#elain acotar

[elainsgirl]

This scene isn’t “proof” that the twins are being given a bonus bcs off Elain or are being paid by Rhys to be elains friends. Feyre is literally just expressing how grateful she is for the twins as they had offerered Elain companionship when she was at her lowest. No one told them too. Their relationship may have started bcs they were taking care of Elain - but very clearly, its grown into a friendship where they each care for each other. Just like Feyre and IC girls, just like the Valkryies.

Elain was baking with the twins with a spark in her eyes, the first activity in months after her suicidal depression

. Elain turned down Nesta’s offer of helping her get dressed and instead chose the twins. . Elain had gotten them each gifts.

. Nesta wondered if Elain was getting lessons in stealth from the twins

The twins are Elains friends. They are her found family. Friends she’s made outside of her sisters. Why would Sjm mention they’re friends if she’s just going to break them up? Why keep their connection to Elain for 3 books….if nothing will come off it and Elain will decide she doesn’t actually like them and break it off? No where on page are the twins getting paid bcs of Elain either. Elain isn’t going to be friends with Vassa who she has barely interacted with and Jurian who made a r4pe joke about her being passed around. Not only is that random & inorganic - it doesn’t fit Sjms pattern of the fmc making two female friendships completing a trio of 3 powerful women who are besties with each other.

At this point - its just pathetic and embarrassing watching certain stans undermine this beautiful friendship bcs it doesn’t suit their ship. It goes to show they don’t actually care about Elain. They only care about finding ways to connect her with Lucien.

Regardless of ships:

Nuala and Cerridewean are Elains canon found family friends. Thats the friendship Mass has been developing for 3 books, thats the friendship she will explore in Elains book.

[shadowedpetals]

You don't want Elain to be a spy because any plot with this scenario will technically lead her to Azriel.

And yes, Elain can be a spy and kind at the same time; spying doesn't mean that SJM will turn her into a manipulative, two-faced witch who will put everyone's life at risk on her journey of self discovery.

"Elain is Elain."

[mirrorballpages]

Azriel leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as Cassian poured himself another glass of wine—his third bottle, at least. The conversation had dragged on for hours, moving in circles around the problems in Windhaven. Azriel had already gathered all the necessary intelligence, and Rhys had already made his decision, but Cassian, fueled by both frustration and alcohol, needed to vent.

It had been days since Elain’s vision, and Azriel was no closer to finding answers on the vines that surrounded her. He hated that. Hated that no matter how many books Clotho searched for, he still didn’t know exactly what was happening to her. The clock chimed nine, and a whisper curled against his ear.

She has moved to the kitchen.

Azriel barely resisted the urge to exhale in relief. The conversation at hand had shifted to Nesta, a discussion he wanted no part of. "I just don’t understand why she had to move out," Cassian grumbled, frustration thick in his voice.

Azriel pushed his chair back, standing smoothly. "You should ask her yourself," he murmured, already walking away. Rhys gave him a knowing glance but said nothing. His shadows trailed ahead, slipping through the townhouse like dark silk. She’s alone, they whispered.

Where were Nuala and Cerridwen? He assumed they had retired for the night, but he also selfishly didn’t care. The truth was, he wanted to be alone with Elain. The only times they had to themselves were those quiet, golden mornings in the garden, or the occasional late evenings once everyone else had gone to bed. Those hours before the rest of the house stirred, before duty or expectation pulled them apart.

He had learned her morning routine as intimately as he knew his own. She would wake just before sunrise, stretching lazily beneath her blankets before padding downstairs in a linen dress, her braid loose and sleep still clinging to her voice. She would grab a plate of breakfast, then head to the garden, humming softly as she worked. Azriel would always be waiting, perched on the garden bench or leaning against the wall, a fresh cup of tea already in hand for her. She always smiled when she saw him.

And that was why he left each morning before the others rose. Even if he slept in the House of Wind most nights, his mornings were with her. To keep it theirs. To keep this… whatever this was, private. Safe.

But tonight, alone in the kitchen, no one was here to witness them. When he stepped through the doorway, he saw her at the sink, the sleeves of her dress rolled up as she washed the last of the dishes. She turned when she heard him, smiling.

"Where are the twins?" he asked, reaching for a plate to dry. The dish towel felt almost foreign in his scarred hands—he was so used to using magic for small tasks like this. But if it meant more time with her, he’d dry every dish in the house by hand.

"I told them to go home. They work too much as it is," she said, glancing down at the soapy water. A small, hesitant pause. "Oh, I’m glad you’re here. I have a meeting tomorrow morning with a women - sorry, female - and her grandfather. They tend to a community garden in Riverbend Quarter, and it was damaged during the attack. I’m going to see if I can help."

A strand of hair slipped from her braid, curling against her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, still looking at the water. "Do you mind showing me where it is? I haven’t been there before. If you’re too busy, I understand. I can ask Feyre—"

"Of course," he said before she could finish, careful to keep his voice even.

Inside, though? Fuck.

He could already see it...the way she’d look in the early morning light, her apron tied neatly over a soft linen dress, her hair woven into a braid but curling slightly at the ends. The way she’d hum as they walked, the city still quiet around them, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her touch sending warmth through his leathers and straight into his chest. She would stop to admire something, a bird, a patch of flowers, the way the light hit the rooftops just right. She always noticed things others didn’t. And he would watch her, pretending he wasn’t committing every little movement, every glance, every flicker of sunlight in her eyes to memory.

