#wip: roses of autumn

[bloodmoonloveletter]

Hello!

I'm L (she/her)! Right now, this intro isn't finished, but I think I should put something up so people have something to go off of. I am an aspiring writer and songwriter (the former for at least 4 years, the latter for only around 1) , although Tumblr is definitely more of a writing place for me. I'm developing my art skills as well. I tend to write YA romance (almost always LGBTQ+) but I'm currently writing something with magical aspects and multiverses, so who tf knows. Tag me in stuff! Tag me in tag games - I love love love tag games.

also I'm now on ao3! check me out: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodmoonloveletter/pseuds/bloodmoonloveletter

WIPs:

Lilac

For the entirety of summer vacation, Virgil Whispercloud and Michael Ashtree have been at war. Both boys have come up with different pranks to pull on each other, many of which have cast a bad light on Virgil's dad's and Michael's mom's sporting goods businesses. Finally, the week before senior year is about to start, their collective parents decide that enough is enough and sentence them to no phones for the whole school year unless they can learn to be friends. For the sake of their phone access, the two boys resolve to become friends, and despite their apparent dislike of each other, it starts out promisingly. Could Virgil and Michael have more chemistry than they thought they did? And what type of chemistry exactly will it be? (Featuring one chapter from each of their friends' perspectives, the friends being Lali Mnemosyne, Ethan Hananoki, Liam Brown and Evan Boulder.)

Pomegranate (it's a series because of how long it is)

Oh, Christ, I'll try to keep this short (famous last words).

Essentially, three Californian teenagers (Arielle 'Aria' Brooks, Theo Amberfall, and Vivienne 'Evie' Halsey) are forcibly enrolled in a prestigious British boarding school, one they are all accepted to due to their extreme intelligence. Even though they don't want to leave their hometown, they end up reconciling with it due to their different yet unsatisfactory (to say the least) family situation. The three of them navigate and grapple with the turmoil of teenage life, love, new friends (Robin Gray, Emile Chastain, Albert Lightfoot, Nico Cyprus, Vil D'Or), the existence of magic, the fact that the universe as they know it is actually a multiverse containing nearly infinite dimensions, the endless anger of one girl hell-bent on vengeance and her many allies, and the war that seems to be hovering over the horizon. Together, they are the Supernatural Investigative Squad.

Roses of Autumn (working title)

Suuuuper rudimentary summary because I haven't done much work on this since 2021, but Autumn Roses is the Oregon-based story of Melanie Chambers, a girl with unresolved trauma from her past years of school and a whole lot of social anxiety, who ends up living with a mysterious, cool surfer chick who's just moved from California, Emma Flores. As the two get to know each other and become close, they discover more about themselves and each other than they ever thought they would.

Beams of Light (working title)

Same setting as Autumn Roses (and same rudimentary story), this is about Kayden Vigilanco, a boy whose entire perspective changes on the day he meets Dexter D'Angelo. The two are opposites in life and behavior, but against the odds, they become fast friends. Their relationship deepens, and suddenly, Kayden starts to question his sexuality. But, there's no way he could have a crush on his best friend... right?

Drops of Ambrosia (working title)

Same setting as the last two (honestly, I just wanted to write a story focusing on each character pairing in the first story). This time, it's a little darker.

Aurelie Chambers knows she does not like Ava Pierce. She is sure of that. She does not, will not, and cannot like that girl, no matter how attractive she may be. It's not because Ava is a girl, oh no; everyone knows that Aurelie is pansexual and proud. No, it's because Ava was actively present for the trauma that impacted Aurelie's sister Melanie so greatly, and so Aurelie has sworn off her. Absolutely. No doubt about it. But when that plan falls through and Aurelie can't resist temptation, she starts to fall down a rabbit hole of guilt and lies. Will Ava display a new side that pardons her to the Chambers sisters, or will Aurelie have to make one of the most difficult choices of her life?

"Maid thing" (either a graphic novel or a book - has no current title)

Since the day he was employed as a maid, Jonah Adair has been after one goal: marrying his employer, Roman Rochester, and living in opulence for the rest of his life. Jonah is very attractive and hardly subtle about his advances, so his task should be easy, right? Wrong. Roman is the most clueless Duke in the world. It's alright for the moment, though - Jonah is paid well, as is his sister (Tilly Adair), who is a maid like him but serves the Duke's sister, Ruth, and as much as he'd like to persuade himself that he has no pre-marriage feelings for Roman, it's always pleasant when the two are together. One day, though, out of the blue, a threat arrives in the form of Countess Anachronia Linden, who unfortunately has the same goal as Jonah. The only difference is she's got the parents on her side. Now, with the pressure on Roman to marry Anachronia, Jonah must rely on his allies (Tilly, Ruth, and the third Rochester sibling, Ricky Rochester) and his own charms to sway Roman into choosing him.

"Storriach mystery" (either a screenwritten series or a book - has no current title)

Henry Storriach is a young man. Smart. Pretty. Raised with love. Grieving. A while ago - not years but not weeks, six months, that's it, Henry always forgets - his wife Helen and child Daniel were killed in a house fire. Since the funeral, Henry has been roaming his house like a ghost, barely eating, barely sleeping, holding the hands of his piano like the past love he no longer can hold, and now, at the six-month mark, he is reunited through a series of events with his two formerly closest friends, Sumire Rydell-Eimin and Julian Underwood. After Julian dredges up something about the death, he and Henry end up investigating Helen and Daniel's deaths as a murder under the noses of their friends-turned-suspects. Can two young men with a troubled history together effectively solve a murder, or will their lives be turned to dust under the weight of the crime they've dug up?

Diadem/Teardrop (working titles - it will probably have to be a series because fuck it if all my characters can't have love lives and tragic backstories)

Almost as old as the Roses of Autumn series. Wowee!

Fuck prophesies. Princess Eclipse 'Ella' Vespertine has been treated badly her whole life and only finds respite in the company of her best friend and up-and-coming Duchess Laurie West. Princess Amara Vespertine has been expected to be a savior of the people and defend them against her own sister, expected to be the perfect heiress and ruler and take exactly after her mother, and so treats her sister like trash despite knowing it's wrong. Eventual Duke Alexander Toussaint-Corbin is a social pariah just because of the magic he was born with. At the start of freshman year in college, one meeting will change their lives for the better.

The three stories:

- Ella meets up-and-coming Duchess Charlotte Toussaint-Corbin, a girl who somehow embodies royal composure and yet an air of devil-may-care attitude. Friendship blooms instantly. Romantic tension blooms even faster, as easily as a princess with essentially no romantic experience (or so you'd think) and a girl who's as hot and has the same temperament as the sun can meet on a train. How will Laurie and Amara react to this new relationship?

- Laurie and Amara, though frenemies at first, are roped into a roommate situation and forced to learn to live with each other. Laurie has her preconceptions about Amara (and vice versa) but despite that, they quickly become friends, and to her own horror, Amara starts to develop a crush on Laurie. After a few too many drunken hookups, Amara gets in a life-threatening accident. I wonder how it will affect her life (wink wink).

- Alex Toussaint-Corbin has never been in a platonic relationship with someone who loved him, let alone a romantic one, but somehow, freshman year of college lands him in a love triangle with his hot, mean roommate, Luca Prince, and his new best friend, Adrien Solace. (Also, there is no Miraculous Ladybug connection. I swear to God I pulled those first names out of my brain caverns.) On top of that, he is quickly gaining new friends via his sister and somehow, a deep friendship with the current heir to the Vespertine throne herself, Amara. With so little experience in any of these matters, will Alex be able to handle all of it or will it all come crashing down on him?

When I have the energy, I will update this intro with the rest of the WIPs and information about yours truly.

But for now, I hope you enjoyed reading and have a good day!

[sae-midori]

Pouring all my love into drawing every RWBY nature scene for every beloved character--all of it inspired by this beautiful, beautiful show and by the amazing individuals of CRWBY. In every humble and heartfelt way, dearest CRWBY, your work has inspired more than you know! 💖

[jennastokesart]

♡🍁 A sneak look at our favourite fiery prick 🍁♡

Thought a certain someone's big brother should have a moment to shine as well 🤭👀

There also may be little shadows floating around with the rumor that he is one of my favourites 🙈🍁

[acourtofladydeath]

WIP Wednesday - TBAV is back with...

Neve Aenson, only daughter of the Winter's Autumn Court Border Emissary, has only ever met the Vanserra's a few times before. That is until she decides enough is enough and takes over her father's role, hoping to readapt treatise in her Court's favor. What she didn't expect was to find a mate, let alone two. Conleth Vanserra never expected Neve, never expected love at all. He doesn't do emotions. Neither does his brother, Fintan. Those who have met them would say the brothers are polar opposites, despite having been forced together as young boys. How will they deal with being forced together once more?

"Tastes of Desire" explores who the second and third born Vanserra brothers are outside their father and brothers shadows, both as integral parts of the Autumn court and as individuals. You can find out more about the three characters in this fic here. The title and tagline are based on the poem "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost.

This fic has been SO MUCH FUN to write, and working to develop these original characters has helped the lore of the "To Become A Vanserra" universe really blossom. As always, this fic builds on the previous installations, and I highly recommend reading them all in order. I cannot wait to share this fic with you all, starting next week as part of @polysjmweek! Below the cut, you can read a snippet from each of the first two chapters.

Chapter 1 Snippet

She turned when he entered, the skirts of her gown the only sound in the room. The fabric was gorgeous, a dark thistle color more vibrant than any other he’d seen in the manor before. But what finally took his breath away, stealing it from his lungs before he could choose to exhale, was the look of challenge written across her pale face. Her vibrant blue eyes were already narrowed, painted lips in a slight frown as she looked him up and down.   Neve, Conleth remembered her slightly upturned nose and the powerful set of her shoulders from the few times they’d met at equinox and solstice gatherings. They’d danced, once or twice, at the gatherings. But he’d never really talked to her before today.  When she spoke, her voice was sharp, yet composed. “Well I certainly expected you to be more foreboding, seeing as you’ve walked all over this court for the past several years.”  Conleth inhaled to respond, but when he drew in the breath, something else joined the oxygen that rushed into his chest. The bond slammed home with the ferocity of a blizzard, wrapping around his heart like the snow had danced around his boots on his walk in. He lifted a hand, feeling the thick suede coat above his clothes, and the tight tether coiling in his chest. Conleth looked down at his hand before glancing up, unable to hide the shock on his face. The look on her face was a challenge, one he’d have to learn to meet quickly, because Neve was his mate.

