#eris hair debate | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sweet-honey-tears · 2 years

Text

✂️Long Hair 🤍

Characters: Hitoshi Shinso,Shoto Todoroki,Hawks,Eijirou Kirishima x Gender Neutral Reader

What happens when the boys grow out there hair? Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your support! As always feel free to leave a request!

Reader does know a lot about long hair.

🐈‍⬛Hitoshi Shinso🐈‍⬛

Shinso didn’t realize how long his hair had grown till your fingers brushed away his bangs. He couldn’t look down anymore without his violet hair blocking his eyes. He had just ignored it, not making a big fuss over something so small. But the feeling of your fingers pulling back the strands into a knot made him freeze. Then when your hands moved away and the strands stayed put he looked up.

“That should help a bit shin”

You hummed, leaning down to his hair before moving back to whatever task you had been doing before.

Shinso found himself reaching for his phone, switching to the camera, and looking at his reflection. His bangs were pulled back, and his hair reached around his shoulders. Shorter strands fell back in their place from the messy bun you made. His tired eyes peered back at his reflection, he looked so similar to him now.

You must have noticed him spacing out since you spoke out.

“It looks really nice, Shin. You look good with it.”

“Hm”

The following week the two of you had Eri over, a tradition the two of them kept. When Shinso entered the apartment after patrol, his eyes landed on his teenage sister and you. Eri was sitting at the counter, she was still dressed in her UA uniform. Her red eyes glanced at him, taking in the new hair. He watched her smile grow before she quietly spoke,

“You look like dad.”

🧊Shoto Todoroki🔥

Shoto had originally wanted to grow his hair out a bit since he wasn't really allowed to when he was growing up. But he didn’t intend for it to get so long though. It now went past his shoulders in red and white strands. Laying flat against his well-toned back. When Bakugou yelled out,

“Hey Repunizal, to your left!” He had realized just how long it had gotten.

He debated cutting it, watching himself in the mirror as his finger combed through his hair.

“Oh Sho, your home!” You had chirped, breaking him from his trance.

“Yes, I got home a bit ago but I didn’t want to wake you up.” He smiled, his arms opening to receive your hug. Yet he caught his gaze in the mirror over your shoulder. He stiffened a bit. Endeavor only ever let Fuma grow out her hair past shoulder length.

“Sho, what’s wrong?”

You questioned, brushing away his hair slightly from his eyes.

“My hair. Do you think it’s too long?” He asked, his gaze on you as you looked up at him.

“Oh, I guess it has gotten a bit long, huh?” You spoke, your fingers combing out a long strand of red. “But I like it, it looks really pretty on you Sho.” You said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. His face had turned pink. His ears darkened to red.

So the long hair stayed, and he continued to grow it. If it wasn't for you teaching him about how to care for it, condition, brushing, washing, etc, it wouldn’t be as healthy as it was. But now he even found himself researching hair oils off and on.

“It’s so pretty Sho.”

Even the media took notice, they started to comment on it. They talked about how shiny it was, and how well taken care of it looked. And because you had taught him to braid it, the media loved it even more. Photos of him mid-turn, his duel-colored braid levitating above his shoulder, and his pale face appearing out from long ruby strains circled around news stations. He was beautiful.

Some of your and his top picks for his hair are:

A three-strand braid. One strand of pure white, one pure red, and the third was a mix of both.

A messy bun: where his hair hangs in swooping strands. You can’t help but kiss him every time you see him like that.

High pointy tale. Looks like cascading water the way it falls and shines.

The names Bakugou gave him apparently stuck too.

At one meet and greet, his long hair was in a braid on his shoulder. No one had said anything about it till a very shy little girl holding a Repunizal doll went up to him. She was dressed as a Disney princess which wasn’t too uncommon. Sometimes hero meet and greets would also be mixed with some Disney characters. It allowed kids more options. But usually, the event didn’t mix much

“You’re like Repunizal”

She had spoken so lightly that Shotos barely caught it. But he caught your gaze, the soft look in your eyes. You were his Prince Charming in a way, his savior.

“Well, she is my favorite princess.”

The little girl got two pictures with Shoto, one of both of them next to each other and one where Shoto is holding her Repunizal doll. Her hand in his free one.

To say the least, Todoroki became the favorite hero among some little girls solely for his hair. Another event, had a little kid yell out.

“Do the magic!”

Your heart exploded the day the two of you went on a walk and these two kids came up to you both. “Can we please put these in your hair!?” They almost shouted. Their small hands holding clip-on flowers and real ones, their eyes full of stars. You had squeezed Shotos hand so tight he almost thought you were trying to break it.

To say the least, Shoto gained two more supporters that day and many clip-on flowers. You have a picture of him with flowers weaved into his now somewhat messy braid with two little kids by his side with the biggest smiles you’ve ever seen.

🪶HAWKS🪶

Hawks had started to grow his hair longer a year into your marriage, specifically, it was after the incident that happened. And marriage or not, the two of you still acted like teenagers who just fell in love. The two of you were always next to each other when you could be. Keigo did try to keep you away from the camera and lights, but things slip through. A blurry photo of your figure standing at one of the windows of the house once appeared. That freaked you out and angered him. The photo became too gossip. People trying to unblur your face, heading reading “Gold-Digger Rising?” Or “Fans have a new villain .” Yeah, that pissed him off. Keigo ended up investing in good blinds (since he couldn’t move at that moment) and made a public statement about the incident. Asking his fans and news outlets to respect your wishes. It caused some fans to actually argue against him. Stating “Well if they don’t want to get pictures of them taken, then maybe they shouldn’t have married a Pro Hero!” “Yeah, they were asking for it!”

“Are telling me my spouse was asking to be harassed by people?” It was quiet, and your bit your lip as you watched your husband through the screen. Your knee bounced up in down, the commission was going to be pissed at Keigo. The thought caused your heart to ache. He’s gonna get in trouble because of you.

“There is a reason they hide their identity, it’s because of incidents like this.” The crowd seemed to stop arguing after that.

When Keigo came home, landing on the balcony, he looked tired. With his phone in hand, you could hear a woman and two men screeching at him. You caught something about ‘Irresponsible’ and ‘if they were gonna be such a problem!’ before Keigo set it on the counter and walked over to you. The sounds of anger still rang in the room, he couldn’t hang up-less they get more pissed. His wings wrapped around you both. His arms snug around your waist, pulling you incredibly close. His lip rested on your forehead as he murmured, “I found a nice place on the opposite side of town.” He paused, waiting if you had any protest, but you hummed and wrapped your arms around him. His body relaxed slightly, the muscle in his back flexing more as his wings drew closer. “We’ll get some private movers so no one will know and I have some friends who will buy the flat with no publicity.”

It took about three months to fully settle, and thankfully the public didn’t know. One day their favorite hero was there, and the next, not. It apparently made some fans realize their intense…’ fanning’ may have gone too far. Some even spoke out about how they were the ones that drove their favorite pro hero away from his home.

In those three tense months, Keigo forgot to cut his hair. It was longer, some parts reached around his shoulders or past. He could put it in a ponytail now. But all thoughts of cutting it disappeared soon after. You both had been laying on the bed, having finally finished putting away every last box. (Hero work slows down the progress) You had been laying down on him, your back against his pelvis and head tilted upwards. Your hands reached up, fingers clumsy curved around his jaw at the messy angle. “You’re so handsome Keigo” you sighed. Your eyes suck on his gorgeous face that was framed with his honey hair. You ended up sitting up, and Keigo stayed still to allow you to move around him. Your knees went on either side of his strong legs as you faced him. Your fingers curled and played with the hair that hung around his face. “You look good with long hair,” Keigo smirked, his arms going around your waist to pull you flat against him, which almost caused you to fall over him.

“I’m glad to hear you like it chickadee.” He smiled, his hand going up to your back.

“I like it a lot” you rasped out, your lips pressing against him. To your surprise, you both lose balance, causing you both to fall back on the bed.

🪨Eijiro Kirishima🪨

Kirishima has been more focused on maintaining his hair color than the length. His hair was already long, so he didn’t think much of it going to his shoulders… then past. He was still able to spike it! So what did it matter? That was until it became too long to spike. The points starting to fall mid-patrol. If Sero hadn’t offered him a hair tie, he would have been pushing hair out of his eyes. He didn’t think about it that night, getting distracted by you, but this morning it hit him. Kirishima stood in the mirror, his hero uniform on, mask included, and stared at his face. How his hair lay limp at his shoulders and beyond. He could feel that sick feeling clawing up his gut, self-consciousness was creeping in. Did this look manly? Did he look weak like this? Did he even look good like this- would you like him like this? He self-deprecated himself mentally, wishing he got a haircut after patrol.

You passed by the bathroom, on your way to make breakfast. You were still in PJs, mid-yawn with messy hair.

“Hey uh pebble, can I ask you something.”

You paused and entered the doorway. Your body was still heavy with sleep as you walked behind your long-term boyfriend. Your arms wrapped around the back of his, your face smushed into his strong arm.

“What poppin Rocky?” You smiled lazily, your eyes meeting Kirishkmas in the mirror , you were still hazy with sleepy, and Kirishima could tell. It made him smile, watching you slowly open your eyes again. That was until he caught yours then his eyes. His hair.

“Pebble… do you think my hair looks too long?”

The tones snapped you awake. It brought your mind forward. Kiri was feeling self-conscious. No.

“Oh, I guess it has gotten a bit long.” You hummed, moving to the front of him. You stared at him, as if thinking about your responses, even though you already knew it. “But I like it, it’s nice.”

Kirishima was quiet for a moment, catching his reflection again. You watched his face fall.

“Are you sure?”

Kirishima asked, your heart lurched. You grabbed his hand.

“Rocky, you look good in everything. You look strong and scary with your hair spiked up, and you look strong and beautiful with it down. You look amazing either way.”

You smiled softly. Your fingers then trailed to his face mask, taking it off. “Plus, I like the un-spiked look. It makes it easier to play with your hair.” You hummed, finger running through a strand before your eyes caught his ruby ones. They were soft, a form of a thank you. You pecked his lips, “I’ll go make us some eggs”

“Wait pebble, my mask!” He caught your mysterious grin in the mirror before you turned the corner sharply. Kirishima could hear the sound of your feet hitting the floor as you run. He smiled brightly, you always brought him out of his mind. “I’m coming for you peddle!”

1K notes · View notes

sergeifyodorov · 1 year

Note

would you actually be willing to give like a pretty long rundown of those main guys from the 2015 draft class?? because i would be Very interested

Of course! I wrote this in a Google doc so I could get it all down. It's a LOT btw -- this is the abridged version, leaving out what are probably important details, and it's still [checks] 11k words long. Sorry about that.

Anyone who tells you that the draft is a science is an idiot not worth their twenty-dollar stadium beer. The draft has analytical elements, sure, but it is a crapshoot through and through. If you dare to take a look back on draft histories from the past ten years -- the past twenty, the past thirty -- only rarely is the first pick, the “best in show,” actually the best of his class. I mean, no wonder, right? How well can you determine how good a man is going to be at hockey when you have only seen him as a teenager? Accuracy and prophecy are not kin.

Every ten years, though, you come across someone whose trajectory is easy to map. A prospect who is so head and shoulders above everyone else -- in numbers, in the eye test -- that you cannot help but say that they are going to be The Next One. God save the poor boy you put that name on.

In this case, it is 2014, and they are speaking those words again. On the dingy ice of an OHL arena, a red-haired Toronto boy with scared fawn’s eyes paces around the circles, faster than anyone else in the building. There are articles written about him already, calling his experience the torture test and labelling him Jesus, the saviour, the new great. It will get worse for him from here.

A Generational Prospect

It is 2004, and all eyes are on Sidney Crosby. He has eclipsed QMJHL scoring records. He performs highlight-reel antics. It is known that he will make the NHL as a teenager, and that whichever team has him will have an asset they should not ever think to relinquish.

Now, in 2023, all expectations of him are blown away. He is fifteenth on the all-time scoring list, having played most of his life in the dead-puck era, and will be inside the top ten by the time he retires. He has never been below a point per game, having gotten to a hundred points as an eighteen-year-old rookie and only slowed down to ninety at thirty-five. He has won three Cups; two Harts; two each Art Ross and Rocket Richard.

Something similar can be said for his contemporary, one Alex Ovechkin, sixteenth in all-time scoring, second ever in goals. While neither were always the most singular, dominant player of the past eighteen years (has it really been that long?) their longevity and consistent high-level play have cemented them into that tier of all-time greats.

Such players only emerge once (or, for them, twice) in a generation; a “generational talent.” Gordie Howe was the first, before drafting happened at all, then Gretzky, joined as a part of the WHA merger, then Lemieux, then, debatably, Jagr through the early half of the dead-puck era, then Crosby and Ovechkin. Jagr was drafted fifth overall partly due to political constraints (it was 1990, and Czechia was behind the Iron Curtain), but all of the other drafted ones went first. While development curves for everyone else are hard to map, it is easy to tell, for them, how good they are as youths. We all call Gretzky the “Great One,” but he actually got that nickname before he was a teenager, because of how much better than the rest of his peers he was.

This is how we go up to the 2015 draft. Let’s say that it is September 2014, a full hockey season before the draft, so we can set the scene. Go back to the dingy Erie rink, watch the red-haired boy speed around the ice.

This is Connor McDavid. He was born in January just outside Toronto; if you are unfamiliar with the term “GTA,” I will pause now to tell you that it means Greater Toronto Area, and that it is the nexus of all hockey in the world. He is a Leafs fan, as so many of the GTA hockey-playing hopefuls are.

Connor is an unusual child, even by young hockey prospect standards. Entry to any of the CHL major junior leagues -- the OHL, the WHL, the QMJHL -- starts at sixteen, but select few can apply early, and if they are academically, physically, and emotionally deemed adept they can be accepted for exceptional status and join at fifteen. This happens once every two or three years nowadays; Tavares and Ekblad were the only ones to predate McDavid. As well as being deemed exceptional by the board of the CHL, he is exceptional among peers, too: intelligent and analytical, black-and-white, painfully shy. He works hard in school, desperate to avoid coming off as a “dumb jock.” Media interviewers ask for him, but they have to change the settings on their microphones in order to pick up his voice, it is so soft.

He has already won trophies; scholastic achievement, sportsmanlike behaviour, CHL rookie of the year. He will score at least one point in all but one of the first eighteen games of the 2014-15 OHL season, before breaking his hand in a fight (getting himself a Gordie Howe hatty, being that he already has a goal and an assist). He will score a hundred points in thirty-eight games, and a hundred and twenty points in the forty-seven games he will play.

Understandably, his name is penned in at number one on the draft board. Even such deficits as breaking a hand and being out for six weeks don’t tank his stock, it is so obvious how well on track he is to outpace all but the best.

He is sweet and shy, a captain of Erie based mostly on skill, and tight-laced into the destiny of future franchise saviour.

At least he has a friend, though, right?

Dylan

The 2014-15 Erie Otters are a good team. A great one, even -- third in league standings by season’s end, and you don’t get that far if your single generational superstar is sidelined half the year with a hand injury.

This is where Dylan comes in. Like Connor, he’s a GTA boy, and a young Leafs fan. Unlike Connor, he’s part of a serious hockey family -- the middle child of three. His older brother Ryan has already been drafted, in the first round, no less. He’s a real student of the game, too, a stats obsessive and a calm, steadfast personality.

Remember how we said the draft is a crapshoot? That’s very true. Prospects may have precise rankings when all is said and done, but in the meantime I find it best thinking of them as instead arranging into tiers -- there’s the generational talent in this year, but disregarding him we have a first overall-level, then a small handful of top prospects. Not saviours in their entirety, but certain to make a team very happy. Dylan projects as the latter group -- he’ll be somewhere between three and five. In 2014-15, he’s the OHL scoring leader, and takes the Erie Otters’ single-season record.

He and Connor are also best friends. Connor’s quiet, anxious even, but Dylan has a coolheaded sort of confidence that brings out the best in him. Rarely are they pictured without each other; rarely are they spoken to without mentioning the other. There’s a sweet little video out there of the Otters going to New York state and going on this little ziplining/outdoor climbing gym, and Connor and Dylan are about as glued to each other’s sides as you can be while obeying the harness safety rules. In hockey terms, while a little young for it, they’re married. Much like Crosby and Malkin are, although over a much shorter term, and publically the two Otters are much closer.

Dylan is the one I feel as if I can talk the least about. He is mostly defined by what he is not: not Connor, to start, and before the actual draft takes place that is the most of it.

Of course, that’s the most of what any of it is, isn’t it? These are teenagers, separated into imprecise tiers and mostly defined by which tier they slot into. The three boys below Connor, no matter how good they are, are defined by being not Connor.

Jack Eichel most of all.

Jack, to start, is American, unlike any of the other three. He’s a late birthday -- born in November of 1996 instead of the first eight and a half months of 1997 -- so he’s, in theory, had another year to adapt. (Brief footnote: the September 15 cutoff is what determines draft eligibility, either the year you turn eighteen or the year you turn nineteen. If you were born in, say, June of 2000, you would be eligible for the draft in 2018. If you had the audacity to be born in October of 2000 instead, you’d have to wait until 2019.) His development pipeline is also unlike the others, having come up into the NCAA, college hockey, and playing at the US National Development team before committing to Boston University. He won the Hobey Baker award as a freshman, and led the NCAA in scoring as a rookie.

He was marketed, coming into the draft, as the American Connor -- the new face of American hockey, a homegrown star, a fellow generational talent, although that was a feeble marketing strategy to dull the disappointment of going second to greatness. He was proud and polite, quiet but not scared, a young man uncomfortably aware of his own myth and rather irritated at the fact he had a myth in the first place. Taken in and treated well, he would probably have a well-suited disposition to a high-stress, playoff-bound team.

It’s unfortunate that that wouldn’t realize until eight years after he was drafted.

The Draft Itself, or, What Caused All These Problems In The First Place

The draft lottery rolls around. The lottery and the draft take place on different days -- the lottery several weeks before, so that for a long time the boys have an idea of to whom they will go. The first four teams to pick are, in order:

Edmonton. Edmonton had been very bad, for a very long time, and had three shiny prizes already to show for it: Taylor Hall, drafted first overall in 2010; Nail Yakupov, drafted first overall in 2012; and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, drafted first overall in 2013. I’m sure you already know this, but Edmonton was Gretzky’s team, while Gretzky won all his cups, and they now stand to get themselves another generational talent in Connor McDavid.

Buffalo. The Sabres have a few decent pieces: Ryan O’Reilly, Sam Reinhart. They haven’t made the playoffs in a few years, and have plummeted to the bottom of the standings, finishing thirtieth out of thirty.

Arizona. Arizona has never gotten off the ground, not once. They are a dust mote of a franchise, held in place by Gary Bettman’s fragile ego and the skimmings of Original Six markets. Their survival, as doomed as we know it is, is banking on a distant hope of good prospect luck and better PDO.

Toronto. While Arizona is the smallest of small markets, Toronto is… well, it’s Toronto. Remember earlier, how I said that the GTA is the nexus of hockey? Toronto is called the Centre of the Universe, and for good goddamn reason. The Leafs are one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and simultaneously one of the winningest (the second-most Stanley Cups, after Montreal) and the losingest (their most recent Cup was almost sixty years ago.) Their fanbase dwarfs all but the most hardcore of French Canadian separatist contingents. There’s a common phrase now, when any hockey news is mentioned -- but how does this affect the Leafs? It’s well-done satire.

And with four teams, we have four boys. So I come upon the last one now: Mitch Marner. Mitch, like Dylan and Connor, is a GTA boy, a born and raised Leafs fan on an OHL team. He plays for the London Knights -- a diminutive forward (he weighs in at 160 pounds soaking wet at eighteen, and eight years later barely cracks 180) with fantastic playmaking skills, the creativity and gall to do things other players have never even thought of. He’s a sweet one, too, bubbly and energetic and cuddly and kind.