And if he were a luckier male…

He would pull her close, tilt her face toward his, and press his lips to hers, slow. His hands would be careful, tracing over the curve of her waist, memorizing the shape of her, the warmth of her. She would be soft beneath his touch, softer than anything he’d ever known, and he would hold her as if she were spun from the morning mist, something delicate that might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful.

She would sigh against his lips, her breath warm, her fingers clutching at his leathers, pulling him closer. He would press deeper into her, his heartbeat hammering like war drums, his wings flaring slightly to balance himself—to ground himself—because touching her like this, having her like this, would unravel him completely.

He would whisper against her ear, his lips brushing that delicate skin, telling her how beautiful she was, how utterly magnificent she was. How he had spent centuries in darkness, but she—she—was the first light he had ever truly known. That she was more than just lovely, more than just kind, that she was extraordinary—the most divine thing he had ever beheld.

And she would look up at him with those soft, brown eyes, wonder pooling in their depths. She would smile, the kind of smile that could unmake a male, and it would be for him. Only for him.

He would kiss her again and again, pressing himself into her as if he could somehow etch himself into her soul, as if he could keep her forever. As if, for once in his life, he could have something good. Something his.

But then the vision would slip away, reality clawing its way back in, cruel and unyielding. Because he wasn’t that lucky.

Because she wasn’t his.

And so, instead of pulling her close, instead of tasting her, instead of worshipping her the way he ached to, he would keep his distance. He would let the silence stretch between them, his hands tightening on the dish towel instead of on her. And he would do what he always did—watch her from the shadows, longing for something he could never have. Because she deserved better than a male like him.

A timer dinged.

“Oh, the cookies are ready!” Elain sang, moving toward the oven, the soft swish of her dress brushing against the cabinets. The scent of oatmeal and melted chocolate filled the kitchen, warm and familiar. It was the kind of smell that made a place feel like home.

Azriel inhaled deeply. “Cassian’s favorite,” he murmured with a small smile.

Elain slid the baking sheet onto the counter, its edges gleaming in the dim kitchen light. “Don’t worry, I also made a few of yours,” she said, setting the tray down with a soft clink.

And there they were—two dark chocolate chip cookies, separate from the rest. For him. Azriel’s stomach tightened. It was such a small thing, insignificant to anyone else, but the fact that she had remembered, that she had thought of him as she baked—him, of all people—sent something warm unfurling in his chest.

Read The Rest on AO3

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

"I ship Elriel!"

"I ship Elucien!"

I ship myself with most of the damn characters. I'd fuck them. Point blank, no hesitation. Smash. Next question.

[velidewrites]

Stealing the new Twitter meme template cause it’s very Elucien book coded

(art by me)

[nebarious]

Y/N: *sits next to az* So I've been wondering

Azriel: Wondering what?

Y/N: What's your type?

*Inner Circle materialised out of nowhere*

Cassian: Good question

Rhys: Allow us to elaborate on his behalf

Amren: He likes someone who is kind

Feyre: Someone who loves their family

Nesta: Someone who hail from the night court

Elain: Someone who has dark hair and violet eyes

Cassian: Someone who is half Illyrian half high fae

Rhys: Someone who grew up with him and is loved by his shadows

Y/N: That kinda describes rhys. Too bad he's with our beautiful feyre

Y/N: *looks at az* Don't worry, I'm sure there is someone who is just like rhys and not taken

IC: *groans* Hopeless!

Azriel: They forgot to mention dense

[randomgurl2326]

Next To My Wife

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: The one time Azriel let his two worlds collide…ALSO…Based off of this quote from EPIC The Musical: After everything you’ve done, how will you sleep at night/Next to my wife

Warnings: Blood, Torture

The dungeon is cold. Second only to the Winter Court. The sounds of a male’s cries and screams are music to the spymaster’s ears.

The cobalt siphons on the Illyrian warrior’s leathers shine bright down here. Like they knew what he’s doing and that he takes pleasure in it.

The male doesn’t let the guilt creep in. Not yet. Guilt is for the conscience. Conscience is for home. He can’t afford conscience at work. That’s a luxury only innocence can have…. His sweet girl, innocent—

No, he can’t think of her now. Never let the two worlds touch, is what he tells himself. Keep the innocent innocent. Keep the bloody bloody.

Never let them touch.

Azriel’s shadows envelop the faerie. The whisps talk animatedly as they watch their master work. Suggestions ring through his ears from the tiny shadows.

The whip, master, the whip.

No! No! Truth Teller, Master. Surely that will get the job done.

The shadowsinger grits his teeth and lets out a grainy, “Quiet.”

The shadows whispers lessen to a dull roar. Azriel’s shoulder’s tense as he speaks, “Tell me what you know about Beron Vanserra’s dealings with Hybern.”

The faerie hesitates for only a second before hardening his gaze and answering, “Fuck. You.”

The spymaster breaks two of the male’s fingers as a result of his defiance. Azriel tightens his grip on the faerie, “Wrong answer. Tell me before I rip out your fucking veins one by one.”

The faerie male cries out in pain. Finally submitting to the spymaster, “Alright! Alright! I’ll tell you!” The next one quieter, “I’ll tell you.”

Azriel presses down on the other male’s jugular, “I’m listening.”

“T-the High Lord wanted a deal,” the Illyrian senses the quiver in the faerie’s voice, “A-a protection deal o-or something, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

The dark whisps of shadows stir again, sensing a lull.