Chapter 2 Snippet

Conleth entered, his steps intentionally loud against the soft wooden floor that had been inset around the tree. Bookshelves lined the walls of the circular room, alternating with floor to ceiling windows. Regardless of his brother’s obvious entrance, Fintan stayed bent over his desk, intently reading with a quill tucked between his teeth.   “You know, I've always thought it was sacrilegious to keep so many books close to the tree,” Conleth spoke as he meandered slowly to the side of Fintan’s desk, eyes roving over the cluttered bookshelves.  “Because you care oh so much for the tree,” Fintan mumbled around the quill between his teeth. He’d had this particular habit since he was a child, his mind running too fast and hands too busy with other things. Fintan couldn’t simply put the quill down because it was one of the only objects he was regularly capable of losing.  “Try again, dear brother, I’m not sure I heard you over the damn feather in your mouth.” The sarcasm dripping from Conleth’s words was thicker than molasses. 

My deepest thanks to @climbthemountain2020 for being my sounding board and cheerleader through the development of this fic, and helping me with edits and beta work.

[allinone283]

[wipbigbang]

The 2025 WIP Big Bang & WIP Reverse Bang Are Open For Sign-Ups!

Welcome to a new round! We're bringing back the OG WIP Big Bang, which is for finishing fic and getting art to go with it, and introducing the first full round of the WIP Reverse Bang, which is for finishing artwork and getting fic to go with it. All fandoms/ratings/ships are welcome, including original works!

Schedule

All times are by 11:59pm PST. Convert time zones.

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Sign-ups Begin- April 1st

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Sign-ups Close- May 28th

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Check In #1- May 22nd

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Check In #2- June 15th

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Snippets Due- July 1st

Big Bang Art Claims/Reverse Bang Fic Claims Begin- July 17th

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Check In #3- July 22nd

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Check In #4- August 6th

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Rough Drafts Due- August 15th

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Posting Claims Begin- August 23rd

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Posting Claims Ends- September 1st

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Final Drafts/Art & Fic Due- September 7th

Big Bang/Reverse Bang Posting Starts- September 8th

SIGN UP LINKS

WIP Big Bang | WIP Reverse Bang

FAQ

[void-botanist]

♾️ LETS GOOOOOO

— @outpost51

I added a bunch of stuff to my general rock playlist and my first shuffle song was Take It Easy by the Eagles.

I was like, maybe this challenge will help me get going on my Camp NaNo words for Nicea. Instead I wrote more Avis and Sorian, so here you and @vacantgodling go.

━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━

She didn’t want to drink alone, but her options were limited. Sid would be too busy living his life again to even be home, and he probably wouldn’t shut up about Horatio anyway. Leon and Edith were probably fun drunks, but with the same problem of having too much to say about their son, and the added danger of propositioning her. Celia and her two-timer weren’t her speed—and Celia didn’t drink, anyway. She tried to think of literally anyone else on the island she knew well enough to take a shot with, and came up with only one. Maybe she should have just gone to a bar. With a sigh, she packed the bottle of whiskey into her backpack and set out from the dock.

The walk up to the outskirts of the university was mostly paved, but almost always empty, especially at this time of day when the only light was from the streetlamps flanking the sidewalk. This was kind of pathetic. Despite the fact that Sorian was usually a goofy drunk, she didn’t really want to be having a drink with him. He was just the only one around to share her extremely choice liquor. Honestly, who the hell just had a brand new bottle of Salmon Leap in the cabinet? She believed Sid that Horatio hadn’t bought it in advance, but still. It was good shit, and she wasn’t convinced she should have accepted it. Not least because now she was standing on Sorian’s doorstep, banging on the unpainted wood of his door.

Maybe he knew it was her, because he wasn’t wearing sweatpants when he opened the door this time.

“You want a drink?” she asked.

“Ah, I was planning on staying in tonight.”

That was enough of a yes. She pushed past him into his boring little house and put her bag up on the counter at the back before she slipped off her shoes. He just closed the door and drifted over to her. Extracting the flat, rectangular bottle from her bag, she sat it on the counter and tossed her otherwise empty backpack over onto her shoes.

“Wait, is that…?” Sorian asked, taking the bottle in his hands while she looked through his cabinets for glasses. Before she could even answer, he said, “Oh, wow, I’ve been wanting to try this since Leon got Horatio some. He still hasn’t…never mind.” He put the bottle back down and went straight to the next cabinet on her docket to pull out two actual snifter glasses.

“So you’re pretentious about whiskey now?”

“It’s not pretentious. It actually makes it better.” Even with the glasses on the countertop he seemed to be waiting for her to open the bottle. As she went back to it, he added, “But you can have yours in a mug with half a berry slushy if you want.”

Of course he remembered that. She smiled a little despite herself as she tipped the bottle toward the first glass, then paused. “Since your fancy way is so much better, do you wanna pour it?”

“I think you can pour it just fine,” he said, but still took it from her when she offered it to him. He poured it in what looked like a completely normal fashion, then put the cork back in the bottle. Leaning back against the counter, he lifted one glass to his nose. Avis imitated him, not bothering to keep the skepticism off her face. But he was giving the other side of the kitchen a thousand-yard stare.

“Fuck,” he said softly. “Smells like home.”

She’d forgotten that she was actually supposed to be sniffing the stuff. He was right though—the fumes had a clear note of jojum blossom, like the air on Imni during the subtle change from spring to summer. For a second, it felt cozy. Then she was done with this sniff and sip bullshit. She was here to be intoxicated, not to think. While Sorian took a sip, she drank down however much he’d given her. It was enough to get the flavor of it, and enough that everything should stop feeling so serious in a few minutes.

He raised an eyebrow at her as she poured herself the same again.

She waved him away. “Shut up with your eyebrows. I’ll drink this one slower.”

He grinned and took another sip.

Taking stock of his living room, she found that nothing had changed since the last time she was there, which meant his bar stools were absent and there was nowhere to sit that didn’t look gross or busted. “Don’t you have anywhere nice to sit?”

“My truck, I guess.”

She gestured for him to lead her there. He put down his glass to slip on his shoes by the back door, and she did the same. Then he brought her out to the dimly lit silhouette of his shortbed university pickup truck. When he reached for the driver’s side door, he almost immediately turned back toward his house.

“Forgot my keys,” he said.

As he passed her, she unlatched the tailgate, then eased it down and hopped up onto it, letting her legs dangle off the end. “This is fine.”

He looked unconvinced but came to join her, still keeping that careful distance between them. “How is the tailgate of my work truck less dirty than my indoor sofa?”

“Trust me, your sofa wishes it was only as dirty as actual dirt.”

Sorian laughed his soft laugh and she felt like the warm ease of the whiskey was spreading through her faster. Sipping from her glass, she leaned back and drank in the mostly-familiar sky with its white-tinted moon. Even without the smell of jojum blossoms in this sticky Summer Band night, even sitting next to the man she used to call her husband, she had the inexplicable sense that she was already home.

[possuminabathtub]

WIP Wednesday

(from this lovely post)

I’ve been atrociously busy with the end of the semester nearing, but I did choose to start a new fic (a cursed decision on my part, but one I have decided to stick with for the creation dopamine) And this is a snippet of a scene from it that I highly doubt will actually make it into the final fic, but was delightful to write.

Slipping through the doors of the meeting hall, no longer hidden amongst his shroud of shadows, Azriel was acutely aware of the unknown female’s gaze casually drifting across him. She sat to Eris’s left, with perfect posture and a neutral expression on her face, hands folded neatly in her lap. His shadows whispered about Eris, whispered about Cassian and Rhys and Feyre, but not once did they whisper about the female. Not a name, not a title, not an inkling of information, and he bristled as he took his seat to Feyre’s right. 

  “Care to formally introduce your companion?” Rhysand asked with an arched brow, but by the tone of his voice, it sounded as if he already knew exactly who she was. 

  “I assumed your spies had already gotten all the information they needed on our Court’s operations, so I deemed formal introduction unnecessary for our purposes here.” Eris returned easily, tone dangerously even but his eyes glinting with fire as he turned his head to address his companion, “Do you care to introduce yourself?” 

  “I am the Deer of Autumn, Lady of the Forest, but you may refer to me as Thera.” Her voice was smooth as a river, words flowing easily, with an Autumn accent similar to Eris’s own. 

  And he understood. This was the Deer that had caused such an uproar in the Autumn court, the female that had come from nowhere and slipped seamlessly into the court of games and trickery, orchestrating games of her own with a steady invisible hand. Games and plots even his shadows had only caught the barest glimpses of.

They chattered endlessly now, repeating whatever fragments of information they could connect to her now, information he already knew, which did not benefit him in any capacity without context. 

  The Deer plays a game of survival one whispered, and he pulled that sentence from the cacophony of noise, silencing the other shadows and studying Thera in a new light. 

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ FOR THE LOVE OF FLOWERS

violet; 4,403 words; fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, bartender!vi, florist!reader, (probably) incorrect depiction of florist/bartender life, sun and moon dynamic, so much pining, dad!vander, bff!mel, mylo and claggor being... mylo and claggor, mindless, tooth-rotting fluff, lapslock, no "y/n"

summary: in which you work at the flowershop directly across the street from the last drop.

a/n: happy belated valentines day!!! i know i have like a bunch of other wips but i wanted to write something cutesy and it's still valentines weekend for me so... i hope you guys enjoy! :)

─── Ⅵ THE FIRST TIME SHE SEES YOU, it’s valentine’s day — after a long night of serving drinks and arguing with progressively drunker and drunker men (doubtlessly hoping to land a lay at the bar the night before valentine’s) and a botched hookup attempt (vi texted; hookup did not respond. the crowd boos), the sight of you across the streets had felt something like a dream.

she’d always known about the flower shop directly opposite the small, two lane street from the last drop —

for the love of flowers.

it’s a cute name, written in looping, ornate script, and she’s never paid it much attention till now, what with her schedule being so opposite yours, but that morning (february 14th, she’ll never forget) she sees you, pushing open the gorgeous french windows and setting up the sign, in a teddybear coat that looked like a wayward cloud had wandered down to earth and made itself into a jacket, just for you.

you were humming — she doesn’t know how she knew this, but she did. she could just tell, from the way you moved through the motions of your morning routine like a dance, trailing delicate fingers along the wooden frame of your door before disappearing into the shop and reappearing a moment later with a vast bouquet of ruby-red roses.

the smile on your face had been nothing short of incandescent.

it’s been a full year since then (so they say, time slips by quick when you’ve got a crush — or, whatever) and somehow, she still doesn’t know your name.

she knows other things though — she knows the shape and weight of all your smiles, the way your eyes glitter when you’re helping a customer pick out their flowers. she knows there’s a very fluffy white cat that sometimes likes to sunbathe on the shop’s windowsill, and that when it does come to visit, you always have a warm bowl of milk ready. she knows the cadence of your mornings, the rhyme and rhythm of your opening and closing routines. she knows the colors of all your favorite dresses, and how you like to match them to your seemingly endless collection of cute little flats.

she knows your laughter sounds like bell-chimes, the few times she’s heard it ringing out across the street. she knows the fragments of your voice she’s sometimes overhead, carried on the autumn wind, sometimes reminds her of birdsong.

and, she knows that she doesn’t stand a chance.