Here is how the draft goes:

The Oilers take the stage first, for the fourth time in six years. The ceremony is unnecessary. Connor McDavid is the name everyone knows they will say. Connor walks up to the stage, looking vaguely nauseous, and dons the jersey and the hat. (His facial expression in the interviews afterward is thoroughly dissected over the next eight years. Some say it’s simple stage fright; others say it’s personal distaste for the Oilers -- remember, Toronto boy, Toronto heart. I choose to believe it’s the first one. Not all of us are John Tavares.)

After a first-round prospect is chosen, they bring him down for an interview, then shuffle him off to some arena underbelly for photos upon photos. Connor performs his niceties, but before he is taken back, he asks to stay. He wants to watch Dylan get drafted.

The Buffalo Sabres come second, and pick Jack Eichel. Eichel is asked, throughout, how he feels about Connor, being behind Connor, coming second to Connor. The narrative being pushed is called McEichel -- the Canadian wunderkind versus the American one -- and he wants no part in it. He’s impressed by Connor’s play, in their few brief meetings he thinks of him as nice enough, he wants to carve out his own path.

This refusal to play along may have been the start of the discontent, in hindsight. The media clearly wasn’t going to get anything out of soft-voiced scared-eyed perfect Canadian boy Connor, but Jack, sharper edges and colder heart, might be good for a soundbite or two about this new league-made rivalry. Jack, though, ever aware, puts himself solidly into Generic Hockey Interview voice and backs off.

The Coyotes come third. Here is where a choice occurs, the first genuine decision. Connor McDavid had been slotted into first pick since the day he got accepted for exceptional status. Eichel had taken a few years more, but his place in second after Connor was well known for months on end. Dylan and Mitch, however, were up in the air. Do you pick the big one with more points, or the small one with star power?

The Coyotes follow the conventional hockey wisdom, and take the big boy. Connor waits to watch his friend take the jersey, then hugs him in the wings.

Finally, the Leafs.

Let’s actually take a step back to talk about the Leafs rebuild, for a second, because it, like everything the Leafs have ever done, is a testament to failure. Also, somewhat, because it is relevant. Also, moreso, because I can’t shut up about hockey and you’ve asked me to talk as long as I like. If you’re still reading, I want you to know that a) I am ever thankful for your time and b) we’re, like, just getting started here.

The Leafs’ last contending era was before the 04-05 lockout season, which means it predates the salary cap. They struggled in the midsection, for a long time, then finally fell enough to gain the fifth overall pick in 2008, with which they selected a big tough young defenceman named Luke Schenn, the first official piece of the Leafs’ rebuild, strange as it may be. Luke, while competent enough, was obviously not the sort of franchise-changing star the Leafs needed, and they struggled in the midsection again, before gaining, once more, the fifth overall pick, with which they selected Schenn’s partner, one Morgan Rielly. The two would be perfect partners, but we won’t know this for eleven years. Luke was traded twelve hours after Rielly’s draft.

Rielly is still in the AHL the next year, 2013, when the Leafs make the playoffs. This is the infamous 4-1 series: the Leafs go down 3-1 in the series, claw their way back up to game seven. They gain a 4-1 lead, going into the third period, and then blow it completely and lose the game, and the series, in overtime. They do not make the playoffs in 2013-14, and before the 2014-15 season begins they change management. The man they install as President decides to tank, and tank hard, selling as much of the Leafs as he can in the hopes of landing that elusive first pick.

They end up with fourth overall, and Mike Babcock, the Leafs’ head coach, does not want Mitch Marner, instead asking the then-management for the bigger defenceman, a boy named Hanifin who will go fifth to the Hurricanes. The Leafs take Marner anyway. Watch him as his name is called. He, like the first three, sits in a nest of other prospects and their families -- Mitch actually sits right behind Jack Eichel -- but unlike them, when his name is called the other prospects lean over to offer him congratulations, as well as his parents and brother. Mat Barzal, from across the aisle, offers a bro-hug as Mitch goes by.

The rest of the draft goes as usual. The 2015 draft, beyond narratively, is one of the deepest drafts in recent memory; players you may recognize include Timo Meier, Mikko Rantanen, Travis Konecny, Sebastian Aho (the Carolina one!), Roope Hintz, Kirill Kaprizov, Troy Terry… the list goes on. These players have their own stories, but few really tie in to this one. (So far.)

Summer passes; we move on. Training camp rolls around.

Connor McDavid, as expected, makes the team. He moves in with Taylor Hall, a fellow first overall. Jack Eichel also makes the team.

Dylan and Mitch do not. Dylan’s reasons are unknown to me, but Mitch is sent down because, again, Babcock does not want him. He’s naturally undersized and does not have a frame that builds muscle; Babcock is not under the impression that young men in Mitch’s image make good hockey players. Both Mitch and Dylan are returned to the OHL.

The stage is set now; each boy has a team. Eight years on, only half of them are on those teams. But we can’t worry about that yet! We have to make it to the NHL first!

World Juniors and the Memorial Cup

Once Connor makes the Oilers, Dylan Strome is named captain of the Erie Otters. Very cool, to only get what you deserve after the golden boy is gone.

Jack and Connor are off playing with the big boys. They’ll get their own section later -- we have to work our way up, not up and down and up and down. I’ve got to be somewhat cohesive, you know? So, we’ll stay, for now, in the world of junior hockey.

The Otters and the London Knights, Mitch’s team, are in the wonderful circumstance of not only both being very good at the same time, but also being in the same division as one another. This means they see each other quite often (no plane travel in the OHL. Bus only.) and have thus formed… a bit of a rivalry. It is becoming difficult to dance around: Dylan Strome, despite the politeness they’ve shown each other at the draft, hates Mitch Marner.

And why wouldn’t you? He’s the one Dylan fought with all last season for the OHL scoring title; he’s fast on his feet and can shoot from impossible angles; he makes plays you’ve never even considered, much less considered possible. He dangles through the Otters and scores the easiest impossible goal you’ve ever seen and laughs as light as air about the whole thing. And he’s tiny. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Marner drew a lot of comparisons to Patrick Kane in his junior days -- thankfully without the character in common, but as a hockey player. An undersized (almost comically so) London winger with otherworldly ability to manifest scoring chances out of nothing. The exact sort of irritating worm that not one of us wants on the other team.

So, of course, they get put on the same team.

The 2016 World Juniors are summoned. Connor McDavid, then dealing with a broken collarbone and a great deal of pressure, is not on Team Canada’s roster. Dylan Strome and Mitch Marner both are. Suddenly and thankfully, the media’s focus shifts from one, false rivalry in McEichel to a very very real one.

I don’t want to dismiss what happens next as a mere symptom of the fact that hockey players are engineered to get along with their teammates, even if they don’t like each other. Admittedly, it does start that way -- Mitch is a winger and Dylan a centre, and both skilled, so the coach puts them on the same line. Simple enough. And then they spark up a friendship.

Dylan’s reasons for hating Mitch were not personal, just hockey-related. Dylan hated Mitch because he was good and he knew it, the simple way a teenager hates their direct competitor. On the same team, though, the competition aspect is removed, and the barrier for hatred is gone. This is the Dylan/Mitch enemies to lovers arc, if you want to put it that way.

Mitch, for the record, I doubt ever hated Dylan. He doesn’t have that in him, never had. He saw a rival, sure, and as soon as that rival wore a matching jersey I assume he taped the word friend over whatever defined their relationship before. Mitch is probably one of the most gregarious, friendly, charming hockey players out there. Beyond his cute little face and on-ice highlights, even. He’s loud, sure, but when he talks he knows how to include you. He finds out what you like and talks about it, he singles you out if you’re shy and builds up your confidence. He’s just plain nice.

Dylan, like the rest of us, was charmed. Within weeks he went from calling Mitch annoying to telling us all about how he loves cuddling (!?) with him. They became fast friends and great linemates.

Dylan’s not the only one Mitch Marner befriends at Worlds, though. Somewhere between matches, Mitch takes an elevator at the complex they’re staying at, and ends up sharing it with a boy from the American team, a tall square-jawed Mexican centre with a Justin Bieber obsession. This is Auston Matthews, one of the projected top picks of the 2016 draft -- born just two days after the cutoff that would have made him eligible to go in 2015. He played with Jack Eichel at the USNTDP, before taking his age-eighteen year to go play pro in Switzerland. He holds the NTDP scoring record as a seventeen-year-old, and will continue to hold it until Jack Hughes breaks onto the scene. The two boys in the elevator do not yet know it, but they are about to share the mantle of franchise saviour, for the franchise most desperately in need of saving.

Either way. The Canadians place sixth at World Juniors, the Americans do better, the Finns win the whole thing. (In the long run, Laine turns out not to be better than Matthews after all.) Mitch and Dylan go back to their OHL teams.

Erie and London tie in points that year, but London wins the OHL title and goes to Alberta for the Memorial Cup, the CHL trophy. Mitch Marner takes home the scoring title, the Stafford Smythe (CHL equivalent of the Conn Smythe), and the Memorial Cup itself. He is one of the most decorated winners in OHL history, touted as being clutch, creating magic, and racking up points. He has close friends in Dylan Strome and fellow Knight Matthew Tkachuk, who will be selected sixth overall in the 2016 draft, the second American after Auston Matthews himself. And when NHL training camp rolls around in the fall, even Babcock cannot deny he is ready, no matter how slight he may still be.

Connor Complex

There’s nothing that fuels story like a good rivalry, and the NHL was obsessed with marketing this rivalry. The Canadian versus the American. The perfect child of a long line of red-blooded southern Ontario tradition versus the Boston boy with a chip on his shoulder. Jack and Connor, Connor and Jack. They hyped Jack up the time leading up to the draft, trying to hint that he was almost as good -- no, just as good -- as McDavid himself.

He was not, and everyone knew.

The 2014-15 Sabres, then the worst team in the NHL and having done an elite job at tanking (they are one of the worst teams in the analytics era, besides the 2022-23 Anaheim Ducks -- I wonder what prize might be waiting at that number one spot? Surely not someone named Connor.) wanted McDavid. The Pegulas, the owners of the Sabres, tried to hide their disappointment in him as pride. They had an all-American star, they said, someone who had grown up not too far from Buffalo himself, and in the same country, no less. He would be the sort of man to lead them into a new golden age, away from the misery of the tank years.

And yet the narrative persisted. McEichel, they whispered. Look at how good Connor McDavid is, and look at how much Eichel is not him. McDavid, they say, McDavid McDavid McDavid. No article could be written about Jack without mentioning how he came second to Connor.

The Sabres tried to quell the whispers. Look at our boy, they say. They signed Eichel to an eight-year, ten million dollar contract, and in the beginning of the 2018-19 season they named him captain. Isn’t our boy great.

The team does not improve. The Sabres hadn’t made the playoffs for three years when they drafted Eichel; they still haven’t made the playoffs today. I wasn’t around to look, but the team was bad. Eichel did his best, but he was young and inexperienced and did not -- never did -- have captain’s blood in him; Ryan O’Reilly lost his love for the game.

The whispers of character issues start to come out. Jack Eichel is a “locker room cancer;” he’s selfish, stuck-up, quick-tempered. He’s caught in a cage where the only key is to be Connor, something which he never wanted to achieve in the first place, and never could have even if he did want it. The whole narrative was completely fabricated. He liked Connor well enough when they met.

I do imagine he has feelings about it, though, and feelings about Connor now. He didn’t know him, not enough to have an opinion on the boy, but the name followed him around long enough for him to think about it. Imagine it. You’re good in your field, great, even. You’re doing well enough to earn yourself a superstar contract, you’re an All-Star, and yet the only way you will get any recognition at all is when they say that you are worse than one of the greatest players ever to play the game. They lock you into a connection that you have never wanted, barring you from forging your own path. You exist permanently in that orange-and-blue shadow. I don’t blame Jack for being angry. I would be too.

Babcock

Auston Matthews was incredible from the jump. He was big, he was strong, his wrister is the stuff of legend. He won the Calder in his and Mitch’s rookie year, by a not insignificant margin, well ahead of Laine. He was a coach’s dream doll, unusual enough to be marketed and good enough to be useful. Unavoidably masculine even at nineteen.

Mitch less so. Mitch is still small, remember, and struggles to gain weight. I know I talk about his size a lot, but it’s genuinely important. Hockey and its fan culture has long been a group that prioritized size and raw power above all things. Mitch possessed neither of those things, and when he struggled with gaining muscle it was seen as an unwillingness to try. If you know anything about the ability of our bodies to gain or lose weight, you know that it is simply a genetic roll of the dice, a scale that puts a little bit of us into the “gains muscle mass easily” category and decides when to stop. Most hockey players actually aren’t very far up the muscle-gaining spectrum, especially when compared to American football or baseball players -- mass is strength, yes, but it’s also more to move around on ice -- but Mitch is especially low on the scale. Because of this, he is seen as unmanly, a dangerous thing to be.

The Leafs media market is a nightmare, and always has been. Because this is the Centre of the Universe, there are more eyes on the Leafs than on any other team. More eyes mean more writers, means you have to say weirder and wilder things to beg for clicks. Outrage is a good marketing tactic. Getting mad about one of the prize prospects seemingly not wanting to bulk up for the good of the team is a very easy thing to do.

What’s more, Mitch, after his entry-level contract had expired, had had a very difficult and long-drawn out contract negotiation, asking for a lot of money -- essentially the maximum that the Leafs could afford at the time. Because of the salary cap constraint, this was seen as kind of selfish. The angry clicks move. Mitch is sensitive, they say. Soft, selfish, weak.

It’s easy enough to dismiss out of hand when your uncle from Belleville does it, because what does he know. It’s different when it’s the head coach of the Leafs. Mike Babcock, is, at the time of hiring, the highest-paid coach in the NHL. He was signed before the 2015-16 season, and at that point had an eight-year contract, which would have carried him up until this year.

Mike Babcock sucked. Structurally, his teams were fine -- the Leafs made the playoffs in 2016-17, and haven’t missed it since, but he was awful, horribly mean to the boys under him, and especially, especially Mitch.

We should skip ahead a little bit. It’s the beginning of the 2019-20 season. The Leafs have made the playoffs three times already, and lost in the first round each time -- but this, too, is not yet a phrase that strikes worry into our hearts. They’re young, and they have plenty of time left.

Respected veteran Jason Spezza came home to the Leafs, having spent his career -- a player who might squeak the Hall of Fame, but is more likely just below its level -- in first Ottawa, where he was the captain of the Senators briefly and one of its most well-loved players, and then Dallas. Like the boys I talk about here, Jason Spezza is a former OHL player, a GTA boy, a Leafs fan. The Leafs’ season opener is against Ottawa, the team where Jason Spezza left most of his mark. There used to be a promotion with the Senators -- a local branch of some pizza chain would offer a free slice if the Sens scored more than five goals in a game. Spezza (and his linemates, Heatley and Alfredsson) were so good, they named his line the Pizza line. Mike Babcock makes Jason Spezza a healthy scratch on that day.

This is seen as disrespectful, but no more than a coach living up to his hardass reputation. You do what the coach tells you, don’t you? Lest you become a whiner, or worse, a locker room cancer. Scratching an extremely well-respected veteran on the opener against his former team is just something some guys do. A message, if you will. Stay the course, Babcock just wants his players to respect him.

And then news of the list leaks.

It happened when Mitch was a rookie, but they kept it hidden for three years. The Leafs went on a father-and-sons trip, one they do every season. They’re on a road trip, with only their fathers, isolated from their home.

(A brief aside to talk about Mitch’s dad; his name is Paul Marner, and he is the most stereotypical hardass hockey dad on the planet. A nitpicker, an armchair coach, a bully. I do not imagine Mitch felt particularly comforted by his and Babcock’s combined presence on this trip.)

Babcock approached Mitch and asked him to organize all of his teammates in a list. He wanted Mitch to arrange them in order of hardest workers to laziest; he thought Mitch was one of the lazy ones, and wanted to drive this point home by making him categorize his teammates like this. Mitch, as a rookie hockey player does in the presence of the Maple Leaf hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, obliged. He was under the impression it would be a private affair, just an assignment from Babcock to teach him some sort of lesson. Whether it be out of fear or honesty, he placed himself last on the list.

Babcock told the others.

Specifically, two Leafs vets that Mitch had placed low on the list -- Nazem Kadri and Tyler Bozak. Imagine this: you are a decent centre on a bubble team, but nonetheless an established NHL veteran of about a decade, and your coach shows you a list a rookie made. He tells you that the rookie arranged everyone by work ethic, grinders to lazy shits. You are firmly on the “lazy shit” end.

How much does the coach have to suck, or how much does the rookie have to be loved, for Kadri and Bozak to react like they did? The rumour says they called for Babcock’s head on the spot. Mitch was in tears. I wouldn’t want to stay in Toronto if that happened to me. No wonder he and Auston signed for so much -- Babcock was barely halfway through his contract when they did. If I’d thought that I would have to deal with him for that long, I wouldn’t accept anything less than as much as they could possibly pay me.

In the end, in the beginning of December, 2019, Mitch got hurt and the Leafs went on a road trip. They were already losing by the time they’d left, and they kept losing. Normally, a team on a road trip doesn’t take the hurt players with them, but they took Mitch. The Leafs lost six in a row and finally fired Babcock, letting Sheldon Keefe take his place. Mitch’s presence was a comfort.

Go West

The Leafs make the playoffs first, and take Mitch with them. The Sabres are fighting a silent war with their star centre, but they are no closer to success.

Connor McDavid is named captain at nineteen, the youngest in the history of the NHL. He scrapes the team to a playoff spot, then to a second round loss. He wins the Art Ross and the Hart.

The year before his entry-level contract expires, when he is first eligible, he signs what is then the most expensive per-year contract in NHL history -- eight years, a hundred million dollars. He is looking forward to spending the rest of his prime as an Oiler. He wins the Art Ross the next year, comes very close the year after. The Oilers do not make the playoffs again until after Covid hits.

He gets hurt a lot, too -- he breaks his collarbone as a rookie, missing half the season, and at the very end of the 2018-19 year, crashes into the net irons and shatters his knee. There are rumours of the man who broke Connor’s collarbone doing it on purpose; Connor claims that he overheard the man bragging about it, and I am inclined to believe him. This guy gets traded to the Oilers not too long after that.

In the meantime, Dylan is struggling. The Coyotes stick him in Tucson, a team he is obviously too good for. His entry-level contract slides another season. He wiffles between Tucson and Arizona, not being considered good enough to stay up but being too good to stay down. In the end, on the last year of his entry-level contract, he is traded from the Coyotes to the Chicago Blackhawks, a similarly bad team with a few remnants of its Cup-winning days. Dylan, a feeble icon of Chicagoan hope for one last dance with the aging core, centres Patrick Kane.

In his first half-season with the Blackhawks, he scores 51 points in 58 games. There are hopeful flashes of what he can be, the touted prospect he once was.

Things wrap up on New Years like this: Connor is beyond a hundred-point pace; Dylan, although in no less danger, is at least out of the dust at the bottom of the barrel; Jack is caught in a cold war; the team loves Mitch.

John Tavares has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Playoff Series

March of 2020 rolls around, and with it the coronavirus pandemic. The league is shut down before the season ends, and the playoffs re-formed in July, inside a bubble -- no one in, no one out until they are eliminated. The Sabres stay with their families, having once again missed the playoffs. The Leafs are set to play the Columbus Blue Jackets, and the Oilers are set to play the Blackhawks.

This, to date, is Dylan’s only playoff appearance, and he is set to face Connor.

Dylan wins.

The qualifying round -- functioning as the first round of the bubble playoffs -- is a best of five, not of seven, and the Blackhawks defeat the Oilers 3-1. They then proceed to lose in five games (this one is a best of seven) to Vegas, but Dylan’s job is done.