He’s lying, master.

He knows but doesn’t want to tell master.

If pretty girl were here she’d be able to—

Azriel squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his girl. Don’t let the two worlds touch, he says to himself, leave the conscience at home. The spymaster’s eyes open once again, reminding him of where he is. What he’s doing.

Scarred hands press down harder on the male’s protruding neck, “Enough of the bullshit. Tell me what you know.”

The faerie winces, “S-security! Security… he wanted to trade Night Court secrets in exchange for security with Hybern. Beron wanted stability. He senses a war. I-I don’t know what secrets he was gonna share. I just know that they were heavy.”

The Illyrian’s shadows exert approval of the truth. Azriel grunts and twists the male’s arm backwards, pushing his leather boot clad foot down on his back and forcing his head down.

The shadowsinger smirks and leans down to the faerie’s ear, with a dark voice he says, “Thank you… But you’re no longer needed.”

He unsheathes Truth Teller and stabs it in the male’s shoulder blade. He waits a beat before slowly pulling it out. The agonizing cries of the faerie bounce through the otherwise quiet halls of the dungeon. His whimpers bring a twisted delight to the spymaster.

Once the dagger is fully removed, Azriel stands and gives one last stomp on the faerie’s foot for good measure.

“Someone will be here in the morning to either clean your remains or your wounds. Make sure not to bleed too much. I do like this dungeon.”

Azriel walks off and cleans Truth Teller with a rag nearby. Just as the Illyrian is about to exit, he hears the faerie’s pain-stricken voice, “After everything you’ve done, how will you sleep at night?”

Azriel stops at the exit and smirks. He doesn’t dignify the faerie with a glance as he says in his gruff baritone, “Next to my wife.”

[majuandrad]

all of my midnights with you 💙

[elainweekofficial]

INSTAGRAM LINK

Our flower girl in a flower market while in the Spring Court ☀️🌷💐

Art by the lovely venusfolk 💕

[imjustreadinglmao]

BLUE

Paring: Azriel x Reader, Lucien x platonic!Reader

Summary: After Azriel and Elain‘s courtship is revealed, their mates, Lucien and Y/N, are left to deal with the consequences. While fighting against Koschei and for Prythian‘s freedom, Y/N has to navigate her emotions and learn how to live with the heartbreak of a one sided mating bond. But what happens when long kept secrets are revealed and everything turns out differently than they thought?

PART I

word count: 3k

A/N: this is part 1 of BLUE. I changed the beginning a bit to fit the storyline. Please be nice this is my first fic :)

Warnings: light angst, unrequited love, mention of childhood trauma/ mention of ãbuse (not described)

part 2

I stir my black tea as Rhysand files through the report I handed him just seconds ago.

The steam from the tea rises, curling in delicate tendrils, carrying with it a sense of fleeting warmth that I desperately cling to.

Rhysand’s office is both grand and simple.

Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on history, strategy, and magic. A fireplace to the right. Above it, a large portrait of Velaris shows the city bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. Feyre gifted it to him last starfall.

Heavy velvet drapes in shades of midnight blue frame the windows, ready to be drawn shut for privacy.

In the distance I can make out the mountains with their snow-capped peaks and the Sidra winding through the valley below.

“I have to say, I’m impressed you were able to convince Devlon so fast.”

I look up at Rhys and chuckle, the sound hollow to my own ears. “It does help if you threaten to cut his balls off and stake them to the wall for everyone to see.”

Rhys lifts a brow and barks out a laugh. “I see.”

I rarely go on missions anymore, choosing to work as an advisor for Rhysand.

Missions used to be exciting, but nowadays I prefer the comfort my room provides. The sense of security it brings is a balm to my soul, now more than ever.

I take this as a sign to stand up and lift my bag from the floor. I sling it over my shoulder and make my way to the door.

“Don’t forget tonight’s family dinner,” Rhysand calls after me. I don’t look back, just give him a thumbs-up and close his office door behind me.

As I make my way downstairs and through the foyer, I spot Lucien strapping on his sword. Presumably getting ready for training, he has always been an early riser.

“How did the mission go?” Lucien doesn’t need to look up to see that it’s me approaching.

I let out a sigh and rub my temples. “Good.” I stop beside him and flop onto the recamier right next to the front door. “Well, as good as paying the camps a visit can get.”

Lucien cracks a smile at that, his amber eyes twinkle with amusement. He knows exactly how difficult it is to convince Devlon of something he isn’t particularly fond of.

“Are you coming to the family dinner tonight?” I ask, my voice betraying a hint of reluctance.

Lucien sheaths his blade and nods. “Feyre will have my head if I don’t show up. I already missed the last one.”

I cringe at the mention of the last family dinner. The memory alone sends a sharp pang through my chest.

———————

I walk into the dining room, ready to face yet another family dinner. I spot Mor right away, radiant in her blood-red gown. The sight of her is always one of familiarity and comfort.

“Hey, got another one of those?” I point to the wine glass in her hand. She arches a brow and hands me one filled to the brim.

“Are we so exhausting that you need liquid encouragement to get through the night?” she muses. I just roll my eyes, trying to hide my amusement.

Right as she opens her mouth to say something, the back of my head begins to tickle. He is here.

I turn around to see Azriel walk through the door, and he is not alone. Elain is beside him, their hands intertwined.

Even though I was expecting it to happen soon, the sight still hits me like a physical blow. It was always just a matter of time till Azriel and Elain decided to go against Rhys‘s order and make their love official.