“you do,” vander chimes, wiping down the bartop one morning, even as vi helps him stack the stools, the window facing the street thrown open. vi groans, unable to help the way her eyes flicker towards it, towards the shape of your flower-shop across the street, where she knows that in about 10 minutes exactly, you’ll throw open your own white-paneled windows and start prepping for your day.

“how could you possibly know that?” vi asks, crinkling her nose at the whine that sneaks into her voice.

vander makes a sound not unlike an amused bear before slinging the large washcloth onto his shoulder and shooting her a fox-sly grin, his eyes beetle-dark and twinkling.

“just trust your old man on this, yeah? it’s valentine’s day tomorrow, so trot on over after we close… and buy ‘er some flowers. see how that goes, hm?”

vi chews on her lip — it sounds simple enough when vander says it like that but…

heat plumes up the back of her neck at the thought of you, in one of your myriad dresses, perhaps with leggings on underneath to protect against the mid-february chill, the flower patterned apron tied around your waist, a pair of red scissors tucked into the front pocket.

she’s shaking her head before she can stop herself.

“no — i — i can’t, she doesn’t even know i exist — how creepy would it be to just show up and —”

vander cuts her off with a massive hand on her shoulder, giving her a tiny shake that nonetheless makes vi’s head wobble.

“she does know you exist,” vander says, and from up this close, vi can almost see her own reflection in the dark of his eyes. “just… give it a go. and if it doesn’t work… i’ll cover all your drinks here for a week.”

vi puffs out an incredulous laugh.

“vander, i work here — i already drink for free.”

vander chuckles, “fine then, you’ll get the next two weekends off, how’s that?”

vi’s face brightens, “really? and… if it does go well?” she taps her fingers nervously against the worn wooden bar.

vander’s grin widens by degrees, “then… you’ll get the two weekends off anyway — for your first and second dates, sound good?”

vi blinks, staring up at vander for a solid few seconds before laughing and holding out her hand.

“yeah, sure — thanks old man.”

vander huffs, taking her hand in his and giving it a soft pat, and for a moment, vi feels the inexplicable urge to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his chest like she used to when she was still small enough for him to lift onto his shoulders. instead, she only swallows and gives his hand a tight squeeze.

his whole face softens as he lifts a hand to cluck at her chin, chuckling as she scowls and makes a half-hearted attempt to duck away.

“that’s my girl.”

vi turns away with burning cheeks and a giddy smile spreading across her face. she makes her way to the back where the door opens out onto the alley where the delivery truck for the next night’s liquors is already idling. she waves at the benzo, and reaches into the back for a crate of fresh beer bottles, counting down the seconds till tomorrow morning.

she doesn’t see, across the street, the flicker of lights click on in your shop or hear the slight creak of hinges as you push open the windows, shivering slightly in the pre-dawn wind. she doesn’t see the way you crane your neck out to try and catch a glimpse of her, of the tiny pout that pushes at your lips when you don’t see her familiar silhouette in the bar’s old, wooden window.

she doesn’t see the way your shoulders slump, or the way you glance down at your fingers, clutching at the window sill as you try to tell yourself that maybe, maybe this time, you’ll go over and talk to her. she doesn’t see you mouthing the words to yourself, as if going over lines for a stage-play — hi! i hope this isn’t too weird but… i’ve seen you across the street almost every day and… i just thought… well… would i be able to buy you a drink?

you shake your head, groaning inwardly to yourself as you slip back into your shop and grab the large sign that usually goes out front, boasting of the currently in-season flowers and any discounts you might be having.

“god, who even offers to buy a bartender a drink? she’ll probably think i’m an idiot or something —”

“i’m sure it’s not the first time she’s heard that line before, darling,” mel says, barely glancing up from behind the register, taking stock of the previous day’s sales.

“yeah, and i’m willing to be that it’s sucked for her every single time.”

“you won’t know till you’ve tried it,” mel sing-songs, even as she sighs and rounds the register to help you pick out the most eye-catching flowers for the outdoor display.

you scowl down at a fresh batch of roses, just in time for valentine’s day. you reach for your scissors and start the methodical work of ridding them of all their thorns.

by the time you carry the floral display outside and duck back in for the sign, it’s to catch a glimpse of vi, laughing as she jokes around with a pair of boys (who you’ve surmised by now also work at the bar), her ducking beneath an attempted jab and jumping up to loop her arm around one of them in a headlock. the sound of their yelps and laughter rings bright and clear against the mid-morning sky, a second before the wind kicks up and sends the hem of your dress fluttering.

you squeak, pushing it down, your eyes slingshotting back across the street, but vi’s already gone, disappeared into the back alley, the memory of her voice still echoing in your chest like the opening bars of a love song you’ve always known, but can never remember the lyrics of.

you catch sight of vander as he reaches out to close the window of the last drop, and for a second, your eyes meet. he cocks his head, a knowing grin slung across his lips even as you blush and raise your hand in greeting. he pauses to dip his head at you, before turning to say something to someone you can’t quite see, and then he’s turning back, lifting a hand to his lips as if to say — your secret’s safe with me.

something thuds in your chest as he shoots you a furtive wink and pulls the window shut.

“darling? come help me with these snapdragons — i can never get them to sit as nicely as you do.”

you turn and hurry back into the shop, your mind spinning even as you busy yourself with the task of arranging the shop for opening.

the day passes by in a whirlwind of cut-stems and wrapping paper, of satin ribbon and hard twine. and by the time you’re closing up shop, the familiar, heart-warming glow of light is already pouring from the window of the last drop, and a few seconds later, you see the heart-rending shape of vi as she pushes through the front door, holding it open with a hip to let vander through, chattering about this or that.

you whip around before she can catch you staring and busy yourself with checking over the leftover flowers from the outside display, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. you’re sure you can feel the weight of her eyes on you, and you tell yourself that it’s nothing — just something friendly, or neighborly, or — something bumps against your ankle and you glance down to find poro the cat twining herself between your legs.

“hey there,” you greet, bending down to pick her up. poro lets out a pleased mewl, purring loudly as you run your fingers through her silken fur, “we missed you today — but you never liked the big crowds, huh?” you smile, making your way to the window and setting her down on the wide ledge. she spins herself around twice before settling, her fluffy tail wrapping around her paws as she watches you with large, sky-blue eyes.

across the street, vi watches, her heart in her throat, and nearly walks into the edge of the door with an armful of empty crates, catching herself three seconds before faceplanting into the pavement. behind her, mylo lets out a bark of laughter even as claggor groans, shaking his head and sidestepping them both back into the bar.

“y’know, this whole lesbian pining thing’s gone on for a bit too long,” mylo says, spinning a beer bottle opener around his index finger as he and vi make their way in behind claggor.

“shut the fuck up,” vi snipes, shouldering passed mylo towards the stairs leading to the basement, her stomach twisting at the thought of perhaps asking you out in less than 24 hours. she sighs, dropping the crates into a corner and turning to leave again, only to find mylo leaning against the narrow stairwell, staring at her with the a sanctimonious smirk.

her eyes narrow, “you’re one to talk,” she grumbles, making her way back to stare him straight in the eyes; she sees him falter, the flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he squares up again, puffing out his chest, “how long’ve you been thirsting after the lead singer of that indie band again? two years now? three?”

“th-that’s different!” mylo insists, stumbling after her as vi shoves passed him back up the stairs.

vi cocks an eyebrow, reaching up to grab a barstool, setting it on the floor with a loud clack.

“yeah? how so?”

mylo licks his lips, “it’s — she — she’s like a celebrity, y’know? so it’s — it’s normal that i haven’t —”

“what celebrity? her band plays here like every other week — you’ve had more facetime with gert over the past few years than i’ve had with —” vi gestures towards the door, “flowergirl, in like… ever!”

on the opposite end of the bar, claggor is helping vander wipe down tables, glancing up from his work with a deep sigh.

“so is she gonna do it, or what?”

vander grunts, “think she actually might, tomorrow morning.”

“yeah? how’d you convince her?”

vander shrugs, “offered her two weekends off.”

claggor snorts, “figures. well — if it finally gets the two of them together then…” he mimics wiping sweat off his brow and shaking off his fingers. vander laughs, nodding.

“one can only hope.” he casts another glance towards where vi and mylo are now locked in a full-out brawl, vi having pinned mylo’s face to the recently wiped bar top with his arm twisted behind his back.

across the street, you’re sighing into a handful of Iron Plant leaves, stripping out the ones with yellowing tips and keeping the most vibrant ones for the next day.

“you’ll age yourself if you keep sighing like that,” mel says, reaching over your shoulder to pluck a particularly green leaf from the bunch and swatting at your head as if it were a feather-duster.

you frown, wiping your hands on your apron before moving to the next batch of leaves.

“it’s just… been so long and i — i don’t even think she’s looked at me.”

mel groans, “oh trust me — she has.”

“you keep saying that, but i’ve never —”

“just because you’ve never seen it, darling, doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.” she reaches out to tug the sheers from your hand with dexterous fingers. she snaps them once, the sharp snip making you wince.

“yes, yes — i know…” you lick your lips, glancing at the window. outside, the setting sun has burnished the entire street in gold. a second later, the door of the last drop swings open again and vi appears, her eyes casting towards your shop and for a fraction of a second — no longer than a hummingbird’s wingbeat — your eyes meet.

the contact is electric, scintillating and strange — it shocks through you, staticking through all your nerve endings till your fingers and toes are tingling with it — the buzzing energy, the potential of something.

anything —

more.

and then, mylo bumps into vi as he clambers by, and the moment is broken, the tenuous connection between you shattering like sugar-string. vi shoves mylo back hard, and by the time she looks back, you’ve melted back into the flower-decked interior of the shop.

it is a long night, though in general, the one before valentines day always is. too many bruised egos, sloshing over the sides of beer steins. too many puffed-up, washed-up, has-beens, wandering the darkened corners of the town in search of a warm body inside which they might partake in the delicate art of forgetting. and in vi’s experience, wounded prides have never mixed well with alcohol — no matter what the occasion.

so by the morning, she’s exhausted, the sunrise greeting her in all its fool’s gold glory.

vander gives her a pat on the back and slides an irish coffee down the bar towards her. she stares at the white frothy top before cracking him a grin and chugging down half in a single gulp, wincing slightly a the sharp bite of whiskey.

vander laughs, shrugging as vi stares at the remainder of the glass.

“thought you could use a little liquid courage.”

vi sniffs, sucks in a breath, and downs the rest of the drink, raising the empty glass to vander before sliding it back down the bar. vander reaches out to catch it in a single smooth motion, waving her off.

