terrifying, ancient thing open up to her and show her its belly. 

You’re mine, she would whisper gently, stroking against his mind with the greatest care. You’re so good. So strong. So compassionate. No one understands how much you care. But I do. I see every part of you and I love them. 

And Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court and the nightmare other courts whispered about in the dark, would shake and shiver and lay his throat bare for her. 

And Feyre, the once-human, would take him in hand the same way her mind would his, caressing and working him into a frenzy until his body was taut and his thoughts swirled with pleasure. 

Come for me, she would command. 

Yes, he would always agree. Only for you. 

He was, after all, helpless to deny her anything. 

And she would watch him stain her skin with his essence the same way his mind would press and push and envelop hers. Desperate to be close to her. To own her in a way no one else possibly could. 

The same way she owned him. 

And always would. 

[thornsinwinter]

First Night

So I'm taking a break from working on my fic for this year's Tamlin Week and figured I'd grab a prompt from last year.

Anyways, here's Day 1: Human Tamlin ......

Tamlin couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft, the room too warm, the night too quiet without his sisters' breathing nearby. He sat up, pushing aside sheets finer than anything he'd ever touched, and stared at the moonlight streaming through unfamiliar windows.

The Spring Court. That's what she had called this place when she'd brought him here, after he'd killed that massive wolf in the woods. Not a wolf at all, but one of her sentries. One of her kind.

Fae.

Tamlin swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his calloused feet meeting cool marble. His hunting clothes had been replaced with a nightshirt of soft cotton, another luxury he'd never known in his family's crumbling cottage. He wondered if his family had found the gold she promised to leave them, if they were safe, if they missed him.

He crossed to the window, keeping his steps silent from years of hunting practice. The gardens below shimmered with impossible colors even in darkness. Flowers that shouldn't bloom at night released perfumes that made his head swim. In the distance, something moved through a hedge maze - too graceful to be human, too deliberate to be animal.

"Your kind aren't meant to be awake at this hour," came a voice behind him.

Tamlin didn't turn. He'd recognized her scent the moment she entered - like crushed roses and something wilder underneath. "My kind sleep when we can afford to," he said. "Safety first."

Feyre moved beside him, her otherworldly beauty made sharper by moonlight. The High Lady of the Spring Court. His captor.

"You're safe here," she said, the words practiced, as if she'd said them many times before to others.

"Am I?" He finally looked at her. "Or just a new kind of prey?"

She didn't flinch at his directness. Something like respect flickered across her perfect features. "The bargain was your life for his. Not your freedom for his."

"A distinction without difference," Tamlin replied, thinking of the cottage he'd never see again, the bow he'd carved himself now hanging on her wall like a trophy.

"Perhaps." Feyre moved away, toward the door. "But distinctions matter in my world, human. You'd do well to learn them."

After she left, Tamlin remained at the window. Dawn was hours away. In the dark forests around his home, he would have been tracking deer by now, ensuring his family wouldn't starve another day.

Now he was the one being hunted, though he didn't yet understand the game.

The night stretched before him, the first of many in this gilded cage. Tamlin watched the gardens shift and change in ways no natural plants should. He would adapt. He would survive.

It was what humans did best.

[zenkindoflove]

Kiss prompt asks

🌷Elain x Lucien🦊

20...on a scar

23...in relief

7...to shut them up

10...desperately (NSFW)

26...as an apology

19...for luck

45/47...out of anger/spite

4... where it hurts

💍Sathia x Tharion🦦

46...out of envy or jealousy

15...passionately

17...to distract

49...out of necessity

🍁Eris x Alexius (OC)🔆

34...to pretend

9...in public

[themadmorrigan]

Ficlet prompts game

(I don't have the head to work on my current WIPs, so have a writing prompt game!)

Rules: In an ask...

pick 2 characters (asker's choice)

define the type of ship (friendship, relationship, enemies, frenemies, etc.)

pick a location (a-i, below)

select weather conditions (j-r, below)

choose one random item (s-z, below)

And you shall receive a short fic or scene!