The Leafs lose in the first round again. The Leafs have made the playoffs since Auston and Mitch’s debut, every single year, but they lose each time; in six, to the Capitals, then in seven every year after that. Or, in this case, in five.

Covid had not stopped by the end of the 2020 season ( :/ ) and the NHL was rearranged for what would be ostensibly the 2020-2021 season, but ended up being played mostly in 2021. Because of border laws, the Canadian teams are sequestered into their own, North division. Dylan Strome signs a two-year contract extension with Chicago right before the season starts -- one that will carry him until the end of the 2021-2022 season.

If you’ve seen All or Nothing on Amazon Prime, it is this season that is covered. The Leafs tear through what is seen as a weaker North division, taking a comfortable first place spot. Connor McDavid cracks a hundred points in fifty-six games. Both Leafs and Oilers lose in the first round.

The Leafs do it perhaps most remarkably. They have drawn the Canadiens, a rather insubstantial team who are in their spot mostly because they have one of the best goaltenders in recent memory at their back.

I watched this game, live, before I was a serious Leafs fan. I can only imagine what it would be like if you were already invested at that point; I would not wish to live that horror on anyone. I tried to watch All or Nothing, later, but I stop here.

Corey Perry and John Tavares are both on the ice, in the race for the puck. Tavares catches an edge, as you sometimes do, and falls, and Perry’s knee is in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, and it catches Tavares in the side of the head. He falls to the ice, his limbs splaying unnaturally. He won’t move.

Medics come over, to try and raise him to his feet. He fights against them, blood streaming from a cut in his forehead, unable to tell if they are trying to hurt him or not. There is no one in the crowd, the stadium empty for the pandemic. The camera cuts to Kyle Dubas in the rafters, who has a phone in his hand and swiftly vanishes back into the halls of the arena. He is calling Tavares’ wife. We do not know what is going to happen. Everyone looks shaken -- the Habs have just watched a man nearly die, the Leafs have just lost their captain, perhaps forever. They lose, although the game feels like an afterthought. I do not want to watch hockey anymore.

They win the next three straight, though, even without him. Then they lose, twice, in overtime.

The Leafs, as they have done for the past four years up to this point, go to game seven.

Partway through the game, Mitch Marner panics in his defensive zone and puts the puck over the glass. This is a penalty, it is a penalty every time, and he knows that. He sits in the box, looking defeated already. He curls in on himself, and the camera flashes to the penalty box. He’s crying. He knows the game is lost.

The Leafs are eliminated again, and there is a target on his back now, not only for the puck going over the glass but for the tears. He’s soft, they say. As they have said since he was picked, because he doesn’t look like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t act like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t play hockey like a hockey player should. He makes too much and he disappears when it matters.

Thoughts on the Leafs’ playoff successes suddenly switch from the core is young, even if this is frustrating to they need to win before it’s too late. Already, in recent years, they have suffered historic game-seven chokes and drastic failures to launch. Whether they do it against teams like the President’s Trophy-winning Capitals or the barely-alive wild-card Canadiens is irrelevant. They cannot win a round, at all. The Leafs are already the team with the greatest Cup drought, and they are now gaining a long playoff round victory drought too. It should be time, at least, for them to look like they are a contender.

This is how the Leafs find themself stuck; a particularly frustrating timeloop, even though hockey itself is nothing but. Sports are cyclical by nature. A team is bad, then okay, then good, then declining, then bad again, and this repeats anew. Some teams try to get themselves out of this cycle by being good forever; I can assure you that this only really happens to the New York Yankees, who employ a cadre of evil wizards to keep everything on that hell team going well for them. Most other teams who try end up stuck like the Canucks are, right now: bad enough to miss the playoffs, but not good enough to get key picks for a rebuild. I can see next season play out, clear as day: they struggle out of the gate, one of their stars gets hurt right when it seems like they’re at the very, very start of gathering momentum, they’re bottom-10 by January and the team says everyone but Pettersson are on the table, they trade picks and low-grade players, they get blazing hot post-deadline and finish twenty-first.

There is, unfortunately, also a perception that pure talent is not what makes players playoff performers -- instead, some so-called “clutch gene” that exists, or not. The reality is somewhere in between. Clutch exists. There are always players who can score when no one else can even dream of it, but a greater problem is luck. President’s Trophy winners are not often Cup winners (even if higher seeds are most likely to win), because the regular season is a much, much bigger sample size and the playoffs can change the course of all of it by a goalie having a hot streak at the right time. The 2018-19 Tampa Bay Lightning, third-best team in NHL history, got swept in the first round by Sergei Bobrovsky going crazy. The 2022-23 Bruins lost in seven in the first round in much the same manner.

And no matter what, the Leafs are always on the wrong end of the luck. Bounces hit the post. The refs take back goals for reasons they would have ignored at any other time of year. John Tavares slips, and his head makes contact with a knee.

Mitch ends up the whipping boy. He is the Leafs’ most valuable player, and this is a team with Auston Matthews on it, but I’m serious. He was the Leafs’ leading playoff scorer in 2023, he’s one of the best penalty-killers in the league, he’s adored by everyone who’s ever once talked to him. He only ever wanted to be a Leaf, and now that he is here he is the sacrificial lamb for the anger at a curse that is not his fault.

I do blame the media. I will always blame the media, those who turn on him at a moment’s notice because they know picking on the skinny pretty unmanly one will get more clicks than anything else. I beg of you -- know that, of anything that it could be, it is not Mitch’s fault.

Jack Eichel has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Neck Injury

It is 2021, and the Sabres aren’t going to make the playoffs. Jack Eichel has been captain for coming up on three years, and has been a Sabre for coming up on six, none of which have even slightly improved the team. He is widely disliked within the fanbase, and, rumouredly, within the locker room and organization.

Jack is frustrated, dragging a mediocre team along through a slog of the past six years, and he has never been the kindest man on the planet. He is about to get worse. The Sabres are on a losing streak when they head to Long Island, and Jack is hit the wrong way and slips a disk in his neck. The Sabres insist he’ll only be out a week and a half.

It is a great sin in hockey, to go against team. Anything that can be seen as selfish is demonized; shooting from a difficult angle when your teammate is wide open, not playing when you can muscle through the pain. Not trusting your coach or management is about as bad as you can get. If you’re a team guy, willing to sacrifice health and limb for the boys, you are held as saint, no matter how hurt you become in the end. This is a philosophy that has been drilled into these men since they were kids, as soon as they put their first skates on. You can stand any pain for the length of a hockey shift; you can play through anything for two minutes. It is a dangerous, dangerous school of thought, one of the most destructive parts of hockey culture. But it is, nonetheless, law.

Eichel is about to commit a sin so great they’ll kick him out of Heaven. I do think that, of the four of them, he is the only one with any semblance of genre awareness: when he was first scouted as a prospect and they were comparing him to McDavid, I think that he would be the only one to ignore the media’s spin on that as thoroughly as he did. He knows what he is, and he knows himself. Of course it comes off as bitchy and selfish, though -- that kind of pressure can’t be kind to anyone.

Before the week and a half is up, he visits a specialist doctor about his neck. This is where it all starts to go wrong.

The Sabres take issue with that for two reasons: one, that they hoped he’d be able to come back after the end of it. Keep in mind that he has herniated a disk in his neck, an injury typically so severe it’s impressive he’s walking -- slipping a cervical disk often causes nerve pain that radiates down through the entire spinal cord below that point, which is the whole body from how high up his is. Two, that the doctor he consults is an independent surgeon, one unaffiliated with the Sabres themselves.

The thing about belonging to a hockey team is that you are, because of the way your employment is linked to your physical health, essentially their property. They make your medical decisions for you, they feed you, they tell you how to move. Going to someone else is a breach of contract, and the already-tense connection between Jack and the Sabres gets more tense. The Sabres keep losing. They lose eighteen games in a row.

Jack’s doctor recommended a surgery that no NHL player has ever had; cervical disk replacement. The Sabres did not want this -- the surgery carries risks, yes, but they also wanted to control the way that Jack’s injury was handled, and going through with this surgery was Jack’s wish, not theirs. The Sabres do their own evaluation, and ask for a different, more common surgery: spinal fusion. This surgery carries less immediate risk, but the bones in Eichel’s neck will also be fused, and he doesn’t want that. Because the team has final control over a player’s health, not the player, they decline his disk replacement. Having reached a stalemate, they rule him out for the rest of the season, trying to win a war of attrition.

September 2021 rolls around, and the Sabres, along with thirty-one other teams, take training camp. At the beginning of training camp, players do a physical exam. Jack, because his herniated disk has not improved, because he needs a surgery that has been denied from him, because he is stubbornly and bravely willing to wait out the Sabres, fails his physical. As a result, the Sabres, fed up with him, strip the captain’s C from his chest.

Jack makes one final request to the team: either let him get the surgery or trade him. In the end, they trade him to the Vegas Golden Knights, a team that did not exist when he was drafted. The Golden Knights approve him for the disk replacement surgery the day they acquire him.

The surgery is a success; his rehab goes better than anyone expects, and he starts tearing it up when he comes back. I would argue that, if the Golden Knights win the Cup this year, he should get the Conn Smythe -- he has been an invaluable member of the team, even without a letter on his chest.

It is less important for him to win his million awards than it is for him to come in and out of this surgery in the first place, still able to play. He fought with the team that was supposed to have upheld him as their star for months over his right to do what he wanted with his own health; in the end, the only way to go was for him to change that team. He was the first to have this surgery, but after him there have already been hockey players who have undergone it -- much like Tommy John, the baseball player who got his ulnar ligament reconstructed and the surgery to do so named after him. He fought for the chance to control his own body and won.

And for that, he was demonized.

The Sabres missed the playoffs every year they had him; they missed the playoffs every year after he left. Because he was the captain and he had the audacity to go against the organization’s wishes, he was hated. In Buffalo, he is still hated. If you ask, they’ll tell you he was a locker room cancer, that he was undevoted to winning. If you look at him in Vegas, neither of those things are true.

Jack Eichel is a rare man -- he does have that “clutch” gene, or rather doesn’t have the choke instinct. He has always been unbothered by the spiral around him. He operates well in the mire, and when the pressure rises it doesn’t affect him (or maybe, even better, he feeds on it.) He has the right kind of mentality -- that fuck-you, I’m here and you can’t change that, you tried to control me and I wouldn’t bend mentality. He has only made the playoffs once, this year. Like Dylan, actually, his only appearance has involved defeating Connor McDavid. Go back and watch his highlights from the Vegas-Edmonton series if you can: he has a couple of pretty goals and more than a couple great defensive takeaways, but he doesn’t lose his cool, not once. He has earned his right to be here, and he knows it more than anyone else. I’m rooting for the Stars, but I hope he wins some day.

153

How do you talk about the Edmonton Oilers? I mean, without either excusing or demonizing them, although I admit I have Hater Instinct and trend towards the latter. They have the best player in the world; that grown-up incarnation of the wide-eyed boy on the Erie rink. They have the best playoff performer in the world; Leon Draisaitl, who I have not avoided mentioning until now on purpose, but whom I cannot continue without bringing up. They have been terribly cap-managed since the day McDavid was drafted, and are an unstable roster with blazing-hot offense and very little defence or goaltending at all.

For a brief moment, let’s not talk about the Oilers. Let’s only talk about Connor himself.

McDavid has 850 points in 569 career games. Not even Sid had that many points through that few games. If he stays healthy, Connor’s well on track to become the second player ever to hit two thousand for his career -- after a certain other Oiler, who need not be mentioned. He has won just about every award you can win, with the exception of the Selke… and the Cup.

If it’s possible, he has proven himself better than all of the hype at the draft saying he would become a great. To watch him, you can see the way he has changed his team, how even though they have all learned from him that he is still the best.

There is something that many Oilers do. When next your team plays them, pay attention to it: they cut into the offensive zone with possession on the outside, using tight little crossovers to gain speed, after which they’ll usually try to rush the net (if there are no defenders in the way). This is a move that McDavid has patented; he’ll use it, just as many of the others will, but he’ll probably be the one that scores. The depth all skate like him, really, fast and in wide arcs, trying to generate a rush chance.

Connor as a player is a tour de force, the best power-player in the world by a mile, no slouch at even strength, speedy enough to score even shorthanded. The boy’s got wheels. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which NHLers are fast and which are slow, but Connor’s just that tick above everyone else that you can see it without eye training at all.

Connor as a person is a bit less showy. He’s quiet by nature, shy and soft-voiced. Because he was hyped so much (franchise saviour, McJesus, Next One) he has been media trained into sterility, giving the same level answers as everyone else, hardly daring to express any opinion at all. His eyes are big, rounded, and one of them is lazy from a time when his brother tried to take it out as a child, and that combined with his heavy brow and stiff expression -- he’s never been a good smiler, smirks with one corner of his mouth and that’s mostly it -- give him a resting expression of something like concern, or maybe despair. When he laughs, he doesn’t really “laugh,” just kind of coughs, a one or two-syllable affair. He avoids eye contact with the camera, and often the reporters as well. There is no seething emotion under the surface, not like with Eichel, nor does he speak analytically like Dylan does. He moves through his life as if he is someone who does not want it to turn out quite like this.

I do not know if he wants to be in Edmonton. There are jokes about how he is desperate to leave, but I definitely don’t believe those; there’s a difference between not wanting to stay and wanting to go. I don’t think he hates it. He has been given a responsibility, the captain’s C -- and because, unlike Jack Eichel, he is a good Canadian boy who has been given a destiny, he accepts it. He loves his teammates, especially Draisaitl, whom he seems to derive all his confidence from.

I will also say that I don’t believe he’s stupid. Naive, perhaps; not stupid. There is no way out for him, even if he was sure he wanted to leave; he’s the best player in the world, far too expensive for any contender to afford in either trade or cap space, and if he asks for a trade he won’t let himself go to a team that isn’t already a contender. He will remain an Oiler at least until his contract is up, and I imagine that his staying afterwards depends on Draisaitl.

People talk about him leaving a lot, largely because of the team that has been assembled around him. The Oilers are not a well-created team, and I will say that plainly now and spend as little time technically deconstructing it as possible.

Beyond McDavid and Draisaitl, they have:

A rookie starting goaltender, whose success as we know it is based on a single-season sample size and a complete playoff collapse.

A five million dollar backup goaltender, who earned his contract by being carried by the Leafs, despite being utterly horrendous for a long enough stretch leading up to his free agency that anyone who looked beyond the win-loss numbers wouldn’t have signed him.

One genuine shutdown defender.

One young up-and-coming defender; by far one of the most promising Oiler (or otherwise) defensive prospects, beyond the usual suspects.

One netfront grinder who is great at playing wing to high-power setters, but cannot drive his own line.

One decent 2C.

Sarah Nurse’s cousin. Sarah’s better.

A supporting cast of bad defencemen and middling-at-best forwards.

Many charming characters, of course: Zach Hyman, the grinder, is a beloved ex-Leaf, and I’m personally a fan of Nugent-Hopkins, the 2C, but the vast majority of this is not the sort of thing a contending team is built upon. McDavid has missed the playoffs almost as often as he’s made them. The playoffs are a crapshoot, but in order to try your luck you have to at least be able to enter the lottery, and it takes a stunning amount of effort to be able to do that.

So, McDavid lingers, in this kind of limbo. It mirrors the Leafs, almost. (And yes. Because McDavid is an Ontario boy, and the Leafs are the Centre of the Universe, we have to mention them both in conversation. Not all stories revolve around the Leafs, but this one does.) One true contender, and one generational talent, both what we picture to be well overdue for their Cup run, but neither having yet done so.

The thing about the stories of the class of 2015 is that they intertwine, that they mimic and mirror each other. These boys have not simply gotten drafted in the same handful of picks in the same year and gone on their merry ways -- they layer, they parallel, they weave around each other. Connor is the captain of a team that cannot win, Jack is a captain, Mitch cannot win. Jack fought for the right to control his body and was demonized for it; Mitch negotiated for a contract that he determined to be a fair price for Babcock, and was demonized for it. Whatever pure saviour they figure Connor to be, Jack is the twisted inverse of that, falling from grace.

Connor has one of the best seasons in NHL history, one of only seventeen player-seasons with over a hundred and fifty points (Nine of those seasons belong to Gretzky. Another four belong to Lemieux.) He loses, in six games in the second round, to the Vegas Golden Knights. At the time that he’s eliminated, he leads the playoffs in points. Leon Draisaitl is tied for second place. Counting from the date Mitch Marner played his first game in the NHL, the Oilers and Leafs have almost exactly the same number of playoff game wins, with the Oilers having one more.

There’s No Place Like Strome

Before we can look to the future, there is one person I have been neglecting. Dylan, poor Dylan. I think it would be only half an unfair assessment to call him a draft bust. He’s talented, for sure, but not nearly the same calibre that the draftees around him are. Hardly a Marner, an Eichel, or even a Rantanen or a Meier.

His career has existed quietly in the shadows, so far from Connor McDavid that it only feels fair to mention them in the same conversation in this context. It has been eight years since they were best friends, Connor so close to Dylan he waited in the stadium in order to watch him get drafted. They didn’t look each other in the eye in the handshake line when Dylan won their series. Connor didn’t go to his wedding.

That being said: so far, he has found himself a knack for landing in the shadow of greatness. When he was an Erie Otter, it was Connor -- Dylan held the scoring title in their draft year, while Connor was out nursing his hand, but Connor was the chosen son and Dylan was the Coyotes’ consolation prize. When he was traded to the Blackhawks, he found himself centring Kane and Debrincat, but of course both of them were the offseason and trade deadline’s prizes, and not him.

And then he signed in Washington.

So now, we go back to Ovechkin. Alex Ovechkin is one of the greatest players of all time; his Capitals are on the decline now, but they contended for a long time while he was playing and may still contend as long as Ovi still skates. For a long time, the team relied on Ovechkin’s goalscoring, assisted mostly by his faithful centre, Nicklas Backstrom. They, too, are married; they have played a thousand games as teammates, been through a decade of heartbreak together before the Cup was theirs. During the 2021-2022 season, Backstrom took time off -- he needed hip surgery, something likely to end his career. Ovi was alone.

There is a fundamental difference, of course, between the expectations of wingers and centres. A winger, like Ovi, scores, or assists, at his own leisure, but it is the centre’s job to drive his line. Ovechkin is generational -- he will sink forty goals no matter what -- but he still needs someone to move him out of the defensive zone, someone to make his assist.

Enter Dylan -- a young centre, not especially fast on his feet but intelligent, and clearly experienced in the realm of managing high-calibre wingers (see: Debrincat, and the ghost of Patrick Kane.) He joins the Capitals on a one-year contract, desperate to prove himself. Chicago didn’t want him, and Arizona didn’t either. It takes barely until November before he is, once again, the necessary shadow of greatness.

Ovechkin, the team’s captain and centrepoint, clearly likes what he sees, and the management does, as well. The Capitals offer Strome a five-year extension.

Maybe it’s because he’s less of a superstar then the other three members of his draft class, but Dylan has a life outside of hockey -- a wife and young daughter. After being thrown away by other teams, and with his new family, I can only imagine that it was… peaceful, if anything, to be offered this contract.

Chicago, after rapidly getting rid of him, Debrincat, and then Kane, would go on to tank spectacularly, and win themselves the first overall pick. They will use it to draft another generational talent. His name is also Connor.

The Blue Wedding

So, here we stand, at the end of it all. Dylan finally has a home, a mother hen of a Russian bear that it has become his job to assist in record-breaking, and soon to be two daughters. Jack has a team that loves him, freedom from pain, and an ongoing potential Cup run. Connor has a sterile mansion, a best friend, and an unsteady team. Mitch’s life is up in the air.

