#Nessian fic

[c-e-d-dreamer]

You're the Kind of Reckless that Should Send Me Running

A/N: you know, sometimes, self-care is... (checks notes) making a sex bargain with a fae to get out of a marriage contract. It just be like that! But happy Day Three of @nestaarcheronweek lovelies! Hope everyone enjoys some smutty Nessian. As a warning, this is toe-ing the line with dubious consent since it is a fae bargain, so please read with care!

Read on AO3

A bottle of your finest alcohol and your most prized possession.

That's what the woman in the market had told Nesta to bring in offering. Whispered words shared between the brick building of the butcher and the wooden stalls bedecked in green leaves and pastel colored petals, the first sign of spring. The woman's own stall had been tucked closer to the alleyway between buildings, half cast in shadow. What little light did break through bounced off the gemstones of amulets, carved into the grooves of runes in animal bone.

Only desperate people spoke with the woman who always kept the hood of her cloak up to shroud her face.

And desperate Nesta was.

She listened to everything the woman said, carefully tucked away the instructions, the tips the woman offered for the best results. And when the woman had finished speaking, Nesta placed a single silver piece into her palm and slipped back into the crowds of the bustling market without looking back. She kept her head down, tried her best to look inconspicuous lest word get back where she didn’t want it to.

But Nesta caught Clare’s eye across the market square, her friend offering the barest hint of a nod. It was Clare that told Nesta about this woman, about the information she offered, about the outcomes that information promised. According to Clare, it was how Morrigan had done it just last week.

So, that day in the market, Nesta seeked out the woman, and now, here she walks.

She steps over roots and brambles, her soft steps doing nothing to quiet the crunch beneath her feet. With each step, she winces at the way the sound echoes in the wood around her. She glances around, between the barks of the trees that stretch out and above her, but there’s no sign of anyone else but her. It doesn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from standing on edge.

A twig snaps somewhere behind her, and Nesta freezes, nearly dropping the bottle of whiskey she’d stolen from her father’s reserves. She clutches it a little tighter to her chest, afraid to even breathe while she waits for another sound, waits for someone to appear. But the only sound that answers Nesta is the rustle of the wind through the branches and leaves, the distant sound of an owl hooting.

Breathing out slowly, Nesta continues trekking forward. She dares to look back over her shoulder, but there’s nothing but more trees and the streaks of silver from the moon breaking through the canopy above. She shakes her head, reminding herself of exactly why she’s here, why she’s doing this.

She just has to find the clearing. That’s what the woman in the market said, that deep into the woods to the north of the village, the trees would part into a clearing. A ring where the trees dare not grow, where the roots stretch to form an altar. Where a fae waits for humans brave enough to make a bargain.

If only she could find it.

Nesta doesn’t know how far she’s walked, but she feels as though she’s been walking half the night. She can’t help but wonder if it was all a lie, a trick. If there is no clearing and no fae who can help her. It would be just her luck.

With a huff, she decides to call it, decides she’ll make the painstaking trek back to her family’s manor house. She spins on her heel only to find herself standing in the center of a clearing that wasn’t there previously.

Fae magic.

“And what do we have here?”

The voice is deep, rough, practically a low rumble where it skates across Nesta’s skin. She swallows hard, raising her chin, before she turns to face that voice. The man is leaning casually against the trunk of one of the trees lining the clearing, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted as he watches her.

A male, really. A fae male unmistakably from his appearance.

He’s large, bigger than even the butcher back in the village, standing a header taller than Nesta with wide shoulders and a wide chest. Wings stretch behind his back and loom over his shoulders like haunting shadows. Dark curls tumble down to his shoulders, framing a pair of eyes that look almost cat-like, that seem to glint green and gold even beneath the silver of the moonlight. The sleeves of his tunic are pushed up to his elbows, showing off swirls of ink along his skin that Nesta swears shift as though a mimic of the magic she’s sure runs through the fae’s veins.

There’s a rough sort of beauty to his face, to the cut of his cheeks and his jaw. As though they’re carved by the very wind she’s sure he must ride with those large wings of his. His nose doesn’t sit quite straight, a slash slicing through his right eyebrow, but it only seems to add to his features. He’s handsome in a way that Nesta knows she’ll never find in her village, in a way that can only be fae. In a way that Nesta has to swallow hard before finding her voice again.

“Are you the fae that helps women escape their marriage contracts?” Nesta asks, refusing to allow her voice to waver, for her nerves to show.

The fae pushes off the tree, stalking closer to her. “So what if I am?”

Nesta thrusts her arms forward before the fae can get too close. “I brought these in offering.”

The fae tilts his head again, his gaze raking over Nesta from head to toe. Those cat-like eyes rover over her frame slowly, goosebumps erupting across Nesta’s skin as if it’s fingers trailing a blazing path. When his attention returns to her face, there’s something different in his expression. A fire burning amongst the greens and golds of his hazel eyes, the left side of his lips tilting up in a smirk. He reaches forward, the large span of his hands on full display as his fingers curl around the neck of the whiskey bottle.

“You have good taste,” the fae comments, examining the whiskey.

“I stole it from my father.”

“And the dress? Did you steal that from him too?”

Nesta snorts at the implication. “No. It was a gift from my mother, right before she passed.”

The fae hums, but he doesn’t say anything more. He begins to circle her, like a predator sizing up its prey, but Nesta refuses to be cowed. She stands perfectly still, straightening her spine against his scrutiny, raising her chin that little bit higher in defiance.