“right, now go on and get your girl.”

vi coughs, “she’s not my —”

claggor tuts, “just go already — we’ll finish up here —”

vi opens her mouth as if to respond, but at another hard look from vander, she deflates, grumbling to herself as she drags the back of her hand across her lips to make sure there’s no residual whipped cream, before pushing out the door, bracing herself against the mid-february wind.

the street is nearly empty this early in the morning, and the dawning sunlight has yet to settle into it’s usual richness, still a bit wane, papering the street in the palest shade of gold. on the opposite horizon, the night is is bleeding out the last dregs of its own inky darkness, a crescent moon hung like a ghostly petal, floating across the surface of a late winter sky.

vi shoves both her hands into her jacket pockets and hunches her shoulders against a kick of wind, half-jogging across the thin, two-lane street just as you push your windows open.

“oh! hi! uhm —” your voice is just as beautiful as she’s always known it would be.

vi squeezes her fists inside her pockets, scuffing her feet against the pavement as she watches the way your cheeks flush rose-petal-pink, and then you’re ducking back into the store, only to appear a second later, stepping through the front door in a velvet dress red as holly-berries (or perhaps just the shade of bleeding hearts), your usual apron tied around your waist, a thin scarf looped around your neck to protect against the chill.

“hey! sorry to just — randomly run across the street like this —” she waves a hand awkwardly at the last drop, closing up behind her.

you shake your head, pressing your palms to the front of your apron, “no! it’s okay — actually i —”

“i wanted to ask — oh, sorry no —” she speaks over you in her haste, backtracking immediately, even as you flap your hands, seemingly just as flustered as she is.

“no, no! it’s fine — what did you want to ask?” you open your hands, expectant.

and you’re looking at her, gods, you’re looking at her. and vi can’t think for the rabbit’s foot thump of her heart, beating inside her chest, making her vision swim as a rush of blood floods her ears, washing out all sound except for the silver-bell chime of your voice. she digs her nails into her palms, clearing her throat.

“uh… it’s just… i was — i was wondering — shit — well, okay — say… i wanted to get someone flowers —”

you blink, your eyes flickering between both of hers at her words. and then, you turn, if only to keep her from seeing the way your expression falls, ever so slightly.

“oh… yeah? okay, sure — i can help you with that — do you know what kind of flowers you’d like?” you lead her into the main body of your shop, holding the door open for her.

vi steps through, scratching at the back of her neck, glancing around, trying not to seem so overwhelmed by the utter explosion of fragrance and color.

“th-that’s the thing though — i — i mean, i don’t know anything about flowers so — i thought — i wanted to ask for your help —” she glances back at you; you clear your throat and look away, reaching out to brush a finger along the petal of a single red rose, lying in the middle of a perfectly cut square of wax paper.

“uh… yeah, i — i can do that — uhm — i’m assuming this is a… romantic kind of floral-endeavor?” you ask, bracingly, making a small attempt at your usual humor.

vi purses her lips, the freckles dusted across her nose made all the more prominent by the way she blushes.

“yeah — sort of.”

you take a deep breath, then start to make your way around the shop.

“okay, well — do you know their favorite color or… anything?”

vi follows a few steps behind, glancing around for any indication before she sighs.

“uhm… i know she likes colors in general — bright ones —”

you pause over a display of button mums the color of honey.

“oh! cool okay —” you make to move away again but vi jerks forward, reaching out in an abortive movement, her hand caught in midair as you turn. you stare, unable to entirely keep the skip from your heartbeat.

“i just — holy fuck —” she runs a hand over her face, looking strangely abashed as she drops her hand, squeezing her fingers into fists before letting them loose again. you wonder, for a moment, why she might be so nervous before she licks her lips and continues, “— so — say you were going to get flowers from someone… on valentine’s day —”

you go almost preternaturally still.

“uh… huh…”

vi chews on her bottom lip so hard you’re worried, for a second, that she might draw blood. still, she looks anywhere but at you.

“w-what kind of flowers w-would you uh — would you want them to get you?”

you stare at her for a beat, and then another. a tentative hope blossoms in your chest, a single creeping vine at first, threading through your veins. you lick your lips, clasping your hands behind your back, worrying at your own fingers.

“d-depends… would this person be uhm… asking me out? or…” you trail off.

vi nods, almost too eager, taking half a step forward.

“y-yeah! maybe — if you’re… open to being asked out —”

“i — i am!” you blurt out. heat plumes into your skin like the first wisteria bloom of spring, one at first, and then another, then another — tiny flowers popping open, fragrant and shockingly violet until your chest is full of them.

“great! so… uh… the flowers —?” vi lets out a soft chuckle.

your lashes flutter, and then, you spring into movement. anything to dance off the mid-summer fire collecting beneath your skin.

“oh! sorry — right — i guess i’d like… gardenias, for secret love,” you say, rounding the shop towards the large white blooms, your heartbeat a riotous mess, clattering against your ribs as you pluck out a few of the choicest flowers. behind you, vi watches, her heart caught in the back of her throat, her breath lost somewhere in the air between you.

“maybe… a few pink camelias, for longing —” you move through to the other side of the shop, collecting the flowers one by one, your fingers trembling as you tug each of them from their stands, “hydrangeas for understanding… or at least —” you suck in a breath, “i hope…”

“y-yeah — i — i hope so too — i mean — that’s good, that’s perfect —”

you swallow, turning around to show her the budding bouquet, but when you hold out the flowers, she barely spares them a glance, her eyes fixed on you.

“y-you’re — they’re uh… beautiful.”

“u-uhm — and then… a few fillers…” you say, oddly breathless, if only to fill in the electric quiet, the air thrumming with it, as lightning might brew beyond a monsoon sky.

you finish the bouquet with a piece of twine, smiling down at your own handiwork. the flush in your cheeks only grows as you turn to offer them to her, and she smiles, pursing her lips.

“is… is there a card or something i could —” she motions towards the flowers.

you nod passed the giddiness collecting in your throat.

“s-sure! and… who —” you gulp again, tugging a small red-heart shaped card from the cash register, “who might this be for?”

vi lets out a helpless laugh, “i… i was hoping that’d be kind of obvious…”

you hesitate for a second longer before scribbling your name at the top of the card. vi leans over to read it; the way she says your name makes your chest stitch, your lungs constrict.

“and…” you finally allow yourself to look up at her, your pen hovering over the from line on the card. her gaze, when you meet it, is the most gorgeous morning-glory blue.

“vi — violet,” she says.

you smile, “pretty name.” before bending down to write it on the card as well.

“thanks. yours… isn’t so bad either,” she says, reaching for her wallet.

you wave her away.

“on the house.”

vi cocks an eyebrow, “i don’t think that’s how buy someone valentine’s day flowers works.”

you crinkle your nose, “it is if the person you’re buying them for runs a flower shop.”

at this, vi laughs, the sound sweet and clear as a winter’s thaw. you find yourself giggling too, looking down at the bouquet with soft eyes.

“how about… you buy this for me… and you let me… buy you a drink tonight?” you ask, setting the flowers aside and pressing your palms to the register top. vi blinks.

“yeah?” vi’s smile lopes to the side, a sharp, dangerous twinkle caught behind her eyes, “and… what would you be getting me?”

you trail a light finger along the length of the register with a small shrug.

“actually… i was going to ask — say someone were to buy you a drink for valentine’s day…”

vi puffs out a breath, her gaze darkening by degrees.

“uh huh.”

“what kind of drink would you want them to get you?”

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[scorpioriesling]

Hii, hope you are having a good week! I saw your prompt list and that your requests are open👉👈🥹 I was wondering if I could request number 4.Make up sex with Tamlin x reader where they are mates??? I love himmm

Discussions in … Strategy

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Pairing(s): Tamlin x reader

Warning(s): 18+, mdni, nsfw, p in v, oral, semi-public sex, slight angst

Summary: While in the Winter Court for a meeting with your mate, a simple discussion of strategy gets out of hand. After a heated argument, and words said out of anger -- your husband knows just how to make it up to you.

SR’s Note: This one has been in my inbox / WIPs for SO LONG, and I'm so excited to finally finish it and share it with all of you lovely people. (: This uses prompt #4 from my prompt masterlist -- please feel free to send me an ask/idea/request at any time! There are a few unused prompts from the list that I would still love to incorporate.

Tags: @mellowmusings @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @kitsunetori @velarisdusk (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

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The wind was cold as it whipped against your face -- you hadn't enjoyed the Winter Court much for that. It was rarely warm in this court, no sun, no humidity... it almost made you miss the Summer Court.

Perhaps I'll just go back there, you thought.

Shaking your head, you let the angry feelings recede a bit. As you closed the open window and made to look in the mirror instead, you let out a long sigh.

Is the Spring Court High Lady supposed to look so... blue?

You reached for the jewelry you'd laid out for today's meeting; a pair of pearl earrings your mother had once given you, and a golden necklace with a heart-shaped pearl hanging from it.

That one was from your mate.

Your mate. Your husband. Your Tamlin. Your brows furrowed as the sinking feeling in your heart returned, one that made its debut the night prior. The night prior, when, being so stubborn as usual, you and your mate got into a tiff. More of an argument, really. It was the worst one you'd ever had.

You glance at yourself in the mirror again, frustration reddening your face as you try to clasp the jewelry around your neck. Usually, your husband would be there to help you out with that -- but, he had left early this morning, after a long night with not so much as a cuddle from you.

Maybe he was rethinking his original proclaimation to make you his High Lady...

Last night's argument was rough, sure. But the Tamlin you knew, one so changed after his falling out with Feyre, wouldn't think twice about you being his equal. You knew that -- but the feeling still lingered.

He was so upset last night, so worked up by the things you were saying. You'd never so much as heard him raise his voice before, let alone gripe at you so loudly during the disagreement. But, last night was different.

"You're not hearing what I'm saying, Y/N," he started.

"I don't need to! I already told you, the best course of action was to ally with Kallias, and-"

"Is that much not already clear? By the Cauldron, Y/N, we've travelled all this way to meet with him in his palace-"

"Exactly!" Your voice rose one octave, the knitting of your brows only making him frown.

"So why aren't we focusing more on our alliances with-"

"I swear to the Cauldron, Tamlin, you don't listen to a word I say." You huffed, tossing your worn gown into the closet and slamming the door. You pulled your sleeping top over your head, continuing on.

"We already have the Autumn Court on our side. The only other party here right now, for this meeting tomorrow, is the Night Court-"

"Right, the Night Court that we still need to forge an alliance with."

You glared at him hard.

"You really think Rhysand is going to hear a word either of us have to say? After all this time, how blinded are you-"

"For the record, I've been doing this a lot longer than you have, High Lady. I think I know what I'm doing." He glared back at you.

That's when your heart sunk, and a few beats of silence passed between you.

"That was low, even for you."

His face softened at your words, his eyes downcast as you slid into the cozy, winter-white sheets.

He let out a small, saddened sigh as he changed, and slid in behind you.

"Y/N, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Don't." Even with your back turned, you could still hear every word he said, and sense he had reached out to embrace you.