Locations

a) a castle/keep/manor b) a seedy tavern c) a formal garden d) a market/bazaar/shop e) a ballroom f) an infirmary g) an office h) the middle of the forest i) wildcard (specify)

Weather conditions

j) bright, sunny and beautiful k) foggy and chilly l) torrential rain m) a cool, dewy morning n) hot and extremely humid o) snowy p) cold and overcast q) a clear night full of stars r) wildcard (specify)

Random items

s) a broken down car (or carriage) t) an unattended bag of gold u) a half-eaten plate of food v) a mysterious box w) a needle and thread x) a key y) a bouquet of flowers z) wildcard (specify)

[foxybananaaaz]

It is my headcanon that after the Lady of Autumn had come back after her time spent with Helion, Beron had locked her away. Not right away, though, as he reminded her that she was his wife, with an unusually kind family meal, where not onle Beron, but their six sons had also attended, followed by an evening alone.

But after, the Lady of Autumn found herself locked away in an unused corridor of the Forest House. Eris had ensured that she was well taken care of and fed three meals a day, but this would be her only company.

The solitary time, with only the company of the servant bringing her meals, was fine with her when she learned she was with child, too far along for it to be Berons.

The Lady of Autumn had planned to have the child sent off and grow up with Helion in the court that was their birthright, as their father would one day be its High Lord.

The Lady had it planned with the servant that after birth, the servant would wait until everyone was asleep and then bring the child out into the night, ready to go to their new home.

Everything was ready until the day before Autumn's dear lady went into labour, as her third son had come to check on her, seeing she was pregnant.

Thrilled, her son insisted they go and inform his father of the news.

Beron was less than thrilled but refused to deny a child of his. He ordered the servants to prepare a birthing room for his wife.

During the birth, it gave her a reason for the tears. Helions child, a son! He would not get to grow up where he belonged. He would not get to know his father, and worse, he would not grow up to know a father's love at all, as not one of her sons did.

Already, the dear Lady could see traces on her son, Helions son, of his father's features on his face. He had his father's nose, the shape of his father's lips. He was a tad darker than her other sons.

But none of these features were too noticeable unless you were looking for them, as she saw her own features as well, more prominently, in the red hair and the eyes. The shape of his little ears, where the tip was just ever so slightly curved. Features all of her sons had.

The Lady of Autumn loved all of her sons equally, as every mother should. But she knew, as she cradled her new son to her chest, she would have to care for her little Lucien just that little bit more, should Beron or his brothers learn of his identity.

I'm so sorry Helion, My Love. I wanted to send him to you. And now you both must suffer from my secret.

This is my headcanon. Yes, yes, it is. It started out with LoA sending Lucien to Helion after his birth, but, well, this happened.

I hope you enjoyed!

[animezinglife]

Imagine Elain showing subtle signs of falling in love again without fully realizing it herself (and others noticing).

Staring off into space, but serenely.

Little smiles at nothing in particular and small, quiet laughs to herself.

Humming contentedly while baking or gardening.

Her upbeat moods becoming more frequent.

Becoming more social again beyond just courtly affairs and gardening.

Leaning her head back and closing her eyes to feel the sun on her face and the fresh, warm air.

Being way too giddy/giggly over something that's not actually that funny to anyone else.

Being a little too aware of Lucien or his absence somewhere. Not realizing a detail included in something she says gives it away.

Her ears turning pink every time he approaches.

Suddenly no longer having small injuries from gardening from wearing gloves.

Somebody else--maybe Feyre or Nesta--nearly missing the gleam of a pearl earring when she brushes her hair back.

The way she slowly seems to be more interested in whatever Lucien's talking about than the others (and far more engaged in that conversation).

One of her sisters not knowing where she learned some skill or another, and Elain being vague at best or sheepish about admitting she learned it from Lucien.

Her knowing more than expected about some topic, court, etc. that implies she and Lucien have been having plenty of their own conversations.

Little looks and touches that imply far more of a story than what they're actively showing the world.

Basically, I love the idea of Elain's love life blossoming again outside of any watchful eyes and to see her happy and flourishing from it.

[thornsinwinter]

So I love the Witcher and wrote a thing: Tamlin played the fiddle with practiced hands. The skill remained from his youth, before his brothers and father were murdered and duty fell to him without warning. The melody filled his private chambers, a rare moment of respite.