“Is it sufficient? To your liking?”

“Why the dress? Why not your hair?” the fae asks, twirling a strand of Nesta’s hair around his finger. He tugs it toward his face, inhaling deeply. “It’s oh so beautiful. Like burnished gold. Even beneath the moonlight.”

“If that is what it will take, then you can have it.”

The fae chuckles, the sound low and seeming to resonate from deep within his chest. “You must really dislike your betrothed.”

“You would too if you met him,” Nesta grumbles, not even bothering to swallow down her eye roll.

Tomas Mandray.

That was who her father saw fit to marry her off to. Nesta’s hated her father ever since he selfishly sat idly by when her mother fell ill, deciding that the life saving medicine she would need was not worth the steep cost. His recklessness since her death has only gotten worse, shady business deals and gambling habits digging the Archerons into a deeper hole.

Despite the confidence her father exudes around the other high society members of their village, Nesta knows it’s nothing more than a facade. She knows their family is one wrong deal away from losing everything. Knows there’s a desperation thrumming just beneath her father’s skin. It’s what led to him agreeing to the first man who came forward for her hand, without a thought for the type of man he is.

“Is that so?” the fae asks, finishing his circle and stopping in front of her again.

“It’s the worst kept secret in the village,” Nesta explains, unsure what compels her to tell this fae the truth. Perhaps there’s something in his face, in his presence, that has her wanting to trust him. “Everyone knows that Lord Mandray raises his hand to his wife, that his sons just stand by while it happens.”

“You think he’d lay a hand on you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Real anger flashes across the fae’s face, hazel eyes practically blazing and his lips curling back in a snarl. His fists clench at his sides, muscles in his arms flexing with the motion. The rage isn’t directed at her, but that doesn’t stop Nesta’s heart from thundering between her ribs. She knows the stories of the fae, knows of their strength. This male could tear her apart with ease if he wanted to.

It’s a ferity and display of power that should terrify her, that should have her spinning on her heel and running straight back to the village, but instead she continues to meet this fae’s gaze.

The fae’s expression softens, almost curious, as his gaze sweeps over her anew. It’s unnerving, as though he can see beneath her skin and down to her very bone. As though she’s splayed open for his examination all the way to her soul. Whatever he sees, whatever he finds, it has him stepping closer still. Close enough that Nesta has to tilt her head back to hold eye contact. Close enough she can feel the heat that seems to radiate off him. Close enough that every inhale has her chest a hair's breadth away from his.

“You never told me your name,” the fae says, warm breath skating across Nesta’s cheeks.

“I don’t know yours,” Nesta fires back, raising her chin even higher in challenge.

That cocksure smirk tugs its way across the fae’s face again. “It’s Cassian.”

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron.”

“Nesta,” Cassian repeats, as though tasting her name, testing the weight of it on his tongue. A shiver threatens to skitter up Nesta’s spine, but she’s quick to swallow it down. “Should we make a bargain, Nesta?”

“You’ll do it, then? You’ll end my marriage contract?”

“Happily.”

“For my hair?”

“I’ll accept the dress, but that’s just an offering, sweetheart,” Cassian explains, holding up the dress and whiskey bottle in emphasis before tossing both away. “We still need to make a proper bargain.”

“Alright…” Nesta begins slowly, wading through her memory, through the lessons from her mother. She knows wording is important, knows that she needs to be careful about the phrasing of this bargain. “You ensure that my marriage contract to Tomas Mandray is void, that I’ll never marry Tomas Mandray, that I’ll never marry anyone in the Mandray household nor anyone that I do not choose for myself. And in exchange…”

“And in exchange, you’ll become my wife.”

“What.”

Cassian grins fully down at her, one of his hands reaching up between them to curl that strand of her hair around his fingers again. “You can’t marry anyone else if you’re already married to me.”

Nesta blinks a few times, trying to wrap her mind around it all, but Cassian's hand shifts, the backs of his fingers dragging down her temple, her cheek. The touch is distracting. She supposes it makes sense. How can she marry someone else if she is already wed. Clare never specified exactly what Morrigan had to do to break her own marriage contract to the eldest Vanserra. Perhaps, this is how it works.

But alarm bells still ring in the back of Nesta’s mind, whispering of caution. It’s too vague, gray area so expansive that it feels too risky to simply agree.

“And what does that entail? Being your wife?”

Cassian chuckles again, Nesta practically able to feel it where their chests are nearly pressed together. “You were about to be wed, and you don’t know about wifely duties?”

Nesta’s temper flares red hot, and she glares up at him. “I know what’s expected of a wife.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“What does being a wife mean for a fae? What does a fae expect of me?”

“You can do whatever you want as my wife, Nes,” Cassian offers, palm fully cradling her jaw.

“Don’t call me that. And stop that,” Nesta snaps, knocking his hand away. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“Trick you? I’m hurt, sweetheart. I thought you wanted this bargain?”

“I do.”

Panic swells in Nesta’s chest, churning her stomach. What if he changes his mind? Goes back on the bargain? Anything she wants as his wife. It’s not specific, definitely not even close to what Nesta was taught when it comes to fae bargains, but it only hurts him really. Anything she wants. And what she wants is to live the rest of her life far away from the Mandrays and any of the other aggravating villagers who either look down their noses or leer at her.

“Alright,” Nesta finally breathes, sending a silent prayer to the Mother that she doesn’t live to regret this.

“Alright?” Cassian repeats back, bringing both his hands to Nesta’s jaw this time, tilting her head up. “So it’s a bargain then?”

