#springcourt

"There is no such thing as a High Lady."

The Spring Court actually has the most lesser fae; real fae. You know, the ones with colorful skin, tails, antlers, claws, vine like hair, or wings made of bark or petals. Not just “hot humans with pointy ears.”

Nudity is a normal thing there. Skin is just skin. some fae wear moonlight or nothing at all, unless ceremony demands a cloak of tradition

Forests and rivers everywhere. Poisonous flowers that sing. Trees that move when you're not looking. Glow-in-the-dark mushrooms lighting up mossy paths. Vines that curl like curious fingers.

There’s mischief in the air never cruel, just clever. Lose your boots to a fox. Find your hair braided with wildflowers by giggling sprites. Discover a raccoon carrying your necklace like a treasure.

wearing shoes is rare thing. The earth is warm and breathing, and the fae here walk barefoot to stay connected to their land.

No brothels here, because sex isn’t commodified it’s woven into their culture like music or magic. Passion and desire are honored, not hidden. This is the court of Calanmai, after all. 👀

To any person whom isn't spring citizent there are no paths in the land only suggestions. The same route never leads to the same place twice unless the land wants it to.

The forest is full of bargains. Want something? The right flower, rock, or creature will give it… for a price. You’ll probably forget you made a deal until it’s time to pay.

Women throughout history: "Is she joking? I can't tell if she's joking."

Water-wraith from Acotar book series

Pairing: Eris x OC

Rating: Explicit

Summary: A dance of intrigue, lies, and Hesteya barely keeping her head as she tries to seduce the High Lord of Autumn Court, so that she can fulfill her bargain with his eldest son and murder the High Lord.

Content Warning: mentions of sex

The rest of her weeks, months, years, passed by in a flurry of appointments with clients, dress fittings, and itching at the damn thing magically stuck to her face. She hated it, more than she hated anything did she hate that intricate and expensive thing. A party for the high lord, a shallow laugh threatened to escape her, a party thrown by the person who had razed this country practically to the ground. The sounds of marching soldiers in dingy, smokey grey armor, black plumes raising from their helms. The high lords own emissary, scarred beyond belief, and still the group of them had scuttled under the mountain, in pretty dresses, pressed breeches, and expensive masks to dance to the tune of occupation. A ridiculous, idealistic high lord, not fit to rule even after all this time. She did snort then, before sucking in a breath as her corset was tightened.

“Sorry, miss,” the lesser fae seamstress amended as she continued to tighten the strings to the emerald gown, pushing her breasts practically up to her chin. Hesteya waved her off, admiring her own reflecting in the three mirrors surrounding her. The gown looked beautiful against her lightly tanned complexion, soft from a lifetime free of hard work. She knew her life offered privileges she often indulged in, the money she earned spent on frivolous gowns, servants to assist her, and the many books she kept stored in her extra bedroom. Some of the tomes were appropriate for a female of her station, some would be frowned upon, but it mattered little. Her books were her small enjoyments, a lifeline to a time before. Before occupation, and leering stares, and a madame whom she still owed a great debt to. If she ever freed herself, she didn’t know what she would do. If she could ever travel across Prythian, or even to the continent, seeing those far off kingdoms and cities where she might make a life for herself. She imperceptibly shook her head, freeing the thoughts in her mind. She would never travel, because soon, as each fae, high and lesser, around her knew, they would be delivered to the deceiver ruling her court beneath the mountain.

It mattered little to her, Hesteya supposed. Her clients and her madame would be delivered as well, and from what she could gather, her services would still be a necessity. She heard then, the whisperings of the lesser fae seamstress to another, working on a different gown for a different female, “sent her home,” the glistening skinned female murmured, the sheer wings behind her fluttering, reminding Hesteya of falling spring leaves.

“The human girl the high lord brought was sent home?” The other admonished, shocking coloring her features, the reprimanded in her tone present for someone who was not.

Hesteya excused herself soon after, changing from the beautiful green gown into her own of pale yellow, simple in design but made up for in the expense of the fabrics. She made her way through the rather large village, careful to avoid dirtying her skirts, shoulders thrown back and head held high as eyes tracked her movements. She knew what appointment she had next, and as she entered the carriage waiting for her near the edge of the village, far from her own home, she nodded to the driver as he carried her towards the high lord’s manor.