You didn't care. Your feelings had been hurt -- and your heart felt as cold as the snow gathering on the windowsill.

Standing before the closet once more, you ruffled through the gowns you'd packed, not quite sure which one was best fit for the meeting. Originally, you thought the pale blue would be best, as you were in the Winter Court after all -- but, you were the High Lady of the Spring Court. You didn't want your potential allies for this upcoming battle to feel as though you were trying to be somebody that you weren't.

You bent at the waist, picking up the discarded gossimer from last night and hanging it straight on a hanger. That one was a rather expensive one, one your mate had bought you for your anniversary; you'd have to consult with Alis about the wrinkles.

Thumbing through the dresses once more, your eye caught on the moss green gown, one you hadn't worn often, but one that surely got other's attention. The last time you'd worn it, you took your honeymoon with Tamlin in the Dawn Court... oh, what a lovely trip that had been.

You tried to ignore the growing pulse between your legs at the memory.

Snatching it from the closet, you put it on, fixing your hair once before giving yourself a confident smile in the mirror.

You'd make things right today, you thought. Just after you got through this meeting.

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"My Gods Y/N -- you're ravishing as ever!"

Vivianne greets you with a warm embrace, and you chuckle as some of the fur on her long, white coat tickled your nose.

"It's good to see you again, Viv."

You pulled away, smiling politely before she pulled you close conspiratorally.

"Hey -- we really need girl's weekend again, don't you think?"

You smiled, the memory of the last weekend spent in the Summer Court a happy one.

"Oh, I most certainly agree. Tamlin's been..." you trail off, trying to find the right word to describe, but not insult your husband.

"...Tamlin?" She finishes, and the two of you chuckle. Your stomach drops a little as you see the familiar head of blonde hair waltzing over to the two of you, one that didn't particularly like you or your husband.

"Morrigan!" Vivianne cheered, embracing her long-time friend as she'd just done to you. "I missed you so much!"

Morrigan flashed her a beaming smile, her attention solely focused on her friend. Your cheeks heated in that moment. Of course they were closer than you and Vivianne were -- they'd both been doing this for a lot longer.

Maybe, you should've trusted your husband's judgement, instead of snapping at him like you did.

"Mor, I'm sure you've met-"

"Yes, I have. The, High Lady, of... the Spring Court." Her words are punctuated, but she extends a hand to you nonetheless. You take it, plastering the most confident smile on your face as possible. "Your name was...?"

"Y/N," you fill the silence, Vivianne's eyes switching between the two of you. "It's Y/N." She only nods, dropping your hand as she subtly glances at your necklace.

"Yes, Y/N and I were actually just talking about another ladie's weekend!" Vivianne chirps excitedly. "Do you think you'll be able to come this time?" Morrigan's gaze returns to her friend.

"It depends -- Rhys always has something for me to do, we have more of an army than we know what to do with, and..." she glances sidelong at you. "I suppose it depends on how this meeting goes today, doesn't it?"

Vivianne bites her lip, trying to feign nonchalance as she offers a simple shrug. "I... I suppose, so."

Morrigan takes in a breath, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "It'd be so much easier if the men here could get off their high horses; if we started working together years ago, we would already be prepared for something like this." She lets out a short laugh, and you can't help but crack a smile.

You definitely should have heard Tamlin out. An alliance with the Night Court? That was absolutely the move.

Vivianne and Morrigan shatter on as you reflect on how wrong you were, shouting at your mate like that last night, what were you thinking? You were already friends with Vivianne, which meant Kallias was willing to work with your court-

"Hello, everyone! So glad you could all make it." Kallias' voice rang out through the room, his voice bouncing off the ice-walls. "Please -- join me at the table, everyone, as we discuss this upcoming war."

Morrigan tutted, and Viv muttered a "men, right?", which caused you to chuckle as you made your way to your seat. Your heart caught in your chest as you observed Tamlin in the chair beside yours, his chosen outfit for the day was green, fitting, and... attractive.

You began to pull out your chair, only stopping when his large palm covered yours atop the wood.

"Allow me."

The quiet offer was all you needed, as you moved to sit, allowing your husband to push you closer to the table. He sat quietly next to you, and it took everything in you to not lean over and kiss his cheek.

"Alright -- at our last meeting, I believe we were discussing the matter of battle origin," Kallias begins. He droned on, and on, and on, discussing various maps of each court as he earned input from the other two High Lords in attendance. Beron, though he was your ally, didn't know how to say anything respectful; you opted to sneak a glance at your husband instead of listening to his opinion.

Boy, what a mistake that was.

You felt silly, foolish for the thoughts running through your head. Your mate's jawline was clean shaven, his silky golden hair flowing to his shoulders. The way his cream-colored pants fit him... Gods, you only could imagine the way his strong thigh muscle would feel against your aching clit, his strong hands guiding your waist back and forth as you made a mess on his-

"And, what do you have to say about this?"

You were so wrapped up in your dizzying thoughts that the question came as a shock to you. While you were trying to come up with an answer, something to say to that -- Tamlin spoke up.

"I believe we will have to agree with Kallias on this one."

His answer washed over you like a bucket of ice water. Kallias? The Winter Court? Examining the maps laid upon the table, one thing was clear -- the decision of where to camp for battle was very divided.

All it took was one look to the High Lady of the Night Court's face to realize the grave mistake your husband just made -- they'd never align properly with you, given that you'd taken the side of the court in the minority over their plan that made much more sense.

Even Beron frowned.

"I... I think, what Tamlin meant," you spoke up. "Was that while the Winter Court would be ideal..." you could feel the nerves creeping in. Everyone's eye was on you. Public speaking wasn't a comfortable skill you'd taken on, usually opting for your husband to do most of the talking -- after all, he was much better at it than he had been.

"I think that, while your Court is ideal," you repeated, looking to Kallias and then to Rhysand. "The weather for said activity, is not. From my understanding, the Night Court is much better suited-"

"We think the Night Court is a good idea, but it may be better to lie in wait here where invading armies are less likely to look." Tamlin interrupts, trying to steer the conversation in favor of the Winter Court. You huff, only trying to show your change of heart from the night before.

Kallias' satisfied expression changes when Rhysand opens his mouth.

"Let the lady speak, Tamlin... she is your High Lady, after all." He offers you a polite smile, and you clear your throat once more.

"I think... we have to agree with the Night Court, on this one." Tamlin shakes his head beside you, his knuckles white as he clasps his hands together atop the table.

"No no, we are aligning our judgement with the Winter Court." He half-smiles at Kallias. Beron raises an eyebrow.

You look at him, brows knit. "I think my husband is... confused, as we already talked about our allegiance with the Night Court," you punctuate, hoping to get the memo across that yes, he was right, and yes, aligning with the Night Court would be best.

He stares blankly. "I'm not confused. About any of it." The two of you stare eachother down, only interrupted when Beron claps his hands loudly.

"Well, as it seems the two of you don't have your court's beliefs in order quite yet," he looks to Kallias. "How about an intermission?"

The High Lord of Winter nods. "An intermission -- meet back here after dinner?" Many attendees nod, moving to stand from their chairs. You catch a small wink from Morrigan, clearly pleased with your interest in her native court. But before you can make to stand, your husband's hand braces your thigh.

"You're not going, anywhere." He growls. You sit still, watching as every other member filters out, and Kallias closes the door behind him. Turning to Tamlin, you take a steadying breath as his eyes meet yours.

"Tamlin, I-"

He rushes toward you, his free hand bracing the back of your neck as his lips crash into yours. His other hand squeezes your leg, feeling up and down as he rumples your dress. Lips moving against one another, you let out a soft groan at the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips, tasting you and fighting for control against yours.

You pull back breathless, your eyes meeting his once more. The dark green irises are filled with pure hunger.

"What are you playing at, Y/N?" He growls, and you have squeeze your legs together.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, already longing to be on his again. "I... I realized, you were right, last night, and um-"

"And, you thought leaving your mind open to me, during this crucial meeting was a good idea?" His brows lower, while yours furrow in confusion.

"What? I..." Oh.

"You think I can't hear what you're thinking? See what you're fantasizing about, while I'm trying to focus on the plan you suggested-"

"Woah woah woah," you held your hands up, chuckling humorlessly. "How did you miss that I was trying to follow your plan?" He glowered at you. "Tamlin, I know what was said last night was in anger, but you were right-"

"Do not apologize to me." He says lowly. "I had no right to speak to you that way. Speak to my mate that way." Your heart aches at his wors, his mouth mere inches from yours as he maintains eye contact. "And I don't want you ever, thinking I'd want you in any court than mine. With me. Leading, with me."

Your bottom lip quivers. He must have heard your negativity this morning, too.

Before the tears well up too much in your eyes, you pull him in, kissing him again. Your fingers grip his emerald jacket collar, holding on as his mouth devoured yours at once. His hands, Gods his hands... he hoised you out of your chair, placing you on his lap to straddle him instead. You moaned into the kiss, his cock throbbing beneath the restraints of his pants and sending waves of desire straight to your core.

His hands roved all over you, sliding down your back and across your covered thighs before settling on your hips, moving you back and forth across his hardening length. You only break the kiss to gasp when he leans you back, splaying you flat on the table while he pushes up your dress.

"T-Tamlin, we're..." you suck in a breath, his eyes meeting yours as he slides his tongue flat against your clothed pussy. "We could... someone could..."

He reaches out a hand, the small click of the door locking behind him all the assurance you need. His gaze returns to the masterpiece before him, his mouth practically watering as he slides your panties down your legs, tossing them to the side.

"Oh... OH Gods," you groan, his tongue returning to your quivering hole at once. You write beneath him, every lick and soft bite around your pussy pure torture. He lays one hand on your lower stomach, pressing down as he inserts two of his fingers inside, curling them deep inside of you.

"T-Tamlin, oh Gods...yes, yes," you chant, feeling the tightening in your lower stomach as his mouth continues eating you out deliciously. At once, the lewd sounds stop -- and you lift your head off the table for only an instant before his hand wraps around your throat, pushing you down to lay flat again.

"You want to tease me during an important meeting, hm?" He smirks, shoving down the waistpant of those well-fitting pants at once. His shoulder muscles flex, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he gazes into your eyes while jerking himself off. "This dress? Your attitude?" He tuts, and you clench around nothing as he presses the head against your awaiting hole.

"You're getting what you wanted, my love -- I'll always, give you exactly what you want."

A gasp breaks free as he pushes into you, his girthy length stretching you in the best way. His hand grips your ass, pulling you to the edge of the table. Your hair lays splayed beneath you, your beauty only more captivating to him as he squeezes your throat slightly.

Breathy pants escape with every thrust he gives you, every vein and ridge felt against your sensitive walls. He groans in pleasure, licking his lips as he speeds up, pounding mercilessly into you.