Nesta swallows hard, her heart skipping a beat when Cassian’s thumb drags across her bottom lip. “It’s a bargain.”

Cassian’s mouth crashes against hers at the same moment a burning sensation cascades along her spine and between her shoulder blades. It has Nesta gasping against Cassian’s lips, but he merely uses the reaction to deepen the kiss, to press his tongue into her mouth. His arm drops to curl around her waist, hauling her closer still until she’s pressed flush against his body. She can feel every line of hard muscle beneath his shirt, feel the strength in his grip around her.

He tears his mouth away, but he doesn’t go far, latching his lips against her neck. His mouth is hot against her skin, her entire body roaring to life and reacting to his touch. She tilts her head, a quiet groan tumbling past her lips, when Cassian’s teeth find her pulse point, tongue soothing over the brief sting.

When Cassian pulls away, Nesta’s whole body sways forward, practically chasing his mouth and his kiss. Slowly, her eyes flutter open, finding Cassian’s own gaze already firmly on her face. There’s a fire in his hazel eyes, lips kiss bitten and pink. His grip on her hip holds her steady, fingers of his other hand burying themselves in the strands of her hair.

“What do you say, wife?” Cassian asks, voice low and deep. He drags his nose along her jaw until he can press his lips to her ear. “Should we consummate our bargain?”

Just his voice has heat pooling low in Nesta’s gut. Has her thighs clenching and her toes beginning to curl in her shoes. And when he presses a kiss to that spot behind her ear, a shudder ricochets down her spine. She clutches at Cassian’s shirt to hold herself steady, daring to arc against him.

“Yes.”

Nesta’s world tilts, and then her back is cushioned by grass and moss. She barely has time to register the change before Cassian’s lips are back on hers. He settles atop her, hips cradled within the bracket of her thighs. Nesta finally buries her fingers in the dark curls of his hair, threading the strands between her fingers and tugging hard until Cassian is groaning into her mouth, his hips pressing down against her. She can feel exactly what she’s doing to him, the hardline of his arousal digging into her hip.

She slides one of her hands down his chest, feeling the heat of him even through the fabric between them, feeling his heartbeat just beneath the surface. She traces down and down, but before her fingertips can even brush the waistband of Cassian’s pants, her hand is yanked away. Cassian’s fae instincts are too quick, grip curling around Nesta’s wrists and pinning her hand above her head and into the dirt.

“Don’t you know, sweetheart, that a good husband always ensures his wife is taken care of first?”

Cassian pulls back enough that he’s able to settle comfortably on his haunches. Nesta feels overly exposed, splayed out in the grass beneath him. His gaze roves over her form with a hunger that has her heart rate spiking, has heat flooding through her veins until it settles in her core. Her chest heaves with each deep inhale as painstakingly slow, Cassian unties the laces down the front of her dress.

Her nerve endings are already on high alert, and the slow drag of fabric over her breasts as her dress is pulled open has a moan bubbling up and out of her throat. Her nipples are already pebbled when the cool air hits them, and the heat of Cassian’s hand as he palms them is a welcome reprieve.

Cassian leans back down, his mouth closing over one of her breasts. His tongue laves over her nipple, teeth nipping and tugging at the bud. He pulls back with a quiet pop, switching to her other breath, and Nesta bucks up against him, desperate for friction. Desperate for more.

“Cass… Cassian,” Nesta begs quietly, moaning when he drags the flat of his tongue over her breast again.

Nesta doesn’t even hear Cassian’s laugh this time, merely feels the vibrations against her skin, but he gets the message. He kisses a blazing path down her sternum, down her stomach. His hands find the hem of her skirts, pushing them up her thighs and her hips until her whole dress is nothing more than a bunch of fabric around her waist.

He keeps sliding down until he’s settled on his stomach in the grass, wings spread wide and tall above them both. For a moment, Nesta is transfixed on the way the moonlight ripples through the membrane, the patterns of the veins and scars, but her focus is brought solely back to the fae between her legs when Cassian’s fingers hook in the waistband of her undergarments, sliding them slowly down her legs.

Her breath hitches in her throat as he settles her thighs over his shoulders, at the feral look on his face. Those cat-like eyes of his are almost completely swallowed by his blown out pupils, and his grin shows off the sharp tips of his canines. With his dark hair falling along his temples and cheeks, he truly looks like a wild man, like a beast ready to pounce and feast on its prey. Nesta tosses her head back with a whimper as he lowers his face down, already anticipating his warm breath across her cunt, his tongue, but it never comes. Instead, Cassian’s lips find home along her inner thigh, a teasing display of what’s to come.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Cassian’s low voice rasps, lips never straying from her skin. “I want to see the look on your face when you fall apart on my tongue.”

Nesta tips her chin back down, meeting Cassian’s gaze fully again. His teeth sink into her inner thigh, sucking a bruise onto the skin. Whether it’s a reward or a punishment for her behavior, Nesta isn’t sure. A glint sparks through his hazel eyes, and it’s Nesta’s only warning before he buries himself completely between her thighs.

The first slide of his tongue over her cunt has Nesta’s thighs squeezing out of instinct, but Cassian’s fingers curl against the flesh, holding her open and exactly how he wants her. The flat of his tongue drags over her until he reaches her clit, tracing tantalizing circles over the bud that have Nesta bucking against his hold. It’s clearly the reaction he was hoping for, and the vibrations of his answering groan only add to the sensations threatening to send Nesta spiraling, send her unraveling, almost embarrassingly quickly.