His shoulders carried the weight of the Spring Court. He'd never been groomed for leadership like his brothers. The crown had come to him through blood and necessity, not preparation or choice.

The music offered brief sanctuary from decisions that never came easily to him. Protection, diplomacy, judgment. They were skills learned through harsh necessity.

Three knocks interrupted his playing.

Tamlin set the fiddle aside and his his expression shifted to the mask of certainty his people needed from him. The one he'd crafted through years of pretending to know what he was doing.

"Come in," he said, standing straighter.

He would return to the demands of lordship that he still struggled to fulfill, the music remaining unfinished, another small sacrifice to the role he never asked for but couldn't escape.

Tamlin in a nutshell

Born to be Jaskier:

Forced to be Geralt:

@viktoriaashleyyx

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

Fanfic Requests

Since I'm trying to flex my writing muscles a bit more and get into writing some different things I've decided to start taking requests. Is there a particular scene from one of my fics you wish I had written? Do you want to see more fics for a particular ship that I don't normally write for? Perhaps you're looking to see some more Reader x fics? Or maybe you just want to see some more Feysand smut? Well now's your chance to ask and possibly get your wish. However, a few ground rules:

Request Rules

I can reject or accept any request for any reason at any time.

All requests will be written as drabbles or ficlets of 500 words or less. So if you were hoping I would write you that cool multi-chapter fic idea I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere.

There is no time table for when these will come out. You will get them when you get them (if I even decide I want to write them at all).

There are no restrictions on ship, character, trope, or kink. Ask for whatever you want but, again, remember that I can accept or decline any of them for any reason. If I'm not feeling it then I'm not feeling it.

Have fun with it. It doesn't hurt to ask. 💙

[eatsbooks]

Heloooo ❤️ ,

Please make established Azris relationship head cannons a series and please dont contol yourself if you write 10000000 i'll read it (if you need convincing i'll give you my first born) And now i'm thinking about Azriel carrying a sleeping eris back to bed and you have me pulling out my hair too

you are truly so kind what the fuck and heck !!! i am more than happy to offer up my endless thoughts about them

(also yeah cuz it’s just! it’s the way eris would instinctively tense up at being lifted — potential threat — but as soon as he realizes it’s azriel, his whole body relaxes. because he would. even in sleep, he would realize it was azriel holding him. he would curl his fingers a little into azriel’s shirt, and he would sleepily nuzzle into the pulse point at azriel’s throat, and he would frown when azriel laid him on the mattress until azriel came to join him, at which point his expression would smooth over. he would be so soft in a way he can never let himself be!)

[thornsinwinter]

The High Lords' meeting had been a disaster of epic proportions. Threats were made, magic was unleashed, and tensions had reached a breaking point. Which was precisely why Thesan, Tamlin, and Tarquin now found themselves sprawled across Thesan's private chambers in the Dawn Court, surrounded by pillows, sweets, and enough alcohol to drown a lesser faerie.

Tamlin sat with his back to Thesan, face buried in a silk cushion as Thesan attacked his golden mane with various combs and brushes. The High Lord of Dawn had insisted that Tamlin's hair needed "serious intervention" after he'd spent the entire meeting running his hands through it in frustration. Tarquin, meanwhile, was busy coating Thesan's toenails with a shimmering gold polish that perfectly matched the Dawn Lord's pajamas.

Three bottles of wine later, Tamlin's hair had been transformed into an elaborate crown of braids that made him look like some sort of Spring Court festival queen. Tarquin couldn't stop giggling every time he looked at him, which resulted in Tamlin tackling the Summer Lord into a pile of cushions. Their tussle only ended when Thesan threatened to dump the remaining wine out the window.

Peace restored, they moved on to painting Tamlin's toenails a vibrant green that perfectly matched the magic that occasionally sparked between his fingers when Thesan's brush tickled too much. Tarquin, now sporting a dazzling set of blue-painted toes himself, sprawled back and launched into a particularly detailed rant about the Night Court.

"Wouldn't even APOLOGISE after they stole from my court when I welcomed them with open arms!" Tarquin grumbled, sloshing wine dangerously close to Thesan's pristine bedding.

Tamlin was angrily muttering to himself. "Sure, use your mind powers to shut me up when I'm calling out Feyre, but NOT to confirm my story."