The trip was rather quick, and she entered as she always did, through a servant’s door before making her way through the manor, head bowed until she can upon the room bathed in that familiar scent of autumn woods, bonfires, and apples. She quietly opened the door, glancing upon the male with long red hair lounging on velvet and furs, his golden eye whirling as he turned his face to meet hers, the door clicking back closed as she fully entered, coyly dipping her head, “You requested my presence, lord?”

He rose, graceful as any dancer, as one of his large hands gripped her waist, the other lifting her chin, to fully look upon her face, “come here,” he growled, his eyes darkening with lust as he guided her towards his bed, taking no time to undo the laces to her gown before turning her skirts up and finding his pleasure in her.

She took no offense, allowing him to do what he needed before he rolled off her, a happy male spent and sated. She knew Lord Luicen was a kind male, who paid handsomely for her company and her time. She had serviced him multiple times before, and had known him since she was scarely grown into her own adult fae body. She traced her nails along the broad expanse of his chest, her fingers pale against his golden-brown skin as she murmured into his ear, “I heard the most interesting rumor in the village today,” he hummed in response, his eyes still closed as he enjoyed patterns she traced, so she continued, her hands never faltering, “the human girl was sent home, is it true?”

The speed in which he grabbed her, stopping her ministrations, shocked her enough that she looked up to meet his mismatched gaze beneath the mask of a fox, and there was nothing but sorrow, and an undercurrent of anger in his russet colored eye as he nodded, inhaling a breath, “The high lord is doing what he believes is best,” he placated, but she still saw it, that anger turning his gaze molten as she scoffed, the only sign of how disapproving she was that she allowed herself to show.

“How soon until she comes for us?” She asked, keeping her own angered response from bubbling past her lips, or showing in the creases of her face not hidden behind her mask, but she couldn’t keep the soft, delicate smile upon her sensuous mouth.

He opened his own to respond, but was cut off by crashing and screaming, he was up within a moment, tossing a shirt over his bare torso as he raced for the door. He turned to her, almost an afterthought, as he grasped for the handle to pull it open, “Stay here, go nowhere,” before he was gone. A useless order, if who was causing the ruckus downstairs was who they both assumed, spoken it into existence only moments before. Hesteya didn’t know how long she laid on that bed of velvet and fur before the twisting of the doorknob brought her to attention, sitting up quickly as it opened into the room. A towering, shadowed figure stood in the doorway, imposing leather wings leaving no room for her to get around even if she wished to try. As it stepped further into the light, a maw full of sharp silver fangs came into her view, dripping red onto the pristine rugs covering the floor.

***these images + the artwork are not my own!! i wish i had the names of the original creators, I will link the ones I do know, below, I am so sorry! Characters owned by Sarah J. Maas***

Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court

made with canva

Tamlin and Feyre stare-down -- done by the talented Phoebe (@starscrapers) on IG

Tamlin (near the dagger) -- created by Rokii on IG (@artworks_by_rokii)

Feyre being locked inside -- done by Lumina Crest ( @luminacrest) on IG

Feyre at Spring Court in beginning of ACOWAR-- done by Aiphos (@aiphos.s) on IG -> buy her prints here

Tamlin's beast -- originally done by blogtealdeal on tumblr but they have since deactivated + i cannot find them ):

Pretty Tammy on the bottom -- done by Fisherman

Fisherman's links - instragram (@dominiquewesson) - twitter (@DominiqueWesson) - website

Bottom right Tamlin (this is actually the deer scene between him + Rhys during ACOWAR? i think, now im doubting myself) -- done by Naariel

Naariel's links: - instagram (@naarielart) - twitter (@NaarielArt) - commissioned artwork + portfoilo

- don’t imagine him flinging you over his back as you surge through the night, claiming that he would take you to see the stars. 

- don’t think that he would try his best to learn how to braid you hair, books and manuals spread in front of the vanity, as if braiding is like cracking a safe or solving an equation. 

‘Rhys, you go over the first strand-”

“WHICH STRAND?! There are so many strands and I’m getting cramps.’

- don’t you dare imagine him, growling like an animal if one (1) male or female tries to approach during feasts, parties, his grip down your waist tighter as people would automatically lean in to hear you better over the noise. 

- don’t imagine how he would take care of you after intense nights ;) don’t think he would wrap you under his arm, as you would laugh, cracking jokes, singing as you would slowly drift to sleep as his hands run through your hair. 

- don’t pretend like he would write in his hidden journal that you’re the only mortal that made him the happiest he’s ever been. 

- And most of all, don’t think he would write in neat letters, 

‘To my mortal love, 

You hold in your little hands, my heart. It is yours, only yours.