And all the while, Cassian keeps his eyes on her face, pinning her in place, while he works his magic. Whether it’s his fae magic or just the magic of this male, Nesta doesn’t know. Nor does she particularly care as long as he doesnt stop. Her hands scrabble desperately for something to grasp onto, dirt digging under her nails and moans tumbling past her lips unbidden as Cassian presses his tongue into her. It curls and flicks at her walls like he’s determined to collect every last drop of her arousal, like a male parched and starved.

When Cassian finally pulls back, the sight is obscene. His hair is disheveled, lips and chin glistening beneath the light of the moon. He doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth, merely licking his lips with another low groan.

“I knew you’d make the prettiest sounds,” Cassian tells her, suddenly sinking two fingers into her cunt. “Now, come on, wife. Scream my name for the whole wood to hear.”

The pace Cassian sets is punishing, his fingers fucking into her hard and deep, thick in a way her own fingers have never been. Nesta feels like she’s on fire, her entire focus pinpointed on the fingers driving into her, the stretch of them, the way they drag along the walls of her cunt. She rocks her hips up against his hand, chasing the flames, the friction, the familiar feeling coiling tighter and tighter.

“Gods, look at you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight. Flushed such a pretty pink and taking my fingers so well.”

Nesta keens at the words, her hand snapping down to curl around Cassian’s wrist. Not to stop him, but to keep him there. He squeezes in a third finger beside the first two, curling them until Nesta is practically arching up off the ground. Her throat already feels hoarse from her moans, from the shouts of Cassian’s name.

“That’s my good girl. I can feel the way you’re squeezing my fingers. I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock.”

“Cass. Cassian. Please. Gods, please.”

Cassian groans, dropping his face to her neck, teeth dragging along the skin, across her collarbones, his fingers never stopping. “Fuck. You beg so pretty too.”

Cassian’s thumb finds her clit, working it in tandem with the three fingers still thrusting into her. Nesta’s toes curl, her thighs practically shaking. She can feel herself standing on that edge, on that precipice. Cassian shifts his face down, lips closing around her breast again, and Nesta goes tumbling head first. She clenches down hard around Cassian’s fingers, half aware of the shout torn from her throat as her release barrels through her.

Cassian continues to move his fingers, dragging out her orgasm. But soon, the aftershocks subside, the stimulation teetering toward painful. Her whole body shudders with a whimper, but Cassian slips his fingers free. He makes a big show of pushing them between his lips, groaning around the taste of her. It has Nesta reaching for his wrist again, this time, bringing his hand to her own mouth. She sucks on his fingers, curling her tongue between the digits.

“Mother, save me,” Cassian mutters, watching her with hooded eyes.

He pulls his fingers free, but he’s quick to replace them with his own mouth, kissing Nesta deeply. Nesta moans into the kiss, burying her hands back in Cassian’s hair and tugging hard. His tongue curls around her own, his hips aligning and rocking down against hers. It’s a reminder of what’s still hers for the taking, the brush of fabric against her sending sparks ricocheting anew.

She reaches for the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up and up, determined to take it off. But his wings. Her fingers falter as she realizes she’s not sure how to get it off around the wings. She pulls back from the kiss to try and get a better look, but Cassian is having none of that, drawing her right back in. She huffs against his lips, tugging at his shirt in emphasis, and when Cassian is the one to finally pull back again, his hazel eyes are alight with amusement.

He reaches behind his back, the snap of buttons almost as loud as their heaving breaths in the quiet wood. Fisting the fabric, Cassian tugs the shirt away with ease, leaving Nesta with the perfect view of the wide expanse of golden skin, of the muscles carved into it, of the dark hair dusted across his chest and down his stomach like an alluring path leading down and down.

Nesta traces the lines of tattoos painted across his skin with the tip of her fingers, traces them all the way down his chest and further still, daring to dig her nails in against his stomach. Cassian hisses at the sting, but the look in his eyes tells her that he really likes it. It makes her feel bolder, braver. She dares to reach down, palming the hard line still trapped in his pants.

With a groan, Cassian drops his head against her collarbones. She continues her ministrations, curling her fingers as best she can and moving her hand up and down. Even through the fabric of his pants, Nesta can feel the way he twitches, can feel the weight of him. The size. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, what with Cassian being fae and not an ordinary man, but it still has heat sparking along her spine, has her mouth running dry just as surely as her thighs clench together.

She pushes at the waistband of his pants until they slide off his hips, down his thighs. Cassian finishes the job, kicking off the fabric. His cock bobs free between his strong thighs, the head already glistening with his own arousal. Nesta goes to wrap her hand around it, but her fingertips barely graze before Cassian is pinning her wrists again. He’s able to hold both her wrists in the grip of just one of his hands, using his free hand to find home beneath her chin and raise her face to his.

For a moment, Cassian merely stares at her, eyes roving over her face as though he’s trying to memorize it. Warmth flares through his hazel eyes, and Nesta swears she can feel an answering spark between her ribs, can feel it grow and tether like a golden thread there. He leans down and connects their lips, the kiss surprisingly soft. Nesta tries to deepen it, tries to free her hands so she can pull him close again, but Cassian keeps the kiss a gentle slide of lips.

“Cassian,” Nesta huffs frustratedly, hooking her legs around his waist and digging her heels into the small of his back, trying to encourage him where she wants.