"I... oh, Tamlin, oh... fuck," you moan, and he chuckles slyly at you.

"What a dirty mouth you've got for a High Lady," you suck in a gasp as his hand leaves your throat, opting to slide along your jawline as his thumb runs over your bottom lip. You open your mouth, sticking out your tongue as he slips his finger inside.

"Mmm... good girl," he grunts, watching as you squeak in pleasure beneath him. His hips slap against your thighs, the angle at which his dick is thrusting into you bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

You open your mouth, gasping for a single breath. "Tamlin, I'm gonna... oh Gods!" You squeeze your eyes shut as you cry out in pleasure, the pressure in your belly finally releasing as your orgasm rolls through you. He continues fucking you, only slowing when he drains himself inside of you. Pulling out, he offers a small laugh as you make eye contact.

"I think... we need to clean up, before the others return." You giggle, taking his offerring hand and hopping off the table. The both of you work to re-arrange the maps as they'd been before your activities, and you smooth your dress down once you're satisfied with the room's presentation.

"I'll keep these," Tamlin reaches for your undies, pocketing them for later. You blush as the two of you approach the door, unlocking and opening it to reveal a shocking scene.

Kallias stands before you, a brow raised in amusement.

No words are exchanged, until your husband clears his throat.

"We were just discussing-"

"Oh, don't worry. I heard your discussing." He chuckles, and your face reddens. How long had he been waiting there?

Tamlin coughs, opening his mouth again to speak. Kallias only raises a hand.

"No need to explain, friend -- I've already called off the meeting for tonight." Tamlin's brow furrows, and you exchange a look of confusion.

"But, we haven't even discussed our final decision yet-"

"You both... discussed, rather loudly. Assuming you'll give your wife exactly what she wants..."

Your face deepens more in color.

"...you'll be in favor of the Night Court's plan. That's 3 votes to 1." He glances to you, smirking as he turns on his heel. "Seems as though the High Lady of Spring is going to get exactly what she wants."

He begins ascending the stairs, and Tamlin takes your hand in his. The rosiness on his cheeks is cute, but you can tell he's embarassed too as he calls after his ally.

"Kallias, wait-"

The white-haired male turns, looking at you two with an amused grin.

"Maybe, next time, don't use my round table for your...discussions."

✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Hold On You 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, bullying, depression, controlling and abusive behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to look on the bright side of life but a man comes along to blot out the sun.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Thank you all for feeding into this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s a nice day to get out. One of the last sunny days of autumn. You can smell the soil and leaves and hear the call of pumpkin spice. Maybe on your way back. 

You can’t spend another day inside. Not after the week you’ve had. Besides, once the winter hits, you’ll have more than enough reason not to go past your front door. You’re going to make the most of your day off. More so, you’re going to keep your mind busy so it doesn’t fall back into the pit. 

It feels good to move around. Between hunching at your cubicle desk and squinting over your dining room table, that crick in your neck needs to be ironed out. You have to remind yourself to stand up straight as the muscles tug between your shoulder blades. 

You stop and turn to face the record shop. As you do, you’re nearly bowled over by another pedestrian. You hadn’t realised they were so close behind you. You back up and apologise but the man doesn’t even look at you as he veers toward the front door. The bell jingle as he enters with a huff, the back of his dark jacket a vague splotch in your vision. 

Oop. You’re in the way. Again. You do your best not to do that. You never want to stir the waters or be a bump in the road but somehow you always find a way to do that. No good comes from wallowing in it. As stressful as it can be to brave the public and its unpredictability, a smile keeps you from falling apart. 

You approach the shop and swing open the door. Oof, it’s much heavier than that man made it look. You greet the associate behind the counter with a beaming morning and ‘hello?’ He asks how you are and you give the easy answer; ‘good, how are you?’ He responds with the same empty courtesy. 

You look around the covers and the little signs that delineate every genre. Before you can get into all that, you need the most important piece of all. A record player. For as long as you’ve been waiting to set foot in the shop, you’ve been saving up for the player. 

You near the table stacked with varying shades of suitcase players. You read up on each brand and style. It will be best to tuck away when you’re not using it. Your small apartment is already too cluttered. 

You pick a lilac player with little white roses stamped over the cover. It’s on sale. A sign above proclaims that you can get twenty percent off three or more records when you by a player. Well, how about that? It isn’t all doom and gloom. 

You hug the player under your arm and near the shelves mounted to the walls. You peruse the titles intently. Something new? Something you know? You definitely don’t want to get just one genre.  

As you sidle along, the corner of the box knocks against something. You look back and another ‘sorry’ bubbles from your lips. It’s that man again. He’s browsing the end cap behind you and growls at your apology. You stare at him for a moment, he seems at home in a place like this. 

“Um, excuse me, sir,” you say, “do you have any recommendations?” 

He grumbles and puts the album back in its slot. He looks over his shoulder with detest curled into his lip. The stone chiseled into his jaw makes you gulp. 

“What?” He scowls. 

“Sorry, I didn’t... I was only... curious. Have a good day, sir.” 

“Good? What’s good about it?” He hisses. You wince and move to the next section. Not far enough as he sighs, “you know, you wouldn’t like my taste anyway. Stick to your girly pop.” 

You resist a frown. You’re not going to let someone like that bring you down. You can tell that he looks for the worst in everything and everyone. You wouldn’t judge someone by their appearance but his demeanour says as much as his words. You won’t add to his cynicism but bothering him further. 

You pick out an Etta James album that you recognise. Your grandmother had the same one. You think your mother snatched it up after she passed. You didn’t get much from the inheritance. As it is, you’d rather have your grandma back. Someone to talk to. 

You move on to the rock section. There’s hair metal and classic rock and grunge and all sorts. You’re not unfamiliar with the genre but you don’t want to be too obvious.  

A scuff startles you and you glance over at the man in the dark jacket. He seems familiar. His short brown hair, his stubbly jaw, and his intensity trigger something in your head. You definitely don’t know him. Everyone you know is too busy for you. 

“Probably don’t even know how to use the damn thing,” he snips under his breath as he gets closer. 

You realise he’s talking about you. It’s no good arguing. You’ve met his kind before. Back when your friends had the time of day for you, you met that type at their parties. You avoided them. 

You leave the aisle. You don’t want to be in his way, though it seems no matter what you do, you are. You find yourself exactly where he predicted. Well, who cares? It’s all a matter of brain chemistry, right? You don’t get to choose what you like, you just like it. It makes your brain happy and heaven knows you need more of that. 

You pick out another favourite then head over to new release. You’ve never heard Sabrina Carpenter. You’ll give it a try. 

You approach the counter and as you do, another sigh storms through the shop. The man’s behind you. Oh no, had you cut him off? 

“You want to go ahead of me?” You ask as you keep your haul in your arms. 

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, a single record in his hand; The Boswell Sisters. You’ve never heard of them but it really doesn’t look like heavy metal. You turn back to the cashier and smile, “hello, um, this is it.” 

You put your things up as the man returns your smile. He asks if you want a bag and you say, ‘yes, please’. Things might not be perfect but it doesn’t mean you can’t try to make them better. And if a smile and manners can brighten someone else’s day, that alone makes yours a little sunnier. 

🪢

The box for the player has a little plastic handle. You’re happy for that as it makes your journey to cafe a little easier. You stand in line with your paper bag and bulky box and move along until it’s your turn. You order the pumpkin spice but think better of double up with the pumpkin cream muffin; you instead opt for the apple cinnamon with the chunks you can see through the top. 

Patiently, you stand by the wall until your order comes up. You crinkle around the other customers and claim it, balancing it all delicately toward an empty table. You tuck the box underneath and lean the bag against it. 

You tear apart the muffin, dividing the bottom from the top. You peel back the liner and eat the former first, pinching morsels between your fingers. You don’t know why you do it that way, you just always have.  

You taste the pumpkin spice. It’s good. Not too spicy at all. It tastes like real pumpkin. Considering the place is local, it might very well be. You pop the lid off to reveal the mostly melted cream and have another sip. 

You wipe the dairy mustache from your upper lip with a napkin and your eyes flick up to meet another pair. Not far from you, that man stands with his hands in his pockets. He’s waiting by the order window for his own delight. Well, that’s great. Maybe it will cheer him up. 

He glowers until you look through the window. Or not. The baristas call out a black coffee as you chew on the brim of the paper cup. You stare out into New York traffic and feel yourself getting smaller. It’s easy to feel lost in the city. 

As you watch through the window, a dark figure passes before it. You lift your gaze and again find yourself at the mercy of that man’s grim snarl. You quickly turn back to your latte. He must’ve had that black coffee. He might do with a bit of sugar. 

You try not to think about it. You don’t know him. You don’t know his problems. Just like anyone else. People don’t know that you feel heavy when you wake up or that you spend your hours keeping your hands busy so you don’t have to think. They only know the woman with the smile and the chipper voice and just as swiftly forget about her. 

You pick away at the muffin, savouring in each bite. You’re thankful for that. For that moment. You have coffee and a nice dessert and you got your record player. It's best not to think about all the existential stuff you can’t change. It will come back later when you’re alone. It can wait until then. 

🪢

Your walk home sees the sun hiding behind the clouds. The downpour begins a block away from your building and soaks you through. You keep your head down against the sheets of rain and hurry up the walk as the front door comes in sight. 

The elevator is out of order. Again. You climb the stairs in your squeaky soles and finally reach your apartment. You push inside and kick off your sodden shoes and peel away your jacket. The turtleneck beneath is just as drenched. 

You don’t strip down right away. You’re more concerned with your prizes. The records are fine, the covers just a bit damp, and the player doesn’t seem to have taken too much water. You leave it all on the counter and go to change into your favourite fuzzy pajamas. 

You come back out to the front room and stop to admire the slake of rain pelleting against the large windows. It might be dreary but it’s beautiful in its own way. You let the tempo lull you as you unpack the player and set it up on the book shelf.  

You slide the Etta James record from its sleeve and lay it on the player, moving the needle into place. You let it play as you back up, the boisterous tones of the legend melding perfectly with the raindrops. You smile; not the put-upon smile you wear for strangers but a smile of nostalgia and calm. You miss your grandma terribly but the music doesn’t make you sad. 

You go to the table, still messy from last night’s work. It never is clear. You always have scraps and bits littered over it, your sewing machine a permanent fixture on the worn wood. You sit and pick up the felt clump and go back to needling it to a discernible shape. 

Your brows nearly meet in the middle for your focus and it isn’t until the record begins to skip that you sit up. That damn kink is back. Your own fault. Can’t be mad at anyone but yourself. 

You flip the record and let it play out. When it’s over, you shut off the player. You eat the leftovers you’ve been parsing out for the week and settle in for your favourite romcom. It’s cheesy and a little lame but you only have to keep yourself happy. Or try to. 

