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Like They Want To Lick You
For @octobers-veryown. The prompt: Gwynriel, Modern AU, on their honeymoon. Azriel's walking around in a very distracting shirt and Gwyn can't help feeling a little possessive.
Gwynriel ✦ Rated: T ✦ 619 words ✦ on AO3
“God, can you please stop undoing your buttons?” Gwyn huffs, truly exasperated.
Azriel stops, looking over at her with a puzzled look on his face. “It’s hot out… we’re on the beach.” He kicks up a spray of sea-smoothed pebbles to emphasize the latter point.
He’s clueless, Gwyn thinks, and not for the first time.
The white linen button down Azriel’s wearing is slightly sheer in the bright sun, the dark patterns inked on his toffee skin peek through. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, the tattoos on his forearms displayed for all to see. Then there’s the fact that he’s undone nearly half of the buttons down the front, baring his sternum and the bluish-black designs traversing his chest.
It’s obscene. He is obscene.
And she is not the only one who thinks so. They’re days into their honeymoon in Ravello, a cinematically picturesque town on the Amalfi Coast, and Gwyn hasn’t been able to take Azriel anywhere without drawing the attention of appreciative eyes. This isn’t a new phenomenon, it happens back in Velaris when they go out but she rarely notices after all these years with him.
The first day of their trip, Gwyn rather enjoyed the feeling of knowing she had the thing that everyone else wanted. She didn’t mind showing him off now and again but it’s a constant thing now, and it’s grating on her.
“Gwyn,” he says her name softly, matching the volume of the gently lapping waves on their right. “What is it?”
He knows she’s upset, of course he does. Why is it that he can be emotionally obtuse to the point of infuriation and yet read her so well, so effortlessly? It’s never made any sense.
“People are staring,” she tells him, looking over his shoulder to the rows of beach loungers and the folks not so covertly watching them.
Azriel still looks confused.
“They are staring at you,” she clarifies, then adds “like they want to lick you” for good measure.
Those enigmatic hazel eyes blink once, twice, and then Azriel’s grinning, a wry laugh punching out of his lungs. “Like they want to lick me?”
She crosses her arms. “Yes.”
“Gwyneth,” Az begins in that voice that always prefaces trouble, “are you jealous?”
“I have every right to be,” she challenges, stepping forward and doing up all but the top two buttons of his shirt. “You’re mine. I don’t have to enjoy people looking at you like they wish you were theirs.”
She means every word, but Azriel’s grin is smug and indulgent as he draws her into him, arms wrapping around her back as he drops his head into the crook of her neck. He breathes deeply, like he wants to inhale her, and she feels some of the ever-present tension melt from his shoulders beneath her palms.
“I like this possessive streak,” he admits quietly, the words caressing her neck and making it tingle.
“Do you now?” Gwyn’s smiling into his shoulder, both at the words themselves and the fact that Azriel freely tells her such things. He didn’t always do that. “Should I call you ‘mine’ more often?”
A rumbling affirmative hum sends a shiver up her spine and Gwyn laughs. “Is that doing something for you?” She already knows it is—can feel the evidence of it against her hip.
Admittedly, it’s doing something for her as well.
“I think you should take me back to the hotel now and say that with fewer clothes on,” Azriel punctuates the request with a featherlight kiss to her pulse.
“Hmmm,” Gwyn presses away from him, looking up into his face and noting the flush on his cheeks. “I think that can be arranged.”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @damedechance @talons-and-teeth @krem-does-stuff @panicatthenightcourt @thelovelymadone @mmiscbutterflies @shadowriel @iftheshoef1tz @foundress0fnothing
Let me know if you wish to be added to/removed from my Gwynriel taglist :)
#gwynriel#gwynriel fanfiction#gwynriel fic#azriel x gwyn#gwyn x azriel#pro gwynriel#gwyneth berdara#gwyn berdara#azriel#azriel acotar#azriel shadowsinger#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabble#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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All That Matters
For @c-e-d-dreamer and @cassianappreciationweek day 4. The request: Nessian. Any setting of your choosing, but how about something soft and sweet?
Nessian ✦ Rated M ✦ 867 words ✦ on AO3
CW: CANON-TYPICAL DEPICTION OF VIOLENCE
They sat on the river bank until the sun was fat and low in the sky, its orange fingers slinking through the willow boughs.
There was only the steady rise and fall of Cassian’s chest at her back, the warmth of him bleeding into her veins, and the I-love-you-s murmured back and forth at the same volume as the Sidra’s soft rush.
“Are you awake?” he whispered against her temple after a longer stretch of silence.
“For now,” Nesta replied, shifting to look at him. “But I’m not sure for how much longer.”
The reality of the last two days was finally settling into her bones now that the adrenaline had evaporated. The Rite, Briallyn, Nyx’s birth… exhaustion was lead seeping into her limbs and weighing them down, trying to draw her wholly into its grasp.
“Let’s go home then.” Cassian stood, then scooped her off the grass and into his arms. He launched them skyward and Nesta closed her eyes.
The next thing she knew, the world had stilled again and Cassian was saying something. “... know you’re tired, but I need you to try to eat something first.”
He sounded so gentle, so worried about her, and Nesta smiled as she opened her eyes. This male—capable of a ferocity to rival the gods, yet wearing his heart for all to see… “I love you,” Nesta told him again, just because she could and it was decadent.
The house delivered them enough food for a small army, and Nesta managed to put away a plate and a half before her yawns began arriving at a frequency that made eating inconvenient.
Cassian noticed, of course he did. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can sleep.”
Nesta considered protesting, a testament to the extent of her exhaustion considering that she hadn’t bathed in over a week, but knew she would regret going to bed layered in the residue of the Rite.
Cassian ran the bath as she sat on the edge of the counter and watched him move about the room. He helped her out of her clothes, his touch mindful of the bruises still littering her skin. He joined her in the bath, carefully maneuvering her tired limbs until she was leaning back against him again.
With a soft cloth, he worked honey-scented soap into a lather and began to clean away the grime. It was all Nesta could do to keep from dozing off.
But her closing eyelids snapped open when her mate took a shuddering breath that turned into a bitten off sob. Nesta turned around so quickly that she sent water careering over the sides.
“I could have killed you,” Cassian whispered in horror, looking down at his hands—they were trembling.
She took his shaking fingers in her own and squeezed. “You didn’t. You fought her.” Nesta shuddered as she remembered the sight of Cassian plunging that knife into his own chest rather than hers.
He shook his head, “I wanted to hurt you, Nes. It was…” he trailed off, looking to the side and squeezing his eyes shut.
A crystalline droplet streaked down his stubbled cheek and Nesta caught it with her thumb, coaxing him to face her.
“You weren’t yourself. That feeling wasn’t you—it was Briallyn and the Crown.”
The pain in his hazel eyes echoed through her and she drew him into her arms, holding him as tightly as she could.
“I thought…” Cassian drew a deep breath and held it, blowing it out slowly. “I thought I might never see you again. When I arrived at Emerie’s and you were missing, the smell of those males, of the drugs…” he shivered, putting his nose to her neck and taking another controlled breath.
“I thought I might have lost you and then to see you on that mountain, to be a puppet, forced to watch myself try to harm you without knowing if I could resist it… gods, Nesta, I was so scared.”
He lost his grip on the rhythm of his lungs, breaths turning shallow again.
“You did resist her, Cassian. That’s the only thing that matters.” Nesta traced patterns on his back and around the base of his wings as she held him.
The house kept the water at a steady temperature even as their fingers wrinkled. Eventually, the tide of emotion Cassian had clearly been holding back receded. They took turns helping each other wash.
A tired yet comfortable silence settled between them as they climbed out of the bath, hastily dried off, and then collapsed into her bed.
In the darkness, her mouth found Cassian’s, and she kissed him, pouring everything she felt into the touch: relief, gratitude, and more love than Nesta had ever imagined herself to be capable of.
Her friends and family were safe and healthy. She had her mate, and her home. There were many unresolved problems, sure, but they would still be there in the morning.
All Nesta cared about now was the steady beat of Cassian’s heart beneath her ear. His even breaths filled the quiet, starlit room and Nesta’s lungs slowed their pace to match as she finally allowed reality to drift as dreamless sleep embraced her.
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @damedechance @itsthedoodle @moodymelanist @areyoudreaminof @octobers-veryown @krem-does-stuff @iftheshoef1tz @moonpatroclus @panicatthenightcourt @thelovelymadone @talons-and-teeth
#cassianappreciationweek2023#nessian#nessian fanfiction#nessian fic#nesta x cassian#cassian x nesta#cassian#cassian acotar#cassian acosf#nesta archeron#nesta acosf#pro nesta#acosf#acosf fanfiction#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabble#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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Truth or Dare, Azriel?
For @panicatthenightcourt :) The request: Gwynriel and Elucien. Tipsy truth or dare and maybe things get a little bit messy? I chose to make this a modern AU since it wasn't specified hehe.
A/N: It's implied that they've been drinking but let me assure everyone that they're still fully in control of themselves. There is no infidelity in this fic, everything is consented to by all parties involved.
Gwynriel & Elucien ✦ Rated M ✦ 1.3k words ✦ on AO3
Azriel dropped his head onto Gwyn’s shoulder, closing his eyes and inhaling the scents of sunscreen and lavender shampoo.
The bonfire was crackling merrily and carving a pool of orange out of the deep violet night. Crickets chirped, frogs trilled, and the lake water lapped gently at the sand.
He was tipsy.
Gwyn smelled fucking amazing.
There were still four days left of their vacation.
He was at his favorite place with his favorite people.
It was too….
No.
Azriel sat up, blinking against the firelight and reminding himself that he was allowed to have this without the constant fear of it being stripped away.
Some things were truly good. Other shoes didn’t always drop.