“So needy, my wife,” Cassian teases, gripping his cock and dragging the head along her cunt, through the wetness that’s pooled there. “Do you want my cock, Nes? Want me to fill you up and fuck you good?”

“Isn’t that what a good husband does?”

Cassian’s whole body shudders with a groan, his wings flaring wide. “Perhaps a good wife should beg for it.”

“Please,” Nesta whispers, capturing Cassian’s bottom lip between her teeth and bucking her hips up against him. “Please fuck me.”

“Good girl.”

Cassian grasps at her hips, tugging her close and tilting them up. He presses his own hips forward until the tip slides inside her, thrusting shallowly. Just the first few inches stretches Nesta in a way she’s never felt before, in a way she fears she could become addicted to. He pulls his hips back just to sink back in further, the drag along Nesta’s walls leaving her moaning.

When their hips are finally pressed flushed together, Cassian still, nosing along her neck and her jaw. Nesta feels so incredibly full, her every nerve ending on fire in the most delicious way. She clenches down around him, her cunt seeming to draw him that much deeper, and Cassian’s groan echoes her own.

“Gods, you’re so tight,” Cassian murmurs into her neck, lips dragging against her skin. “But you take me so well.”

“Cassian, please,” Nesta begs again, trying to shift her hips against his hold.

Whether the begging does the trick or Cassian merely takes pity on her, Nesta doesn’t care. All she can focus on is the way Cassian pulls his hips back only to snap them back forward. Again and again he drives his hips forward, each hard thrust sending lightning licking through Nesta’s veins. With her hands now free, she curls them around Cassian’s back, practically clawing at his skin as she rocks her hips up to meet him thrust for thrust, as she chases the unparalleled feeling of him filling her over and over.

She dares to trace her fingers toward his shoulder blades. Dares to trace the spindly bone of a wing. Cassian lets out a near animalistic growl, hips digging against her own as his movements stutter.

“If you keep that up, this will be over much too soon,” Cassian warns through clenched teeth. He sits back on his haunches, splaying Nesta’s legs across his thighs.

“Sensitive?” Nesta asks. “What does it feel like?”

Cassian’s thumb presses down on Nesta’s clit, Nesta keening at the sensation and pressure. “Like that.”

Cassian works his hips back up to a brutal pace, moving his thumb in tandem with every hard thrust. It doesn’t take long before Nesta finds herself on the edge of that precipice again, before she goes tumbling over with little to no warning. Her back arches up off the ground, cunt clenching hard around Cassian’s cock. Cassian continues to snap his hips, working her through her orgasm, until he shudders and stills above her, warmth flooding Nesta’s core as surely as the fire blazing through her veins.

Cassian shifts back, pulling his softening cock free and drawing a quiet whimper from Nesta’s lips. She still feels like she’s burning, still feels desperate to dive back into the flames and the feeling sparked by this fae male. And though there’s still the lingering fullness from Cassian’s own release, her cunt still spasms with the aftershocks of her orgasm, still clenches around nothing.

She pushes herself up into a seated position, moving before Cassian can get too far. She all but clambers into his lap, steadying herself on his shoulders until she can settle comfortably. Cassian’s hands find her waist, an almost awestruck expression on his face as he peers up at her. But there’s embers in that hazel gaze too, still flickering as one of those hands glides up her spine, as his fingers curl into the long strands of Nesta’s hair that have fallen free from her updo.

“You know,” Nesta begins, reaching down until she can fist his cock, stroking it teasingly. “There’s this rumor. That fae males can recover more quickly than a man.”

“Is that so?” Cassian teases, but Nesta can already feel the way he’s started to harden again from her ministrations.

Nesta tightens her grip, quickens her pace, until Cassian is groaning and bucking his hips up against her, until his cock is standing at full attention again. She shifts forward on her knees, lining Cassian’s cock up with her cunt and sinking down on it. She moans at the fullness taking over her again, the rightness of being pressed together like this. She feels key-up, the overstimulation too much and yet everything that she needs.

She starts to rock her hips, gasping at the drag and friction, chasing the heat already climbing dangerously high. With one hand still buried in her hair, Cassian draws her mouth back to his, groaning against her lips as he kisses her. He plants his feet on the ground, snapping his hips up to meet hers.

“Gods, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Cassian murmurs against her, hands sliding down to palm at her ass and guide her movements. “Riding my cock like a good fucking girl.”

Nesta shudders at his words, clenching down hard. She picks up the pace of her hips, chasing another release. She starts to feel the burn in her thighs, can feel the stickiness of their own arousal, of both their releases dripping and smeared across the skin there. She’s half aware of her hoarse moans ringing in her ears, of the wet sounds of sex and slapping skin echoing in the woods around them. But all that matters is the slide of Cassian’s cock, the pressure building between her thighs.

She reaches a hand down, fingers slipping through the wetness there and against her clit, but Cassian is too quick. His own fingers curl around her wrist and pull her hand away. Nesta whines high in the back of her throat, tugging against his grip, but it’s no use.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine,” Cassian warns, squeezing her wrist that little bit tighter.

“And am I yours?” Nesta asks, sinking down fully and swiveling her hips to get the friction she was looking for.

“Always. And I’m yours.”

“Good.”

With her free hand not captured in Cassian’s hold, Nesta reaches over his shoulder. She slides her fingertips across his leathery wings, trying to mimic the way her hips move with the shapes she traces. She dares to scrape her nails against his wings, remembering how he’d responded before. With a roar, Cassian all but crushes her to him, his cock twitching deep within her. It’s enough to send Nesta crashing through an orgasm right there with him, spots dancing in her vision as she shakes with the force of it.