I‘m glad, Lucien isn’t here to witness this. I can’t imagine how it would be for him.

Since only my side of the bond snapped into place, seeing how in love they are, is somehow… manageable. For Lucien it would be almost deadly.

I look back at Mor, her expression as shocked as mine. “I didn’t know,” she whispers, her face now bearing a look of worry and pity.

To say the dinner is awkward would be an understatement. Nobody really knows what to say after Elain and Azriel walked in holding hands.

I just shove the potatoes on my plate around, too nauseous to eat anything. The lump in my throat makes swallowing impossible.

Cassian clears his throat and points to Azriel and Elain. “So how long has this been going on?” Nesta jabs her elbow into his ribs, which earns her an “oww”, and throws me an apologetic look.

Besides Mor, only Lucien and Nesta know about the bond between me and Azriel. Their concern a constant reminder of the bond I try so hard to ignore.

“Well…” Azriel coughs, noticeably uncomfortable with being put on the spot. “It all happened very quickly. We spent a lot of our nights up and talking and realized we didn’t want to hold back anymore.”

He gazes down at her, smiling. I recognize that look. The realization twists the knife in my heart.

That’s how I look at him.

—————————

“Are you even listening?” Lucien waves a hand in front of my face to snap me out of my haze. His voice pulls me back to the present, but the ache remains.

I rub my eyes. “Uh… sorry. What exactly were you saying?”

He crosses his arms and looks down at me. “I was asking if you wanted to go training with me. But it seems what you really need is some sleep.”

I roll my eyes and stand up. “You know me so well, Lu.” I pat his shoulder and walk out the door. “See you at dinner tonight.”

Velaris is most beautiful at night, but nothing can beat the quiet and peace of the early mornings.

I walk down the high street, greeting some of my favorite vendors with a smile, until I reach the familiar townhouse.

After I officially became part of Rhysand’s inner circle, he offered me to stay at his townhouse.

It had many perks: no rent, right in the heart of Velaris, and an endless wine supply thanks to Rhysand’s "secret" wine cellar.

There is really only one downside.

“I didn’t think you would be back so soon.” Azriel sits at the dinner table eating breakfast. He has his fighting leathers on, probably on his way to the House of Wind for Valkyrie training.

Cassian and Azriel still train the Valkyries every morning. Sometimes I join, but only when Nesta drags me up there.

“Well, sorry to disappoint.” I laugh awkwardly. “I’m going to head upstairs to rest. Say hello to Nesta for me.” The words taste bitter, a poor attempt to mask the hurt.

I turn around before he has the chance to say something else, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me.

Yes, that is the downside. The constant reminder of what I had lost and could never have.

Him.

——————

The dining room buzzes with conversation as everyone settles in for dinner.

Azriel and Elain sit together, a vision of contentment that sends a pang through my heart.

Across the table, Lucien’s jaw is tight, his gaze fixed on his plate.

“Thank you all for coming,” Rhysand begins, standing at the head of the table. “I have an important announcement to make.”

He glances at Lucien and me, a hint of apology in his eyes. “We’ve decided to support Eris in overthrowing Beron.

Lucien and you,” he points at me, “will lead the mission to the Autumn Court.”

A murmur runs through the room. Lucien looks up, his eyes meet mine.

There is a mixture of determination and vulnerability in his gaze that makes my heart ache.

The Autumn Court doesn’t hold great memories for either of us.

But before I can fully process Rhysand’s words, Azriel stands abruptly, his expression dark and tense.

“Why them?” Azriel’s voice is sharp, a stark contrast to his usual calm demeanor. “Why not send someone else?”

Rhysand frowns slightly, clearly not expecting this reaction.

“Both of them have a unique advantage given their history with Eris and the Autumn Court. It’s a strategic decision.”

Azriel’s eyes flicker to me, a storm of emotions swirling within them. “I don’t like it. It’s too dangerous.”

I feel a surge of frustration. Azriel’s protectiveness, though touching, is misplaced and completely out of character.

“What’s your problem, Azriel?” I snap, unable to hold back.

“I’m more than capable of leading this mission. Or do you think I’m not good enough to do my job?”

His eyes narrow, the tension between us thickening. “That’s not what I meant,” he retorts, his voice lower but no less intense.

“I just don’t think it’s wise to send specifically you two into such a volatile situation. You can’t just throw yourself into danger like that.”

My heart pounds in my chest. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re always in danger, always risking everything. How is that different from this mission?”

“It’s different because—” Azriel stops himself, glancing at Elain, who is watching us with wide eyes. He seems to struggle for a moment before finishing, “It doesn’t matter, just let someone else do the mission. You’re an important asset to this court.”

Before I could respond with something I’d surely regret, Elain’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Azriel, stop.” Her voice is calm but firm, a hint of desperation in her eyes. “This isn’t helping.”

Azriel turned to Elain, his expression softens slightly, but the tension remains. He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I’m sorry. I just… I worry.”

Lucien’s gaze hardens, “We’ve faced worse,” he says, a challenge in his tone. “We are capable enough to lead this mission, we don’t need your approval, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “It’s not about capability. It’s about safety. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”

“Anyone?” I echo, my voice rises. “Or just Elain’s mate?”

The words hang in the air, charged with emotion. Azriel flinches slightly.

“This has nothing to do with Lucien being Elain‘s mate,” he says, though the slight tremor in his voice betrays him.