“Everything alright, Az?” Elain asked. She was curled into Lucien’s side across the fire from them.
“Yeah, fine. I just spaced out.” He hoped his face betrayed nothing. The last thing he needed was for Lucien to spend the rest of their vacation calling him Sadzriel again.
“Okay,” Gwyn exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “We are going to play a game because it’s too early for us to be getting tired. Besides, we need to give them—” she jerked her head toward the house on the hill “—more time before the cabin will be safe.”
Half an hour earlier, Nesta had dragged Cassian away from the fire claiming she was “tired.” Rhys and Feyre made their excuses not long after.
Gwyn had a point. Even if they wanted to go to bed right now, Azriel knew none of them would be able to fall asleep due to the volume of the others' activities. It was the one downside of this pine-sheltered haven on the lake.
“What kind of game?” Lucien asked.
Azriel turned to his right. The flames danced tangerine in the teal reflection of Gwyn’s eyes making them gleam with a devilish light.
His girlfriend shot him a sly smile. “Truth or Dare.”
Elain grinned, “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Lucien said with a huff of laughter.
“Az?”
His past experiences of Truth or Dare weren’t what Azriel would call fond memories. Then again, maybe that was an unavoidable consequence of playing with Rhys and Cassian instead of being the fault of the game itself. And the way Gwyn was looking up at him all wide-eyed and lower lip caught between her teeth the way she knew drove him crazy….
“Fine, I’m in too.”
“Don’t sound so excited about it,” Lucien chuckled and Azriel threw an empty beer can at his head.
“If you had my memories of Truth or Dare, you wouldn’t be so psyched about it either,” Azriel grumbled.
It didn’t take long for the game to spiral in the direction that Azriel had been dreading. They made it once around the circle and then it was Elain’s turn again. He knew it was going to be bad no matter which option he chose. The world may think Elain Archeron the epitome of sweet kindness, but those close to her knew better than to fall to that facade. Elain Archeron could be the devil in disguise.
“Truth or dare, Azriel?” she asked, her tone intentionally disarming.
Knowing Elain for as long as he had, he knew she knew things about him that few did—that Gwyn didn’t. Not yet, at least. They’d been together for a year but some things he wanted to share were so weighty that a year might not be strong enough to hold them. To choose “truth” would be too risky.
“Dare.” Azriel leaned back, leveling Elain with a look of challenge to belie his fear of her next words.
“I dare you to kiss Lucien. For at least five seconds. With feeling.”
And Elain looked so smug at that, Azriel couldn’t help but laugh. Lucien was very attractive. Had they met in a bar and weren’t attached, he’d waste no time. “What do you say, Lucien?”
Lucien wore a smirk as he pushed off the log to stand. “If the ladies want a show, and you are willing, who am I to deny them?”
Azriel rose, moving until they were standing nearly chest to chest. “Oh, if it’s what the ladies want, I’m all in.”
He shot a questioning glance toward Gwyn over his shoulder. It was only a fun game if everyone thought so, if she didn’t want him to do this he wouldn’t. But Gwyn was smiling, and she waved her hands as if to say by all means, please continue.
So, Azriel reached and tangled his fingers in the thick red hair at Lucien’s nape. He winked at Gwyn. “I always have had a thing for redheads,” and then he stepped into Lucien’s space.
Lucien was slightly taller than him. Azriel had forgotten until he had to tilt his chin at the last second. The kiss started out questioning: hi there, hello—drawing back, a second chaste brush and press—we’re doing this, yes we are.
Then it turned exploratory: how good of a kisser are you?—adding pressure—very good I’ll have you know—Lucien’s hands on either side of his jaw, tipping Azriel’s head as he took control. Azriel nipped Lucien’s lower lip in response to the challenge.
Someone wolf-whistled. Probably Gwyn. Azriel took that as his cue to slow, and Lucien did the same.
The kiss ended sincerely: that was rather nice—a strong press—it was, wasn’t it—parting, then coming back for one last peck, featherlight and lingering.
They stepped away from each other, smiling. Lucien offered Azriel his hand, “Nice work.”
Azriel shook it, “You weren’t too bad yourself.”
Lucien rolled his eyes and went back to sit beside Elain. “Was it everything you hoped for?”
Elain, whose red cheeks (though not as red as Gwyn’s when Azriel looked) were answer enough, but she huffed a laugh, “And then some. I don’t know what I expected but that was… something.”
Lucien arched an eyebrow, glancing between Azriel and Gwyn with a silent question. Azriel couldn’t deny that the idea intrigued him, but that was something to think about for another night. Now he needed revenge.
“Elain—Truth or dare?” Azriel already knew which one she would choose, but they had to play the game.
“Dare.”
Just as he had hoped.
“I dare you to ask Gwyn to go skinny dipping in the lake with you right now.”
“Oh,” Elain feigned surprise. “So that’s how it’s going to be? What do you say, Gwyn, should we give the boys a taste of their own medicine?”
“Now hold on. That wasn’t—” Azriel’s half-hearted protest was interrupted when Gwyn stood up and tugged off her (it was actually his, but she’d stolen it) hoodie.
“There is nothing I would like more,” Gwyn replied with a wicked-looking grin aimed at Azriel.
Elain and Gwyn walked down the beach, a trail of discarded clothes marking their path to the lakeshore.
Slowly, Azriel and Lucien rose and turned as one, as if there were little more than puppets on strings.
Inky water swallowed pale limbs and soft curves as they walked further out. The two women seemed to glow in the light of the nearly full moon reflecting off the breeze wrinkled surface of the lake. They were ethereal, otherworldly, like nymphs or sirens.
Azriel glanced at Lucien to find the man already looking at him. They exchanged nods, starting to follow the trail their girlfriends had left behind.
Gwyn and Elain stopped when the water was just below their shoulders. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing he knew their hands were in each other's wet hair and they were kissing.
“Fuck me.” The words sounded like they’d been punched out of Lucien’s gut.
“Yeah,” Azriel breathed. He shared the sentiment.
“Well boys,” Gwyn’s voice carried over the water. “Are you going to just stand there or are you going to join us?”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @damedechance @talons-and-teeth @krem-does-stuff @iftheshoef1tz @thelovelymadone @mmiscbutterflies @shadowriel @foundress0fnothing @sunshinebingo @octobers-veryown @areyoudreaminof @moonpatroclus @separatist-apologist @kingofsummer93 @velidewrites @wittyrejoinder @bagelfyre @itsthedoodle @sv0430
#kate's celebratory drabbles series#gwynriel#elucien#gwyn x azriel#azriel x gwyn#elain x lucien#lucien x elain#with some#azriel x lucien#gwyn x elain#luzriel#gwynlain#gwynriel fanfiction#elucien fanfiction#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabble#acotar au
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Reputation to Damage
For @itsthedoodle and @cassianappreciationweek day 4. The prompt: Nesta & Cassian know that there is a rumor among students about a relationship between a professor and a TA – what they don’t know, is that the rumor is about them.
Nessian ✦ Rated M ✦ 591 words ✦ on AO3
The locker room air is soupy with steam, smelling of mildew and a head-aching range of freshly applied deodorants. The combination always fills him with a familiar nostalgia. Truthfully, he doesn’t miss the non-stop life of juggling classes and a spot on Prythian University’s D1 hockey team. These weekly recreational games with his fellow grad students and a few members of the faculty are more than enough to scratch his itch to be out on the ice.
Cassian’s in the middle of tying his shoelaces when Rhys slumps down on the bench beside him.
“Have you heard the rumor going around about the liberal arts college?”
He has to resist rolling his eyes. Despite Rhys’s frequent protests to the contrary, he loves gossip.
“Rhys, as a member of the college I hear many rumors—you’ll have to be more specific.”
Though he’d initially planned on getting his undergrad degree in business, a required liberal arts credit and a class on the prehistoric evolution of weaponry had changed the course of his future. Now he is on track to do his dissertation as an interdisciplinary historic-anthropological exploration of East Asian weaponry in the middle ages.
“Apparently,” Rhys lowers his voice and leans in, “One of the professors is in a relationship with their TA.”
Cassian shrugs, a little disappointed in his best friend. “Every single semester there’s a rumor about a professor and a TA, man. That’s not exactly news.”
“The way I see it,” Rhys drawls. “With how frequently this rumor goes around, one of these times it must actually be true.”
“Sure,” Cassian indulges, zipping up his bag and standing.
Rhys follows him. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe me?”
Cassian leaves the locker room laughing.
✦ ✦ ✦
“Do you think anyone knows about us?” Cassian murmurs, lazily carding his fingers through Nesta’s hair.
He’s spent the whole day replaying Rhys’s words.
“I haven’t told anyone. Have you?” He feels Nesta stiffen slightly as she speaks, half-draped across him.
“Of course not,” he answers.
Nothing that they’re doing is technically against any rules, it’s just rather frowned upon. Cassian doesn’t care about that—what other people think of them if it were to get out. Nothing that feels this right could ever be wrong.
When Nesta doesn’t relax at the assurance, he goes on. “It’s just that silly rumor going around again. Rhys mentioned it earlier.”
Her responding hum vibrates up his sternum, then the silence stretches between them like a rubber band but Cassian doesn’t know what to say to cease the building tension.
After a long minute, Nesta sighs and pushes herself up on an elbow to look at him. “I’m not ashamed of us, you know. I care about you. If people found out, you would come under scrutiny. Academia is too small of a world and you’re just starting out. I don’t want to damage your reputation.”
“That’s kind of hard to do when I don’t have a reputation to damage,” Cassian huffs, but Nesta’s steely eyes narrow.
“But you will. Believe me. You need to give yourself more credit, Cass.”