Nesta’s entire body feels wrung out and sated, embers banked but still keeping her deliciously warm. It takes her a moment too long to realize she’s slumped forward against Cassian, their chests pressed together and her head dropped to his shoulder. She knows that she needs to move. She knows that, now that their bargain is complete, she needs to return to the village. But trying to will her muscles to work feels like an impossible feat.

She decides to give it under her still heaving breaths even out, until her still thundering heart quiets to a soft beat. Cassian’s touch is surprisingly gentle where his fingertips trace shapes and lines up and down her spine, but soon his hands are gripping her properly. He shifts until they’re both sprawled across the soft, mossy floor of the wood, wings curling almost protectively around her. Warmth seeps into Nesta’s skin every place they’re pressed together, relaxing her all the way down to the bone.

There’s a safety wrapped up in his embrace, and Nesta allows her eyes to flutter shut, allows it to lull her under. She thinks back to Cassian’s words, his declaration that she’s his and he’s hers. And for a moment, just this moment longer, she almost allows herself to believe it.

~ * * * ~

Nesta quietly thanks the seller, carefully placing the folded fabric in the basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She slides her fingers against the pretty pink of it, the color reminding her of Elain. She’s sure that her younger sister will create something beautiful with it.

As she steps out of the small shop in the village square, Nesta can already feel eyes on her. They’re practically scorching holes through her shoulder blades, but she refuses to turn and look. The staring has been the trend the past two days, ever since that night, especially with the men in the village. Perhaps she should have found a way to work keeping the village’s disdain at bay into her bargain.

Sighing softly to herself, Nesta keeps her head held high, her shoulders back, as she follows the winding road back toward her family’s home. She keeps her grip on her basket tight, wills her breathing to come steady and slow, even as her every nerve ending feels on high alert, her heart beginning to skip between her ribs.

A hand grips hard around Nesta’s bicep, yanking her into the gap between two buildings. She barely has time to let out a shout of surprise before another hand is closing over her mouth. Her back slams against wood, nails biting into the skin of her arm, her cheek. The basket slips from her fingers, items skittering across the ground, as she comes face to face with a pair of brown eyes, ruddy cheeks, and lips pulled back in a sneer.

“Did you think you could get away with embarrassing me?” Tomas spits, leaning in until he’s right in Nesta’s face.

Nesta uses her free hand to pry Tomas’s fingers off her face. “Leave me alone. There’s no longer a contract between us or our families.”

“You think I don’t know how you did that? That the whole village doesn’t know? A lowly whore just like Morrigan.”

“Fuck you.”

“It seems you’ve dirtied your mouth as much as your body. Don’t worry. I’m more than happy to use both to remind you of your place.”

Panic flares through Nesta’s chest as Tomas uses his body weight to pin her in place, his hand reaching for her skirts. A low growl echoes in the space around them, Tomas’s entire body going rigid at the sound. They both look toward the other end of the alleyway, a large figure looming there. Even with the shadows, the silhouette of wings is unmistakable.

“A fae?” Tomas whispers, true fear leaving his voice trembling. “In the village? During the day?”

“Get your hands off her,” Cassian warns, voice low and threatening.

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tomas calls out, all fake bravado Nesta is sure.

Cassian prowls forward, each step slow but measured. “I won’t ask again.”

Tomas’s eyes dart between Cassian and Nesta, and Nesta watches the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow. Of all the things Tomas may be, one of them is clearly not stupid. He releases his hold on Nesta, stumbling back a few steps. His eyes never leave Cassian, a true prey caught in a predator’s trap, as he backs away.

Cassian’s smile is all ferity and teeth. In the blink of an eye, he closes the distance, hand snapping out and curling around Tomas’s throat, holding him in place. “Did you think I was just going to let you go?”

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tomas repeats, but even he sounds unsure at his own words.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine.”

Cassian doesn’t give Tomas the time to say anything else. His hand tightens around Tomas’s throat, lifting him up off his feet and slamming him against the wall opposite of Nesta. Tomas sputters and chokes around Cassian’s hold, his feet kicking out helplessly as he claws at Cassian’s forearm.

“What do you say, Nes? Should we break his fingers for committing such an offense?”

Nesta swallows to find her voice again. “Why stop at his fingers?”

Nesta can’t see Cassian’s face with the way he’s holding Tomas, but she can imagine the gleam in his hazel eyes. It’s clear from the way Tomas’s face completely blanches. Cassian’s wings flare out wide behind his back, keeping him balanced as he strikes. The crunch of breaking bone is drowned out by Tomas’s blood curdling scream. Cassian works with an almost terrifying ease and efficiency, as though he’s tearing mere parchment and not body parts.

Tomas crumbles to the ground with a soft groan when Cassian finally steps back. The fae crouches down, but Nesta can’t hear what he whispers to Tomas. He reaches his hands out and wipes them against Tomas’s shirt, cleaning the man’s blood off using the fabric. When he’s finished, Cassian straightens and turns back to Nesta, carefully retrieving her dropped basket and items and holding it out toward her. Slowly, she takes it from him, stepping over Tomas’s body and back into the village market and sun.

“You’re a hard woman to find, Nesta,” Cassian starts, stepping out of the alleyway behind her.

“I didn’t realize you were searching,” Nesta comments idly.

She pauses, hesitates, in the now empty town square before squaring her shoulders and continuing the trek back to her family home. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when Cassian falls into step beside her, unbothered about the villagers who clearly scattered due to his presence.