“But it does, doesn’t it?” My words laced with venom. “If Lucien were to get hurt, it would cause Elain distress, that’s how a mating bond works. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Elain looks down, her face unreadable, while Lucien’s gaze flickers between Azriel and me.

“We all know the risks,” Lucien says more calmly this time, “And we’re prepared to face them.”

Rhysand interjects, his voice low but authoritative. “Enough. We’re all on the same side here. This is a mission we need to undertake for the greater good. Personal feelings need to be set aside.”

I take a deep breath and try to steady the storm of emotions within me. Rhysand is right, the last thing we need is Azriel and me fighting.

Rhysand sits down, his tone final. “This mission is vital. We need to trust each other and stay focused. We’ll discuss this further tomorrow. For now, let’s try to enjoy the evening.”

The atmosphere is strained as we resume our meal. I can feel Azriel’s gaze on me.

Lucien reaches over, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. It was a small gesture, but it meant everything in that moment.

I don’t say a word throughout the whole dinner. Choosing to stay quiet instead of lashing out.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission would change everything.

---

The garden of the River House is a haven of tranquility. Blooming flowers and lush greenery everywhere Elain truly is a talented gardener.

I find Lucien leaning against a stone pillar, his gaze lost in the Sidra's gentle flow.

I approach him quietly, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. “Mind if I join you?” I ask softly.

Lucien looks up, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Of course not. I was just enjoying the peace before the storm.”

I halt beside him, the tension from the dinner still coils tightly in my chest. “Quite the announcement, wasn’t it?”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “I knew something like this was coming, but hearing it confirmed… it’s different.

Eris must be desperate if he reached out to Rhysand.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Yes, it’s a lot. I wish Rhys would have told us separately. This topic is already very emotional I really didn’t need Azriel’s… concern too.”

Lucien’s eyes darken at the mention of Azriel. “He’s protective, that’s clear. But he doesn’t have the right to undermine your abilities.”

“It’s not just that,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “His words, his actions… they confuse me. One moment he’s distant, the next he’s overly concerned. I don’t understand him.”

Lucien’s gaze softens, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “He cares about you. He might not be aware of it but you’re his mate, bond snapping into place or not, it’s his priority to keep you safe. That can’t be changed, even if he’s in love with someone else.”

I look away, the garden blurring before my eyes. “It hurts, Lucien. Seeing him with Elain, pretending to be something they’re not. I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Lucien reaches out, his hand covering mine. “You’re not alone in this. We’ve all got our battles to fight, and sometimes the hardest ones are with our own hearts.”

A moment of silence stretches between us, the night air filled with the scent of blooming flowers.

“And what about you?” I ask, turning to look at him. “How are you handling all of this? Eris, the Autumn Court… it can’t be easy for you.”

Lucien’s expression grows somber. “It’s not. But I’ve come to terms with my past and everything my father did to me. I knew this was going to happen. Eris has the chance to change things, to make the Autumn Court a better place. I can’t turn my back on that.”

He smiles at that. “And maybe, when all of this is over, we’ll find some semblance of peace.”

As we stand there, the garden enveloping us in its quiet embrace, I feel a sense of calm settle over me. Whatever challenges lay ahead, I know we have each other’s backs.

—————————

The war room in the House of Wind is filled with dread as we gather around the large oak table.

Rhysand stands at the head, his usual easy demeanor replaced by a grave seriousness.

To his right, Amren sits with her usual enigmatic expression, while Cassian leans against the wall, arms crossed and a stern look on his face.

Azriel is on my left, his gaze unreadable, and Lucien sits across from me, his eyes focused and determined.

Rhysand unfurls a detailed map of the Autumn Court, its forests and strongholds marked with meticulous detail.

“Eris has provided us with information about Beron’s movements and the layout of his court. Our objective is to infiltrate the main stronghold, gather intelligence, and support Eris in his efforts to dethrone Beron.”

Lucien nods, his jaw set. Rhys continues. “We’ll enter through the southern border. Eris has arranged for a distraction that will draw most of Beron’s guards away from the main stronghold. This will give us the opportunity to slip in and meet with Eris.”

Amren leans forward, her sharp eyes assessing the map. “And what about Koschei? He’s been a wild card in all of this. His alliance with Beron could complicate things.”

Rhysand nods in agreement. “Koschei is a concern. According to Eris, Koschei has been providing Beron with dark magic. We need to be prepared for any magical traps or barriers.”

Azriel’s voice cuts through the discussion. “I’ll handle the reconnaissance. I’ll fly ahead and ensure the path is clear before they move in.”

I glance at him, he hasn’t looked at me or said a single thing to me since yesterday. If I didn’t know better I would say he was sulking.

Rhysand continues, “Once inside, our main goal is to secure the throne room and neutralize Beron’s guards. Eris will confront Beron directly. You,” he gestures to Lucien and me, “need to be ready to support him.”

Lucien nods again, his eyes meeting mine across the table. “We’ll be ready.”

Rhysand’s gaze softens slightly as he looked at us. “This mission is dangerous, but it’s necessary. Any questions?”

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the responsibility settle on my shoulders. “What if things go wrong? Do we have an extraction plan?”

Amren smirks. “We have a plan. Azriel and I will be your backup. If things go south, we’ll get you out, girl.”

Azriel nods, his eyes meeting mine. “You won’t be alone out there. We’ll be watching.”

There is a moment of silence as everyone absorbs the gravity of this mission.

