I'm Giggling And Kicking My Feet While Imagining Two Fictional People Getting Together And Slowly Finding

What if after that you spent decades trying to bring my decying, lifeless body home, while with every year, my last wish doesn't just become a promise to your brother- it becomes an obsession. Your eyes slowly become darker and stop reflecting what you see; they only see one goal anymore, Earth. What if every roadblock becomes a mortal enemy to you as you try to bring the pile of bones, the ones that used to contain my soul, back- they're stripped of their flesh because you had nothing to eat on one of those long, Europa days when you were stranded from the rest of your brothers in arms. In fact, what if those brothers slowly began looking at you differently, and you know they're talking through their suits about something, but they're not including you. You can tell they're afraid of you, afraid after that night where they dug you out of the snow to see you gnawing on my skeleton, the remains of my moldy flesh scattered on the floor around you and spattered on your face. You didn't mind. Everything was for me, after all. So what if the others minded? You only had to finish the war to get back; you only had to defeat everyone else. You had to hurt the people who had taken me away. And as your good memories of me faded, they became the scraps of life you clung to, because you no longer had anything else. Your brothers never understood why if was so important to you to get me back to Earth, never understood that it wasn't because of my last wish anymore, it was because everything else around you had faded into static and your only peace would be found from burying me in my native land. You weren't even sure what you would do after, but you didn't think about that, all you had to do was keep on putting one foot in front of the other; keep killing one person after another. And what if, as the faces blurred together, you accidently killed your family? Your pack, that had traveled along with you, now lay silent among the pink-stained ice and snow? Well, you were fighting a war. Casualties were bound to happen. It wasn't even really your fault, was it- they were holding you back, trying to make you see that you were slowly dying from some disease you contracted after eating my flesh. But you knew, of course, that that wasn't true. They were only trying to keep you from returning with your brother to Earth, to stay there forevermore. If they were right? You didn't care. You trudged on, through snow and ice and sleet and bullets and guns and fighting and death, even though you were getting slower with every step, you kept walking. And what if, in the end, you looked around and saw that not even my bones were there anymore; your soul was now lost somewhere in the rubble. What if you looked up and thought you saw a glimpse of blue and green, somewhere out there, and felt your heart stop, there amongst the snow.

What if, later, your body was found and brought back to Earth, and I was finally able to rest happily?

What if that's when it ends?

What if it goes on forever?

what if we were brothers in arms in the war torn landscape of europa and i held your bleeding wound as the blood stained the endless, blinding white tundra, your bated breath asking me to bury you back home and our last memory together was looking up to the swirling rings of color on jupiter. what then.

Azriel and Eris doctor and emt AU

xD thought you might need this @irithiadourden

Behind every book, play, poem, and piece of writing is an author.

And behind that author is their reason why they wrote it, who they wrote it for or in memory of, what they needed to do to write it, and the work they put into it.

I love reading books and fanfiction, but I also love reading about the people who made them- interacting and seeing their motivations.

I want to write. I want to write a novel someday, and I want it to be known worldwide and for it to be a bestseller. But I think I would still be happy if I just wrote it- not because of people who want to read whatever I write, but because I wrote what I wanted to write. But even before I think about novels, I need to practice, practice, and practice writing more.

I don't think it has to be good. If I'm writing what I want to, it won't matter if it's bad or not. It'll just matter that I wrote it, and I like it. And that I want to keep going.

Sometimes it can be hard to want to keep going. Sometimes I just want to not dream, to just be ready for a life where my only goal is a better job, a raise, a good family.

But I want to write.

So even if almost everything I write stays private, even if I never share that work- I'm writing. And I'm trying.

I don't know when author appreciation day/week is (there is such a thing, right?), but it's 11 PM and I just wanted to say thank you to all the authors. I may not know your stories, or have read your works, but you wrote them for a reason, no matter what it was. You pushed through whatever was in your life, you moved on, you got a better story. Or you just wrote it for fun, still- thank you. I'm sure that you have made someone's day by writing it, even if it was your own :)) I love y'all. Keep on writing 💛

REBLOG if you have amazing talented artist friends!

Hello, a little request here!! ❤️‍🔥

Azriel gets jealous when Eris courts a female his father has ordered him to win her favor. The sole view of her hooked to his arm makes Azriel see red, and unable to bear it any longer he's dragged to the Autumn heir's chambers where he waits for his return to make a clear statement of possession and raw desire. *winks, winks*

helloooo lovely anon!! thank you for the request!! i love it and it made me realise i've never actually written jealous!azriel so must remedy that immediately. Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the colour of her dress that Azriel loathes the most. 

A deep emerald green, layers of silk and lace that fall on the floor like spilled ink. They trail after her every delicate step, the click of her heels against the marble grating on Azriel’s nerves like clashing blades. 