Right as I’m writing this, the general manager of the Leafs has been unceremoniously kicked out. His tenure will end the day before Mitch’s no-move contract kicks in, but it is not known if Mitch’s time as a Leaf will survive that long. He is well on track to become one of the greatest Leafs of all time, and his tenure might be cut short in the prime of his career.

But let’s wrap up with this: Mitch will get married this summer. Because he’s Mitch, the darling of the league, everyone’s best friend, I imagine the wedding party to be extensive/ Packed to the brim of current and former Leafs, as well as people who have never been Leafs. I wonder if Dylan Strome will be there -- or even Connor McDavid, although McDavid never even attended Dylan’s wedding.

The stories, as they do, go on.

#asks #mitch marner #jack eichel #connor mcdavid #dylan strome #hope this helps and/or gives you brain poisoning #narrativeposting

765 notes · View notes

callsigns-haze · 2 months

Text

An outburst of a spark

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader Summary: Eris and Y/N discover their son Finna has powerful magic after a dramatic outburst, leaving Eris panicked and uncertain. Together, they resolve to support and guide Finna, reaffirming their bond as a family. Chapter Warnings: Magic outburst, parental panic, strong emotional distress.

*Serves as a one-shot but can be read as memories fade or the sequel loves haze series

A couple of nights have passed, Eris and Y/N lay in bed, wrapped in the cozy warmth of their blankets. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. Y/N rested her head on Eris's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Her dark hair fanned out across his skin, and his fingers gently threaded through the strands, each touch a soothing, rhythmic caress.

"We need to take Ace to his vaccination," Y/N murmured, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet night. The puppy had quickly become a beloved member of their family, full of boundless energy and mischief.

Eris's chuckle rumbled in his chest, a warm and comforting sound. "I know, but who's going to take him? I have that meeting with the council tomorrow."

They debated for a moment, their conversation a gentle tug-of-war filled with playful banter. Eris's hand wandered to her weak spot, just at the base of her neck, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. She sighed, feeling the tension melt away under his touch.

"You're not playing fair," she mumbled, her resolve weakening.

Eris leaned in, his lips brushing against her earlobe, his breath warm against her skin. "How about you take him? Finna and I can have a father-son day. Just the two of us."

Y/N felt her willpower slipping as he nibbled gently on her earlobe, sending shivers down her spine. "You're impossible," she sighed, her voice a mixture of exasperation and affection. "Alright, alright. I'll take Ace. But you owe me."

Eris grinned, his lips curling into a mischievous smile. "Deal. You get a break tomorrow, and Finna and I will have our day off together."

He continued to stroke her hair, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her scalp. She closed her eyes, feeling a wave of contentment wash over her. The thought of a peaceful day, even if it meant taking Ace to the vet, seemed more manageable knowing Eris and Finna would have their special time together.

As they lay there, wrapped in each other's embrace, Y/N felt a deep sense of love and gratitude for the family they had built. The challenges of parenthood and the responsibilities of their roles seemed a little lighter in these quiet moments of intimacy and connection.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Eris tightened his hold on her, his lips pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "I love you too," he replied, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity.

-----

The next morning, Eris woke up feeling the familiar chill of early December in the air. He stretched his limbs, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and glanced over at the empty side of the bed. Y/N was already gone, having taken Ace for his vaccination appointment.

With a soft sigh, Eris swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool floor. The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. He quickly dressed in his usual attire, opting for a warm, dark green tunic and brown trousers. After combing through his ginger-red hair and fastening his boots, he set about the morning tasks with practiced efficiency.

First, he headed to Finna's room. The little boy was peacefully asleep in his crib, his light strawberry-brown hair tousled and sticking up in adorable tufts. Eris gently lifted him out, taking care not to wake him. He changed Finna’s diaper with swift, practiced movements, the baby stirring slightly but remaining mostly asleep.

Once Finna was clean and fresh, Eris dressed him in a cozy, light blue onesie lined with soft fleece. He added a little knitted hat to protect Finna’s head from the cold, and slipped his tiny hands into matching mittens. Despite being so small, Finna’s outfit looked both adorable and snug, perfect for a day out in the crisp December air.

Eris carefully carried Finna on his hip, feeling the reassuring warmth of his son against his side. He moved with a sense of purpose, heading downstairs and through the house to meet Borra outside. The winter morning was frosty, with a light dusting of snow on the ground, and the world was painted in shades of white and gray.

Outside, Borra stood by the gate, his breath visible in the cold air as he waited. He was dressed in his usual uniform, looking every bit the capable leader of the armies that he was. When he saw Eris approaching, he gave a nod of acknowledgment, a faint smile touching his lips at the sight of Eris with his young son.

“Morning, Eris. Ready for the market?” Borra asked, his tone light and friendly.

Eris returned the smile, his eyes softening as he looked at Finna. “Good morning, Borra. Yes, we’re ready. Just need to make sure everything is in order before we head out.”

Borra chuckled, glancing down at Finna. “He looks like quite the little adventurer, all bundled up.”

Eris adjusted Finna’s hat, making sure it was snug but not too tight. “He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. I just hope the cold doesn’t bother him too much.”

As they walked toward the market, the crisp December air filled their lungs, and the occasional snowflake danced through the sky. Eris held Finna securely, occasionally glancing down at his son to ensure he was comfortable. Finna’s small face peeked out from the layers of clothing, his eyes wide with curiosity as he took in the sights of their surroundings.

The market was bustling with activity, a lively contrast to the serene landscape they had left behind. Vendors called out their wares, the smell of baked goods and hot drinks mingling in the air. Eris navigated the crowds with practiced ease, his attention divided between the market stalls and his son.

Borra fell into step beside him, occasionally pointing out different stalls or items of interest. “If you need any help with the shopping, just let me know,” Borra offered, his voice warm despite the chill in the air.

Eris nodded, appreciating the offer. “Thank you. I might take you up on that. There’s always so much to see and choose from.”

As Eris and Borra exited the bustling market and moved towards a more deserted part of town, the stillness was abruptly shattered by Finna’s sudden, distressed crying. The baby boy’s wails echoed through the quiet streets, accompanied by harsh, rattling coughs that tore at Eris’s heart. Eris bounced Finna gently, trying various soothing methods to calm him down, but nothing seemed to work.

“Shh, Finna, it’s alright, little one,” Eris murmured, his voice tinged with worry. “Daddy’s here.”

Borra’s concerned gaze darted between Eris and Finna. “Is he alright? Those coughs sound serious.”

Before Eris could respond, a surge of magical energy burst from Finna. It was like a flame, gleaming with golden red, black, and the most delicate shine of purple—a perfect blend of the powers of the Night Court and the Autumn Court. Eris felt the heat and power of it, a raw and potent force emanating from his infant son.

Eris’s eyes widened in shock and realization. He knew there was a possibility that Finna could inherit their abilities, but this display of magic was far beyond what he had anticipated. The fact that Finna was a descendant of the Phoenii had magnified his powers, making them manifest in a sudden and explosive way.

“We need to get him home,” Eris said urgently, meeting Borra’s eyes. “Now.”

Borra nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. He moved closer, ready to assist in any way necessary. Eris held Finna tightly, and with a focused thought, they winnowed back to their house, the world around them blurring and reforming in an instant.

Once they arrived home, Eris's panic only intensified. Finna's cries grew louder, echoing through the house and amplifying Eris's worry. The baby's tiny body continued to radiate bursts of magical energy, each wave a mix of golden red, black, and purple.

“Finna, please, it’s alright,” Eris murmured, his voice shaking. He could feel the magic coursing through his son, wild and uncontrolled.

Borra, sensing Eris’s mounting distress, quickly moved to his side. “Eris, we need to get Y/N. She’ll know what to do.”

Eris nodded, his face pale and eyes wide with fear. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Please, find her. Hurry.”

Borra wasted no time. He winnowed out of the house, leaving Eris alone with Finna. The baby’s cries were relentless, each one piercing Eris’s heart. He held Finna close, trying to calm him, but nothing seemed to work. The magical energy continued to pulse, each burst making Finna’s little body tremble.

“Shh, it’s okay, Finna,” Eris whispered, though his own voice was unsteady. “Mommy will be here soon. Just hold on, my brave boy.”

Minutes felt like hours as Eris waited, the anxiety gnawing at him. He paced the room, trying to soothe Finna with gentle rocking motions and soft words, but the baby’s cries only grew more frantic. The room seemed to shimmer with the residual magic, a constant reminder of the power their son possessed.

Finally, Borra returned, his expression grim. “I couldn’t find her anywhere, Eris. I’m sorry.”

Eris’s heart sank. He had hoped Y/N’s presence would be enough to calm Finna. Now, he was on his own. “Alright,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “We’ll have to figure this out ourselves.”

He took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. He remembered the calm, soothing tone Y/N always used with Finna and tried to emulate it. “It’s okay, Finna,” he murmured, rocking his son gently. “Daddy’s here. We’ll get through this.”

He tried everything he could think of: singing lullabies, rocking Finna gently, even using a touch of his own magic to try and stabilize the chaotic bursts emanating from his son. But nothing seemed to work. The cries continued, and the magic only grew more intense.

Borra watched helplessly, unable to offer more than moral support. “You’re doing everything you can, Eris. Just keep trying.”

Eris nodded, though the weight of his worry pressed heavily on his shoulders. “I can’t let him lose control,” he said, more to himself than to Borra. “I promised we’d protect him.”

As Finna’s cries reached a fever pitch, Eris felt a surge of desperation. He held his son closer, letting his own magic flow freely, creating a protective barrier around them both. The chaotic energy seemed to clash with his own, but slowly, gradually, it began to subside.

“It’s working,” Borra said, a note of hope in his voice. “Keep going, Eris.”

Eris focused all his energy on calming Finna, whispering soothing words and projecting a sense of safety and love. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Finna’s cries began to soften. The magical bursts dwindled, becoming gentle pulses that matched Eris’s own heartbeat.

“There you go, little one,” Eris whispered, tears of relief streaming down his face. “We did it. Daddy’s here, and everything’s going to be alright.”

Borra stepped closer, his expression a mix of admiration and concern. “You did it, Eris. You kept your promise.”

As the door to their cabin creaked open, Y/N stepped inside, feeling an almost palpable rush of energy hit her. It was an unusual, unsettling sensation, one that sent a shiver down her spine. Her heart quickened, and instinctively, she called out, “Eris? Eris, where are you?”

Her voice echoed through the quiet house, carrying a note of urgency and worry. She hurried through the entryway, her eyes scanning for any sign of her mate and their child. The sense of unease only grew stronger as she moved deeper into the house.

“Eris?” she called again, louder this time. “Finna?”

She found them in the living room. Eris was sitting on the floor, cradling a now-sleeping Finna in his arms. The room still seemed to shimmer with the aftereffects of magic, and the air was charged with residual energy. Eris looked up as she entered, his expression a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

Borra stood off to the side, looking as if he’d been rooted there for hours. As soon as Y/N entered, he gave a slight bow and excused himself, slipping quietly out of the room to give the family privacy.

Y/N rushed to them, her eyes wide with concern and shock. She knelt beside Eris, her hand immediately reaching out to touch Finna’s soft hair. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I felt the magic from outside.”

Eris closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It was Finna,” he said quietly. “He… he had a magical outburst. I’ve never seen anything like it. I tried to calm him down, but it was like the magic had a mind of its own.”

Y/N’s heart ached as she looked at her son, his little face peaceful now in sleep. “Oh, Eris,” she murmured, her voice filled with sympathy and surprise. “Our son has magic.”

Eris nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I tried everything, but he wouldn’t stop crying. The magic just kept coming.”

She reached out and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped. “You did everything you could,” she said softly. “And you kept him safe. That’s what matters.”

Eris leaned into her touch, drawing comfort from her presence. “I thought I was becoming like my father,” he confessed, his voice choked with emotion. “I felt so helpless, like I was failing him.”

Y/N shook her head, her eyes fierce with determination. “You are nothing like Beron,” she said firmly. “You’re a wonderful father, Eris. You did exactly what you needed to do to protect our son. And you succeeded.”

She leaned in and kissed him gently, a silent promise of support and love. “We’ll figure this out together,” she whispered against his lips. “We’ll learn how to help Finna control his magic. He’s our son, and we’ll always be there for him.”

Eris pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her and Finna close. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice full of gratitude and love. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with love for her mate and their child. “You’ll never have to find out,” she said softly. “We’re in this together, always.”

As they sat there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the remnants of fear and panic began to fade, replaced by a renewed sense of determination and hope. They were a family, and together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead.

A/n: @rcarbo1 thank youuuuu for this wonderful idea!

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria

@crossfandomslut

@pit-and-the-pen

@inky-sun

@the-sweet-psycho

@why4anne

@bunnyredgirl

@rcarbo1

@pandabiiissh

@adalia-jaycee

@swiftie-4-lifes-stuff

@minaethrym

#eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris acotar #eris x you #eris x y/n #autumn court #eris fanfic #eris imagine #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra acotar #eris vanserra fic

60 notes · View notes

bubybubsters · 8 days

Text

Shame (Eris x you)

a/n: I kinda like this one

Eris week day 6: AU @erisweekofficial

Your POV

You sighed, placing your pen on your desk as you covered your face with your hands and groaned. Physics was depressing. What crazy alien had possessed you to decide to major in it?

Glancing out the window of your dorm, you frown at the flock of students. Your roommates are out there somewhere. There’s a party tonight at the Vanserra brothers dorm. And you can’t go because of a stupid physics test tomorrow. Checking your phone you find that nobody has texted you. Of course. You didn’t really have many friends anyway. Just a best friend studying architecture

A light tap against your window tears you out of your trance and you furrow your brow at the guy outside your dorm.

Eris Vanserra. Majoring in aerospace engineering and the man of everyone’s dreams. With red hair, piercing amber eyes, and the sharpest cheekbones you’d ever seen, how did he not have a girlfriend?

And what the fuck was he doing knocking on your window?

You cock your head at him and he smiles, motioning for you to come out. You debate refusing but you were in need of a break anyway.

Getting up, you slip on white crocs and round the building. The crowd if partiers has passed and there’s only a few people roaming the grounds of Forest House Academy.

You spot the sought after redhead surrounded by a small crowd of people and roll your eyes.

Why’d you even come out here?

You stretch for a few minutes, letting uour muscles relax after hours of sitting. Glancing at the growing crowd of girls around Eris you start to head back to your dorm.

Just as your hand lands on your doorknob a hand grabs your wrist.

“Hey, wait up.” The smooth voice of Eris reaches your ears and your brows shoot up.

“What do you want?” Crap, that was not the tone you wanted to take for the first time you met him.

Eris smiles, dimples showing. “I just wanted to see if you have a partner for the project in quantum mechanics.”

You freeze. “We have a project?”

He chuckles. “Yeah it’s on some subatomic stuff.”

You groan. Great, more homework to add to your already long list.

“So?” Eris raises a brow.

“Huh?”

“Will you be my partner?” He pauses. “For the project of course.”

You blow out a breath. “Sure…?”

“Great!”

You eye him vaguely wondering why he hasn’t left yet. Surely he’ll leave after you go into your dorm right? But that’d be rude. You inwardly groan, this is why you don’t socialize much.

“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Eris grins and the sight makes your heart race. “Meet me outside the library at noon. That’s when you’re free right?”

You nod. “Of course.”

Only after you’ve said your goodbyes and sat back down do you wonder how he knew you were free from 12-3 on tuesdays.

The next day you’re rushing to the library straight after your thermodynamics class. You know your Professor Helion will ask you about it given that you usually stay after class to talk with him but you don’t care.

Eris, Eris, Eris.

The red-haired mans name is a mantra in your head. You catch yourself thinking of his splatter of freckles for the fourth time today and curse the guy silently.

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early only to find Eris already there, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

“Hey.” You call nervously, putting your phone in your back pocket.

“Hey there little flame.” Eris replies, smiling.

Girls walking past “ooh” and “ahh” glancing over their shoulders to get a good view of Eris’s ass.

You unconsciously roll your eyes.

Eris frowns. “What? Not a good nickname?”

You blink. “Oh it’s not that. It’s just…” you wave awkwardly at the girls, “everyone’s obsessed with you.” You pinch yourself, reminding yourself of the need to develop a filter on your words.

Eris laughs, seemingly unbothered. “Does it bother you?”

“No. It’s just the way they obsess over some hot guy instead of something like grades.” You grimace as you remember doing exactly that on your way here.

“You think I’m hot?”

“That’s all you heard?”

“Pretty much.”

You sigh through your nose.

“Let’s just get to work.”

Two hours later the two of you are worn. Leaning back in your chair you close your eyes. You’d split up the work with you writing the essay and Eris making the poster then the both of you coming together to make an extremely detailed 3d model of a subatomic particle.

“Can we please take a break?” Eris practically begs.

“Says the one who insisted we don’t.” You snap.

Eris groans. “I’m sorry! Now please. One break.”

You hum. “Sure.”

Eris exhales in relief. “You want coffee? There’s a cafe not far.”

“Yes please!” The thought of coffee is exhilarating in itself.

Eris eyes your exhausted form. “I can get it. What do you want?”

You tilt your head. “Uhh not sure. Order for me.”

Eris nods, turns and is almost at the door of the library when you call out, “Thank you!”

You smile softly as you close your eyes. Maybe the all popular Eris Vanserra isn’t so bad…

Eris POV

Eris is walking back to the library when a voice hisses at him nearby. He glances around, spotting a flash of dark hair.

Jurian. His ex best friend.

Eris glares. “What?”

Jurian’s bright eyes meet his. “Come here.” He does, following Jurian to a closed off space.

“How’s the bet going? You seducing her?”

Eris grits his teeth. “The bet is going great. In fact one of these lattes is for her.”

“Awww you got her waiting for you.”

Eris shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

Jurian smirks at him. “That’s too bad because you have to do it otherwise poor Lucien gets….” Jurian makes a slicing motion across his throat

“I know.”

“So you think you can bed her within the week?”

“I know I will.” Eris leaves Jurian with one last glower.

He finishes his walk to the library, now pissed and tense. When he gets to where he’d left you he’s at a loss of what to do.

You’re asleep, cheek pressed into the keys lf your computer, hair falling over your face. You’re beautiful.

Eris stands there, two coffees in hand staring at you for a long time. Maybe it just felt like a long time, it may have been minutes, even seconds before he moved. He sets the coffees down and packs up your stuff, quietly picking up the computer from under you. He slings your bag, then his over one shoulder and your body over the other. Eris picks up the two coffees and heads for your dorm.

When he gets there he desperately knocks, hoping one of your roommates is home. A brunette girl opens the door and takes him in. Brows raising she steps aside and shows him to your room. Setting you down, Eris looks around.

The room looks like yours, beige walls with pictures and memories strung everywhere. LED lights hang in strands in the doorway next to a messy desk with drawings and writings. He glances around before quickly stepping out and closing the door.

Your roommate watches him quietly.

He’s at the door when she speaks.

“Don’t hurt her.”

Eris stiffens, turning to look at the girl.

“Who are you again?”

“Feyre Archeron.”

“You’re Y/n’s best friend.”

“Guilty as charged”

Eris nods, “nice to meet you.”

Feyre nods back, albeit warily.

As Eris closes the door he whispers to her, “I would never hurt her.”

And Eris prays that he can keep that promise as Jurian texts him.

The text is a picture of him carrying you across the school accompanied by a single sentence

Jurian: You seem to really like her.

Eris rolls his eyes. And what if he did? He frowns. Did he? He had never cared what happened to his project parters before this. He’d certainly never carried someone halfway across campus. One could argue it was so Y/n would like him and sleep with him so Lucien would live. But… for once he hadn’t even thought of Lucien. He liked her. But Lucien, his brain screamed. Jurian’s family was full of gang members and assassins which meant if he didn’t sleep with Y/n then tell her she was a bet, Lucien would likely die. And he couldn’t get Lucien out because his brother was a stubborn ass. Eris cursed. What was he going to do?