And the way she’s looking at him like he’s worth something—worth believing in—like she feels the same things for him that he does for her, it’s enough to steal the breath from his lungs. But oxygen is mere frivolity compared to the feeling of Nesta’s lips parting in pleased surprise against his own, to the feeling of her palm over his too-rapid heart as she pushes him down into the mattress.
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @c-e-d-dreamer @moodymelanist @damedechance @iftheshoef1tz @areyoudreaminof @thelovelymadone @ablogofsapphicpanic @moonpatroclus @panicatthenightcourt @octobers-veryown @krem-does-stuff @talons-and-teeth
I had to guess when making this tag list because I've never actually posted a Nessian fic before lol. Please let me know if you wish to be added or removed from the tags :) I have another Nessian drabble coming later today.
#cassianappreciationweek2023#nessian#nessian fanfiction#nessian fic#nesta x cassian#cassian x nesta#nesta archeron#cassian acotar#acotar fanfiction#acotar fanfic#acotar drabble#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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This Lovely Enigma
For @catboyjamesbond. The prompt: Royalty AU Azris, Eris is king and needs a consort. Azriel is the one who catches his eye.
Azris ✦ Rated M ✦ 2.5k words (yeah ik) ✦ on AO3
"The Ruler shall take a consort within a year of their coronation lest they forfeit the title to the Heir. The Crown is too heavy a burden to bear alone."
Eris knows that particular stipulation so well that he sees it in his dreams and behind his eyelids whenever he blinks.
His crown hits the ornately carved walnut throne with a dull thud as Eris looks to the paned glass dome of the ceiling above the dais in the empty throne room and groans.
A wry laugh echoes from his left, “Ah, let me guess: woe is me, I am but a king facing the truly arduous task of choosing a partner from a selection of the most competent and beautiful of my subjects.”
Callan has been Eris’s most loyal guard for nearly a decade. Eris would never allow such flippant sarcasm in public or from any other member of his staff, but Callan is the closest thing he has to a friend, not counting Eris’s brothers.
“I just don’t understand why my ancestors felt that such a useless clause would be one of the few immovable laws. Why do I need a consort in order to keep the title that is rightfully mine? I’ve been perfectly fine on my own so far,” Eris allows a granule of petulance to lace his words.
Cal just smiles and softly shakes his head. It’s unsettling to witness because that gesture is identical to one his mother often makes.
“There’s nothing that can be done to change it, you know that. It’s been six months since your father’s passing—stars smile gently on his soul even though he was a right bastard—and now that the mourning period is coming to a close you know you can’t afford to waste another minute. This way you are giving yourself a little time to get to know them at least.”
“If I meet them today,” Eris points out, tracing the vines carved into the throne’s arm with a ringed finger.
Knowing it’s better to voice his feelings than quash them, Eris sighs and begrudgingly continues the thought, “What if I can’t stand any of the people I meet today? Aren’t they all the children of the gentry? I don’t care about liking them, but I need to be able to tolerate them. You know how I hate sycophants, and that’s all they’re going to be—hoping that they can woo their way into the royal family and a better title.”
“Defeatism does not suit you, dear.” Serafina Vanserra, the Queen Mother, approaches the throne at an elegant glide.
Eris rises and descends the three steps of the dais. “And black did not suit you, Mother. It’s wonderful to see you in color again.”
She’s donned a wine-red gown for the occasion, the rich color making her fair skin appear lit from within. The black they’d been wearing always made her look sickly pale. This, Eris thinks, is a very welcome change.
Her lightly painted lips tug up in a smirk. “Flattery, while always welcome, will not divert my attention, Eris. Try having a little more faith in humanity. Giving up before the race has begun is the quickest way to ensure defeat.”
“I know,” Eris agrees. She’s right, of course, she is. He knows that he frequently walks the line between realism and pessimism and, while such an attitude guarantees that he is always prepared for worst-case scenarios and puts secondary measures in place for every plan, it is not an ideal outlook for the day ahead of him.
His mother raises a brow, waiting.
“I promise to try,” Eris tells her. “I wouldn’t have bothered setting up this whole affair if I did not intend to make an attempt. It would have been far more efficient to simply select a name from a list but, believe it or not, my heart is not made of stone.”
“I know that, darling.” Her hand is soft and warm, the touch to his cheek a brief allowance of the affection that they’d been denied for so many years. “But it’s my hope that you will permit others to learn this as well.”
The ‘now that he’s gone’ hangs unspoken in the air between them.
“I hope so too,” Eris replies. It’s the best he can do while remaining honest.
Hope, an ember banked for years upon years has, against every odd, retained its glow. Eris might even go as far as to say that, since his father’s death, the ember has sparked a flame.
✦ ✦ ✦
Azriel tries his best to hold still while his mother fusses with his jacket collar, but he’s restless.
“There,” Zahra smiles proudly as she steps to the side so he can view his reflection in the long mirror.
He scarcely recognizes the man staring back at him. His typically unruly hair is swept back off his forehead and tamed by something that smells faintly sweet. The clothes he’s wearing are finer than anything he’s owned before. The jacket is sapphire blue, laced up the back in gold—the same gold laces that begin at his wrists and end at his forearms.
He’d thought the process of donning the garment ridiculously complicated, but Azriel can’t help thinking that the effect might be worth the effort. He looks… elegant? Everything is tighter than he’s used to. The jacket clings to the curve of his waist, and the breadth of his shoulders. The trousers are impossibly soft and fit like a second skin. His boots are supple black leather and buffed to a shine.
It’s not just the clothes though. What really makes his reflection so foreign is the tint on his lips and cheeks, making it appear like he’s slightly flushed; it’s the hint of kohl smudged into his lashes and bringing a new brightness to his eyes.
“My beautiful boy, my Azriel. Look at you,” his mother murmurs and the rosiness of his cheeks darkens at the sheer pride in her voice.
“Thank you,” for this, for everything. The emotional rasp of his words embarrasses him.
It’s a public secret that Azriel is Lord Blackwell’s bastard despite his father’s begrudging formal claim. He’s certain that, had the decision been left to his father alone, he would have turned them out on the street. It had only been his paternal grandmother, to whom his mother was and is chief caregiver, threatening to change her will and cut him off that made the lord claim Azriel as his own.
Sometimes, less often now than when he was young, Azriel wonders if life may have been better had they been forced to fend for themselves. It’s a notion he quickly shakes off. Who’s to say what could have happened? It was pointless to dwell upon.
“I’ve raised you for this, there’s no need to be anxious.” She takes his fidgeting hands in her own, thumbs tracing arcs over the pale web of scars.
“I know,” Azriel assures her, dropping her hands with a squeeze to pull on his gloves. Knowing that he is thoroughly prepared has no effect on how he feels though.
Only a fool wouldn’t be nervous before being presented as a potential consort to the king.
Azriel has caught glimpses of the then-prince now-king over the years, but there’s one memory that stands above all the rest:
He was five and hiding from his brothers. Azriel had wandered into the stable as he often did and climbed the rickety ladder into the hayloft.
Unlike all those previous afternoons spent up there, however, the hayloft was already occupied. A red-haired boy was sitting on his heels on the far side, his hand outstretched to something in the hay.
“What are you doing?” Azriel asked as he approached.
The boy startled, his honey-colored eyes narrowing at Azriel. “Who are you?”
“My name is Azriel. Who are you?”
“You don’t know who I am?”
“Should I?”
The boy had laughed then and beckoned him over to come see.
One of the barn cats had given birth to a litter of kittens. Azriel forgot all about his brothers as they passed the afternoon watching the kittens stumble around each other as their mother took turns licking them down.
It was only after the boy left that Azriel realized he’d never been told his name.
The next time he saw the boy, a few months later, he was crossing the west courtyard with his mother.
“Bow!” She hissed at him, dropping into a graceful curtsey as the boy and two guards walked past them. Azriel bent at the waist, waiting for his mother to rise before straightening his spine.
“Who was that, Mother?”
She looked at him, astonished. “That was Prince Eris. One day he will be our king.”
“Oh.”
It’s childish but, as Azriel makes his way down to the carriage his grandmother has arranged to take him to the palace, he can’t help wondering if Eris will remember him. If, maybe, he will look at Azriel and be reminded of golden dust motes and the sweet smell of hay just as Azriel is whenever he sees the king.
He chides himself for being foolish as the carriage trundles through the city streets. He cannot afford to let something as asinine as sentiment distract him. This is his only opportunity to secure a better life for his mother, and he refuses to jeopardize it because of one afternoon a lifetime ago, even if that afternoon is one of the best he’s ever had.
✦ ✦ ✦
Eris smiles politely as the next prospect is introduced. The firstborn of Lord Arminta has an education overseen by a herd of tutors and an admittedly impressive number of instruments they play proficiently. They’re beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful—attention grabbing and pleasing to the eye—but Eris carries out a brief conversation with them as he has with everyone else who has been escorted through the throne room doors and feels nothing.
As they go to join the other dozen prospects already milling about the refreshment tables, Eris leans over to ask his mother, “How many more are there?”
“You’re about halfway through.”
Eris swallows his groan, kings aren’t allowed. Callan’s posted by the doors and Eris looks at him with a subtle nod, signifying that he should send the next one in.
A hush falls over the room as the doors swing open to reveal what may just be the most striking person Eris has ever seen. Familiarity nags at him but he can’t recall why.
“Azriel Blackwell, he is the son of Lord Blackwell,” his mother supplies as she’s done for all the others.
Azriel.
Azriel.
Somehow he knows that name, but he’s too distracted by the sight of his present to wonder about the past. Sharp hazel eyes watch him from a face that would not have been out of place on one of the statues in the sculpture gallery. This is a man who has been crafted by a mastered and magnanimous hand. His clothes are well-tailored, hinting at the power of lean muscles and showcasing elegantly proportioned limbs.