"What was even the POINT of all the 'no fighting' wards if they were immediately gonna break them?" Thesan added with an indignant huff, carefully applying the final coat to Tamlin's pinky toe.

The three High Lords clinked their glasses together in agreement, their shared grievances against the Night Court strengthening their unlikely bond with each passing hour and each emptied bottle.

As the night wore on, their informal High Lord summit devolved into the most glorious bitch session Prythian had likely ever witnessed. They mocked Rhysand's dramatic speeches and Feyre's self-righteousness. They crafted elaborate impressions of Azriel's brooding silence and Cassian's swagger. They composed a truly filthy limerick about Mor that would have gotten them all stabbed had anyone from the Night Court been present.

By the time dawn's first light began filtering through Thesan's windows, the three High Lords were passed out in a tangle of limbs and braided hair, surrounded by empty bottles and pillows, with toenails gleaming with colorful polish.

Day 3 of @tamlinweek - Polycules & Platonics

"We ate in our private dining room. Helion joining us, no sign of Tarquin of Thesan - certainly not Tamlin."

In my heart of hearts I want them having their own slumber party venting the Night Court salt.

[foxybananaaaz]

I know I'ma regret this. #9 for the angst prompt!

● Golden Thread ●

《 “Of all the times to tell me, why now?” 》

ANGST ONELINER PROMPTS FOUND { HERE } Send an ask with a number

Summary :: A conversation between Feyre and Elain doesn't go as planned.

Pairing :: SQUINT Elucien

Word Count :: 1k

Authors Note :: It's been so long since you requested! BUT I have been trying to figure out the right way to write this. I'm sorry you waited forever! But here we go!

“You aren’t who he would have chosen as a mate.”

Before the words had even fully sunk in, Elain had turned her head to her younger sister, only to see shock, mixed with frustration on her face. It wasn’t until the words, and their meaning, settled into her mind, that she fought, and failed, the urge to flinch back.

“That didn’t come out the way I meant for it to.” Feyre spoke up again, fully aware of how her original statement affected Elain, even though she wished it wouldn’t have.

Elain, proving to be more stubborn than either her sisters remembered, especially surrounding this topic, simply turned her head, and looked away. She hoped to give the impression that she did not care, nor did she wish to discuss him.

He was visiting, of course. Elains sisters only ever brought up the subject whenever he was around, but not near.

“He thought he had a mate, but the bond never snapped into place.” Feyre spoke, as though Elains dismissal of the topic had not happened.

Closing her eyes, she fought against the surge of jealousy that reared its ugly head. It was not hers, it did not belong to her. The emotion came from that thin golden thread that came from the deepest part of her being, and connected her to the red haired male. The emotion, though she knew what it was, and why it was there, was foreign.

“They loved each other so deeply, they genuinely believed they were mates.” Elains younger sister continued. She continued, ignoring, or just not knowing, the jealousy growing.

Elain hated it. She had no right to react this way. She did not wish to react this way. Yet here she was, jealous enough anyone who did not know the situation, might think that she had not ignored that thread.

“Clearly, they are not.” Elain clipped back. Her words, sharper, her tone, harder than she had planned. She hadn’t intended to respond at all, yet she could not help it.

“No. They aren’t.” Feyre responded, seeming to finally get a sense of where Elains mind was at. “It didn’t stop him from believing she was, even in the centuries after her death.”

Elain, as much as she loved to believe she was great at controlling her reactions, when it came to the golden thread, or him, she had a hard time keeping any reaction to herself, especially when she could not control it.

There was a small flicker of relief at learning this unknown female that he loved so much, had wanted to be his, had wanted the golden thread to tie him too instead, had no longer been alive. She couldn’t help it. She desperately hoped her face remained neutral. What kind of person had any sort of glee learning someone had died, no matter how long ago?

But there was one thing Elain could not figure out. This was not her sister's story to tell. She knew why her sister was telling her. Elain wouldn’t speak to him. But it still wasn’t Feyre’s story to tell.

Beyond that though, Elain was curious.

“Of all the times to tell me, why now?” Though she asked, she refused to look at her sister. Asking the question may have been too much, letting her sister think she was giving too much interest in him. Turning her gaze to her sister wouldn’t help Elain.