Finally, Rhysand speaks again, his voice resolute. “We leave at dawn. Get some rest and prepare yourselves.”

As we all stand to leave, Azriel catches my arm. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he asks, his voice low.

I nod, following him to a quieter corner of the room. “What is it, Azriel?”

He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I know you’re capable. But this mission… it’s dangerous, and I can’t shake the feeling that something might go wrong. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

His concern should touch me, but I can’t help and feel angry. “I know the risks, Azriel. And I’ll be careful. But you need to trust me to do my part.”

He sighs, running a scarred hand through his hair. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or your abilities. I just… I can’t lose you.”

Before I can respond, Lucien approaches.“Ready?” Lucien asks, his eyes flicker between Azriel and me. I nod, giving Azriel one last look.

“Ready.”

[lovelyfawnxx]

Elriel

🎨 art by diielliee

[midnightmasterpiece]

I love Elain Archeron, we’re depressed and awful in the same ways

[mahalachives]

Part 1: Oops, I Tripped Into Prythian

Summary: In which a fan gets yeeted into the world of fae

Genre: humor, drabble, minor az x reader (bcus why not)

You were just minding your business, lying in bed, rereading A Court of Thorns and Roses for the fiftieth time, when the universe decided to absolutely wreck your life.

One second, you were flipping a page; the next, you were free-falling through what could only be described as the worst interdimensional portal ever. No warning, no flash of light—just a violent, gut-churning yeet straight into the land of hot Fae males.

You crash-land face-first onto something soft, groaning as your limbs flail like a traumatized starfish. Someone clears their throat.

“Why,” a silky male voice muses, “is there a human in my lap?”

Your eyes fly open. Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. Captain of Sarcasm. Maker of poor life choices. And you? You were sprawled across him like some overenthusiastic fangirl who finally got her wish—but at what cost?!

“Oh gods,” you whisper, scrambling off, only to face-plant into the grass. “It’s happening. I’m in Prythian.”

Rhysand raises a brow, looking equal parts amused and suspicious. “You know where you are?”

You sit up, brushing dirt from your face. “Yes, obviously. Unless I have a really specific fever dream going on right now.”

Before Rhys can respond, Mor appears, grinning like she just found the juiciest gossip. “Well, this is new. A human dropping out of nowhere?”

Cassian strolls up, arms crossed. “Did you summon her, Rhys?”

“I did not summon a clumsy human who smells like anxiety and… is that cheese dust?” Rhys sniffs disdainfully.

You blink. “I was eating Cheetos before I got transported. Excuse me for having snacks.”

Nesta appears. “What’s a Cheeto?”

Feyre, looking far too composed for the insanity at hand, sighs. “More importantly, who is she?”

You inhale, sit up straighter, and declare with absolute confidence: “I am just a humble reader who was yeeted here against my will. But—” You raise a dramatic finger, “—I refuse to waste this opportunity.”

Cassian smirks. “Opportunity?”

You whip around, eyes locking onto him. The shadowsinger, lurking in the background like a hot, brooding cryptid. Azriel. The Book Boyfriend.

Your voice drops to a sultry whisper. “Azriel.”

His shadows twitch. His brows raise just slightly. He looks at you as if you are both an anomaly and a problem. Which is fair, because you are.

“Oh no,” Rhys mutters, face-palming. “Not another one.”

You scramble to your feet, dusting off your pajama pants. “Listen. I don’t know how long I have before the universe decides to yeet me back to reality, but I am shooting my shot.”

You turn fully to Azriel, who is now staring at you with the intensity of a thousand unread texts. “Azriel, my dark and broody king, my nightmare of the night—”

Cassian snorts.

“I would like to formally volunteer as your emotional support human.”

Azriel blinks. Once. Twice. And then—he walks away. Just… turns and leaves.

You spin on Rhys. “DO SOMETHING.”

Rhys, grinning, shrugs. “If he didn’t kill you immediately, I’d say that’s progress.”

You fist-pump. “Yes.”

Nesta mutters, “I want to hate this, but I don’t.”

Feyre, ever the diplomat, sighs. “Let’s get you inside before you fall into another male’s lap.”

Mor loops an arm through yours. “I like you. This is going to be fun.”

Cassian winks. “For us.”

And just like that, you, a simple ACOTAR reader, are now a walking disaster in Prythian.

…And maybe, just maybe, Azriel’s shadows linger a little longer than usual as he watches you.

Because what fresh chaos is this?

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You’d been in Prythian for approximately four hours, and already, you had:

Fallen from the sky like a cursed shooting star.

Launched yourself into Rhysand’s lap (an experience that would haunt you forever).

Profess your undying love for Azriel, only for him to stare at you like you were a particularly difficult puzzle—and then walk away (rude).

Been force-fed fae food by Mor, who was far too excited to introduce you to “actual, non-poisonous, non-human garbage food.”

Currently, you were in the House of Wind, which was all well and good except for one small problem:

“No elevators?” you whisper, staring at the 10,000 steps leading up to it. “No escalators? Not even a rope lift?”

Nesta, standing beside you with her arms crossed, smirks. “You think we just float up there?”

You give her a very serious nod. “That is exactly what I expected. I mean, Rhysand has wings, Azriel has wings, Cassian has wings. Feyre could have wings. This entire operation seems wildly ableist.”

Cassian cackles from behind you. “She’s got a point.”

Nesta squints at him, then turns back to you. “If you want to get up there, you have two choices: One—train until you can make the climb without dying. Or two—bribe one of the bat boys to fly you up.”