The way he moves, grace belying strength, reminds Eris of a mountain lion, and yet those lovely eyes betray him. He’s not as confident as he is pretending to be, but Eris can hardly fault him for that.
Before the thought is fully formed, Eris stands as Azriel stops before the dais. He’s remained seated for the others but something is urging him to go to him so he does.
Azriel’s eyes widen before they drop to the floor, and he quickly folds into a bow.
Eris doesn’t stop until he’s only an arm’s length away. “Rise,” he bids. His voice is softer than intended.
Azriel does, but his eyes remain fixed on Eris’s boots. Eris is only an inch or two taller than him which is a nice change.
“Have we met before?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Once, when we were children.” Azriel’s voice is rich and smooth, and Eris grins a little because he finds it pleasing.
“Azriel,” Eris ponders aloud. It’s a beautiful name, unusual too. So why can’t he… “Kittens in the hayloft.”
Finally, Azriel looks up at him and there’s a questioning intensity in his gaze that sends a thrill up Eris’s spine. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Eris’s smile widens, and he dares to hope it’s that expression which causes a soft grin to spread on Azriel’s face.
“By the stars,” Eris muses, scarcely resisting the urge to trace the curve of Azriel’s lower lip with his thumb, to press and see if that mouth would open to him.
“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Azriel inquires carefully.
“Far from it.” It’s just that his memory of a small scrawny boy with dirt on his forehead and a scraped knee poking through a hole in his trousers is difficult to reconcile with the person who stands before him now. “You’re rather exquisite, you know.”
This time, Eris allows himself an indulgence. He brushes a dark curl off Azriel’s forehead where it had fallen out of place with his bow.
Whether Azriel’s beautiful blush is the result of the compliment or Eris’s touch, Eris doesn’t care—either is a delightful prospect.
“Your Majesty is too kind,” Azriel says, dipping his head as if it will conceal the color on his golden brown cheeks.
“I assure you I am no such thing,” Eris huffs a laugh. “But if you fear my words are contrived, allow me to press upon you the sincerity of my confession over tea?”
“Tea, Your Majesty?” Azriel looks confused and Eris thinks it’s rather adorable.
“Yes.” Eris glances over his shoulder, giving his mother a pointed look which is met with a pleased grin. “I’m very curious to learn more about you, Azriel. If you’ll do me the honor of joining me?” On impulse, Eris holds out his hand.
“The honor is mine, Your Majesty. I find myself plagued by a similar curiosity.” There’s a hint of a smirk in Azriel’s polite smile, an edge of something that Eris cannot wait to unearth.
Azriel takes his hand but, to Eris’s dismay, he’s wearing gloves. That won’t do. Eris needs this man’s skin beneath his fingers. He takes Azriel’s wrist in one hand and tugs off the glove with the other, bowing to press a lingering kiss to his scarred knuckles.
Eris’s thumb trails over the ridges and divots. When he glances up at Azriel, he’s surprised to see the man’s eyes wide in horror. That won’t do either.
Of course, Eris had anticipated that he’d worn the gloves for a reason, but he didn’t care about how the scars felt though he was curious to know how they got there and knew he wouldn’t like the eventual answer.
Holding Azriel’s gaze, Eris lifts his hand to his lips this time. “Beautiful,” he says, then kisses the word into the scarred skin.
Azriel inhales sharply; the sound wavering a little even as the tense set of his shoulders vanishes.
Not yet willing to release this lovely enigma named Azriel, Eris tucks his hand into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we get that tea, then?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Azriel says, fingers flexing on Eris’s arm.
Oh yes, I intend to be.
“The pleasure,” Eris lets some of the hunger stirring in his gut fill his gaze, “is all mine, Azriel.”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @damedechance @ablogofsapphicpanic @iftheshoef1tz @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @the-lonelybarricade @krem-does-stuff @octobers-veryown @foundress0fnothing @melonsfantasyworld @fieldofdaisiies @lady-riel @queercontrarian @valkyrieassassin @brokeneveningstars @areyoudreaminof @itsthedoodle @xtaketwox @talons-and-teeth @thelovelymadone
#azris#azris fanfiction#azris fanfic#azriel x eris#eris x azriel#eris vanserra#eris acotar#azriel#azriel acotar#azriel shadowsinger#azriel's mom#lady of the autumn court#lady vanserra#acotar fanfiction#acotar#royalty au#acotar au#acotar ao3#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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Lack of Discretion
For @stickyelectrons. The request: Modern AU Elucien. Elain goes for a drink after work and meets bartender Lucien.
Elucien ✦ Rated T ✦ 966 words ✦ on AO3
Elain was tired. Not the kind of tired that made a person yawn or long for a nap, but the sort that settled in her bone marrow and made everything heavy.
Most of the time Elain loved her job, but every so often life would descend and remind her that managing a garden center and nursery was no simple task. This had been one of those weeks where everything had gone wrong and she’d pulled multiple twelve-hour days. Now it was Friday and, thankfully, she’d been able to put the place to rights in time for the weekend.
As much as Elain wished to be at home and asleep, she couldn’t cancel plans with Vassa again. They’d already rescheduled this evening three times. So there she was, walking down Main Street with the hot August breeze tugging at the strands of hair escaping her ponytail toward Cauldron Brewed, their favorite bar in town.
Elain had left Velaris once Feyre had started art school. She found the thirty-minute drive between the bustling city and the town of Nightwood to be ideal—close enough that it wasn’t too much of a chore to visit her sisters, but far enough away to feel like hers.
Approaching the faded brick facade of the bar, Elain realized it had been the better part of a year since she’d come here.
She checked her phone to see if Vassa had arrived, but there were no new notifications. Elain sent a text telling her she’d be at the bar.
The warm chatter of conversation washed over her as she stepped inside, the air conditioning covering her arms in goosebumps. She made her way to the long wooden bar, smiling at the faces she recognized and basking in the feeling of how nice it was to truly be a part of the community now.
That feeling vanished, however, when Elain slid onto a stool and noticed the bartender. She’d never seen him here before. Elain knew that for a fact because she was certain she could never forget meeting someone who looked like that.
He had long red hair knotted into a bun at the base of his neck, broad shoulders shifting beneath his white button-down. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, showing off the warm brown skin and corded muscles of his forearms like he’d walked right out of a wet dream. Then there was the way his vintage looking jeans hinted at powerful thighs as he walked over to her.
Quirking a brow with a pale scar bisecting it, he stopped right in front of Elain.
Oh shit. Elain blushed as she realized how blatantly she’d been checking him out.
“Hi there, what can I get for you?” the man—Lucien, according to a pin over his shirt pocket—asked, clearly amused at Elain’s lack of discretion.
“A gin and tonic, please.”
“Sure thing,” Lucien said, his lips curving into a smirk that should be illegal for how it made her stomach flip.
She watched him making the drink with a practiced, fluid ease, wondering just how long he’d been working here and regretting not coming back sooner.
He placed her drink down on a paper coaster. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you.”
Jesus, Elain needed to get her mind out of the gutter because that shouldn’t have sounded like an innuendo.
“I’m fine for now thanks, just waiting on someone.”
Lucien’s brilliant smile faltered for a second (which Elain only noticed because she’d been staring at his lips—again) but he recovered just as quickly, nodding politely and walking over to help someone else.
Elain sipped her drink and checked her emails while she waited for Vassa, doing her best not to keep glancing over at Lucien and failing. After forty minutes had passed with no word from her friend, Elain was starting to worry. But just as she had the thought, her phone buzzed with an incoming call.
“Vassa? Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m really sorry but I’m not going to make it tonight. Dahlia went into labor early and it’s looking like it’ll be a long one.”
She could hear the exhaustion and excitement layered in her best friend's voice. Vassa operated an equine rescue and rehabilitation center just outside of town. “Don’t worry about it. That’s exciting news!”
“You’ll have to come over and meet the new addition soon, okay? I really miss you. Tuesday coffees aren’t enough.”
“I’m free Sunday after four. Would that work?”
“It should! I—” Vassa paused, listening to something in the background. “I’ve got to go, the vet just arrived. I’m really sorry for standing you up and I love you and I can’t wait to see you on Sunday.”
And then the call went dead. Elain laughed softly; Vassa was always like that—a whirlwind.
“Still expecting your date?”
Elain hadn’t noticed Lucien approaching.
“No, my friend can’t make it but for a very good reason.”
“Do you mind if I join you, then?”
Elain blinked, then noticed that his button-down and nametag had been replaced by a sage-colored t-shirt and he had let his hair down.
“I’m off the clock. It’s after seven,” he elaborated when she didn’t respond, color creeping up his cheeks. “It’s totally fine if you want to tell me to fuck off, I just…” he shook his head and walked around the bar to stand near the neighboring stool. “Sorry, I’m doing this all out of order. My name is Lucien.” He stuck out his hand.
It was large and warm, completely enveloping hers and sending a cascade of sparks up her arm. He was flustered and Elain found it rather adorable.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lucien. My name is Elain. Why don’t you have a seat?”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @areyoudreaminof @ablogofsapphicpanic @damedechance @iftheshoef1tz @panicatthenightcourt @separatist-apologist @moonpatroclus @kingofsummer93 @octobers-veryown @foundress0fnothing @talons-and-teeth @krem-does-stuff
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You're Lucky I Love You
For @areyoudreaminof <3 The prompt: Canon Elucien. Teasing. "You're lucky I love you."
—this fic contains a shameless reference to What Lies Inside, I could not help myself nor will I apologize—
Elucien ✦ Rated G ✦ 814 words ✦ on AO3
Elain breathed a sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind her. After spending the last six months on an extended visit to Vassa and Jurian to see the newly rebuilt palace and the now not-so-newborn princess, Elain was grateful to be back in her own house. They had arrived home this afternoon, but she’d gone straight into a debriefing with Balthazar and the other court’s emissaries about a potential exchange.