You leave your plate on the coffee table and hunker down to finish the movie. You’re tired when it’s over but know you won’t sleep. So you go back to the table and work as the rain slows to a lazy rhythm. Your eyelids droop, your shoulders too, but you persist. 

The windows grow dark and there is only the distant shine of streetlights and few windows in the neighbouring buildings. You stare out at the blurring haze and it fades to a deep grey. You wake leaning back in the chair, your head hanging off your neck. You groan as you sit up and curse your carelessness. 

It won’t make work any less intolerable. You check the time ticking away on the clock that came with the apartment. You can get another hour or two. You get up and trod off to bed, not bothering to shut off the lights. You don’t sleep well in the pitch black. 

You fall into bed and just as quickly find yourself unbearable awake. All those little doubts and fears rise up to the surface and have you drowning just below. This is why you end up sleeping upright or folded over. Trying never works for you. Not at anything. 

[girl-next-door-writes]

Defrosted

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary: After a grueling day, you return home, weary and stressed. But behind closed doors, the icy, calculating Mycroft Holmes melts for you alone, showing a rare tenderness.

Word Count: 1291 words

A/N: This is a mixture of requests from @anonymousmarvelfan, @howaboutlunch, @savvy-devine666, @but-hey-could-be-satan. It’s been sitting in my WIP file for a while, so I hope the final version is what you were hoping for.

The London air bit sharply through the autumn night as you pushed the door open, peeling off your damp coat with a sigh that held the weight of the day’s troubles. Exhaustion clung to you like a heavy cloak, your thoughts dulled by the long hours of tense meetings and endless paperwork. A familiar chill hung in the air, reminding you of the looming winter and the comfort of the warmth inside your home.

And then there was Mycroft.

You found him in the sitting room, seated in his usual armchair by the fire, a thick book in his hands and his brow knitted in concentration. The firelight danced over his angular features, casting shadows that softened the harsh lines of his face. He glanced up at the sound of your entrance, his expression still the practiced neutrality he wore like armor, yet there was a flicker of something warmer in his gaze.

"My dear," he greeted, voice smooth and unperturbed. “You’re home late.”

The corners of your lips lifted into a weary smile as you approached him, sinking into the sofa opposite his chair. “Yes, well, not everyone can be as fortunate as the British government’s top strategist. Some of us still have to suffer through rush-hour traffic and unreasonable supervisors.”

A small, wry smile tugged at his lips. "Indeed. I suppose not everyone can delegate quite so effectively." He closed his book with a quiet thud, setting it aside on the mahogany side table. “You look exhausted.”

You gave a noncommittal hum, your body sagging against the cushions. “That’s one way to put it. It’s just been… one of those days.”

He rose to his feet with the kind of languid grace that spoke of countless years perfecting even the smallest of movements, as if the very act of standing could be an art form. His gaze swept over you, and in the quiet moments that followed, the transformation began—the slow thawing of the ice around him.

"Wait here," he instructed softly, before disappearing down the hallway.

When he returned, he was carrying a pair of fluffy slippers, the ones you kept tucked away at the back of the closet. He knelt before you, an unexpected gesture that pulled you from your fatigue-induced haze, and with the same careful precision he applied to everything else in life, he slipped them onto your feet. His fingers brushed against your skin, and you could swear you felt the faintest spark of warmth where they touched.

"Come," he said, standing again and extending a hand towards you. "Dinner is nearly ready."

You allowed him to lead you into the dining room, where the rich aroma of a simmering meal filled the air, the scent of garlic, rosemary, and roasted vegetables weaving together in an enticing blend. On the table sat two place settings, a bottle of your favorite wine, and a dish covered to keep the heat trapped inside. It was a sight that instantly made the day’s stress seem like a distant memory.

"You cooked?" you asked, incredulous as you took in the scene.

"I’m fully capable of following basic culinary instructions," he replied dryly, though there was a trace of amusement in his eyes. "Now sit, and allow me the rare pleasure of serving you."

The meal was simple but delicious—a roasted chicken, golden potatoes, and seasoned vegetables, paired perfectly with the deep, velvety wine. Mycroft poured your glass first, as he always did, with the kind of etiquette that had become second nature to him.

As you ate, the tension slowly ebbed from your muscles, replaced by a gentle warmth that spread through you, not just from the meal or the fire, but from the quiet intimacy of sharing this moment. Mycroft, usually terse and preoccupied, allowed himself to relax, his features softening as he listened to your accounts of the day. He commented occasionally, offering wry observations that made you laugh and rolled his eyes at the absurdity of office politics.

When you had finished, he was already ahead of you, standing to clear the dishes before you could insist on doing it yourself. "None of that, now," he chided. "You are under strict orders to relax."

As he moved about the kitchen, he carried himself with the same air of precision, each step purposeful, each motion refined. You observed him as he worked, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest. It wasn’t often that you were graced with this side of Mycroft Holmes—the attentive partner who pampered and doted, albeit in his own way. It was a side that the rest of the world would never see. To them, he was the British government, a man of intellect and authority wrapped in a cold, imposing exterior. But to you, he was something more—someone who had learned to defrost in the presence of love.

When he returned, his sleeves rolled up and his usual sternness tempered by the gentleness in his gaze, he reached for your hand. "Come," he said, his voice softening. "There’s something else I’d like to show you."

He led you to the bathroom, where a bath had already been drawn, the surface of the water shimmering with fragrant oils and surrounded by the glow of a dozen flickering candles. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a blanket, chasing away the last remnants of the chill that had clung to you all day.

Mycroft’s hands moved to remove your clothing with a practiced ease that spoke of the years you had shared together. “You’ve earned this,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm on your skin. "Now, enjoy it."

Once you were immersed in the bath, the heat soaking into your tired muscles, he did not leave as you expected. Instead, he took a seat on the nearby stool, his long fingers deftly massaging your temples, trailing down the back of your neck, tracing a line of warmth along your spine. It was a kind of care you knew he would never show to anyone else, a private language spoken only in the sanctuary of your shared life.

For a man so famously detached, his touch held a surprising amount of tenderness. It was as though the very act of tending to you brought him some unspoken peace, a quiet satisfaction that no position or title could grant him.

"Mycroft," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. For everything."

His hand stilled, and for a moment, you wondered if you had broken some unspoken rule by being so candid. But then he leaned forward, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your damp forehead. "You’re welcome, my dear," he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Though, as you well know, I do not do these things out of some obligation. I do them because…" He trailed off, and there was a pause before he continued. "Because love, real love, is seeing all the flaws, the scars, the weariness—and choosing to stay. Something I know you do each and every day.”

You gazed up at him, and in his pale eyes, you saw the quiet promise of a man who had found his heart’s refuge in you. It wasn’t a grand declaration or an ostentatious display of affection—it was something far more enduring. It was the gentle unraveling of the formidable man before you, a defrosting that came not with time, but with trust.

As the water cooled and the candles burned low, you knew that no matter how many long days or bitter nights lay ahead, there would always be this—this shared sanctuary where the warmth of Mycroft’s quiet love would be enough to melt away the chill of the world outside.

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Protection

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Random 'Reader X' drabbles I wrote to try something new.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Fem!Reader/Eris

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Assault

Chapters: Masterlist

Length: 773 words

[I was supposed to be writing my other WIPs...so of course I decided to write nearly 800 words of my favorite trope⎯"Who did this to you?"—that had nothing to do with any of those. Whoops. Anyway, this is unbetaed af. Sorry about that too.]

You remember the first time your husband surprised you. 

Your marriage to Eris Vanserra was a political one. Your father had desired power and privilege and High Lord Beron had required a broodmare for his son with a prestigious bloodline. Everyone had gotten what they wanted. 

Except for you and Eris of course. 

He was not a terrible husband, all things considered. You saw the way High Lord Beron treated his wife and counted yourself lucky that his heir had not grown to emulate such behavior. In fact, compared to his father, Eris was better than you could have ever hoped for. He never beat you. Never said so much as an unkind word to you. Rarely called upon you to warm his bed. He made all the appropriate gestures of fidelity and stilted affection required of him in public. Truthfully, outside of court functions and family gatherings he mostly ignored you. 

Perhaps some wives would have been crestfallen at the lack of warmth or trust from their husbands. But not you. You were more than happy to wile away your days in the library or the gardens, unaware and uncaring of your husband’s sly schemes and carefully laid political machinations. Frankly, the less you had to care about Autumn Court politics the better. At the very least, it kept you away from the brutality of Eris’s father. 

Unfortunately it wasn’t the High Lord you should have been watching out for. 

You weren’t sure who he was. A soldier perhaps. Or maybe a servant. Whoever he was, he had seemed quite delighted to get his hands on you, gripping your wrists until he left wine-dark bruises there. 

“Come on love,” he slurred, the sour scent of too much wine on his breath. “I just want a little kiss. Pretty thing like you, I know you want it…”

In the end, you only escape his drunken grasp when the slam of a door down the hall startles you both. It was all the distraction you needed to wrench your wrist free and escape out into the hall—nearly stumbling straight into a maid. 

It’s only later, in the safety of your rooms as you stare down at the fresh finger-shaped bruises on your arms, that you realize the precariousness of your situation. 

Would Eris cast you out for this? Demand a divorce? Send you back to your family in disgrace like your older sister? She, after all, had suffered far worse at the hands of a male not her husband, and had still been discarded like so much trash by both her husband and her father. Last you had heard, she’d ended up seeking shelter in the Night Court. 

Poor thing. 

You desperately hope that won’t be your fate. If the stories you’d heard were anything to go by, perhaps death was better than that place. 

But unfortunately for you, Eris had the eyes of a fox. 

“Who did it?”

His voice was soft. Steady. But you weren’t fooled. You had been his wife long enough now to recognize the fury simmering underneath the surface. It was a voice he used often with his father. 

You tug your traitorous sleeve down and swallow. “It’s nothing,” you insist, an easy lie on your tongue. “I fell.” 

Eris’s eyes narrowed. With careful fingers, he peeled back your sleeve until the garish marks were revealed once more. 

“‘Fell’ right into someone’s grasp did you?”

“It’s nothing,” you repeat softly, as if saying it will make it so. 

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He pulls the story out of you eventually. Say what you will about your husband, he is patient. 

You expect him to lash out then. Like his father. Like your sister’s husband. Screaming. Threats. Beatings. 

He does none of these things. 

In fact he does…nothing at all. He simply nods at you. Rubs a salve into your bruises. And then puts you to bed the way your mother did when you were a child. 

You find out his real response a week later. 

You see the other male again, struggling to hold a spear at his post at the gate. His hands are burned. The skin blistered and melted like candle wax. And even though the male never speaks to you. Never tells you who did this to him…you know. 

“…Why?” You ask Eris later, at breakfast. 

He looks you straight in the eye as he sips his tea slowly. 

“Because he touched what didn’t belong to him.” 

And it is in that moment that you see your husband for the first time. Eris Vanserra. 