“I thought you should know, you aren’t the only one who found yourself in this bond, having had hope for a past love.” Feyre responded.

It was the first time anyone had mentioned, even though indirectly, Greyson, at all since the war. What he had done, had said to her.

He was the reason Elain had started ignoring the heartbeat she could still hear. Greysons cruel words, and the harsh way he spoke to her was the reason Elain would not look within herself, knowing she would only see the golden thread. The way Greyson had broken her heart was the reason Elain refused to look at the male with the red hair.

Refusing to listen to her sister any longer, Elain stood, and walked out of the room, without another word.

She was tired of everyone expecting her to do something about her situation. She couldn’t even try to distract herself, like Nesta could, without this situation ruining it.

Maybe she hadn’t done anything because maybe she may want to be happy like her sisters one day. But that day kept getting pushed further, the more her sisters brought up the topic like she should take pity on him.

Elain hadn’t realised where she was walking, hadn’t caught the flash of red through the window, hadn’t heard his laugh as she turned the corner. She wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.

Yet, when Elain had entered the town house, thinking she might be free of the entirety of him, she ended up face to face with him, barely registering his human friends.

He still had the laughter in his eyes, though it was quickly dying, as he realized that it was Elain who stood in front of him.

Elain couldn’t help the longing, the pain, the sadness upon seeing how quickly his laughter and joy died. She did that to him. And this was the worst part of this bond. The guilt, seeing his expression fall, anytime he saw her.

Though, now, her mind had something new to supply, seeing the fallen joy. Even though her sister hadn’t meant it in a way to be painful, her words came back, which added more uncontrolled, and unwanted pain in Elains chest.

‘You aren’t who he would have chosen as a mate.’

Without saying a word, Elain turned on her heel, and walked back out the front door, completely forgetting why she had come to the town house to begin with.

The only thing on her mind was how Lucien Vanserra’s face always fell, whenever she came into the room, and how it was probably because she wasn’t who he wanted.

THIS, is the first thing I've written in a while! It's short, sorry. But also, tried to keep that angst. Hope I did well?

[animezinglife]

What's in the Rain

Lucien finds Elain alone watching the rain.

Genre: Romance/Fluff/Mild Angst Post-canon Elucien ficlet. Read below or on AO3.

Author's Note: I want to give a special shout-out to @lucienarcheron for her unyielding support of my Elucien headcanons (and who's probably laughing at me right now since I told her I wouldn't write a fic). This one's for you!

______________________________________________________________

At first, Lucien thinks she's forgotten to close the window. He takes in the stream of water pouring from the awning over the glass; the sound of distant thunder as it fills the home. The breeze that floods into the room carries with it the scent of rain and dampened earth–and the honey and jasmine he’s come to know well. 

Her scent. 

Elain.

He finds her perched on the cushioned banquette of their nook where he often reads, her legs pulled against her chest and skirt draping over the side and brushing the floor. At first, he wonders if she’s having one of her visions, though he hasn’t felt any sign of it through the bond: nothing of that confusion, fear, or turmoil. Instead, she looks completely at ease, and he takes one quiet step into the room before she glances over her shoulder at him, a faint flush of color on her cheeks as she takes him in.

Their mating bond is still new, but Lucien wonders if there will ever come a day when his heart doesn’t jolt at the sight of that flush; quicken at her fawn-brown eyes lingering on him. 

He doubts it.

A small smile crosses her lips in quiet understanding, and she extends a hand.

“Join me?” she asks, and he doesn’t give it a second thought. He crosses the room slowly and takes her hand in his. He gives it a light squeeze–one he tells himself is merely an acknowledgement to her and an understanding. Though it’s every bit as much for him: to feel her touch and to ground himself–the two of them–here together. 

That this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from, even if there are still times he feels like it. 

“I know,” she says, and he wonders if he’d sent that feeling down the bond. He opens his mouth to ask–Mother, his words still evade him sometimes when they’re alone–and she shakes her head. “You didn’t…tell me, if that’s what you’re wondering. I felt it too, and I’ve wondered the same thing.”