It felt amazing to be home.
She’d missed the sun-warmed limestone walls, the weathered wood floors, the grove of citrus trees in the back garden, and the sprawling bougainvillea climbing around their front door. Having known them for over a decade now, Elain had gone into the trip aware that they wouldn’t get much time alone, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d come to take it for granted since she and Lucien had moved to the Day Court.
Quiet evenings with Lucien as the sun set and painted the kitchen golden—that was what Elain had missed the most. At the moment, however, her mate was nowhere to be seen.
“Lucien?” she called into the house. There was no reply. She couldn’t hear his heartbeat. That was suspicious.
Elain decided to check the garden, though she couldn’t imagine what he would be doing out there alone.
“Lucien?” she asked into the slightly sea-salty breeze blowing inland from the bay.
The flagstone path was warm beneath her bare feet.
“Are you out here?”
He wouldn’t have gone to his father’s palace without telling her… and she couldn’t recall him mentioning any other plans.
Then she heard… panting?
She didn’t know what else to call the rapid and shallow breaths she was picking beyond the grove, near the back corner of the walled-off acre that was her haven.
Elain took off at a furious pace, brushing past the flower and vegetable beds and through the stand of citrus trees.
“I can hear you,” she made no effort to disguise the ire in her voice.
It had been six months since they’d had a nice evening just the two of them. She’d been looking forward to it from their second week in Scythia onwards. Even though it had been years since they accepted the bond, she still had needs. Obviously Lucien had enthusiastically sated some of those needs while they were abroad, but Elain missed the simple domesticity of their life here. And now he was off doing Cauldron knew what?!
Elain emerged from the trees. “Lucien—”
She stopped short.
Lucien was crouching on the ground, pointedly not looking at her. His white shirt and tan trousers splotched with rust-colored mud. The same colored mud that coated the limbs of the gray puppy whose head he was stroking.
“Lucien Daanan Spell-Cleaver. What in the Mother’s name is going on?”
Ducking his head, Lucien murmured under his breath and the surrounding air stopped shimmering, the sound of his heartbeat filling Elain’s ears.
“You know I love you with everything I am, right?”
Oh, the guilt in his voice was quite apparent.
“Lucien.”
“She tried to dig her way out of the garden just now, I was figuring out the best way to stop it from happening again,” he said sheepishly, gesturing to the rather obvious hole in the earth along the back wall.
“She?”
“Eris came by earlier?”
“Eris came by earlier, and?”
“This is Safira,” he scratched behind the puppy’s floppy ear and her tongue lolled. Lucien cleared his throat. “Apparently Cinder—the alpha of Eris’s pack of hounds—had a litter while we were in Scythia. He… uh… summoned Safira right before winnowing away. You know how Eris is—always minimizing anything he does that could be considered nice. He, quote, ‘didn’t want this one because his pack was already too large and she was the runt’ so he, quote, ‘figured that, after almost four-hundred years, I could handle the responsibility of having a smokehound of my own.’”
“Did he now?” Elain tried to make the words sharp and stern but the puppy—Safira—was looking over at her with pleading silvery eyes, kneading the ground with her large paws like she was trying to contain her excitement.
“Yes? Look, Elain—my love, my sunshine—when I was a boy, I spent every spare moment with Eris’s smokehounds and I always dreamed of having my own.”
Now both of them were looking at her with imploring eyes and Elain had already known where this exchange would conclude so she let out a long sigh, striding over to kneel beside him.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she withheld a huff of laughter, stretching out her hand for Safira to sniff.
The hound rewarded her with a slobbery lick. Elain couldn’t help her smile.
“Does that mean we can keep her?”
Elain did laugh then, “Yes, I suppose we can. Welcome to the family Safira.”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @ablogofsapphicpanic @iftheshoef1tz @damedechance @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @octobers-veryown @foundress0fnothing @talons-and-teeth @kingofsummer93 @wittyrejoinder @bagelfyre @velidewrites @krem-does-stuff
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#elucien#elucien fic#elucien fanfiction#elucien fanfic#elain x lucien#lucien x elain#pro elucien#elain archeron#lucien vanserra#lucien spell cleaver#elain acotar#pro elain archeron#pro lucien vanserra#acotar fanfiction#acotar fanfic#acotar fic#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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Sensation and the Scent of Waterlilies
For @talons-and-teeth. The prompt: Omegaverse Gwynriel with Alpha Gwyn and her Omega, Azriel.
Gwyn x Azriel ✦ Rated M (but SFW?) ✦ 685 words ✦ on AO3
Azriel’s gone. In this place—the lightning-filled feeling of his veins, the full body hum pitched at a frequency like this is everything and he is nothing but sensation and the scent of waterlilies—he’s immaterial, immeasurable.
The real world returns slowly. Consciousness is a feather reluctant to give over to gravity’s determined pull, but coming down is inevitable.
First, it’s the sensation of soft palms tracing up and down his sides. He’s fever warm but those hands are cool bliss stroking. Next, it’s the grounding weight pressing his hips and thighs down into the mattress at the center of his nest. Finally, just before he braves a peek through his lashes, Azriel can hear her voice—what began as unintelligible sounds are now words.
“... so good, sweetheart. You’ve done so well. I’m here. I love you. I’m so lucky to have you. My Azriel. My omega.”
“Alpha,” Azriel breathes, eyes fluttering open and finding her.
“I’m right here, Az,” Gwyn tells him, hands traveling higher to cup his face and brush his hair off his damp forehead. “How do you feel?”
He rallies enough brain cells to scan his body and replies, “Better. I think it’s over now. I’m no longer…” he blushes as he recalls the onset of his heat. “I’m not out of my mind with desperation to have you anymore.”
Gwyn laughs, smiling down at him and Azriel’s chest lights up at such approval from her. “I’m glad you’re finally somewhat satisfied, love. It’s been three days.”
“That explains why I feel like I’ve just run back-to-back marathons,” he says with a groan.
“You were wonderful, Azriel.” Gwyn traces his cheekbone with her thumb, then leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. “You stay here, I’m going to clean you up a little and then go grab some food for us from the kitchen.”
Azriel thinks that’s for the best, he’s not sure his limbs would be capable of obeying him at the moment. She’s gentle as she uses a warm cloth to wipe away the mess and then she’s gone. Even though he knows she’s only a floor below him, Azriel can’t help feeling anxious at the distance.
He traces the slightly raised, crescent-shaped mark on his neck. It calms him, feeling the evidence of Gwyn’s claim, feeling the proof that he is hers and she is his and she will never leave him behind.
Gwyn returns, guiding him to sit up against carefully fluffed pillows and they eat until they can’t manage another bite. Azriel has a blurry memory of Cassian delivering them food at one point, but his heats are always a haze in hindsight.
“I’m going to go run you a bath now, and I’ll join you after I change the bedding, okay?”
Azriel nods, he’s grateful for the simple instructions. His heats always leave him exhausted. Making decisions, even ones as trivial as these, is the last thing he needs right now.
“Thank you,” Azriel replies, kissing Gwyn’s freckled shoulder to add another layer to his gratitude.
She cards her fingers through his hair, and Azriel leans into the touch, humming in pleasure. He whines a little when she draws her magic hand away and Gwyn laughs, a soft and delighted sound. “If I keep doing that, you’ll fall asleep.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
Gwyn shakes her head, her expression somehow both fond and admonishing. “I know you’re tired, but you know that you’ll hate yourself if you go to sleep like this.”
And of course, she’s right. But that doesn’t stop Azriel’s eyes from drifting closed the moment his aching limbs are submerged in the steaming water. He hears the soft rustling of shifting fabrics through the partially open bathroom door and it soothes him, knowing that she’s near.
Azriel dozes. Only the swish of displaced water and the sound of his name coax his eyes open. Gwyn sits on the far side of the large tub, her coppery hair piled high into a bun to keep it dry.
“Come here, Azriel,” she tells him.
And Azriel is happy to comply.
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @iftheshoef1tz @octobers-veryown @damedechance @krem-does-stuff @mmiscbutterflies @panicatthenightcourt @shadowriel @foundress0fnothing @sunshinebingo @thelovelymadone
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A Sunshiny Sound
For @thelovelymadone. The prompt: Regency Elucien, “Is it really that hard for you to admit that I’m clever?” “Yes.”
Elucien ✦ Rated: G ✦ 852 words ✦ on AO3
“Is it really that hard for you to admit that I’m clever?” Lucien’s drawn-out taunt sends a shiver down Elain’s spine.
Rolling her shoulders back, Elain doesn’t let her mind stick on the fact that he is half a step away from crowding her against the bookshelves lining the modest library, doesn’t let herself linger on the warmth she feels rolling off of him from here. She doesn’t know how they went from having tea to this, but Elain can’t say she minds.
“Yes,” she turns to face him, fingers curling into the folds of her dress. “Yes, it is difficult, sir, for me to admit a thing I believe to be false. I prefer truths.”
“Of course, Miss Archeron.” Lucien smirks, failing to ameliorate his smugness though he attempts a differential nod, silky red hair slipping over the shoulder of his jacket. “Do enlighten me. What truths have you gathered about my character, then? I would very much like to hear them.”
Of course you would. Elain’s lips twitch into a smile but she flattens them immediately.
Lucien Vanserra, youngest brother of Lord Vanserra, occupant of Oakbridge House (the neighboring estate to Elain’s family home,) and her chief tormentor for the past sixteen years. She can still recall the day they met: Elain, age five, wandering through the fields beyond the western paddock when she’d found Lucien, age six, crouching in the grass.