There was no way be could keep his promise to Feyre and save Lucien.

His phone dinged again.

Jurian: It’d be a shame if Y/n went missing….

dividers by @anitalenia

taggin: @thelov3lybookworm@profound-imagination@randomgurl2326@theduskyprincess@mp-littlebit

#bubybubsters #acotar #fanfic #acowar #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris #eris x you #modern au

35 notes · View notes

velarisvalkyrie · 7 months

Text

Since I am bored and toying with my own imagination. Here is how I Imagine a Dorian and Lucien friendship would look like:

Recognizing one another's similiar traumas and being able to discuss them properly and respect one another's boundaries

Exchanging flirting advice

Exchange hair care advice

Fashion Icons. Would shop together or help pick outfits for each other and all of us would suffer from how hot they are

Sparring practices (This would be my version of Nesta gawking at Cassian and Az)

The playful shade these two could throw at one another with their quick remarks would be 10/10

These two debate for fun.

These two keep score of how many debates they've won against one another.

100% giving book recs to one another

1000% showing off their libraries to one another

Have little hopeless romantic sessions where they speak of their yearning

So many social events. So much partying together. Everyone loves them at these things. Makes many friends.

Gossips about the many friends they've made when it's just the two of them.

Dorian transforms himself into Eris just to annoy Lucien whenever they disagree about something.

These two 100% find themselves in a bit of trouble from having a bit too much fun but they are smart enough to get away with it each time.

Rants about their daddy issues

Rants about their problematic brothers

Lucien teaches Dorian how to catch a fish with his bare hands. This increases Dorian's desirability to ungodly levels which no one thought was possible cuz its Dorian Havilliard.

Lucien eventually gets to go see his mom and brings Dorian to meet her. She adores him. He adores her. Lucien gets a bit jealous and reminds Lady Autumn he is in fact her favorite son.

Dorian brings Lucien to meet Manon. Lucien is a bit intimidated and wonders how on earth his friend became so bewitched by someone who eats men but he really wants to pet Abraxos so he tries his best to befriend them

Finds Manon to be rather intriguing company. Debates whether he should suggest she meets Nesta.

Lucien succeeds in petting Abraxos - is very happy about it.

Dorian makes Lucien blush when he casually comments on how attractive he thinks Lucien is. Lucien appreciates the remarks but is flustered. (Seriously, Dorian's bisexual energy would vibrate at such high frequencies around Lucien - I just know it)

#throne of glass #acotar #dorian havilliard #lucien vanserra

85 notes · View notes

lucienarcheron · 5 months

Text

Spirit Meets the Bones - XIV

Genre: Angst/Romance Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse. PLEASE NOTE:This chapter will contain physical abuse with some implied language may be found triggering.

as always, shoutout to my bby @abruisedmuse for being along this journey with me!

Find it all here.

The next morning came and rather than choking him as suggested, Iris had only burrowed into Eris’s body further. He had woken up this morning and laid perfectly still as the heat of her seeped into him, relaxing him in a way he hadn’t been relaxed before.

He hoped the wild beating of his heart didn’t wake her and when she finally did wake, the two had only stared at each other quietly. Until she gave him a small smile and slipped out of bed. No matter that the smile had caused an eruption of flames all over his body.

The flames hadn’t quite simmered down just yet.

“Distracted this morning, aren’t you?”

Eris blinked, returning to the present, and met his mother’s knowing gaze. He scowled, shifting in the seat opposite his mother, steam rising from his cup of tea in front of him. “I’m just thinking about the meeting I have with Father later and the unwelcome visitor arriving.”

Lady Enya’s lips thinned. “Is that why Iris isn’t with you this morning?”

“She’s nervous about her father’s visit and wanted some time to herself.” he said with a twist of his mouth. “But we’ll stop by when we return from visiting Lucien and Elain.”

“Her father won’t be a problem, will he?” Lady Enya asked with a frown, sliding a plate of breakfast pastries toward him. “Cauldron only knows the horrible things I’ve heard about him.”

“For his own livelihood, he better not be a problem.” Eris said with a scoff and sat back in his chair, crossing his legs and waving a hand for his daily reports to appear. “I have no qualms about ending his life.”

“Your father wouldn’t like that.” Enya said with a pointed look over her cup of tea.

“Good.”

His mother chuckled and the two shared a small smile. A few moments of comfortable silence filled the space until Eris felt his mother’s gaze on him and slowly lifted his head, with a quirked brow.

“Is something wrong, mother?”

“Not at all.” she replied, and Eris sat back. “But I am curious.”

“About?” he hedged carefully, and his mother rolled her eyes at his suspicious tone.

Waving a delicate hand in his general direction, she took a sip of her tea then said, “Are you trying a new look?”

He blinked at his mother then squinted. “What?”

“The scruff.” she said with a twitch of her lips.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

Eris tried to ignore the heat rising to his face and cleared his throat. He debated for a moment whether to say something or keep it to himself, but he could feel his mother’s knowing look without even glancing at her. “Iris likes it.” he murmured quietly, quickly taking a sip of his tea and desperately trying to ignore his mother’s grin.

“Does she now?” she asked with an arched brow. “I don’t think you’ve ever considered facial hair before.”

Eris hadn’t actually ever given scruff a chance. He stayed clean-shaven so his father wouldn’t harass him about it but…

He shrugged with as much of a nonchalant air as he could. “I’m trying something new. For myself.”

It had nothing to do with his wife, of course.

Lady Enya took a sip of her own tea, shooting him an incredulous look. “I see.”

Eris waited for a heartbeat, then put the reports down, debating once more whether he should say something else. His mother watched him patiently, so he pursed his lips then casually added, “I’m also considering cutting my hair.”

His mother blinked. “Your hair.”

“My hair, yes.”

“How short are you thinking?”

Eris shrugged again and vaguely waved his hand to the back of his head. “Something just above the shoulders. Maybe. Possibly. I’m unsure.”

“That’s...a big change.” Lady Enya remarked, her lips twitching. “I can’t remember the last time you even got a trim.”

“I get a trim every six months, mother. I am not an uncivilized swine.”

Lady Enya chuckled, then slowly placing her cup of tea on the table, she gave him a sly look. “And would this sudden interest in shortening your hair also be something a certain someone will like?”

Eris willed his skin not to redden further. “No.” he said defensively.

His mother gave him that knowing look of hers.

Eris twisted his mouth and then sighed. “Yes.”

“Ah. I see.” Lady Enya said and Eris scowled at the smirk she wore on her face.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” he mumbled and pulled his reports up once more, using it to shield half his face. “Minor changes. Send a few admirers into a potential cardiac arrest.”

His mother hummed and Eris squinted at her as he lowered the pages again, his scowl deepening.

“Admirers, you say?” she said, her lips twitching. “Funny how you pretend this is about anyone else but your wife.”

“Mother.”

She smiled. “Yes?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Lady Enya laughed at that. “Eris. You know I think it’s delightful your wife brings out these kinds of reactions from you.” she said and gave him a pointed look. “It’s good.”

Eris’s mouth twisted again, and he waited for another heartbeat before quietly saying, “Do you think if I cut my hair...I’ll look more like him?”

His mother paused and her expression hardened. “The only thing you share with him is your bloodline. Everything about your face is from me. Your eye shape is mine. Your nose is mine. That mouth of yours is mine. Even your hair is from me.” she said, and Eris’s lips twitched slightly at the fierce protectiveness in her tone. “He will claim you as his son, but you are my son first and foremost. My son who looks like me.”

“My mother’s son through and through, aren’t I.” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Damn right, you are.” Lady Enya said with a huff. “If you decide you want to change your hair, I’m sure you’ll look very handsome. I have no doubt your wife would agree.”

His wife. His wife whom he had finally — fucken finally held in his arms at night.

Eris had nearly blacked out when she had asked to move the pillow. As if he’d say no.

He’d only wanted her in his arms for weeks now and Eris would be damned to rush the very delicate process between them.

But she had asked him. She asked him. And that had made Eris’s battered heart beat wildly at the notion that she now trusted him enough to do it.

Having her sleep in his arms, the feeling of her body flush against his had been as invigorating as he had imagined. She had curled into him, her arm had wrapped around him. And when he had tangled their legs together, she hadn’t hesitated to come closer.

Eris swallowed, nearly losing his mind all over again just thinking about it. He had almost lost his mind when he woke up this morning and found her still in his arms — that it all hadn’t been some wild hallucination of his. He frowned.

This feeling couldn’t be normal. These... severe reactions he kept having. He had been with more than enough people in his lifetime that surely having one female sleep in his arms shouldn’t do this to him.

Whatever this was. Even if this was different from anything he’d ever experienced.

All Eris knew was that he was excited to spend time with her and to have her meet the other important people in his life. He was also looking forward to seeing her face when they returned from their trip to find the gift he had prepared for her. His wife. His.

“Are you alright?” his mother asked him, alarmed and Eris blinked at her.

“What?”

“Your face is as red as your hair.”

Eris’s face heated further and he cleared his throat, pausing for a breath before very, very quietly mumbling, “We had a moment last night.”

Lady Enya blinked then her face erupted into a grin that instantly had Eris tensing. “Did you?”

Eris held up a hand and gave his mother a pointed look. “Say nothing else, mother. We had a moment. It was nice and that is all.”

His mother only chuckled and gave him a pointed look in return. “I doubt that is all.”

Eris pursed his lips and tried not to die as he attempted to describe how he felt to his mother. His grip tightened on the reports. “Clearly,” he began, then cleared his throat again before he continued very softly, “I...like her.”

His mother snorted softly and gave him a sly look. “Like her, hm?” she teased and Eris clenched his jaw, willing himself not to flush further. “That’s a relief, I suppose. Considering you spend every waking moment with her.”

“She’s my wife. And my friend.” he mumbled and tried to avoid looking at his mother’s smile. “I like spending time with her.”

“You would. Her mouth is as filthy as yours.” Lady Enya said with a laugh. “She swears at you so viciously it gives me whiplash.”

Eris’s lips twitched, his eyes still on the reports. “Don’t tell her you’ve heard her swear. She wants you to think she’s a proper lady and likes impressing you.”

“Oh trust me, I’m very impressed.” his mother said and tapped the table gently so he’d meet her softened gaze. Eris lowered his paper shields and his mother didn’t hesitate to softly pat his hand. “You seem more settled around her. I’m happy to see it.”

Eris tensed for a moment then slowly let his shoulders relax. His mother was right, of course. As much of a riot as Iris was, she...seemed to soothe something in him. His mother already knew, there was no sense in pretending otherwise.

“I enjoy her company.” he said quietly and gave his mother a small smile that she gently returned.

“Well. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.” she said with a smug look and Eris chuckled.

“You always seem to know everything, Mother. One would think you were the Seer and not Elain.” he said with a snort and his mother laughed.

“I can definitely see how your wife might react to shorter hair.” she teased and he rolled his eyes.

“I’d like to think she’ll tolerate me just the same if I didn’t.” he said and his mother’s sly smile had him immediately scowling.

“I’d say she already does more than just tolerate you.” Enya teased again. “But a little change is never a bad idea if you’d like to do it.”

“According to her, it’s the only way I’ll be more dashing than Lucien.” he scoffed and Lady Enya blinked then let out such a hearty laugh that Eris couldn’t help but chuckle along. “Laugh all you want, those were her exact words.”

“She doesn’t even know Lucien, does she?” she said, wiping at her eyes and Eris snorted.

“Apparently, your harlot son’s reputation precedes him.”

Lady Enya rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, I've been made aware that you both share a similar reputation."

Eris held out his hands in mock innocence. “I am a married male, Mother. I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to.”

“Tell that to the horde of jilted lovers that used to sob at every ball.” his mother said with a snort and Eris fought back a smirk.

“I have only one female to worry about now.” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “The verdict isn’t out on whether she can stand me yet or not.”

His mother gave him a sly look. “Well, based on my observations, I’d say she can stand you just fine.”

“Is that so?”

“A mother knows best.” she said with a wink and Eris chuckled, his eyes back on the reports.

“We shall see.” he said quietly and tried not to let the hope of what was to come take root in his chest, lest it unfurl and break him. Straightening, his expression sobered as he gazed at his mother. “I need to ask you something.”

“Ah daughter, how I’ve missed that look of hatred in your eyes. I never could quite beat it out of you.”

Iris stood rooted in her doorway, desperately trying not to grimace at the smirk plastered on the face of her father, Lord Aron Bertillon. Her heart sputtered in her chest at his wretched face and continued to beat wildly as he pushed past her with a scoff and stepped into her chambers.

She had been free of him for weeks and the moment her eyes fell on him, Iris was paralyzed by him all over again.

Did she shut the door or keep it open? Shut the door or keep it open — Shut the door or keep it open —

“I suggest you shut the door. You know I like my privacy.”

Iris took a breath as a tense beat of silence passed and then turned slightly towards him. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Her father tsked and turned to smile at her fully. “I am exactly where I want to be.” he said. “Close the door and come over here so I can see you properly.”

Her lips curled in distaste as she watched him survey the room and Iris slowly, reluctantly, closed the door then turned fully towards him.

The silence between them stretched as her father continued to peruse the room, his eyes falling on the neatly made bed and narrowing. Her cheeks flushed.

Finally turning to land his gaze on her, Lord Aron rolled his eyes. “When will you learn that looking at me like that won’t ever help you? I said come here.”

Iris barely inched a step closer. She knew the closer she got, the quicker he’d be. She shifted herself towards the dining table instead. “You never did anything to earn any other kind of look so I don’t know why you’re still surprised.” she muttered.

Her father tutted again, cruel amusement on his face, watching her steps. “Does your husband allow you to look at him like that? I’m surprised you’re still standing if so.”

“Leave my husband out of this.” she snapped before she could help herself and regretted it the moment her father’s brow raised in amusement. He didn’t need to know that Eris mattered to her. That he was important — especially when her father had a tendency to take away anything she cared about.

“Such a faithful whore already? I suppose it makes sense.” he said with a sigh full of scorn as he surveyed her living chambers again. “Good thing you didn’t sully yourself with the riff-raff then...I did hear that Eris likes his virgins.”

Iris grimaced and stopped a good ten feet away from him, her hands fisted at her sides.

He wasn’t supposed to be in here. She was supposed to have met him in an open guest room, where they would be in front of others. Where she would have witnesses. When Eris would be there. But knowing her father, this was exactly how he wanted it.

Knowing her father-in-law, he had allowed it.

“Aren’t you going to invite me to take a seat at your table, daughter? Being the high lord’s daughter-in-law doesn’t excuse you from having manners.” her father sneered softly and Iris’s skin prickled as she glanced at him.

She hated him. She hated him with a fire that would’ve melted the entirety of the Winter Court.

Iris had pictured herself murdering him countless times. She had visualized it happening in so many different ways.

But then he stood in front of her, staring at her with such loathing, and Iris couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop the rapid beating of her heart that she knew fueled his glee. Couldn’t stop the way her body locked up around him.

“I prefer we meet outside of my chambers. Eris doesn’t allow anyone in here.” she said simply and her gaze drifted to the bedroom door because Eris should be here. He promised he would be.

“I’m not just anyone.” her father said sweetly and walked a step closer. “I am your father. Surely your husband wouldn’t have any concerns with me being here.”

But he could tell exactly how much Iris despised having him stand in this space, his image tarnishing whatever sanctuary this home had become for her. She clenched her fists tighter.

“He would. And so do I.” Iris replied curtly and gestured towards the door. “I have a space set up for us that we should —”

“I will stay right here, you stupid bitch.” her father snapped and Iris flinched, closing her eyes with a deep breath. She counted to five then opened her eyes to glare at him.

“Don’t speak to me that way.”

“Oh?” he said and took another step closer. “And what will you do about it, daughter?”

The dagger resting on the table a few feet away seemed to glow as if a reminder that she had a weapon close enough. Eris had trained her enough that she could somewhat hold her own but...what would she do against the male standing before her? The male that made her gut twist and bile rise in her throat. The male that made her hate all males.

Eris was starting to become the exception and that thought twisted her gut as well, but in a good way. At least...if he came. If he realized something was wrong and as promised, showed up. Iris straightened, wondering if something had happened to him.

Her stomach dropped and she flexed her fingers. How would he know to come here? Did her father have something to do with it? Did his?

She glanced at the door once more and her father noted the movement, letting out a chuckle.

“Did you think,” he said and took another step towards her. “That because you’re his wife now, I won’t have a say over you? Don’t worry, he won’t be joining us. It’ll be just us, daughter.”

Her heart stuttered at his declaration. How much sway did he have with the High Lord now that he could block Eris from returning to his own room? He wasn’t here even though he had promised. And...Eris had yet to back out on a promise he made her, especially one like this. Especially after last night.

But it didn’t matter. Iris would have to hold her own, just like she always did. She always had been able to deal with her father, even when it hurt. Even as her skin prickled at the thought. Iris’s lips curled in disdain as she shot her father another look of contempt.

“You talk too much, father. Why are you here?”

He chuckled darkly and Iris felt the gooseflesh erupt on her already clammy skin. She warily kept her gaze on his fists.

“I’m here to check on my daughter. To make sure you’re behaving.” he said quietly and came to a stop right in front of her. “Considering you have been declining my requests to see you, I had to take matters into my own hands. Do you not want to see me?”

Iris’s fingers tightened into the folds of her dress as she held his gaze. “I’ve had nothing to say to you.”

It went silent between them as her father stared her down and Iris refused to look away.

“But I’ve had a few things to say to you.” he said quietly and before Iris could blink, his hand had wrapped around her throat and he yanked her closer to him. Iris’s treacherous body froze beneath his hands. “I heard about your loud-mouthing a while ago. I did not appreciate having the High Lord tell me I didn’t know how to raise you well enough to know when to keep your mouth shut.”

Iris sucked in a breath as her father’s grip tightened. “Nothing happened. I apologized.” she said tightly.

Her father quirked a brow. “You apologized?”

“Yes.” she breathed and he narrowed his eyes briefly as his grip tightened further and Iris let out a strangled breath.

“Mm. See, you should’ve kept your mouth shut from the beginning.” he snapped, shoving her back carelessly, and she stumbled away from him. “I will cut your tongue out myself if you do anything else you’re not supposed to. You will not jeopardize my relationship with the High Lord with your stupidity.”

Iris’s hand rubbed at her throat as she glared at her father, her other hand tightening in the folds of her dress, desperately trying to keep her hands away from reaching for the dagger. “I don’t interact with the high lord often for anything else to happen between us so rest assured, I won’t have any sway over your relationship with him.” she replied with a bite in tone.

“Yes, but his son needs to be kept happy.” he said and narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you keeping his son happy?”

Iris tensed and the corner of her father’s mouth lifted as she answered, “His son is fine.”

A beat of silence passed as her father’s gaze pierced her. “Judging by the scent in this room, I’d say not.” Iris flushed and her father’s eyes narrowed further. “I hope he’s not put off by you.”

“That’s none of your business.” she hissed.

“Everything you do is my business, you stupid girl.” he snapped and her fists tightened. “Your obedience is an important factor in keeping my working relationship with our High Lord. I’ve gotten away with so much since this lovely union,” he said, his eyes surveying the room once more. “Or did you think I married you off so you could just enjoy yourself?”

Whatever business her father did, Iris wasn’t privy to it and she never cared to know. All she knew was that he was ruthless in getting what he wanted, in whatever way he could. Be it cheating, stealing, or killing. He was a business tycoon but what kind of business? She didn’t want to know. He was a liar, a thief, and most importantly, he loved his money in whatever way he could get it. As long as it kept him away from her — until now.

She glared. “You mean when you sold me to him?”