“What did you expect? Most wives don’t sneak away from their husbands in the middle of the night.”

“I thought that was how it was done.”

Cassian’s chuckle is just as warm in the light of day. “You humans have very odd traditions then.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at his teasing words. “Not that, you big bat. I meant your bargains. Do you track down every woman you make your wife to end their marriage contract?”

Cassian’s fingers curl around Nesta’s wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tugs her to a stop. With a quiet huff, Nesta turns to face him properly. It seems almost strange to see him under the bright light of the sun, without the rays of the moon casting silver shadows across his face, his wings.

He’s still as ruggedly beautiful as Nesta remembers him.

With the curls of his hair scraped away from his face and secured in a bun, the hard line of his jaw is on full display. His hazel eyes seem to burn as golden as the high noon sun, and with the light stretching through them, Nesta realizes there’s a reddish hue to those powerful wings stretched behind his back.

“I only have one wife, sweetheart.”

Nesta blinks a few times, sure that she misheard, trying to wrap her mind around his words. “What do you mean?”

“What other meaning is there?” Cassian drawls, reaching for a stray strand of her hair and twirling it around his finger, a gesture reminiscent of their night together. “The only wife I have is you.”

“So you tricked me with your bargain.”

“Tricked you? I distinctly remember you agreeing. Remember the way you begged for–”

“Stop.”

Nesta takes a firm step back, Cassian’s hand dropping away from between them and back to his side. He tilts his head as he watches her, but Nesta squeezes her eyes shut. He’s too distracting. His presence, the warmth that radiates off his frame, his eyes and the kaleidoscope of emotions swimming amongst the golds and greens. She needs to think.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins, his voice soft and low.

“I said stop.”

Even his voice is distracting, the timbre and drawl of it skating across Nesta skin, wrapping around her limbs like a warm embrace. It seems to rumble from deep within his chest, and Nesta knows exactly what that chest feels like pressed against her own. She knows exactly how his lips feel dragging across her skin, against her lips, against–

“Why?” Nesta asks, her eyes flashing open again. “Why would you make that your end of the bargain then?”

“Because from the moment I saw you in that wood, I knew there would never be another for me.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I was ready to drop to my knees before you bargain or not,” Cassian continues, stepping back into her space. This time, he wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her flush to him until Nesta has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact. “Now, I know I said you could do whatever you wished as my wife, and that is still true, but you can’t tell me you wish to stay in this sorry village. Come home, wife.”

Warmth pools through Nesta’s chest, tugging just below her ribs, at her heart, but that voice in the back of her mind still scrambles and screams. “And how do I know I’m not escaping one cruel man just to run into the arms of another?”

The question pulls a growl from Cassian’s throat. “I would never dare to lay a hand on you unless you asked. And anyone who does dare will have my wrath to answer to, just like that sorry excuse of a man in the village square.”

Before she can think twice about it, before that voice can talk her out of it, Nesta presses up onto her toes, crashing her mouth against Cassian’s. He responds instantly, his lips dragging and sliding with her own, his arms and wings wrapping around her. There’s a comfort, a safety, a contentment here in his embrace, and that warmth in Nesta’s chest puts down roots, unfurls and blooms. It settles all the way down to the very marrow of her bones, to her soul.

When she finally pulls back from the kiss, she steps back from Cassian completely before he can drag her back under. She clears her throat and resettles the basket on her arm, turning on her heel and continuing toward her destination. Only when the familiar worn wood of the door comes into view does she finally stop again, turning over her shoulder.

“Stay out here.”

She doesn’t wait for Cassian’s response before she steps inside her family’s home, the scent of fresh bread greeting her. She spies her father asleep in the rickety chair he favors in front of the fire. Typical. With an annoyed huff, Nesta sets down her basket, heading in the direction of the bedrooms.

“Nesta? Is that you? You were in the market longer than I thought. I was starting to get worried.”

Nesta ignores her sister, continuing down the hall and through the bedroom door. She digs a bag out from beneath the bed, laying it open and turning toward the wardrobe. She makes quick work pulling out all her favorite dresses and folding them into some semblance of order.

“Nesta? Is everything–what are you doing?”

Nesta only glances toward Elain now standing in the doorway, Feyre standing just behind her and peering over the middle Archeron’s shoulder. Instead, Nesta returns to the task at hand, grabbing her most beloved books and adding them to the bag as well. Her attention dances briefly toward the old desk in the corner, but she presumes even a fae would have parchment and pen for her to write.

“Don’t ask questions,” Nesta finally says, closing the bag. “But I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Feyre echoes, stepping back enough that Nesta can walk back out of the bedroom.

“Yes. Now that there is no longer a marriage contract with the Mandrays, there’s no…” Nesta sighs, pausing in front of their home's front door and turning back toward her sisters, but there’s nothing but understanding on Elain and Feyre’s faces. “I’ll write once I’m settled. I swear it.”

With a final nod, Nesta pulls open the door, stepping back into the sun. As if she already inherently knows where to look, her eyes find Cassian where he’s leaning casually against the trunk of a tree. It’s reminiscent of the first time she saw the fae, only this time, his expression seems to soften as he takes her in. Nesta refuses to admit to the way her heart stutters at the smile on his face.

“Is that–”

“Don’t ask questions,” Nesta cuts Elain off. “Just know that this is what I want, that I’ll be happy. Don’t let father ever try to convince either of you that you don’t deserve that too.” She starts down the path away from their house before another thought occurs to her. “And perhaps stay out of the woods. Especially at night.”