She’d surprised him—sent him sprawling across the ground and muddying his already dusty trousers—only to be lectured by this strange boy with overly bright hair dangling in his eyes on the finer points of hide-and-seek. It had been the start of an unlikely friendship, one that had weathered the fall of her father’s company and the tarnish on her family’s name despite Elain’s insistence that he keep away from her to avoid becoming the focus of any unwelcome speculations.
“Mr. Vanserra, I wasn’t aware that you were going fishing today,” Elain now allows herself to grin at the confused furrow between his brows. “Unfortunately, I believe you’ll find this particular source severely lacking in her stock of compliments.”
The words leave her without thought, and Elain wishes she could claw them back from the dust mote scattered space between them. She hasn’t seen Lucien since the late Lord Vanserra’s funeral last autumn; he's spent the last eight months in London with only a handful of letters exchanged between them. Elain had believed the dwindling communication signified the end of their friendship. It’s a thought that has kept her up on countless nights, a thought like a blade to her heart. Because her true feelings toward Lucien Vanserra extend past the point of mere friendship.
You just had to say what was on your mind, didn’t you? Elain chides herself. He’s not the boy you grew up with anymore, he is a man—a respectable gentleman of high standing.
“Forgive me—” Elain starts to apologize for the ill-mannered jab, but is cut off by a bright burst of laughter emanating from Lucien’s chest and filling the empty room with sunshiny sound.
“Please do not apologize, Miss Archeron.” Lucien manages to get the words out as he tries to catch his breath.
Elain’s breath is nowhere to be found, it’s been stolen by the expression of unmitigated joy on this man’s painfully handsome face.
“Bollocks,” Lucien whispers to himself, bracing a palm over his heaving chest.
She knows he didn’t mean for her to hear the expletive, but it’s all Elain can do to keep from laughing. It’s as if the boy he was is peeking through the polished gentleman veneer. The library, usually one of the colder rooms in the house, suddenly feels too warm.
“Please forgive my outburst. I haven’t laughed like that in a long while.” He pauses, russet eyes searching her face which Elain knows is flushed beneath his gaze. “I admit that I’ve forgotten my purpose for calling this afternoon,” he says after a time, looking slightly dazed.
It’s then that Elain feels the burning in her cheeks—the unfamiliar but recognizable sensation of a wide smile held unconsciously for too long. She wills her expression back to a respectable placidity.
Lucien’s lips turn down in a pensive frown, his eyes are fixed on her lips and Elain’s breaths come shallowly. “I missed you,” he finally says. The admission is soft, like he isn’t sure whether he wants her to hear him. Then his expression brightens. “I called today because I am moving back to Oakbridge, permanently. I…” Lucien trails off, a dark flush blossoming high on his tawny cheeks. He clears his throat. “I wanted to see how you were, and to inquire as to whether I may call upon you regularly?”
Oh. There is no mistaking the intention between his words. Elain’s heart thuds heavily against her ribcage as if trying to escape her. Hope, a flame that had been nearly extinguished over the past year, flares back to life inside her.
“You may,” Elain tells him, grateful that her voice doesn’t waver and allowing herself a softer smile. “I would enjoy that very much.”
✦ ✦ ✦
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Give Over To The Fall
For Anon. The ask: Morlain, canon-verse, girls' night out at Rita's turns to something more ❤️
Mor x Elain ✦ Rated T ✦ 960 words ✦ on AO3
The golden light of the rapidly setting sun cast Elain’s room in shades of apricot and vermillion as she stared down her reflection, hands braced on her hips.
The dress was beautiful, a rich amethyst silk that made her glow with the contrast between fabric and skin. It was also the most revealing thing she’d ever worn. The neckline dropped halfway to her sternum, and the straps were thinner than a finger’s span. Then there were the slits: one on each side cut to mid thigh so every step she took revealed a long swath of leg.
When she returned, during those first few months being fae, Elain refused to look in mirrors. She couldn’t bear to see the evidence of what she knew to be true—the face as perfect as a porcelain doll’s, the arched ears, the richer color of her now-thicker hair. That she stood here, alone in her room and staring at her reflection, hair tucked behind her ears, and was focused on the gown instead of the person wearing it was a remarkable difference.
She’d grown used to being fae in the year since Nyx’s birth, had grown into the person she was now. Elain led a pleasant life. She had the river house gardens and her greenhouse there where she kept her experiments; she had the community gardens scattered throughout Velaris which she oversaw. She had afternoons in the shade of the willows by the river with a good book or her sister and toddling nephew. It was nice, comfortable, and yet Elain couldn’t help feeling like there had to be more.
It was this oddly conspicuous absence for a thing she pointedly missed but had never known which led her into this dress and prompted her to stand before the mirror. It was why she’d accepted an invitation that had been offered to her countless times before but always rejected. Elain was going out… to Rita’s… with Mor.
With a huff of disbelieving laughter at the thought, Elain turned away from her reflection, grabbed her small handbag, and left the room.
✦ ✦ ✦
The music resonated in her bones, beating in time with her heart. Elain was incandescent. Faelights swirled around the ceiling, washing Rita’s in a riot of magenta and blue. Bodies undulated all around her, arms raised to keep their drinks from spilling. The crowded dance floor absorbed her, claimed her as one of the many and swept her away and it was brilliant. Elain couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt more alive than she did right now.
A warm hand on her elbow, the scent of citrus and spice enveloping her as Morrigan dodged an over-excited elbow to face her.
Mor’s lips moved but Elain heard only music.
“What?” she asked, raising her voice and leaning in.
Blood-red lips parted in one of the brilliant smiles that Elain had been weathering this evening, one of those smiles that made her cheeks warm and her pulse speed.
Then Mor was touching her again, drawing her closer and out of the way of a group making their way toward the bar.
“I was trying to apologize for leaving you on your own for so long,” Mor told her, close enough that Elain could feel the words on the shell of her ear.
Feyre and Nesta had both bowed out of coming tonight, and Mor had run into some old friends when they’d arrived.
“I didn’t mind!” Elain laughed, surprised because it was true. “Did your friends leave?”
Mor nodded, brows slightly pinched as she scanned Elain’s face for any sign of a lie.
“Mor,” Elain shifted even further into her space so she could speak without half-shouting. The scant inches of air between them thrummed with something that settled in her veins like champagne. “I mean it, I really didn’t mind. This is fun. I’m having fun.”
And she was, truly, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Here, in the blur of dancing bodies and roaming lights, Elain was just another female. She wasn’t the High Lady’s sister; she wasn’t the Seer, wasn’t anyone, and because of that she was free.
Free to take Mor’s hand and lead her towards the center of the floor where the crowd was thickest. Free to let her eyes wander the gorgeous female as the two of them danced. It had been a slow dawning, the realization that her admiration for women and females went beyond the aesthetic and reached into the realm of desire. It was because of Mor, actually, that Elain learned this about herself.
Lithe muscle and soft curves draped in swathes of midnight blue, glowing skin, that sheet of golden hair that smelled faintly of sage and shone like sunshine, those gleaming walnut eyes, her rich warm laugh—everything about Mor drew her in, like a flower facing the midday light. So Elain didn’t let herself think, only feel.
She reveled in feeling the slide of fabric against smooth skin beneath her palm as the music turned sultry. Elain savored the way Mor’s eyes lingered on her pulse, then tracked a bead of sweat trailing down her throat between the valley of her breasts and out of sight. Mor’s attention was far more intoxicating than the glass of wine Elain drank upon her arrival.
Mor was the moon and Elain was the tide caught in her pull, drawing closer and closer with every heated glance and shock of delighted laughter until the crowd was thinning, the music slowing. It was then, with Mor’s gaze darting down to her lips every other moment, that Elain gave herself over to the fall.
Kissing Mor, swallowing her gasp of surprise and hum of pleasure—it was like finally coming up for air.
💕 💕 💕
tagging: @ablogofsapphicpanic @damedechance @octobers-veryown @krem-does-stuff @ultadverb @thesistersarcheron @iftheshoef1tz @thelovelymadone @moonpatroclus @foundress0fnothing@panicatthenightcourt @areyoudreaminof @talons-and-teeth
Sorry if I missed you, I've never written Morlain before so this is a shot-in-the-dark tag list lol. If you want to be added to/removed from my Morlain tags let me know because I have more for them coming in the future.
A/N: This is the only drabble I will be posting tonight, but from the state of my ask box I can tell you we are in for a delightful weekend :)
#morlain#mor x elain#morlain fanfiction#elain archeron#morrigan#morrigan acotar#pro elain archeron#pro morrigan#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabbles#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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Warmth Lingers in the Smoke
For @woibbelywobbegong. The request: Regency AU Azris with forbidden love where it's the last time the two get to see each other before something happens.
A/N: Though I recieved this drabble request after the deadline I set, I couldn't resist ending this lil event on an Azris note :) I hope you all enjoyed this drabble series, the masterlist is coming soon! Yes, this drabble contains a shameless RWRB reference and I regret nothing.
⁓In this drabble I said homophobia has no place in this, fuck historical accuracy we're only here for vibes⁓
Azris ✦ Rated T ✦ 783 words ✦ on AO3
Eris’s eyes are closed, but he is not asleep. The sheets underneath him are warm. The arms around him, the cheek resting on his shoulder, are warmer.
This place, right here, where Azriel’s heart beats mere inches from his own was once what terrified him most. To be in this place was all he wanted. To be in this place was everything he could never have.
Yet here, against all odds and sound logic, Eris lies. As he has during so many stolen moments before.
Azriel is not asleep either. His breaths are soft puffs on Eris’s neck.
Maybe if they don’t move, if they do not speak, they can make this moment last indefinitely. Maybe this thing that feels like the sun in his chest will be enough to change the flow of time.
It’s a fool’s hope. Delusion. It’s fingers scrabbling for a hold and finding none. It’s a pair of waxen wings too close to the light.