The corner of his mouth lifted again and Iris grimaced. “I wanted to offer you to the high lord himself but a marriage to his son was more advantageous.”

Silence filled her mind as she processed her father’s words. He would’ve offered her up just like that to a monster who would’ve —

“You’re disgusting.” she breathed. “He has a wife. He’s triple my age.”

“And he has a preference. I don’t care what he would’ve done with you as long as I reaped the benefits from it.” he snapped then scoffed at her expression. “The point is to tie myself to the High Lord’s family and being the son’s wife is certainly better than being his father’s whore. What is the point of having a daughter if I can’t use you the way I want?”

“You’re disgusting.” she repeated and her father rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes.” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing her as he always did. “And yet look at you, married to his handsome son instead. Living in the Forest House with anything you want at your fingertips. You’re welcome.”

Her fists shook at her sides and Iris tried to keep her voice even as she spoke, “The only reason you allowed it is because you think Eris would be worse than you.”

“Isn’t he?” he said then snorted, lifting a hand and Iris barely had a second to grit her teeth as he harshly patted her cheek. “Knowing you, daughter, you certainly deserve whatever comes your way. You’re too proud. Too stubborn. If I can’t beat it out of you, someone else should.”

“Well, you got what you wanted.” she spat and tried to step back from him, backing towards the table. “Why can’t you leave me be now?”

“Leave you be?” he said with the sneer she knew too well. The sneer that always had her on edge. “Why would I do that?”

Iris glared at him again but faster than she could open her mouth to say anything else, her father’s hand was already gripping tightly in her hair, yanking her head back, pulling her closer to him.

“Do you know why I won’t leave you alone? Because I know you’ll embarrass me again. You simply don’t know how to behave.” he muttered and his grip tightened enough to make her gasp. “All I have ever wanted you to do was to keep your mouth shut and do as you are told. Is it so difficult?”

“Get your filthy hands off me.” she snarled and Aron’s lips curled in disdain.

“See? You’re still saying the wrong things.” he said, tugging her head closer. “Do you speak like this to the prince? Are you loud-mouthing him too? I already told him to use a heavy hand with you but it seems it’s not heavy enough.” he breathed and Iris’s jaw clenched, even as tears prickled her eyes. “You better be behaving well enough so that he keeps you. Are you behaving?”

“I’m behaving!” Iris hissed, her hands clawing at his to release her. With a growl of disgust, her father shoved her away again and Iris’s hand flew into her hair, her scalp already tender from his yanking.

“You better be. I will beat you into a pulp if I get one more complaint about you.” Aron snapped and Iris glared at him, hating herself for the tears she blinked back. She took in a shaky breath watching him as he watched her. The father that was no father. The father who only thought of himself. The father who didn’t even think of her as a person. “You are either his wife or you are dead.”

It did not surprise her for a moment that after several weeks of not seeing each other, this was how he behaved.

Mustering whatever little dignity she had left in front of him, Iris ran her hands through her hair, trying to smooth it down. “You gave me your lovely warning,” she said tightly, “You can leave now.”

But her father smiled at her and Iris felt her heart drop.

“But I missed you, daughter. It’s been too long without you near.” her father cooed softly and Iris blanched. “No one bruises quite as beautifully as you do.” And the cruel smile returned to his face as he watched her eyes widen. “Does your husband love the way you bruise as well? I’m sure he takes his time with you.”

Iris’s jaw tightened and she could barely get the words out, fisting her shaky hands. “Leave him out of this.”

“Look at you defending your husband so immediately...you must like it when he bruises you.” her father mused with a smile. “You didn’t seem to like it when I beat you.”

“Stop it.”

“Maybe I just need to beat you in this lovely location for you to enjoy it. Is that what it is?” he said with a chuckle and Iris felt herself pale. “Or is it because he’s a handsome prince, his hands don’t hurt like mine do?”

“Don’t touch me.” she breathed and her father’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do with you, daughter.” he said quietly. “Come here.”

“No.” she snarled.

“I said, come here.” he snapped, pointing directly in front of him. “Because if I have to come to you, it’ll hurt more. You’ve already tested my patience enough today.”

But Iris held her ground. Her father had been here for a short amount of time and she was already so tired of him. She wanted him gone and away from her. She wanted to pretend he never came and go about her day like this never happened, like she never saw him.

Lord Aron took one step towards her and her hand finally wrapped around the hilt of her dagger resting on the table. Her father’s eyes widened in surprise for only a fraction then his gaze narrowed.

“Oh. This is adorable of you.” he said quietly. “Will you finally gut me the way you’ve always wanted to?”

“I will if you come near me.” she breathed. “Enough. You need to leave now.”

Iris watched him, her chest rising and falling as she tried to swallow, tried to form words. Tried to figure out what to say to this hateful male who sapped any will to live from her. Who instilled fear and self-loathing in her like no other.

Her fingers tightened around her dagger, even as it shook with rage. She wanted to bury it in his chest and watch him bleed out. She wanted —

“You stupid, stupid girl. You never learn.” her father said softly and Iris couldn’t take her eyes off his hateful gaze as he advanced towards her. “A simple request and you can’t even follow through. All this tells me is that you haven’t changed at all. You haven’t learned to behave yet and we...we have to change that. I won’t let you embarrass me in front of the High Lord and his son.”

Iris swallowed and with a glare, spat, “It doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to be like this.”

Her father quirked a brow and tilted his head. “Yes, it does. You just seem too dim to realize it.”

And before Iris could snarl at the words, his hand flew out, backhanding her swiftly and she stumbled back a step with a gasp. She whipped her head to look at him but Lord Aron only yanked her by the hand holding her knife and tightened his grip hard enough that Iris winced.

“Drop the knife.” he growled.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“You deserved it. You talk too much and have too much nerve.” he spat. “Now drop the knife or I will strike you again.”

Iris felt her treacherous lip tremble. Where was Eris? He promised. He promised.

If anything, she needed him to see. So he could understand why she was the way she was. Why she still looked at his fists and why she needed him around her father. She didn’t want to keep facing him alone.

And Eris had promised.

With an impatient growl, Aron bent her hand back, tightening his hold painfully enough that it forced her to drop her dagger. Iris flinched as he released her hand and then backhanded her again with a force that knocked her back into the table hard enough that she knew it would bruise. Her hand flew to her cheek as the sting of the blow hit her — the ring on his hand had cut her lip.

“Stop.”

Her father snarled and his hand flew out once more, this time wrapping around her throat tight enough that Iris choked. She clawed at his hands, trying to stop the panic going through her body because Eris had taught her better — he taught her how to shove it aside and move.

“Now that your silly knife is out of the way, we can continue discussing how everything you do will play into everything I do.” he muttered and smiled, a tight breath escaping her lips as his grip tightened around her throat again. “A few bruises here and there. You can heal them before your husband returns, of course. You know I like a blank canvas.”

Eris.

“No.” she snarled softly and thrashed, landing a kick in his shin that had him hissing. “You don’t get to come here and do this to me anymore. Let me be. Leave me alone.”

“But then who will receive my gifts, daughter? They’ve always been meant for you.” her father cooed softly. “Who else could take it?”

“Why do you keep doing this?” she whispered desperately. “What have I ever done to deserve this?”

“Because you exist. And because I can.” he snapped. “And so you remember that next time I want to come see you, you don’t get to say no.”

With another snarl, she swung at her father and it forced him to let her go. Iris stumbled away from him, landing on the floor behind him instead. She scrambled back and watched as his anger flared through him, seeing how his temper was about to be unleashed on her. She knew the moment he said he was visiting, it would be for nothing else than to do this — to remind her that she was still nothing. She was still no one important enough to stop him from taking out every frustration he had on her.

Where are you, Eris?

She wanted to scream. He was supposed to be here. In her corner. He promised. A few weeks away from her father and Iris still crumbled at the sight of him like this, like a wild animal being hunted. She needed to get off the floor and away from him — she needed to stand but her legs were trembling so badly.

“Did you know, daughter, that the High Lord has special ways to put people in their place?” he spoke softly, and Iris’s fists clenched to stop the shaking. “I think...I will take some pointers from him. Try some things with you to remind you to keep that mouth of yours shut more often. What do you think?”

“I think you’re insane and need to stay away from me.” she snarled, her chest rising and falling in a rapid panic. She needed to move. Get to the door. Once it was open he couldn’t do anything. “I’m not your problem anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I did.” he mused, almost rabid, and took another step towards her as she backed away. “But once you were away from me...I realized in your absence how much I enjoyed controlling you.” He stopped in front of her and slowly crouched, his smile putting her body in a tingling panic. “Do you think if you have a daughter, she’d bruise as beautifully as you do?”

Before he could raise a hand again, their bedroom door flew open and both Iris and her father’s heads snapped to the door.

Eris stood in the doorway, breathing hard and a sense of relief washed over Iris so deeply, she almost sobbed. A fire was blazing in his eyes and almost instantly, the room’s temperature heated.

“Eris.” she choked out and his eyes snapped to her. He silently took in the bruises on her cheeks and handprints on her neck, her ruined hair, the rumpled dress, and her body on the floor with her father crouching over her. His gaze slid over her, assessing, and then landed on the dagger several feet away.

Lord Aron straightened and Eris’s eyes flickered to him.

“Son-in-law. I’m glad you’ve finally arrived.” her father had the nerve to say. “My daughter was, unfortunately, speaking ill of you, which I couldn’t allow, of course. I needed to remind her to mind her tongue.”

“You’re lying!” Iris barked and flinched back as her father glared at her but turned to look at Eris. “He’s lying.”

Eris said nothing but Iris saw his eyes flash then narrow as he took one look at her father and then ignored him completely. Slowly, he stepped into the room and quietly shut the door. Iris watched him as he walked over to her and very calmly lowered himself to face her. Her heart thundered in her chest as he reached out a hand and she flinched back when he tried to touch her cheek. His gaze hardened as her bottom lip trembled slightly and Iris tried not to let him see the embarrassment burning through her, tried not to let him see anything other than her seething anger.

But he seemed to know.

Eris locked eyes with her for a moment, his gaze softening for just a fraction and then with the grace of a predator, Eris turned to look at her father with murderous intent in his eyes.

“I’m going to kill you.”

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x oc #eris x oc #eris vanserra fanfic #acotar fanfiction #smtb chapters #gfics #if you'd like to be tagged or removed (no hard feelings!) please let me know!!!#thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!#let's hope the tags work lmao

91 notes · View notes

honeybeefae · 1 year

Text

The Sins That Bind Us (Eris Vanserra x Priestess!Reader)

Summary// Late at night while you tended to one of the many temples throughout Prythian, the doors slammed open and sent the cold air billowing inside. Standing in the doorframe was Eris, shirt muddy and pants ripped, asking for forgiveness. The last thing he expected to see was you but fate works in mysterious ways.

(It's the priestess!reader fic!! This starts out somewhat slow, the smut is towards the end, but I really like how this story developed and I hope you guys do as well. It took a little bit of a different turn but I find that the best stories are the ones that surprise me. Enjoy! :))

WARNINGS: 18+, smut, religion, slight submissive!Eris, body worship, sappy, sappy fluff, slight angst at the beginning, feral!Eris

The air was still as you walked through the temple, your sage burning while the oval stone of your circlet rested heavily between your brows. Your fellow priestesses had left for the day, resting to make sure they were up for the dawn ceremony but you couldn’t seem to sleep.

Your robe was light against your skin as you lit some candles, whispering prayers and thanks to the Mother, the Cauldron, and the Forces That Be. It was quiet and you found peace in it, hoping that the worries that were keeping you awake would turn to ash as the sage did.

As the final candle flickered to life, the doors behind you pounded loudly like someone was trying to get in. It made you drop the sage on the floor and your heart almost flew out of your chest. You had been hearing about the sacks against the other temples around Prythian and fearing that it was some of Hybern’s soldiers, you sprinted to the other side and hid behind a wall just as the doors burst open.

Heavy footsteps echoed off the walls, approaching the altar, before you heard a deep sigh. Thankfully it sounded like it was only one person but you were still doubtful that you were strong enough to fight whoever it was off.

Just as you were about to slip into the hallway beside you, a low voice made you pause.

“Please, I need guidance. I need to know.”

Eris.

You would recognize that voice anywhere. In fact, you had just heard it a few days ago when he had left you on the steps of your home. The two of you had become something, something that terrified him, and with the war looming he broke things off before you were put in serious danger.

It wasn’t even a discussion. He had told you, albeit his voice tight with emotion, that this would be the last time you would see him. After he had left you cried and cried, clinging onto one of the shirts that he had left behind, while trying to understand everything that had just happened.

He had shown you a side of him that he never revealed to anyone, not even his own mother. Secrets whispered on pillowcases, tears brushed away, it was a love that was patient and kind. A love that you thought was what the stories talked about with fated mates.

“I dream of her every night, I think of her every morning, I even smell her within these walls,” Eris confessed softly. “I need a sign that what I did is worth it, that I haven’t damned myself.”

Your fingers were cool against the stone wall as you peeked out, your eyes widening at his tousled appearance. His hair was wet, along with the rest of him, as soft rain fell on the stained glass windows. The white shirt was muddy at the sleeves as well as his pants and boots, looking as if he had just been dragged through six-inch deep mud.

However what stood out most to you was his face, sunken in with dark circles underneath his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. You wondered if he was as tormented as you were.

The room was deathly still, even the candlelight unmoving, as he waited for an answer. You debated on turning around, leaving him to his pleas to the Mother just as he had left you that night. But seeing him like this, broken and miserable, only made you yearn to heal him.

You bit down on your lip and closed your eyes, steeling yourself for whatever was about to happen, before emerging from your hiding space. Eris’s eyes immediately went to you, his body stumbling back in shock.

“Y/N…” He breathed, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” You murmured, glancing at his hands which were bloody and bruised. “What happened to your hands?”

Eris looked down and frowned, staring at them with disdain as he mumbled, “It has been a rough week for me.”

Silence fell between you for a moment, both of you taking in the other’s appearance, before you decided to break the tension. You took a step towards him slowly, treating him like you would a frightened animal.

“I heard you praying.” You said, the wind from the open door making your robes ripple behind you like water. “Do you truly think you are damned?”

He stood there, trying to decide what to make of the situation, before looking up at the sky and sighing. “Do you want to know what I think? Why I did what I did?” He asked you, closing the gap between the two of you so that you were standing toe to toe. “Do you want to know why I have to be a monster?”

“Eris you’re not-” You tried to interject but he held up his hand, shaking his head.

“You and I both know what I am, who I am, Y/N. The son of Beron, the most hated man in all of Prythian besides the King of Hybern. The man who did nothing to stop the murder of my other brother’s love. The fiance who left an innocent bride to devices out of my control.” Eris ranted, his cheeks turning pink from his anger.

“I couldn’t let myself fail you.” He stressed, his hands coming up to cup your face. They were colder than you had ever felt before. “For whatever reason, whatever sick joke the universe wanted to delight in, I found myself falling for a priestess. Someone who others look up to, who takes care of the downtrodden and is tasked with keeping faith alive in a world that is so desperately trying to smother it.”

Your mouth opened in disbelief as the man before you sank to his knees. Eris, future High Lord of Autumn, was on his knees as if you were some divine person. The emotion in his eyes was one of pain and sorrow, his hands falling to his thighs as he continued.

“Do you think, after all I’ve done, that I am worthy of such a person? That I can protect you, love you, and care for you after all I’ve done?”

His confession was breaking your heart into millions of pieces, more so than it already was. Eris had told you about those things before, how the guilt would eat him alive, and how he wished things could be different. You knew what he craved most in the world wasn’t power or glory, it was inner peace.

“I had to leave you, Y/N. It’s better this way, knowing that you are safe from the disasters that trail me. I could not let you become another one for me to regret, so I didn’t give you the chance to.” Eris looked down in shame, water droplets sliding down his nose and face while the moonlight shone upon you two.

As you stared down at him, taking in everything he had just said, you realized just how broken he was on the inside. He put on a mask for others, letting them believe what they wanted, but even the strongest of souls would eventually grow tired of being perceived that way. And some, like Eris, might even start believing that lie themselves.

You knew who he was though. You knew from the moment you met.

“Eris.” You called, placing a finger under his chin until his eyes were looking into your own. “You are many things but you are not damned, nor are you a monster.”

He immediately opened his mouth to protest but you shook your head.

“Listen to what I say. Listen to the tone of my voice. Hear the truth from my mouth.” You smiled, stroking his cheek with the pad of your thumb. “You were handed the cards the Mother gave you, you did with them what you could, and you made mistakes. But this does not make you unworthy of love.”

“The sins that bind us together are what makes us who we are. And who you are, Eris Vanserra, is someone worth saving. You are my mate, as I am yours, and together we shall know no fear, hurt, or anger, but only if we are honest to each other and ourselves.”

Both of your hands grasped his own and pulled him to stand, gazing up at him while your heart overflowed with understanding and acceptance for the man before you. It was like some otherworldly force was guiding you in what to say, what to do, and you let that flow through you like a stream through mountains.

“You are worthy of love.” You asserted, squeezing his hands.

“I don’t feel-”

You silenced him with a kiss, rising on your tiptoes so you could reach his lips. Eris blinked in surprise but immediately melted into your embrace, his arms wrapping around your hips while yours wrapped around his neck. It was tender and slow, your fingers stroking the back of his neck as you lost yourself in the taste and feel of him.

He was the first to pull away though he kept his arms secured against you, your lips just a breath away from each other. “What are you doing?” Eris whispered.

“Shhh,” You soothed, kissing his cheek before slowly making your way down his face and to his neck. “Let me show you how worthy you are.”

His entire body was still as you caressed him softly. It was like he didn’t know what to do, how to react, to gentle touches. And you realized that this was probably the first time anyone had shown him this level of intimacy. Your lips brushed against his pulse, hovering over it for a moment, before kissing your way to the other side.

When you reached his ear and bit down on his lobe, tugging it softly, he crumbled under you. Eris’s hands grabbed your ass, squeezing tightly and groaning while your mouth connected with his once more. It was more passionate, both of your breathing now quickened, as your tongues danced with each other.

Your hands wandered down his chest, feeling the soft material of his shirt as you grasped it between your fists and tore it in half. It fell to the floor and you immediately ran your fingers up his chest, letting your nails gently scrape against his skin which had him growling into your ear.

“You are so beautiful, Eris.” You cooed, pulling away so that you could admire his body. He didn’t know what to say, this was entirely new territory for him but you were more than happy to show him the way.

Eris grunted when you cupped his hard length, massaging it through the material of his pants. His hand flew to your wrist, to either stop you or encourage you he wasn’t sure, but when you began to nip at his collarbone at the same time he realized he never wanted this feeling to end.

“Do you like when I touch you like this?” You smiled against his skin, undoing the strings of his pants expertly so that you could touch him without barriers. This wasn’t the first time you had had sex with him, but this was the first time he let you have control. It was sending a thrill down your spine to watch him react to your touches, hear him moan for you, and to give him the same pleasure he gives you.

“Y-yes.” He stammered for the first time in all his years on Earth. Eris was sure you had put some kind of spell on him, especially when you began stroking him and had his knees buckling from the pleasure. “Fuck, Y/N.”

The smile on your face grew as you kissed him leisurely again, teasing him and stroking the wet head of his cock with your thumb. You wanted to draw this out for as long as possible.

After a moment you decided to push him further, dropping to your knees and pulling his pants down with you. His eyes darkened when you gazed up at him through your lashes, giving him a wink, before you brought him to your mouth and swallowed him down to the base.

Eris hissed and grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging painfully as the small tuft of hair at the base of his cock tickled your nose. You held yourself there for a moment, trying to control your gag reflex, before pulling away to breathe. He was enraptured with your show, watching the spit shine on your chin and lips as you immediately went back to working him.