Your head whips toward Azriel, who is conveniently leaning against the wall, arms crossed, exuding maximum broody energy.

You smile. “Azriel.”

His shadows curl around his shoulders, as if sensing danger.

“Would you like to give me a ride?” you ask, voice absolutely dripping with suggestion.

Cassian chokes on air. Mor drops her goblet. Feyre buries her face in her hands.

Azriel, who has likely survived countless wars and assassinations, looks like he wants to die on the spot. His shadows frantically swirl around him, whispering all kinds of warnings, probably screaming abort mission, abort mission.

But to your absolute delight, he simply stares at you for a long, painful moment, then says, “…No.”

Cassian howls with laughter. “I take it back. I love her. She’s staying.”

You huff. “Fine. I’ll get another ride.”

Mor, still laughing, grabs your hand. “Come on, I’ll winnow you up before you give Az a heart attack.”

You shoot Azriel one last dramatic look. “You could have had all of this,” you say, gesturing to yourself. “But you played yourself.”

Azriel blinks slowly.

He looks… confused. Intrigued. Maybe even a little impressed.

The moment Mor winnows you away, you just know his shadows will be whispering about you for weeks.

Later that night, in the House of Wind…

You are lounging in the giant fae living room, eating whatever snacks Mor gave you, when you hear Cassian scream.

You shoot up. “What the—”

A second later, something huge crashes through the door.

It’s Azriel.

Holding a chicken.

Correction: a very angry, flapping, unhinged-looking chicken.

Cassian is on the floor, laughing so hard he’s wheezing.

Rhys is leaning against the wall, covering his mouth with a hand, his shoulders shaking.

Nesta is watching in judgmental silence.

Feyre looks between everyone. “What… exactly… is happening?”

Azriel glares at Cassian, who is too busy dying to explain.

You blink at the chaos, then point at Az. “Why… are you holding a chicken?”

Azriel exhales sharply. “Because Cassian thought it would be funny to sneak a mortal farm animal into my room.”

Cassian cackles from the floor. “You should have seen his face. Pure terror. The great and mighty Shadowsinger, scared of a little chicken.”

Azriel glares at him, but his grip on the chicken tightens as it attempts a murderous escape.

You stand, crossing your arms. “Azriel.”

His hazel eyes meet yours.

“I have a very important question.”

He sighs. “What?”

You smirk. “Would you say that this is fowl play?”

There is silence.

Rhysand snorts.

Feyre groans.

Nesta covers her face.

Cassian completely loses his mind, laughing so hard he starts crying.

Azriel, for a brief second, looks like he might actually be fighting a smile.

And you?

You decide right then and there that you are never leaving Prythian.

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Azriel, still holding the feral chicken, looks one deep breath away from assassinating Cassian. His shadows curl around his shoulders, clearly debating if this situation is beneath their skill set. The chicken, meanwhile, pecks his leather vambrace with zero fear.

“I swear,” Azriel mutters, “if you don’t take this thing back, I will personally deliver it to Eris.”

Cassian, sprawled across the floor, wheezing, waves a hand. “Take the chicken. See if I care. Maybe Beron will make it his heir.”

The chicken squawks in defiance.

You—being the kind, merciful, and deeply chaotic human that you are—decide it is your duty to name this creature.

You step forward, tilting your head. “Azriel.”

His eyes flick to yours, cautious.

“His name is Cluckriel now.”

Cassian completely loses his mind. He rolls onto his side, pounding the floor, gasping, “Cluckriel—”

Rhysand is now facing the wall, shaking.

Feyre bites her lip. Nesta is openly smirking.

Azriel closes his eyes, breathes through his suffering. Then, he turns—completely ignoring you—and walks away with the chicken still in his arms.

You call after him, “Are you keeping him?! Is this your emotional support chicken now?!”

Azriel does not answer.

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You were beginning to accept that Prythian was your new home, and frankly, you were thriving. Between terrorizing the Inner Circle and dramatically flirting with Azriel (to which he mostly responded by walking away or sighing heavily), you were settling in just fine.

Which was precisely why it made perfect sense that Rhysand decided it was time for you to meet the other High Lords.

“Be on your best behavior,” Feyre warns as you stand before the shimmering portal leading to the neutral meeting grounds.

You give her an exaggerated salute. “Absolutely. I will represent the Night Court with grace and dignity.”

Cassian leans in. “She’s lying.”

Nesta sighs. “She’s lying.”

Mor grins. “I kind of hope she isn’t.”

You dramatically adjust your borrowed Night Court cloak, striking a heroic pose. “Fear not! I shall charm them all.”

Rhys rubs his temples. “Let’s get this over with.”

The moment you step into the meeting, you realize two things:

You are underdressed. The High Lords are all adorned in their regal finery, and you are wearing what can only be described as Night Court athleisure.

Tamlin is here. And he looks like he just smelled something foul. (Probably your sheer audacity.)

Beron eyes you with the disdain of a man who thinks fun is punishable by death. “And what, exactly, is this?”

You beam at him. “Hi, I’m Y/N, and I’m here to ruin everyone’s day.”

Helion chokes on his wine. Kallias straightens in interest. Thesan tilts his head, studying you as if you are an interesting new species.

Eris mutters, “Oh, this will be fun.”

Tamlin crosses his arms. “Another human playing at being something they’re not.”