Eris’s fingers trace the knobs of Azriel’s spine, memorizing the topography of him, mapping out the well-known valleys where he’d prefer to linger the rest of his days and the ridges he’d gladly die climbing.
Azriel tenses against him, a long exhale following. “I hate this.” He pulls closer to Eris, like he wishes to climb inside and make a home for himself within the cage of Eris’s ribs.
Eris hasn’t told Azriel that he already has a place there.
“I do too.”
“It’s unfair.”
“I know.”
In the morning Eris would leave for London and take up his rightful place as the new Lord Vanserra. His late father is scarcely a week in the ground but the man’s absence is already a marked improvement.
“I’m being selfish,” Azriel mumbles, lips snagging on Eris’s skin.
“I wish you would be more often.” Ink-colored waves slip through Eris’s fingers like corn silk.
Silence reigns for several heartbeats.
“We don’t have a ‘more often’ anymore, Eris,” Azriel whispers. Eris wishes he would yell.
Rage he understands. Anger he can handle. But this? He doesn’t know what to do with the regretful gentleness that Azriel’s handing him. It’s a fragile sounding thing, and yet it unbalances him, shakes his foundations with a bright surge of hope.
Hope, the feeling Eris has forbidden himself. Hope, the very thing he dared not bring with him to Azriel’s cottage this evening.
Hope. Eris extinguishes the flame as soon as it appears, but its warmth lingers in the smoke.
“Azriel, I—” he breathes, but the air is suddenly thick and it catches in his throat. “Were there anything I could do to shift the strings of fate I would. But you know I need to do this for my family, for my mother.”
“You know I understand.” Azriel flattens a scarred palm over his heart.
Azriel does understand, maybe better than anyone, Eris’s need to give his mother all the safety, security, and happiness he can possibly provide. It’s the least they can do for the women who did everything for them and did it while surviving their fathers.
Azriel understands because it’s the same reason he must remain on the Knight’s estate when Eris leaves. Though Azriel’s mother is a lady’s maid living in the manor and Azriel manages the family’s horses, he still can check on her daily here. Just as it’s Eris’s duty to find a spouse with land and title, to take up his father’s mantle.
“Eris, I do not resent you for this. I don’t regret us. I… I needed you to know that.” Azriel’s voice is barely louder than the softly crackling flames behind the grate across the room.
That fickle beating thing may reside in Eris’s chest but it belongs to this man beside him. Eris fears (desperately hopes) it always will. He doesn’t want anyone else to have it.
“I don’t regret a single moment,” Eris tells him honestly, pushing up onto an elbow to look at him properly.
Neither of them is particularly forthcoming about what they feel, but it seems as if the nature of this moment possibly—likely—being their last has torn down all the usual walls and left them bare. It’s right there in the unguarded hazel eyes blinking up at him.
Eris cups Azriel’s jaw, stubble prickling his palm. “I will be forever grateful to have known you.” He swallows, but forces himself to complete the thought, “To have known this.”
And then he’s kissing Azriel like the fervor of their lips will mend his shattering heart.
Love begets heartbreak. Eris knows this, has known since before they began, and was still hopeless against the fall. He never stood a chance—doesn’t think he ever wanted to.
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @ablogofsapphicpanic @damedechance @iftheshoef1tz @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @octobers-veryown @foundress0fnothing @krem-does-stuff @melonsfantasyworld @lady-riel @queercontrarian @asnowfern @valkyrieassassin @brokeneveningstars @catboyjamesbond @xtaketwox @itsthedoodle @areyoudreaminof @melphss @fieldofdaisiies @the-lonelybarricade
if you wanted to be added to or removed from my azris tag list just let me know in the replies!
#azris#azris fanfiction#eris vanserra#eris acotar#azriel shadowsinger#azriel acotar#azriel#acotar au#regency au#eris x azriel#azriel x eris#kate's celebratory drabbles series#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabble
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The Sky Has No Walls
For @damedechance. The request: you know I LOVE "is the sky on fire?" So my prompt would be: a lil drabble about the first time Az trained/worked with daggers and what that was like for him. Alternatively, Az learning how to fly from Rhys/Cass.
This fic can stand alone, but will probably make more sense if you read Is The Sky On Fire? first.
The Bat Boys (platonic) ✦ Rated: T ✦ 918 words ✦ on AO3
Azriel knows they mean well. The shadows assure him that they have no ill intentions. The comments from Rhys and Cassian as he stands on the edge of the tall rock, however, are seldom helpful.
The air is crisp and piney. A steady wind blows through the trees, rustling their needles. He’ll never get tired of the smell, of the fresh air filling every corner of his lungs, of looking at the open sky stretching endlessly above instead of dark rock.
Azriel shakes his head, sending droplets of lake water flying as he looks down at the moonlit water. Rhys and Cassian are sitting on the smooth top of the rock behind him, waiting.
It’s frustration—that’s what the shadows called this particular heat-in-his-chest sensation when he’d asked.
“You can do it, Az,” Rhys encourages.
Azriel wants to tell the insufferable little lordling (a funny nickname for Rhys that he’s heard their peers use often) that he doesn’t think he can. He wants to give up, to go back to the house and the warmth of the bed that Aella insists he will get used to.
But then Azriel recalls the faces people make at him when he walks through the camp. Some see the shadows and fear him, sometimes that fear is mixed with another feeling the shadows called “pity,” but the expressions that stay with him into the late hours of the night are the sneers (another word the shadows taught him.) It’s those people who call him a no-sky when Rhys, Cassian, and Aella are out of earshot.
He doesn’t want to be a no-sky anymore.
The first time it happened and Rhysand did hear, his Fae magic had lashed out and shoved the person into the mud. Rhys had gotten in trouble for that, so Azriel pretends that the name-calling has stopped. He is already confused about why the two boys want to spend time with him, grateful as he is for their help with strengthening his wings. Azriel can also admit that it’s kind of nice to not be alone, even if it has been an adjustment as Aella calls it.
“Your wings are strong enough now,” Cassian adds from his place beside Rhys. “You just need to trust them.”
He says that like fighting the pull of the ground is easy.
“It’s hard,” he tells them, turning away from the water and sitting cross legged before them. “Flying is too different.”
“What do you mean ‘different?’” Cassian cocks his head, then has to brush his hair away from his eyes. “You’re Illyrian, we’re all born to fly.”
Azriel doesn’t know what to say, exactly, but he wants to make them understand. That way, they won’t be so disappointed in him. “The sky… it’s so big. It doesn’t end.”
His shadows settle around his shoulders, offering him the comfort of their slight weight as he thinks through his next words.
“I was born with wings, but I lived underground until I was brought here. My room was small and it was mostly dark, but I always knew where the walls and the floor were, even if I couldn’t see them.” Azriel takes a deep breath, keeping his gaze fixed on the gray rock instead of their faces.
He doesn’t want to see their disgust, he’s seen it once before and it hurts. That’s why he doesn’t like to talk about before with them. He knows his life was wrong and that they don’t like it.
“The sky has no walls. And that is… strange,” he finishes awkwardly, hating how sometimes his words don’t match what he wants them to say.
Azriel doesn’t realize he’s fiddling with his glove-covered hands until Cassian’s finger hooks around one of his and he goes still, looking up at the younger boy.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he says.
Rhys copies Cassian, hooking a finger with one of Azriel’s on the opposite hand. “The sky is very large, but that’s what I like about it. I can go anywhere. When I’m flying, I am free.”
Azriel looks up at Rhys, confused. “Aren’t you already free?”
“I am,” Rhys answers. “But flying is a different kind of free.”
Azriel didn’t know there were multiple kinds.
“Flying,” Cassian begins, “it’s like a different world. Everything on the ground becomes so small, it’s like it doesn’t matter anymore. And it’s fun.”
“That sounds nice,” Azriel says. Because things that happened on the ground not mattering anymore sounds like everything he wants. But he’s also still afraid. “The ground is all I know. You say I need to trust my wings, trust the wind….” Azriel tugs his hands away, tucking them under his thighs and admits, “I am not good at trust. I do not know the sky like you do; I don’t know how to trust it.”
“Do you trust us?” Rhys asks quietly.
Azriel looks up at them. “I think so.” And that surprises him but he thinks he doesn’t mind.
He knows he likes the way his words make Cassian and Rhys smile—it makes him feel warm.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to keep trying tonight,” Rhys says with a nod. “The sky isn’t going anywhere.”
“Neither are we,” Cassian adds. “I’m excited to fly with you—when you’re ready.”
Azriel stands, brushing his hands on his trousers. They’re still soaked from his last attempt, but the way Rhys and Cassian are looking at him fills Azriel with a new determination.
“I’ll try once more before we go.”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @iftheshoef1tz @octobers-veryown @talons-and-teeth @ablogofsapphicpanic @foundress0fnothing @moonpatroclus @panicatthenightcourt @krem-does-stuff @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies
#azriel#azriel acotar#azriel shadowsinger#azriel fanfic#rhysand#rhysand acotar#rhys acotar#cassian#cassian acotar#the bat boys#the night court#illyrians#pre canon#acotar fanfiction#acotar fanfic#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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Otherworldly
For @ablogofsapphicpanic. The request: Emorie … is regency and vampires too much?? 👀 maybe Mor is a noblewoman who is uhhh… a little elusive, Emerie is a bit of an outcast who runs her father’s shop after his death despite people turning up their noses, she gets a request from the lady of the land to keep her shop open a little bit later than usual because she’s just so busy during the day.
Emorie ✦ Rated: G ✦ 1.1k words ✦ on AO3
Emerie stared at the letter open on her shop counter as if waiting for the unbelievable words inked on the page to shift into something more plausible.
She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again but there the letter remained, its elegantly penned message unchanging.
Why on earth was Lady Morrigan Veritas inquiring about a visit to her store?