“Cauldron save me…” He sighed, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. You reveled in the sight, your arousal coating the outside of your thighs by now. It was taking all of your self-control not to touch yourself but you wanted to focus everything on him. You could wait.

“You’re doing so well.” You praise him, licking the tip playfully as he only groans back in response.

“Please,” Eris panted, his red hair falling in his eyes as he looked back down at you pleadingly. “Don’t stop, Y/N. Please.”

“Don’t worry my love,” Your voice was sultry as you started to stroke the bottom of his cock. “I have no intentions of stopping anytime soon.”

With that, you went back to licking and sucking his length, cupping his balls with one of your hands and squeezing them lightly to enhance his pleasure. His hand in your hair was guiding you up and down, the only thing keeping him grounded as he drew closer and closer to the edge.

He tried to warn you but the only sound that came out of his mouth was your name when you went all the way down again, already knowing he was close. His cum hit the back of your throat and you swallowed as best as you could, some of it leaking past the seal of your lips.

Eris’s mouth was hanging open in ecstasy as you took everything, letting go of your hair in favor of brushing the tears that were at the corner of your eyes from your need to breathe.

After a few seconds, you pulled back, swallowing the last bit with a smile and wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. He again stared at you in awe, pulling you up to kiss you fervidly. Eris could taste himself in your mouth and within minutes was already starting to get hard again, his mind hazy with pleasure.

You stepped back and began to undo the straps of your robes, letting them fall off your shoulders and down your body to pool at your feet. As usual, you were completely bare underneath. The cool air made your nipples perk up and goosebumps rise on your skin, the moonlight giving you an ethereal look.

His jaw tightened at the sight of your body, every nerve in his body on fire as you stepped over your discarded clothes and towards him. The way your hips swayed, the sultry look in your eyes, he swore he was dreaming at this point. It was either that or some sorcery.

“Lay down.” You ordered, smirking when he obeyed without any hesitation. “Good boy.”

Eris’s cock jumped at the praise, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. You wasted no time in climbing on top of him, lining up your hips, and sitting on top of him. The juices of your arousal coated his dick as you lightly ground up and down, panting when the head of him kept bumping against your clit.

“No more teasing, Y/N.” He begged, gripping your hips tightly to still you. “I can’t bear it anymore. Let me feel you, taste you, anything, just let me please you.”

“Tonight is about you, Eris.” You chastised. “It’s about your pleasure, for me to show you how I feel about you”

“Then pleasure me, mouse. Show me.” Eris panted, licking his lips while his chest rose and fell in quick succession as you finally lined himself to your entrance.

Your lips parted as you lowered yourself onto his cock, taking him in inch by inch. He felt as if his soul was going to leave his body as your cunt swallowed him whole, the wetness and tightness of it making him see stars.

When you bottomed out, you waited for a moment to give yourself time to adjust to his girth. It felt different than the other times you had had sex, it felt rawer and more intimate.

There was no wasted moment as you began to ride him, letting the feelings of pain and pleasure mix in an intoxicating cocktail that he also sipped from. The temple was immediately filled with both of your cries of pleasure, your hands planted firmly on his chest as he rutted his hips up to meet you halfway.

“You feel so good…so perfect inside me.” You whined, your tits bouncing up and down with each thrust.

Eris raised up on his elbows to take one of your nipples in his mouth, biting and sucking which made you clench around him. You were already on edge from all the taunting you’d been doing and despite your best efforts, you knew you weren’t going to last long.

“Oh, Mother above, Y/N.” He growled, your breast popping out of his mouth as you started to go faster. What started out as slow and sensual was now turning to feral, the overwhelming need to claim you overriding all of his common sense.

Before you could register this change you found yourself face down on the cold floor, your legs spread wide open for your mate as Eris slapped his cock against your ass twice before he thrust back into you. You cried out in bliss, your nails scratching the marble as he fucked you like an animal.

His grip on your hips was sure to leave bruises as he lost himself in his own mind, his head screaming ‘Mate, Mate, Mate’ over and over again. You were no better, your hand scrambling down to toy with your clit and speed up your orgasm, the tingling already starting low in your belly.

“Eris, I-I’m close, please!” You whimpered, turning your head to the side to watch him fuck you. “Fuck, you fuck me so good.”

Your words only spurred him to go harder, his eyes darkening as he felt his own release tightening in his balls. He brushed against that spot inside you and that sent you over the edge, your mouth opening to cry out his name as your entire body shook in euphoria.

It was the kind of pleasure that made your toes curl and vision go white, the very temple itself feeling as if it were going to topple down as Eris pulled you up by your hair and bit into the soft skin of your neck, growling out your name as he came right after you.

Sweat was coating both of your bodies, the smell of sex in the air, as you finally collapsed on the ground with him falling beside you. You could feel his cum leaking out of you but you didn’t care, rolling to your side to look at him while he stared up at the ceiling.

“That was…” You pause, intertwining your fingers with his. “Amazing. Do you see now how I feel about you, love? Can you feel it?”

He swallowed thickly, his fingers tightening over your own. “I see it, I feel it, I just don’t understand it.” Eris frowned, turning to look at you. “After everything I’ve done and said, I can’t fathom why the cauldron paired us together, why you settle for someone like me.”

Your face softened at his vulnerability as you caressed his cheek and kissed the tip of his nose. “The past cannot be changed but the mere fact that you want to change it, that you regret and are actively trying to become better, that is what a good man does, Eris.”

“You are a good man.” You said earnestly, resting your head on his bare shoulder. The rain outside had turned to a mist and the world was quiet. It was like you were the only two in the whole universe. “You are worthy of so many things, Eris, but above all, you are the most worthy of happiness. Just as I am. And my happiness starts and ends with you.”

And for the briefest of moments, you see a smile ghost his lips. It makes him seem more his age, more peaceful, and your heart skips a beat.

“Be patient with me.” He whispers, amber eyes full of uncertainty. “This is something entirely new to me.”

“Always.” You murmur, kissing the back of his hand and closing your eyes to bask in the small slice of peace the two of you were being gifted right now.

387 notes · View notes

yennas-stuff · 3 months

Note

Seeing E*riel’s getting pressed and arguing over Gwyn’s hair color is so hilarious to me. One of them made a post that said “if I see one more Gwyneth Berdara fanart that just looks like a vassified Sabrina Raincomprix from Miraculous Ladybug, I'm gonna scream. if Gwyn were to stand next to Vassa and Lucien, her hair would not look the same as theirs. let's enjoy-let's embrace-the variety that comes with redheads instead of copy-pasting the same color on them over and over again like they're all from the Weasley family.”

They frequently call Gwyn “that ginger” for whatever reason. I guess out of anger or annoyance?? Coppery-brown comes in different shades. Some have more hues of brown and some have more hues of red.

Thank you for the message, anonnie!

I crack up every time when the hair color debate is brought up. Why is it so important? Why are redheads bullied and fought over in this fandom? Free them, lmao.

It is hilarious to me, too. As you said, red and reddish hair comes in all hues, and it changes depending on the light. I don't see any problems with different interpretations.

Also! I saw so many different shades of red on Lucien, Eris, and Vassa. They all get drawn differently, and nobody sees it as a problem. It's only brought up with Gwyn... Funny how that is, huh?

#lucien vanserra #gwynriel #gwyn berdara #gwyneth berdara #vassa #eris vanserra #anon ask #anti e/riel

23 notes · View notes

summerlovingbaby · 2 years

Text

Accidents Happen

tw: self harm and mentions of attempted suicide

Hitoshi heard whimpering coming from one of the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. He was on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water, because the air had grown fairly hot in the night.

He remembered when he felt like that. When the day felt so bad, and the nightmares felt so real that it made him sick. He quietly pushed open the door, careful not to make it creak, careful not to wake the two other adults just down the hall.

He smelled a smell that smelled all to family and brought back to not so distant painful memories. He felt bad for her. He had been in the girls' position not so long ago, and he remembered how each painful moment felt.

He kneeled on the side of her bed and debated waking her up. This was probably the most peaceful sleep she had in a long time, despite the fact that she was having a violent nightmare.

“Y/N.” he gently shook her awake, causing her to sit straight up in the bed, neck hairs standing up. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“Hitoshi?” she quietly questioned, wiping the sweat off her brow. She caught the look on his face and assumed the worst. She tried to get out of bed, but her legs felt stuck to the uncomfortable plastic-like sheets. “Did something happen? Do I have to go back?”

“No..no nothing like that-”

“Is it Eri, is she okay?” she pleaded.

“She’s fine.” he urged. “It’s okay, everything is okay, I swear.” he whispered.

He watched her face settle into a mix of stress and content, and watched her muscles grow loose. Her eyes fell on the spiderman comforter, and she wiggled her nose trying to ignore the presentiant smell. Then she looked at him, waiting for him to speak, he didn’t know what to say, so thought about what Aizawa said to him, not so many months ago.

“ I have to tell you something, and I don’t want you to be embarrased, or worried, or feel bad about it, okay?” he watched her nod sligtly. “ I think you may have had an accident.”

“ Accident?” her eyebrows moved together and her mouth formed into a line confused, before her eyes widened in realization and she grabbed the egde of the comfoter and through it off the bed, landing on the floor right next to Shinso, who payed it no mind. “ Oh god.” Her hand flew to her mouth, as she tried to come up with a reasonable excuse, only for her mind to draw a blank. “ Oh my god. I’m so sorry-”

“There’s no reason to be sorry. It was a accident.”

“ I wet the bed.” she muttered to herself. Like she was still trying to get herself to believe it.

She had been through so much, and yet she was still behaving like a child, not only that but she had managed to embarrass herself into a person that she desperately wanted to be her friend.

“ I wet the bed.” she repeated.

“ It’s okay, it was an accident.” Hitoshi muttered, he saw her trying hard to cry.

“I’m sorry-”

“Please don’t apologize.” he said, he really wanted to stroke her hair and rub her back, but was afraid to touch her without asking. “ It was accident. Accidents happen some time, things like this happen some time.”

“ I wet the bed.” she said again, her eyes widened as tears fell freely down her face, “ I’ll clean it up, I swear. I will-”

“ It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry. That doesn’t matter.” He spoke, his voice was calm. He knew the melting pot of emotions that she had to be feeling. It was clear that she was upset, but even then she was worried about fixing the mess that she made.

“ I’ll clean it up I promise, and I can sleep on the couch-”

“ Don’t worry about that right now. How about you go to the bathroom and clean up a little, and I’ll take care of this-”

“ You don’t have to-”

“ I insisit.”

“ You can’t tell him, you can’t-”

“ I won’t, I promise. Now go shower, I’ll be here when you get back.”

20 minutes later, she came back with a fresh pair of pajamas, and a hanful of dirty ones. Hitoshi had given her a pair, and they were much to big, the t shirt stopping mid thigh, and the boxer shorts hanging of her hips. The socks were mismatched in a unironic way. It would have been an unusally funny sight, if it weren’t for the fact that it was clear that she had been crying in the shower.

“ I didn’t know where to-”

“ It’s okay, I’ll take them on my way out.” he whispered. “ I gave you an extra blanket, in case you got cold.”He was always cold when he first moved in. The doctors guessed it was the years of malnutrition and about every diffancy known to man. “ Bed’s all yours.” he motioned to the bed.

“ You won’t tell him-”

“ No.” he spoke plainly. Like he was talking to a mirror. He would know exactly what she felt like, he was in her position not more than a year ago. “ Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him-”

“ Yes.” she said quickly. “ Please.”

“ Is there a reason?”

“ I don’t want him to get rid of me, if I’m too much trouble he’ll get rid of me.” she spoke, it was a manic mutter. His face softened, he knew that desperation, that need to be perfect that want to stay safe, she wanted to be safe. That need to not be too much, to not be sent away.

Hitoshi carefully walked towards her, and pointed, before asking if he could have a seat. Y/N hesitated before nodding softly and looking away. She was tired, that itself was clear, the prominent eyebags gave her away.

“ He won’t get rid of you, I promise.”

“ How do you know, when you’re so...” she searched her mind for the word. Settled on one, opened her mouth to speak, decided it was offensive and didn’t say anything else.

“ It’s okay, You can say it.”

“ Good. You’re so good.”

“When Aizawa had first taken me in I was.... I was alot like you.”

“ Broken?”

Hitoshi shook his head and extended his hand to the bedside tissue, so he could wipe the tears out of her face.

“ I was fine, but one night after Mr. Mic took me out to the store I saw my mothers husband. At the time I was fine. I was a bit scared, yeah, but I thought I was fine. But Aizawa ended up having to wake me up. Turns out I wet the bed. Right through the streets all over the matress.”

“ I hardly even know him and I really don’t want to disappoint him.”

“ I think he’ll be more happy that you reached out to him. He really just wants to help, y’know?”

“ I don’t want him to send me away.”

“ He won’t. I know he doesn’t seem like it, but he is very forgiving and kind. He just wants to help, y’know.” he spoke. Y/N seemed to burry herself in a bundle of inescapble slelf pity. “The first night I got her, I drunk all his alcohol threw up over his balcony before taking a knife from his kitchen and trying to kill myself.” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Y/N wanted to laugh, he always seemed so put together and calm. There is no way a boy like him, used to be so broken. So unfixable.

“ Yeah right.”

“See.” he pulled up the hem of his sleves and saw a long scar running along his wrist. Y/N’ s mouth fell open and she chewed on her bottom lip.

“But you seem so... okay.”

“ It took some time to get there, but I’m getting to be okay.” he shrugged. “ You’ll get there to.” he added. “ You’re doing better than I was, you haven’t thrown up over the balcony yet so.”

“ When did it stop?” she asked, looking up at staring at the wall. “ The bed wetting?”

“ I don’t remeber the day-”

“Why did it stop.”

“ I don’t know, they just did. It still happens sometimes, maybe once a month or so.” he whispered. “ Talking to him helped. He’s really good about that stuff. I know he doesn’t seem like it but he’s comforting in a weird way. He always knew how to make me feel better.”

“ I can’t-”

“ He won’t get rid of you.”

“ Becase it’s embarrasing, I’m ebarrased. I feel so pathetic, like a baby.”

“ I get it. Boy do I get it, but not talking about it, it only hurts you.”

“ Eri has never wet the bed-”

“ It’s a trauma response, a normal truma response that alot of people have.An that doesn’t make you any more pathetic, or give you any reason to be embarrased.”

“ I would be really embarrased if I threw up over the balcony.” she shrugged and glanced up to look for his approval to he smiling and bitting back a laugh.

“ Really funny.” he laughed. “ You’re really funny.”

Y/N wore a ghost of her smile as Hitoshi waved her goodbye and started to leave. He picked up the pile of laundry and made it halfway before she called out to him.

“ I’ll think about it. Talking to him I mean.”

He nodded, that’s all he could ask of her was to think about getting help. Forcing her to talk would have been bad, so she planned on not going back to sleep, and thinking about it.

“ If you need anything, I’m just down the hall.”

And with that, he closed the door behind him, leaving Y/N with a half smile, and thoughts of getting help.

taglist

@kiribakuslilpebble @un-limit-edd @ultrahugakitten @ jmook423 @ anonymousbabygirl13-blog @ power-house-fan12 @imunderurbed @fandomfreak1000000 @dylan-kai2008 @cheesecakeva @lovemegood @madsttx @whatdidshesayyy

@ great-goddess-of-sin @bitchyzombienacho @polpoe

@lovemegood @eijiandkatspebble @luna670 @nealearts @bittersw33t-lotus @therapy-arts-blog @thenerdygirl111 @sil-ver-shadow @chscklvr

@itshemlock @5sos-wdw @stupidfool69 @esposadomd

656 notes · View notes

kittythelitter · 2 years

Text

Thinking about a hypothetical episode of Community with the original 7 where Shirley brings one of her friends from church to Greendale, let's call her Mariah

This friend is a trans woman who is a devout Christian and because she's Christian Shirley listened to her about trans issues and stuff and decided if this nice Christian person wants to be addressed as a woman the Christian thing to do is to treat her like a woman and be respectful of how she wants to be addressed. Whether Shirley personally views Mariah as a woman is ambiguous.

Pierce doesn't clock her or even understand what's going on when the group discusses that she's trans, he just sees a hot new lady and is constantly sexually harassing her and she calls him a chaser which he decides is a new word for like a pick up artist and starts self identifying with it and ends up having his own mostly off screen adventure about it.

Britta immediately outs herself as a terf but gets all her terf talking points slightly wrong. Her whole arc is just her talking herself in circles until she sees Mariah experience transmisogyny and is like. Actually what defines a woman is suffering in society as a result of your gender which means trans women are women. But at the end of the episode she meets Mariah's boyfriend who is also trans and sees someone be transphobic to him and is like. But if you're suffering aren't you also a woman? And that's the very end of the episode so instead of a resolution about it we just leave Britta to whatever she's debating with herself and move on.

Jeff doesn't have an opinion of trans people going in but defends trans people just to disagree with Britta, but as he argues in defense of trans people he manages to get really into what he's saying and ends up doing some public speaking for a trans rights group on campus. (The Dean is there just because Jeffrey is there being all eloquent and manly, half learns terminology and starts referring to himself as "Dean-der Fluid" and "non-dean-ery".) A trans guy talks to Jeff about his hair and his workout routine and Jeff realizes he and the trans guys at the event have a lot in common in terms of how they perform masculinity in order to get others to see them the way they see themselves/want to be seen.

Abed similarly spends time talking with the trans group about performing gender among other things and knowing yourself even when others don't understand you or want to change you. They complain about transphobia in tv and he admits that community has had some transphobic bits and talks with them about better representation and problematic stereotypes and tries to get one of them to stay on as a series regular in order to make community a better more representative show.

Troy and Annie both try to figure out if being attracted to Mariah makes them gay. They both come to the conclusion that Mariah is a woman so Annie is probably some kind of queer and Troy is still not gay for being attracted to her. They both go to the event with Jeff and Abed.

Troy meets a really hot trans guy and is like. Okay i am attracted to men. And then we see flashbacks of him clearly flirting with and/or going on dates with guys since he got to Greendale and just not realizing it. He, rather than having a bi crisis has a "I had a chance with all those hotties and i blew it" crisis before hitting on the trans guy who he thought was flirting with him but who was actually under the impression that troy and abed were a couple and was trying to figure out if they'd be down for a 3-way.

Meanwhile Annie starts doing research with the pamphlets laid out at the events to figure out what kind of queer she is and every time it cuts back to her theres more and more queers around her flirting with her. Including some butch lesbians, some nonbinary people, and some trans guys who are all enamoured with her sweet femme charm. (We get snippets of conversations that have things like compulsory heterosexuality, different flavors of bi, asexuality etc) she turns up at the end with a lesbian pride pin on her backpack and her hair and lip gloss very mussed.

#community #ficlet #shirley bennett #britta perry #jeff winger #abed nadir #troy barnes #annie edison #lesbian annie edison #dean pelton #i just. love lesbian annie #also thining a lot about gender with this group.

347 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 1 year

Text

Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Cadmus returned a few hours after he’d left her, appearing in the door she hadn’t bothered to close. Ever immaculate, the second born son smiled that wolfish grin as he stepped into the room.

“Sister,” he crooned, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Don’t say that so loudly,” she warned, all but bouncing off the bed. Elain was bored. It had taken her ten minutes to unpack her things and Arina had never returned from wherever she’d gone with Eris. Elain knew she shouldn’t be frustrated but she was. Stupidly, she’d believed she and Arina were in this together.

But Elain was on her own, at least when it came to navigating Autumn. And clearly Cadmus was going to be her unofficial guide through it all, smirking like his older brother—like his younger brother, too. It must be a genetic thing, she decided, because she knew she’d seen that arrogant look on Lucien’s face more than once.