She has no name—but she smiles and holds her head high and her eyes are green, two shades lighter than her dress, and cunning. The words she says are few, but the looks that dawn on the other guests’ faces as she speaks tells Azriel enough—that she is as cruel and mean as the male whose arm she hangs off, that she is smart, that she is familiar with the game she has come to play, here, tonight.

Her wings rest folded against her back, the open back of her dress framing them perfectly. Green, like her eyes, like her dress; beautiful gossamer webbing sparkling against her deep skin. 

Eris’ hand brushes against the small of her back. 

Azriel looks away. 

The ceremony is dreadful; he does not want to be here. But Rhysand dragged him here with a single, menancing look, and Azriel hates his brother, just a bit, just enough for his skin to pull tight over his hands when he curls his fingers into fists. 

At least the stone wall against his back is cool. They are in Dawn, and the night, as it descends slowly over Thesan’s court, is pungent and bright. 

The air smells faintly of oranges, blown into the open-roof ballroom by a gentle breeze. All manner of Fae mingle together, talking in low tones or bursting into laughter or dancing, fine dresses fluttering around ankles and females dipping low towards the floor. 

Azriel tries not to stare at her—but the light refracting off her wings catches his attention more times than he would like. When his gaze falls on her, his stomach clenches, a feeling like spiders crawling up his throat causing his wings to twitch against the stone. 

He should be working—he should be paying attention to countless of other things but her: this Fae that glides across the room with an ease even Rhysand would be envious of. 

Eyes other than Azriel’s track her movements avidly; whispers follow her as she makes her rounds across the room, leading Eris more than Eris leading her. She takes a sip of the peach-coloured wine in her glass and Azriel shadow’s show him how Eris’ eyes fall to her mouth, how they linger, for a moment, on the wet curve of her bottom lip, painted a burgundy shade. 

A burning ache alights in Azriel’s stomach. Eris’ hand on her back pulls her a little closer. The golden embroidery of his tunic shines against her green dress. 

Azriel wraps himself in shadows and disappears, just as Eris looks away from her and towards him.

He reappears high in the sky, the deep purple of the nights echoing green against his closed lids. He flies all the way from Dawn to Autumn, his shadows coiling around his limbs, demanding he return. 

But Azriel can’t, because the ache in his stomach has grown into a fury that stretches and wraps around his very bones. His pulse thrums in his ears, louder even than the wind as he flies over red and golden trees. 

He dives with desperation clustering his sternum and when he lands in front of Eris’ garden doors, the earth shuddering beneath him, Eris is already there. 

Eris’ eyes are bright, his long hair dancing with the wind brought forth by Azriel’s landing. 

“Azri—”

Eris’ words are cut short by Azriel’s mouth pressing to his, by his hand cupping Eris’ neck and bringing him closer, until thier bodies are flush. 

Azriel kisses his anger and hunger into Eris’ mouth—pushes him backwards until the curtains of Eris’ bedroom part and make way for them. 

Eris grunts into his mouth and kisses him back with the same desperation, his hands cupping Azriel’s face, fingers tangling in his hair. 

“Who was she?”

Azriel presses the question against the hinge of Eris’ jaw as he pushes him down onto the bed. 

“No one,” Eris says, then groans when Azriel’s blunt teeth bite just above his collar, where Eris’ pulse is alive and thrumming and Azriel’s. 

Azriel wraps one hand around Eris’ waist and pulls him closer to him, until their hips are pressed together and Eris’ breath hitches. 

Eris captures Azriel’s mouth in another searing kiss. Azriel wishes, fervently, that the Mother would let him rest, let him live in this moment forever. Let him keep Eris for himself, tucked away somewhere no one will ever find them.

“You’re mine,” he says into Eris’ mouth. “Even if they don’t know it, you’re mine.”

Eris’ fingers tug at Azriel’s hair. He pulls Azriel’s mouth away from his to leave a burning kiss against the side of Azriel’s neck. “Always.”

captive prince au azris where azriel has to pretend not to be a shadowsinger so eris does not find out Who He Is and What He Has Done but his shadows just follow him everywhere like lost lil pups and eris is like fuck alive man how am i supposed to pretend i don’t know who you are be so fucking fr rn

It might be an obsession guys...

Emerie of Illyria

Seat one

I get leg room and all the secrets from the Suriel

And dog on my right

And dog next to the Suriel

DOG

(I love this prompt so much)

ACOTAR Airplane Seat Game Round 4 of 4

Unsurprisingly many of you wanted to squeeze between Cassian and Azriel. That's fine, because we're currently sitting on Eris's lap. 😈

This brings us to our final plane flight. You're tired. We're tired. The dogs are also tired. Good luck. 🤞

If you've enjoyed this, please be sure to join us for Eris week this September 14th - 20th. We also have some fun surprises coming up, so keep an eye on the blog. 👀

yes this is a joke, but it's relevant because eris would buy seats for all of his dogs.