He takes a seat near her feet and doesn’t release her hand. His eyes stay on her even as he’s met with a cool, misty breeze; one that blends the scents of those beautiful, blooming flowers with that rain and his mate. Not one of those blooms compares, he thinks, as he takes in those warm eyes, that delicate, full mouth, those small, golden freckles the warmer weather has gifted her. Subtly–and almost shyly–she sends a caress down the bond, one that sends warmth through his core and that he sends back to her in response. She smiles again and turns to the window. 

“I’ve always loved the sun,” she says, her voice growing quieter. “Long, sunny days out in the garden or letting the light stream in while I baked. I didn’t like rainy days so much back when I was…” her voice trails, the unspoken “human” lingering in the air between them. 

“What changed?” 

She seems to consider his question for a moment, letting another breeze and distant roll of thunder wash over them. “I remembered rain was necessary,” she says finally. “For the flowers to grow and for their roots to take hold. It…” she pauses for a moment, and he swears her blush deepens ever so slightly. He feels the shift in her, too–between them. She takes a small breath and turns to face him, lacing her fingers through his. That subtle smile crosses her face again. “It makes us appreciate the light more. Makes me appreciate it more.” 

His breath catches then as her meaning sinks in–that they’re no longer just talking about the rain.

“I could hear yours too, you know. Back then,” he tells her, and her eyes flicker with something he’s still learning to read. “When you told me you could hear my heart beating through the stone, I could hear yours, too. Feel it whether I was in the same room or on the other side of the city.” 

“I sensed as much,” she says, that flicker turning into a curious gleam. “And I think I know why you didn’t say it. I wasn’t ready to hear it then.” She tugs on his hand and shifts, letting her legs fall over the side of the nook. Leaning forward, she extends her other hand, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. The touch is delicate, but sends a wave of heat through him from where her fingertips touched his skin. “I didn’t know what to make of you.” 

“First impressions haven’t always been my strong suit,” he says, and to his surprise, she snorts. 

“Oh, I doubt even the most charming emissaries fare much better when they’re greeted with captives being dunked into the Cauldron.” She doesn’t miss his shudder at that, and rests a hand gently on his face. Her thumb traces where his scar lines his cheekbone. 

It isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. Elain has told him of how Rhys reacted when he’d realized Feyre was his mate, and he’d witnessed too much of Cassian and Nesta’s bond to know the realization didn’t always go over smoothly. Even still, he wonders how things might’ve played out had he and Elain met differently; had time to be properly acquainted before the mating bond had snapped.

Had she not had her former life taken from her.

We’re still here, he reminds himself. It’s a reminder he’s made a habit every time his mind starts to wander down that path, and not even the Cauldron could take her from him now.

He still remembers the first time they discussed it; the surprise he’d felt when Elain had brought it up and let him know she was ready to face that day in her memory. Yet even now, her words that echo in his mind sound like something more out of a fantasy; the type of knights-and-gallantry tale parents tell their children before they go to sleep. 

I saw you, she had said.

From what she’d sent down the bond to him then, he’d understood. I saw you. Felt you. In ways I couldn’t understand and couldn’t ignore even when I’d wanted to.

Instinctively, he presses a kiss to her inner wrist, and she releases his hand to slide her own to the back of his neck. She pulls him close, resting her forehead against his before her lips find his own. They’re soft; coaxing. He matches her kiss, gently tracing her lower lip with his tongue as she responds. Her arms snake around him as she pulls him against her then, and she lowers them both onto the cushions. They separate briefly, and Lucien uses the moment to take her in.

This incredible female; the most beautiful he’s ever seen, and all the warmth and fire and thorns she possesses. He’d seen all of those traits even in the brief, terrible moments he’d known her as a human. Traits that had only been amplified into something both ethereal and formidable; familiar, kind, strong, and gentle.

His mate. And he was hers, in every way, in every world, and every life.

She pulls him close again, placing small kisses on his forehead, his cheek, and the corners of his mouth. When his mouth finds hers again, he senses it; feels it: that rising heat and question in her kiss that calls to every heartbeat, every breath, every fiber of his being.

She murmurs something against his mouth, and he lowers to her neck, relishing the sweetness of her scent and softness.

“Stay,” she says again, her voice slightly breathless and barely above a whisper. He leaves a long, lingering kiss at the base of her throat before resting over her and meeting her gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere.”