Elain sighed. She missed Lucien which made her feel a little pathetic. She was certain he’d found ways to entertain himself and by the time she returned would have a whole host of stories for her. Elain didn’t believe for a second he was pining the way she was.

“Ashamed?” Cadmus asked, leaning casually against the frame of the door. She bet the ladies of Autumn went wild when they saw that. He was handsome in an aristocratic sort of way, with elegant, sharp features that could slice as easily as any knife. He was the only one of the Vanserra’s to have hair that was more brown than red, still coppery but in a darker, warmer sort of way. His features skewed toward his fathers and she wondered how that made him feel when he looked in the mirror.

She liked him, though. Liked him much more than she was sure to like the High Lord, at any rate.

“No, I’m not ashamed,” Elain replied loftily, poking him in his broad chest when she reached him. “I don’t need you broadcasting what I told you all over the palace.”

Cadmus arched one elegantly groomed brow. “And when you return?”

“Would you like to be penpals?” Elain asked him with syrupy sweetness.

Cadmus’s expression shifted for a moment. “I’d like to see my mother more often.”

Ah. Elain mouthed a wordless oh, because she understood what he was asking—would she use her influence on Lucien so his half-brothers could visit without so much animosity. Elain’s heart ached at the thought of how little they must have gotten to see her and what it was like knowing she was happy without being able to see it for themselves.

“I’ll talk to him,” Elain murmured softly. Anyone who stumbled on the scene at hand would think something intimate was happening between them which was better and safer than the truth. Killain would be irate but he was always angry when another male was in her vicinity.

Cadmus exhaled a breath Elain hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders slumped for only a moment before he straightened himself back out and offered her that same arrogant smile.

“Hungry?”

“Yes,” she lied. Elain wanted to meet everyone who’d come and get a sense of what she’d be doing. Lucien had given her a rundown on the rather boring piece of policy Beron wanted to debate.

Which was shattered the moment Cadmus casually said, “Atticus is trying to rally the seasonal courts into strong arming the Night Court into war. They’ll see you as an ally.”

“Is she a prisoner?” Elain asked, certain there was no one and nothing that could keep Feyre if she didn’t truly want to be there. Not even the fearsome North and their Daemati powers were enough.

Cadmus shrugged casually, falling into step with Elain. His smoke gray pants and navy blue jacket were a rather lovely combination against his complexion, and made him seem more naughty prince than anything. “No one knows. There is a rumor Feyre sent a letter, but no one has seen it so whether that's true or lies from Night Court, well…you’ll have to take Atticus at his word.”

“Atticus is…” A liar, though she didn’t dare say that. Not when Cadmus likely was, too. And she knew too well that these males often pulled rank and protected each other, regardless of the circumstances or female wishes. If Feyre was saying no, but Atticus was saying yes, Cadmus and Tarquin and maybe Lucien, too, was likely to fall in line. After all, if one female said no and they were forced to honor it, what stopped the rest of them from saying no, too?

Cadmus raised both brows. “I’m interested in your reaction specifically, princess.”

Elain narrowed her eyes, though she supposed princess was better than sister. “Is Tarquin here?”

“Yes,” Cadmus murmured, fingers brushing her back as he led her down a flight of stairs. “Viviane, too.”

Viviane felt like a dream to Elain. Had she once been jealous of Lucien dancing with the Winter princess…or…whatever she was? General to the High Lord who’d been unable to drag his eyes off her, at any rate. Elain wondered if Viviane would be an ally or if she’d side with the males.

Reaching between them, Elain grabbed Cadmus’s hand. “Don’t let Atticus take me out of here.”

Cadmus paused. “Are you asking for sanctuary?”

“No, I—”

No. She couldn’t get stuck in Autumn and didn’t think the High Lord would ever let her leave. She’d become leverage in his silent war against Helion, made worse when he realized he had the prince's mate.

“I’m asking you not to let Atticus take me out of Autumn.”

“I can’t stop him if he’s your prince,” Cadmus reminded her. Elain loathed all these rules that bound females unfairly to males and their territory. She hadn’t claimed Lucien and he hadn’t claimed her, hadn’t renounced her home in Spring. Cadmus’s steps slowed, his eyes burning the skin of her cheek. “Is he?”

“So I say you are—”

“You say my brother is,” Cadmus murmured, his voice so soft she felt like he was speaking directly in her mind. “And force me to honor our blood.”

Lucien would kill her for this. She knew he wanted his brothers to learn about his bond at the same time everyone else did. Was she foolish to trust the Vanserra’s when conventional wisdom told her not to? No one in their right mind would entrust the second born Vanserra to a secret of this magnitude.

“Lucien is my mate,” she breathed. Cadmus’s eyes widened for only a moment, bright with wonder.

“I ought to spend more time in Day,” he finally said, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. “No one knows?”

“Eris does,” she said, grateful he’d kept that secret when it might have served him better to tell his family. Cadmus didn’t seem surprised to hear that. “And Lucien, of course.”

“He hasn’t claimed you—”

“He can’t,” she hissed, forgetting that in Autumn, males owned their mates. If Lucien had been born in Autumn, he could have declared it before court and culturally, the expectation would be that Elain would accept. Spring was the exact same way, but Day, like the other solar courts, allowed females to decide whether they accepted the bond. She could see Cadmus chewing on this knowledge. He knew it in theory—but he was watching it play out in practice and it clearly confused him.

“Are you?” he finally asked, his face a strange mix of wonder and vulnerablity.

“Maybe,” she replied, poking him in the ribs. “Feeling sorry for Lucien, are you?”

Cadmus scowled. “No.”

“That’s good to hear,” Elain said with a smile, gripping Cadmus’s arm once again. “I promise he is not suffering.”

A cruel smile spread over Cadmus’s face—the sort that told her he was about to ask her something wildly inappropriate. She was spared by Atticus, who rounded the same corner they were coming down only to nearly crash into Cadmus. She’d forgotten how tall and imposing the future High Lord was. He halted, his severe, tan face eyeing them both with distaste. He knew, now. And there was no doubt in Elain’s mind that Killian would be informed at some point.

Those pine green eyes landed on her, lip curling with distaste. “What are you doing here?” he asked roughly, the demand clanging through her.

“She’s Day Court’s emissary,” Cadmus snapped, speaking when Elain’s mouth opened silently. Heart thudding, she didn’t think she could speak to Atticus. Not without making herself look small and foolish.

Atticus smiled, then, his whole face lighting up as though Cadmus had told a particularly funny joke. “Of course she is. Just as you and I are newly crowned High Lords. My brother is looking for you.”

“He knows how to find me,” Elain said, but the waver in her voice betrayed her. Atticus’s smile was undimmed.

“Mm.”

And then he was gone, swanning past the pair of them like they were little more than an annoyance to him. Cadmus watched, fingers clenched to fists at his sides. “Don’t know where he thinks he’s fucking going,” Cadmus grumbled, placing one callused hand against her back. “Dining room is this fucking way.”

“He’s going to call Killian—”

“So?” Cadmus interrupted impatiently. “You knew that.”

But knowing it and being confronted with seeing Killian, who was going to try and drag her home, were two entirely different things. And Elain didn’t know how to navigate this situation. Grabbing Cadmus roughly, she pulled her toward a shadowy corner just outside the twin doors carved with the image of a long-dead dragon.

“I kissed him, once,” she said. Had she told anyone that? Maybe Arina—definitely not Lucien. Cadmus’s brows furrowed, struggling to understand why it mattered. “Killian has been kissing females his whole life. Surely—”

“But he wants to be married, and he’s…you know….how they think about these things.”

“Are you suggesting I think every female I kiss belongs to me?” he asked archly.

“No,” she snapped in response. “You only think they belong to you if you want them for longer than a night or two!”

Cadmus smiled. “You’ve got me there. This is a serious gathering Elain and not an engagement party. Killian still needs the permission of the High Lord to attend and father famously hates everyone. He’s not letting the second Spring son into his home when he didn’t want the first one.”

“Are you sure?”

Cadmus shrugged. “No. Father does things for his own reasons more often than I can count. But I would bet he’s not half as interested in your personal life as Killian is, and he’ll want everyone out just as soon as he can manage.”

And for some reason, that made Elain feel a little better. Everything felt as though it revolved around her and hearing Cadmus say no one was half as interested in her as she was felt reassuring, if nothing else.

With that in mind, Cadmus tugged her toward the doors that would take the pair of them to dinner. With every new step, Cadmus seemed to fade into a male she didn’t recognize. Straight spine, bored expression, and an almost lazy gait. He was every inch one of the Autumn bastards then, leading her into the high ceilinged dining room as though she were of no consequence to him.

Eris was already there, sitting at a high table at the far end of the room just beside his father. Arina sat beside Viviane, her back to the Autumn prince a few feet away. The two blondes were smiling brightly, ignoring a table of nearby Autumn court males watching them with wolfish expressions.

From behind them, Tarquin shoulder checked Cadmus. “Excuse me,” the handsome Summer prince murmured, winking once at Elain before making his way toward Viviane. Slipping away her arm, Elain did the same, taking the last chair at the little table already laden with food. Cadmus sauntered off, seemingly unbothered. He didn’t so much as look at her, even when Elain stared him down. He merely joined his brothers away from the high table where his brother and father sat, eating and making rude gestures at a table of nearby giggling females.

“What are you two talking about?” Elain asked, turning back to Viviane and Arina.

“The Hybern General,” Viviane said, blue eyes crinkled at the edges. She was, if Elain recalled correctly, one of the Winter High Lords most trusted soldiers. A General in her own right, not that she appeared so in her soft, wintergreen dress. “She’s in Spring right now.”

“Atticus is here, though,” Elain said with surprise. She’d seen him in the hall—surely he’d want to stay with his father if a foreign dignitary was joining.

“He was forced here to deal with the Feyre Archeron situation,” Viviane said blithely, forgetting that Feyre was related to Elain by blood. “And I suspect the High Lord doesn’t want an audience to his meeting with her.”

“Or he’s showing her the wall,” Tarquin said casually, picking at a strawberry from a bowl. “Rumors swirl, princess, that Hybern is after more territory.”

“He’d have to be short sighted and stupid,” Arina chimed in, watching Tarquin with an unreadable expression. “Where does he think Hybern will turn once he’s slaughtered the humans?”

“Maybe he hopes to work out some deal. Make himself regent–”

“The High Lord of Spring would never rule under someone else,” Elain interrupted, thinking of that proud, haughty male. “He’d be aiming for High King.”

“He’ll die, just last,” Viviane whispered as Atticus stomped back in, his face twisted with anger. “But not before damning us all to a war on two fronts.”

“Three,” Tarquin replied, popping a grape into his mouth. “He’s been looking for a fight with the High Lord of Night for centuries. He’s finally found it. Just something to think about as we decide Feyre Archeron’s fate.”

“Lucien Spell-Cleaver is doing that already, is he not?” Viviane asked, eyes turning to Elain. Elain had no idea what Lucien was doing while she was away, and thought it was a trap to admit she had any interest in his coming and goings. She shrugged, taking a page from Tarquin’s playbook. Arina, of course, knew better—she knew better than any of them what Lucien might be doing.

She said nothing, drumming her fingers against the table.

“So the seasonal courts agree Night has stolen a Spring Court princess and…what? We force her back—”

“And put the prince on trial,” Tarquin murmured, leaning forward on his elbows. “Draw out his father from his mountain court where he’s much easier to assassinate. Kill the son, see the power transfer to someone more…aggreeable. Like the High Lord’s brother, for instance.”

“A stupid plan,” Arina hissed softly. “Stupider if he thinks someone like Beron would ever bend the knee for him.”

“One thing at a time,” Viviane said cooly, reaching for her fork. “Feyre Archeron today, Prythian’s politics tomorrow. How are you planning to vote?”

“I’ll be waiting to hear what Lucien Spell-Cleaver has to say,” Tarquin replied, glancing at Elain. “He’s honorable—and if she’s been forced, he won’t pretend otherwise, Solar Court alliance or not.”

Tarquin’s gaze slid to her, and Elain knew he was thinking about the night on that pleasure barge when Lucien by rights could have taken her. She’d been throwing herself at him. Begging him, even. And Lucien had locked her up, had put her to bed, and hadn’t touched her any more than was required to keep her safe. She wondered if that was what kept Tarquin from saying anything else. Lucien had mentioned Tarquin suspected what was happening between them when he’d warned her who might be in Autumn.

Elain was grateful for his silence.

“I heard she wrote a letter renouncing her home in Spring,” Viviane said, looking once again at Elain. “And if that’s true, I won’t be calling to bring her back, and neither will Kallias.”

“Very progressive of you,” Tarquin said with a slick smile. Viviane’s answering smile was just as vicious, lethal in its beauty. Like she knew some secret about the prince none of the rest of them did—a secret she, too, was choosing not to divulge, at least for now. Elain didn’t care. Sitting at that table, Elain could only think of Feyre.

What trouble have you gotten yourself in this time?

LUCIEN:

“What are you painting?” he began, well aware she’d been working on a portrait of Rhysand. That didn’t seem to bode well for the Spring Court princess—was her mind consumed with him? And if it was, had Rhysand been the cause of that. He could scent nothing unusual about her. Not even sex, which he would have assumed would be present had Rhysand so much as touched her. That’s what Tamlin was alleging, at least partly. Feyre’s compliance was all forced.

Scanning her form, Lucien couldn’t detect a spell bound around her. A bargain shimmered against her forearm, but that was hardly a secret given the swirling, black-inked tattoo was visible to anyone with a working pair of eyes.

“Nothing,” she said, cheeks dark with embarrassment. Lucien was tempted to look behind him and see if Rhysand was still watching and didn’t think he’d like what he’d see. Feyre Archeron rose from her chair, fair skin splattered with multi-colored dots of paint. Planting her hands on her hips, she demanded, “Are you taking me back to Spring?”

“I could take you to Day Court, if you’re looking for sanctuary,” Lucien replied evenly. Feyre considered this for a moment, clearly not expecting him to offer an alternative.

“With Elain?”

“Yes,” he agreed, picking up a dry paintbrush on a little stand by her easel. “I’m sure she’d be very happy to see you.”

Feyre snorted. “Annoyed, more like it. Nesta is here—no one is trying to drag her back.”

“I suppose they assume she plans to return at some point.”

“Well, that’s stupid considering she’s training with—”

“Feyre!” Rhysand interrupted, his smooth voice sharper than usual. “Manners, darling.”

Lucien did turn, then, sighing with exasperation. “You don’t have to watch, you know.”

Rhysands expression shifted, eyes wholly focused on Feyre. He said nothing for a period so long Lucien had began to wonder if he wasn’t going insane. Turning, he saw Feyre’s grinning back at him and—

“Oh, Cauldron boil me! You’re doing very little to convince me she isn’t under your control, you know.”

“I’m not,” Feyre said with a sullen expression. “You don’t need to know everything.”

Great.

Lucien caught how Rhysand flinched at Feyre’s declaration Lucien didn’t need to know everything. Lucien raised his brows and decided to play a little harder. “Alright. Take me back, then—”

“She means about my territory,” Rhysand said smoothly, pushing off the door frame he was leaned again. “Not about her stay here. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Oh, but of course,” she bit back sarcastically. “As I’m just a silly female, it makes total sense that the only way I’d be able to make my own decision was if another male was controlling my mind.”

Rhysand smothered his grin. “Play nice.”

Feyre rounded on him, arms crossed over her chest. “How is my sister? Do you boss her around, too?”

Lucien sighed. “Hardly.”

Feyre didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Good. I hope she’s giving you hell. She hates you, you know.”

“Yes, I am well aware of Elain’s feelings toward me,” Lucien replied dryly. He didn’t mention that those feelings had shifted because this wasn’t about him or Elain, but preventing an absurd civil war over one female Lucien was relatively certain had come of her own accord. “Why Night Court, Feyre?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, turning toward the window looking over the mountains. “Nesta was here and I thought…Elain is practically engaged, and I think she’s content with that. I worried if I came to her, she’d urge me to go back. I snuck in–”

“How did you manage that?” Lucien asked, genuinely curious. Feyre glanced at Rhysand, something silent spoken between them. Lucien caught Rhysand subtly shake his head no.

“Their mind control doesn’t work on me,” Feyre told him, defiance flashing in those silvery blue eyes. “I’m daemati, too.”

Lucien blinked. A seer and a daemati in the same family. “Does Spring know—”

“No,” she said quickly, defiance replaced with panic. “And they can’t. This is between us, Spell-Cleaver.”

He inclined his head. “So, you can’t be manipulated. You sneak into Night. What then?”

“Rhysand picked me up at the border and brought me here.”

Lucien very much doubted that was the entirety of the story. He’d seen the city below, though, and guessed the prince was keeping far more secrets than one beautiful city. That was fine—Lucien was, too. All the courts jealously guarded their territories, hiding it from others who might try and take it if they knew it better. Night was hardly any different.

“I’m not going back and I’m not marrying him. I wrote him a letter saying as much,” Feyre finished, her voice icy steel. “I know Atticus is convening in Autumn to try and whip the seasonal courts into a frenzy.”

Lucien sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, your sister is there on behalf of Day, so I suspect she’ll side with you.”

“You suspect, or you know?”

“I can’t predict Elain’s actions with accuracy,” Lucien replied in his most level tone. Rhysand rolled his eyes. “I don’t think she wants you to go back to Spring.”

“Why don’t you stay for the night?” Rhysand finally said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Give it the illusion of fairness.”

That was the last thing Lucien wanted. He had to remind himself that going home wouldn’t bring Elain back to him any quicker and would only make him more restless. At least here he could pester Rhysand about Night and get to know Feyre a little better. He knew so little about her life before she’d come to him, though he knew the stories. Of course he knew of Feyre, but he didn’t know her well.

It was cynical, but maybe if he got in good with Feyre, Elain wouldn’t be so afraid to accept the mating bond—

“Mating bond?!” Feyre’s surprised gasp pulled Lucien from his thoughts. Even Rhysand’s eyes went wide, surprised by the news. “You and Elain are mates?”

Rhysand began laughing, pulling his hands from his pockets to cross them over his chest. “Oh, how funny, Spell-Cleaver.”

Lucien was tempted to divulge Rhysand’s secret right then and there. Careful with his thoughts, Lucien snarled, “My head isn’t an open play ground for you.”

“Forgive me for not trusting you,” she replied dismissively. “You were practically screaming them at me, besides.”

“We talked about this,” Rhysand murmured reproachfully.

“Is he your teacher?”

“She has to earn her keep somehow,” Rhysand said smoothly. “Just like Elain does.”

“I asked him to,” Feyre said, defensive all over again. “You don’t know what it’s like to know everyones thoughts all the time.”

Lucien couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine. That seemed like a particular kind of hell, hearing what everyone thought of you as they were thinking it, even as they smiled to your face and lied. He wondered if that didn’t play a part in why Feyre was so desperate to get away from Tamlin. She knew exactly what he thought of her—what he wanted, what he expected, even if his lips said something different.

“It’s quiet here,” she told him with a slump of her shoulders. “I feel like I can breathe.”

Lucien tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “How about lunch?”

Feyre’s eyes perked up. “Can I take him to—”

“Yes,” Rhysand interrupted smoothly, eyes twinkling like a thousand stars. “Don’t give it away. Lucien likes surprises. You two enjoy yourselves. I have to meet my mother at the border—mind what you tell the fox, hm, darling?”

Feyre’s smile was razon sharp. “As you say, princeling.”

Oh, Lucien liked her, even of Rhysand was wrong. Lucien liked nothing of the sort—at least, not the kind Rhysand found amusing. Still, he found himself charmed by Feyre Archeron and her easy, unguarded emotions. He sympathized with her.

And if she wanted to take him to lunch, well. Lucien was happy to tag along.

#elucien #CALM BEFORE THE STORM #let me know if you see where this is heading

77 notes · View notes