The real Eris Vanserra. 

And you smile. 

Enjoy this fic? Check out my ACOTAR Fic Masterlists.

Thanks for reading! 💙

[secret-third-thing]

Erislain chapter 2 snippet + a poll (wip)

This is pre-beta/edits so be nice lol

Read chapter 1 here

[acourtofladydeath]

WIP Wednesday

Hello All, I'm back with another snippet from "Welcome to the Family" because I'm having entirely too much fun sharing it and teasing @secret-third-thing 😈

If you don't know what this fic is yes, I recommend starting with the intro post here and second sneak peak here.

“It’s good that you’re scared, Ms. Archeron. You should be.” As he talked, Beron clasped his hands behind his back and walked toward the side of the bed Elain was lying closest to, just an arms length from the edge. 

“Lucien has informed me that you let some human filth fuck you, that you’re no longer pure.” 

Elain’s eyes cast aside at the statement, the words cutting deep. “He was my fiance,” she said, though her defense was half hearted. 

“It is a requirement in my family that a bride or mate stay pure through the completion of the ritual. And you didn't, did you?” The bite in Beron’s words grew, his anger becoming a thick, palpable air throughout the room. 

Unsure what to do and completely unprepared for this line of questioning Elain tried to look up at Lucien, but Beron’s hand shot out faster than she could blink. 

Beron grasped Elain firmly by the jaw, painfully forcing her to meet his gaze. Lucien’s hands around her wrists still held her firmly in place, making no move to stop Beron’s assault.

“You will answer to me, Lucien is not in charge here.” Beron said, voice seething with hot anger and disappointment once. “It is my right to be the first person to fuck my son’s mate, Ms. Archeron. So you will tell me now, did you take that from me?” 

A hot tear full of anger and fear squeezed out of Elain’s eye as she admitted, “yes.” 

“You look the part of the innocent virgin in that shift, but you’re really just a filthy fucking whore aren’t you?”

Painfully aware of the other eyes in the room roaming her body as Beron interrogated her, Elain responded again with “yes.” 

Stay tuned for more, coming soon to an AO3 near you!

[jules-writes-stories]

WIP Wednesday | Nocturne |

Azriel x Eris

I plan to start posting this one in the fall, hopefully in time for Eris Week. It takes place post-canon, but the first chapter is a series of canon scenes with Azriel and Eris, set as flashbacks. It starts with the infamous, "Tie me to a tree, Rhys" scene.

I'm nodding my head towards @mistandmemories who over nine months ago reminded me that Eris was mortally wounded in the Northern Flank battle. Brilliant, big-brained, iconic connection to make. Here is the opening scene (written in January) of Nocturne, my Arranged Marriage AU/ Eris in the Hewn City fic.

. . . .

The Mortal Lands, Second War on Hybern

this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest —Ocean Vuong

If the world was to end in fire, Azriel would not sit idly by. A thousand Illyrian warriors had been struck from the sky, their ashes falling to scorched earth like snow. The Shadowsinger led his legion through the fray of arrows and smoke.  

Unexplained terror pulled him northward, towards the crested treeline. Another urgent tug at his shadows, his ribs. It tore at the fabric of his world. “I’m going in.” 

“No,” Rhysand snapped. 

Azriel spread his wings, the sunlight stark on raw half-healed flesh. “Chain me to a tree, Rhys. Go ahead.” He began checking the buckles on his weapons. “I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back.”

Violet eyes traveled from the spymaster to the Night Court's decimated aerial forces. Any chance of victory was waning. 

Rhysand spoke low. “Lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank. I need eyes on Autumn and Spring.” Beneath the guilt and fear lacing his voice was a calculated edge and the tinge of desperation. 

Azriel shot upward before his High Lord could reconsider. His wings beat hard, carrying him toward the scrambling forces. Everything hurt. The newly fused skin was too sensitive in the midday sun; the tender, scarred membrane and torn tendons strained. His head pulsed with the pressure of the shadows’ voices.

“Get into formation.” Azriel barked out over his shoulder. The winged legion moved as a single organism, even as Hybern’s arrows bounced off his cobalt light-shield. 

Beron’s burnt orange livery became visible within minutes, the banners snapping in the wind like ruddy flames against a gray feathered sky. 

Their two-pronged attack was a classic Illyrian strategy. Half of Azriel’s forces would hold the line, landing in a gap between Autumn and Spring’s defenses. The other half remained hovering above, picking off Hybernians with quick Siphon flashes or dipping into the fray wielding short swords. 

Azriel reinforced his own shields and lifting his Illyrian blade, roared above the din, “Qulu nafsin zaikatul maut.” 

The winged warriors at his back unsheathed their blades and repeated the ancient battle cry, this time in the common tongue of Prythian. “Every soul shall taste death.” 

Every Illyrian was born for war. It was their worth, their calling, and purpose. And each one was prepared to die on this field. 

Steel sliced through flesh and bone. Time passed in the killing rhythm of thrust, parry, shield. It became a second heartbeat. His boots sank into blood and earth. Azriel ran his blade through the soft flesh of a soldier’s armpit, expertly aiming for the armor gap. Red bloomed down the male’s chest piece. 

Barely more than a youngling, the Hybern soldier cried out, “braithim uaim momháthair.” The shades whispered a translation: “I miss my mother.” 

Disgust and sadness rose with bile. Azriel ripped his blade from the soldier’s side, and in a downward arc, offered him a clean death. 

He tried to ignore his wrenching ribs and pushed his blade into another soldier, then turned. A flash of red. 

Eris Vanserra, general of the Autumn Court and first prince of Autumn, threw himself at a Hybernian general. Blood flowed freely down the pale column of the male’s throat. Azriel could smell it from where he stood. He hated it.

The shadows swooped low, moving at a frantic speed. yalla, yalla, mughaniy. They pleaded haste in their many voices, feminine and haunting.

Azriel didn’t stop to consider why the shadows were preoccupied by this male, or to question the terror burning bright in his chest. 

Even injured, Autumn’s general was fierce– a true warrior. He moved like flames set across water, with grace and speed. If war was a brutal dance, Eris Vanserra was swept up in its song. 

A second Hybernian came swinging at the prince’s blind spot. This one wore the armor of a general.

Azriel acted out of pure instinct. Flying on half-healed wings, he landed behind the first Hybernian and sliced across his throat. Warm blood splattered his face; he tasted its iron on his lips. 

Without another thought, Azriel turned and rammed his sword forward to impaled the Hybern general’s throat. Both were dead within seconds. 

Eris’s face was streaked with ash and blood; his amber eyes were clouded in pain. He swayed as the Shadowsinger pulled him into the cobalt ring of light. The shades blanketed the Autumn Fae, taking inventory and hissing at the blood leaking down his silver chest piece. 

As much as he hated it, the lying snake of a prince had allied himself with the Night Court, had worked behind his father’s back to rally troops against Hybern. Eris kept his word and Azriel’s honor demanded he not let the fireling die in the mud. Not today.

There was a screeching roar and his shades whispered of Night-dark talons and a massive black maw tearing Hybernians apart. Its feathered and golden Day counterpart had joined the fray. Helion and Rhys had shifted to their Beast forms in a final stand.

It was now or never. Azriel barked out an order to his lieutenant, then lifted Eris’s limp form and took off towards the Autumn camp. The male’s copper-red head lolled to the side and his skin was so pale, blue veins were visible. Another wet breath. His heartbeat was sluggish and labored. 

“Don’t you fucking die. Do you hear me?” Azriel gritted his teeth at his unexpected panic, even as the words passed over his lips. 

He landed before a tent bearing the green livery of Autumn’s general. The male in his arms was frigid, his pouting lips thinned in pain. 

“Eris, I swear to the Mother. I’ll go to Hel and drag you back.” Azriel whispered into a pointed ear.

He snapped open the tent’s flap and rolled his eyes at the large pallet covered in pelts. Only a spoiled prince would bring a mountain of bedding into a warzone. His shadows fussed, winding through Eris’s blood-matted hair.

There was a fluttering from behind. The Illyrian turned to see a High Fae male in brassy Autumn armor. Green eyes glittered in the lantern light. The male’s beauty was undeniable--golden tan skin, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth. He gasped at the sight of Eris and rushed forward. 

“Get your general a healer,” the spymaster spat out. Something mean and sharp tore its claws into his gut. It coiled low and nested. This soldier who barged into Eris’s tent acted like he belonged there.

“I am his healer.” The male met the Shadowsinger’s gaze with trembling courage. Few were so bold. “L-lay him on the pallet. And remove his armor.” He spoke like he was trying on a role, but Azriel was impressed when he moved with confidence along the edges of the enclosure to gather supplies.

Azriel lay Eris down as gently as able and loosened the buckles at the male’s sides. Shadows hovered as he ripped off the metal chest piece. The blood pooling beneath the armor was concerning, but the gash on his neck was slowly healing. He moved to the tunic, but it was fully saturated and sticking to the flat, muscled torso. With a frustrated growl, the Illyrian tore it away, continuing to shuck the leather chausses down the male’s limp form. Boots were tossed with a thunk into the corner. 

In his frenzy, he’d not registered that he was undressing Eris fucking Vanserra. He hated this male for his arrogance and duplicity, for how he’d left Mor in his woods to bleed out centuries ago. 

The Shadowsinger stared down at the lithe form, the flat planes of his stomach that led to slightly rounded hips. Azriel could admit only to himself that the male possessed a wild and powerful beauty. 

Gods, this war truly had taken its toll if he was ogling a half-dead son of Autumn. Sunlight and the din of battle streamed into the tent as several sentries entered with a basin, linens, and bandages. 

The healer slowly wiped the vicious wound. “I can take it from here, Shadowsinger.”

Still unconscious, Eris moaned low, and Azriel growled at the sound, his shadows darting forward. The healer’s head shot up at this, his mouth set in an unimpressed line. He continued to clean Eris’s bloodied skin, then with a quick wrist flick, the pink, cloudy water cleared. He submerged his hand and steam rose as the male poured a packet of herbs into the tub. 

Without looking up, he murmured, “He’ll live. Won’t even scar thanks to your haste” 

“Good. Wouldn’t want your princeling maimed on my watch.” Azriel stomped towards the tent flap. His voice came out sharp, even to his own ears.

Outside, he inhaled the acrid air. Smoke and death hung above, but that was to be expected. What he hadn’t counted on was his body’s reaction to the Autumn male lying atop a pile of pillows. That Night’s spymaster had been half-holding his breath to avoid inhaling the scent of warm spice and earthy musk. 

He tucked his wings back and hissed in pain as a half-healed suture tore. 

Fuck Eris Vanserra, with his long, pretty throat and bratty hips, his amber eyes smoky with pain, and his graceful warrior’s speed. 

It did not matter that the male had come through this time, had acted with honor. The Autumn prince was a viper in wait. And when he struck, Azriel would be ready. 

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