You gasp, clutching your chest. “Oh no, my deepest insecurities, exposed by such a keen intellect! However shall I recover?”

Rhysand makes a strangled noise. Azriel looks suspiciously like he’s trying not to smile. Cassian grins outright.

Helion leans forward, intrigued. “Tell me, Y/N. How did you come to be in Prythian?”

You consider your answer carefully. “I fell through a wormhole. Or perhaps the universe just decided I deserved to be here. Either way, I am thriving.”

Kallias, cool and composed, nods. “And what is it you do?”

You shoot Azriel a slow grin. “Oh, you know. Make things awkward. Bring joy to those who don’t want it. Offer emotional support to broody males.”

Azriel exhales through his nose. Cassian is beside himself.

Beron sneers. “And why should we tolerate this nonsense?”

You tilt your head, giving him a sharp, knowing smile. “Because it amuses you, Beron. And gods forbid you ever admit that you need a little amusement in your miserable existence.”

For the first time in history, Beron has no retort. He just squints at you like he is debating whether to set you on fire or adopt you.

Rhysand claps his hands together. “Well, I do believe that concludes introductions. Shall we proceed to the actual discussions, or should we just let Y/N continue to terrorize everyone?”

Helion raises a hand. “I vote for terror.”

Eris raises his goblet. “Same.”

Tamlin storms out.

Azriel sighs. “I hate this.”

You grin. “No, you don’t.”

And for a moment—just the briefest of moments—his shadows curl around his shoulders in silent, reluctant agreement.

[mirrorballpages]

“I mean it,” she pressed, squeezing his hand. “I know you hate the attention, and I know you hate praise. But I need you to hear this.”

The autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and fresh bread from the nearby bakeries, mixing with the faint traces of cedar and night-chilled wind that clung to Azriel.

“That went much better than I expected!” Elain said, smiling up at him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Even Azriel looked more at ease than he usually did, the hard edges of his face softened, the ever-present tension in his shoulders eased, if only slightly.

“I’m not surprised,” he said, glancing down at her with something close to admiration. “You have a way of making everyone comfortable. It is truly a gift, Elain.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Oh, goodness, it’s certainly not a gift. I’ve just always been able to read people, I suppose. Nesta used to comment on it at balls—how I could diffuse any situation with just a smile.” She shook her head slightly, her fingers grazing along the embroidered edge of her cloak. “But really, it’s just knowing how people want to be listened to. Understood. Heard.” A small, wistful pause. “Nesta tends to do the ‘talk now, apologize later’ method.”

Azriel huffed a quiet chuckle, but the sadness that laced her words wasn’t lost on him. He knew that sadness. And as if he could sense the ache in her heart, he said gently, “She will come around. She just needs this space to herself.”

Elain nodded, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat. “I know,” she murmured. “It’s still… It’s still so hard.”

“Sophie seemed to like you as well.”

“Oh yes, she was so kind, wasn’t she? And her mate…” Elain looked up at him, studying his face, the golden flecks in his hazel eyes stirring like disturbed embers. “You saved her mate’s life.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked ahead, his jaw tightening slightly. His shadows curled just the slightest bit at his shoulders, whispering in hushed tones only he could hear.

“I’m glad Devora and her sisters could make a home here,” was all he offered.

Elain could see it—the way he brushed aside the praise as if it were nothing, as if it hadn’t mattered. As if he weren’t carrying the weight of so many lives saved, and just as many lost. She wanted to ask more, to hear how it happened, but she knew him well enough to know that he rarely wanted to talk about himself. About what he had done.

So she didn’t press.

Instead, she slowed to a stop, tugging on his hand until he turned to face her. Azriel blinked, his brows furrowing slightly in question. Elain hesitated only for a moment before she reached for him, her fingers slipping over his scarred hand, holding it between her own. Warmth. Roughness. A contrast of silk and stone.

“You are a good male, Azriel,” she said softly. “I know many more owe their lives to you.”

His expression barely shifted, but she saw it, the flicker of discomfort in his eyes, the way he started to shake his head, the way his fingers twitched as if to pull away.

But she held firm.

“I mean it,” she pressed, squeezing his hand. “I know you hate the attention, and I know you hate praise. But I need you to hear this.”

She tilted her head up to meet his gaze fully, unwavering. “You are kind. You are good. And you are worthy of being told that.”

Azriel went still. Completely still. His breath hitched, the softest inhale, as if he had never heard those words before. Or perhaps, had never allowed himself to believe them. Elain felt her own throat tighten, her heart clenching painfully at the look in his eyes—like something was cracking, something was unraveling, something long-buried was struggling to surface.

“You are more than a Spymaster,” she whispered. “More than a Shadow singer. More than an Illyrian.” His fingers curled slightly around hers, an instinctive movement, though he didn’t seem aware he had done it.

“Please,” she said, voice barely above a breath. “Never believe otherwise.”

The wind stirred around them, but Elain only felt warmth. Azriel’s grip on her hand tightened, just barely. He said nothing, but his throat bobbed with the words he couldn’t seem to find. And he didn’t look away.

That was enough.

She gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before releasing it, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. A quiet understanding passed between them, something unspoken but felt.

Elain offered him a soft smile, the kind that said I see you. And as they resumed their walk, she didn’t press him to respond. She didn’t need to.

Some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be heard.

Read The Rest on AO3

[velidewrites]

Elain: True strength is forgiving a person who wasn’t even sorry

Eris: Not to be dramatic but I would literally rather die