Emerie was proud of her store, and the work she did as a seamstress, but she catered to the lower middle-class townsfolk. Morrigan Veritas was the lady of the county; her estate, Athelwood, was known throughout the country for playing host to the most extravagant balls and events.
Again, Emerie blinked down at the letter asking her to remain open late this coming Friday to accommodate a visit from Lady Morrigan. She’d written the letter herself, explaining that her daily obligations were immovable and requesting (with far more kindness than was necessary, if Emerie was being honest) if she would make an exception.
Her snort of disbelief drew the attention of her lone customer, and Emerie blushed, composing herself before asking if they needed any assistance.
That night, in the apartment above the shop with moonlight spilling across her quilt, Emerie’s mind wandered back to the strange letter. She knew she needed to respond, but she was undecided about the answer she would give.
In the morning, Emerie’s curiosity won out, and she dropped off an affirmative response at the post office before opening the store. She’d heard so many stories about the enigmatic Lady Morrigan, and Emerie could not resist the temptation to discover any of them were true.
✦ ✦ ✦
The three remaining days passed as they usually did for Emerie: tea and toast, open the shop, lunch, close the shop, dinner, read, and sleep. She often caught her thoughts on the verge of lamenting that this life was monotonous. When that happened, she cut the idea off immediately. Her life may be boring by many standards, but she had her independence, her store, and a roof over her head that was hers alone. It was far more than any woman, especially one without wealth or any relation to a man in power, could dare to hope for.
She was lucky to live as she did, Emerie reminded herself, straightening the bolts of cotton and calico behind her as she waited for Lady Morrigan to arrive. The sun was almost set now, the shop lit by puddles of orange pooling around the oil lamps positioned around the room and the woodstove on the back wall. Emerie blamed her anxiety about the impending visit on the monotony of her day-to-day. Because things were always predictable, the unknown felt far more cavernous than it might have.
It definitely had nothing to do with the rumors of Lady Morrigan’s exquisite beauty (“otherworldly” as the few townsfolk who had seen her called it,) her grace, or her position.
The bell above the shop door chimed, a breeze of evening air and something like citrus and cinnamon into the quiet shop. Emerie took a deep breath before turning around, smoothing down her perfectly smooth skirt as she did… and promptly lost her grip on the English language.
The door swung closed behind the most beautiful woman Emerie had ever seen. That was one story already confirmed. Silky tendrils of flaxen hair framed a delicately boned face—dark lashed framed rich brown eyes, porcelain skin, lips painted a subtle shade of red. She was tall and held herself with an air of dignity that would not have been out of place for a queen.
“Good evening,” Lady Morrigan said. Her voice was warm and carried an edge of raspy depth that made Emerie want to shudder. “My name is Morrigan Veritas. You must be Emerie.”
Scrabbling to regain her hold on sanity, Emerie dipped into a hurried curtsey as embarrassment warmed her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Morrigan. How may I be of assistance?”
The amused smirk of those reddened lips was not the response she’d been expecting, nor was the wide smile flashed in her direction as the lady said, “While there are many things you could help me with, I’m here because I would like to commission a gown.”
“A gown,” Emerie repeated. “From me.”
The lady looked at her with a knowing smile, “You’re very talented. I will admit that I’m an admirer of yours.”
“How?” Emerie blurted, quickly amending, “Forgive me, my lady. That was rude of me. I’m just curious how someone such as your esteemed self would be aware of my work.”
Lady Morrigan approached the section of silk bolts, running an elegant finger down the neat stack. “My lady’s maid frequents your shop,” she said. And a shock of energy went up Emerie’s spine as those eyes landed upon her again, now glowing like the embers of the hearth.
Otherworldly.
“The quality of your work is unparalleled in the county,” the lady explained, then added, “and I will admit that hearing about a woman outright owning her business piqued my curiosity.”
“I’m honored, my lady.” Emerie wasn’t used to receiving any kind of praise for her work. Everything she made was serviceable but not necessarily beautiful. Usually, it was only the beautiful things that were considered worthy of praise. Beautiful things like the woman approaching her with gracefully long strides.
A finger on her chin (surprisingly cold) tilted Emerie’s gaze up from where it had fallen to the floorboards. Her heart was racing, her body thrumming with desire. This was like every fantasy she’d ever had, and Emerie wondered if she was dreaming.
Emerie met Lady Morrigan’s gaze, breath catching in her throat at their proximity. After a heartbeat of lightning-charged silence, the finger on her jaw withdrew. That connection broken, Emerie took a step back and found it easier to breathe.
“Would you be willing to do it?” Lady Morrigan asked.
“Pardon?” Emerie was still reeling from that brief touch, from the lungful of light and tasteful perfume.
Almost as if Emerie’s nervousness pleased her, the lady’s smile grew. “A gown. Would you be willing to make me one?”
In her mind’s eye scenes flashed of this stunning creature in her fitting room, the thick velvet drapes closing out the rest of the world so it was just Emerie and her, of the lady undressing to her shift and Emerie’s tape measure against thin white fabric. Her mouth dry, Emerie cleared her throat. “I would be honored to, my lady.”
✦ ✦ ✦
tagging: @damedechance @octobers-veryown @thelovelymadone @moonpatroclus @panicatthenightcourt @krem-does-stuff @foundress0fnothing @areyoudreaminof @talons-and-teeth
There's still time to submit drabble requests! Find the guidelines here :)
#emorie#emorie fic#emerie x mor#mor x emerie#emerie acotar#emerie of illyria#morrigan#morrigan acotar#pro morrigan#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabble#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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My drabble requests will close in 2.5 hours (at 8pm EST) there’s still time to slide into my asks should you like to 😇
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Drabble Event Masterlist
A list of all the fics written as a part of my 600 follower milestone celebration. You can find the series on AO3 or search the tag "kate's celebratory drabbles series" on my page to find them as well. All fics listed are less than a thousand words unless they are marked "*"
Give Over To The Fall ✦ Mor x Elain ✦ T
When Feyre and Nesta ditch girl's night, Elain and Mor head to Rita's alone, and long-simmering things boil over.
A Sunshiny Sound ✦ Elain x Lucien ✦ G
Regency AU || Despite being friends (and neighbors) with Lucien Vanserra since childhood, Elain has spent the past months wondering if that friendship has come to an end as his letters have grown few and far between. Then he calls upon her one afternoon out of the blue, and things are not what they had seemed.
Otherworldly* ✦ Mor x Emerie ✦ G
Regency AU || Emerie leads a simple life. She has the store she inherited upon her father's death, her skill with a needle and thread, and far more independence than most of her peers could dream of. When she receives a mysterious request from the lady of the county, Emerie is too curious to deny it.
Like They Want To Lick You ✦ Azriel x Gwyn ✦ T
Modern AU || It never bothered her before, the hungry eyes that always followed Azriel wherever they went. But this is their honeymoon, he belongs to her now in every imaginable way, and she can't help feeling a little possessive.
The Sky Has No Walls ✦ Azriel & Rhys & Cassian ✦ T
Rhys and Cassian helping Azriel learn to fly.
Sensation and the Scent of Waterlilies ✦ Azriel x Gwyn ✦ M
Omegaverse AU || Azriel's heat finally ends and he feels incredibly lucky to have such a wonderful Alpha. This is just post-heat softness and Azriel being stupidly in love with Gwyn. There are only vague references to spicy things.
You're Lucky I Love You ✦ Elain x Lucien ✦ G
Elain returns home from a meeting and can't find Lucien anywhere in the house. She checks the back garden and what she finds is the last thing she expects.
Reputation to Damage ✦ Nesta x Cassian ✦ M
Modern/Grad School AU || Every semester at Prythian University, a rumor goes around about a professor in a relationship with their TA. It's as predictable as gravity, but Cassian isn't sure how he feels about it this time... because the subject of the rumor might be him.
All That Matters ✦ Nesta x Cassian ✦ M
Picks up where ACOSF chapter 78 leaves off. After the ordeal of the Blood Rite, Briallyn, and Nyx's birth, Nesta and Cassian finally go home. Feelings are felt, love is demonstrated through care, and they finally get some much-needed rest.
Lack of Discretion ✦ Elain x Lucien ✦ T
Modern AU || Elain has had a long week, but she's determined to beat her exhaustion and meet Vassa for drinks. They'd already had to reschedule it several times. Unfortunately, unforeseen circumstances prevent Vassa from joining her that night as well. At least the beautiful new bartender asks if he can join her when his shift ends.
This Lovely Enigma* ✦ Azriel x Eris ✦ M
Royalty AU || The law requires that King Eris Vanserra find a consort and partner within one year of taking the throne. Eris's expectations are low, and the line of prospective consorts being introduced to him is still managing to meet them or, at least, they were. Then Azriel walked into the throne room.
Truth or Dare, Azriel?* ✦ Gwynriel + Elucien ✦ M
Modern AU || It's their annual week up at Rhysand's family cabin. When Nesta and Cassian retreat to their room and Rhys and Feyre head off to theirs shortly after, the others know they'll need to occupy their time before risking going into the cabin. A tipsy game of Truth or Dare around the bonfire takes a few very interesting turns.
Warmth Lingers in the Smoke ✦ Azriel x Eris ✦ T
Regency AU || With his father recently deceased, Eris is leaving for London in the morning and all the duties that await him as the new Lord Vanserra. It's his last night walking the mile to Azriel's cottage on the neighboring estate and losing a few precious hours to the man he never meant to fall for.
#this was so fun#azris#gwynriel#elucien#nessian#morlain#emorie#gwynlain#luzriel#azriel shadowsinger#eris vanserra#cassian acotar#rhysand acotar#nesta archeron#elain archeron#mor acotar#emerie acotar#gwyneth berdara#lucien vanserra#acotar fanfiction#acotar drabble#kate's celebratory drabbles series
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