Nesta continues down the path and across the grass until she reaches Cassian, wordlessly holding out her bag. She swears it’s purposeful, the way his fingers skate across her skin as he takes it, and yet goosebumps erupt up her arm either way. She waits for Cassian to begin leading the way back between the trees and deeper into the woods, but instead the fae takes the time to secure her bag over his shoulder until it rests between his wings.

“Oh, we’ll be flying,” Cassian explains, answering her unasked question.

“Flying?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

Before Nesta can say anything else, Cassian scoops her up and into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Nesta is quick to wrap her own arms tightly around his neck, squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation of the rush, of the wind, but it never comes. When she opens her eyes again, she finds Cassian watching her. Waiting for her permission.

“Well? Take me home, husband.”

—

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#NestaWeek2024 #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #my fic

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Nevermind (ao3)

Twelve months to the day since she and Elain were thrown in the Cauldron, Nesta finds herself at one of Feyre’s dinner parties, trying to wrestle with an entire year’s worth of grief— until Cassian holds out a hand. (For @nestaarcheronweek day 2)

“I fell out of love again, not with you but with living in general, and I lost a lot of friends, never mind. Cause I’ve been on a losing streak, my heart’s made of stone, and I can’t trust my own damn feet to show me the right way home.” - Nevermind, Deaf Havana

It was the laughter that rankled the most.

That stung as it echoed off the crystal wine glasses and polished silver knives that lay at intervals along the grand mahogany table; glittering peals of it reverberating as bottles were uncorked and priceless wine was poured as liberally as water. Edged in the soft evening light, their joy was bright and bold and loud and warm, but as the dark crimson liquid licked the sides of her glass when someone filled it, Nesta Archeron could do nothing but sit frozen in the chair set out for her in Feyre’s expensive new house, watching the wine settle in her glass, trying not to think of how much it resembled freshly spilled blood. 

There was no air in that expansive dining room trimmed with wealth and filled with golden light and laughter, no way to breathe, and as Nesta felt herself slowly suffocate, their laughter cut and pierced her skin like an entire quiver of arrows shot from seven different bows. Each one hit their mark; each one made her bleed. 

With a hand she forced steady, she reached for the wine and lifted it to her lips, praying she might find some relief at the bottom regardless of… well, everything.

She wished they’d given her whiskey instead.

Cheap wine and strong liquor— that’s what Nesta had grown used to these past months. What she wantedmore than fine wine and elegant dinners pierced with laughter she couldn’t share. But then— when had it ever really mattered what she wanted anyway? When had it ever made a difference? 

This wine certainly wasn’t cheap. It was rich and heady, the taste lingering on her tongue and coating the back of her throat, so thick she couldn’t breathe. It clung to the side of her glass as she lowered her hand, a smear of red staining the crystal that had her stomach churning and her throat threatening to close. Blood— did none of them notice, how much it looked like blood? It had her hearing not laughter but screams— had her tasting iron and recalling the way the blood had pooled between her fingers and collected between her knuckles only a handful of months ago. 

Around the stem of her wine glass, her fingers trembled.

So little time had passed since the battle that had made an orphan of her, and yet…

They laughed.

Still, they laughed.

It was why, in the time since they had walked away from that battlefield alive if not entirely intact, Nesta had done everything in her power to distance herself from her sister and her newfound family. She had found an apartment on the other side of the city, as far from Feyre’s new house as she could get, and most nights she tried her hardest to avoid Rhysand and the members of his Inner Circle, seeking solace instead in dive bars— trying to find it in the arms of strangers whose names she never learned and whose faces she wouldn’t remember when the sun came up.

But this night… 

This night was different. 

The wine soured on her tongue, the sound of their laughter almost making her flinch. It was twelve months to the day since she and Elain had been forced into that Cauldron— twelve months since she had been broken apart so irrevocably that she didn’t think that there was a hope in hell of putting her back together again. It was the only reason - the only reason - why she had accepted Feyre’s weekly invitation to dinner when so many others had gone ignored. Why Nesta had crossed the river and stood in that grand, echoing entrance hall, looking up at portraits of damn near everyone Feyre had ever met, and finding that the only absence was her own. 

The familiar hole in her chest had widened, yawned and gaped until it threatened to swallow her, and on this brutal anniversary she had thought that she might want, for once, to be near the only people who might understand the significance of it. Who might remember what day it was too.

She’d realised her mistake as soon as she stepped over the threshold.

Elain had been holding a cake on a silver stand, emerging victorious from the kitchen and smiling as she made her way to the dining room, where the cake now sat proudly in the centre of the table. Elain always makes dessert, Feyre had whispered as Nesta stood motionless in the doorway, trying to catch Elain’s eye and hoping to find—

What?

The same pain, reflected back at her in eyes she knew as well as her own? Some flicker of understanding?

Feyre had patted Nesta on the arm and slipped away to the sitting room, leading her to the space warmed by the glow of the fire and softened by the sound of laughter. But Nesta couldn’t find it in her to make her lips bend into a smile, couldn’t force a spark into her eyes. When Elain returned, and when Rhysand complimented the cake, her sister had blushed and dipped her chin, batting away the kind words with a soft smile and a demure tilt of her head. All the while Nesta sat in her chair, blinking, trying not to feel like a ghost that had stumbled and sat, unseen and unnoticed, at a stranger’s dinner party.

The laughter rose now, filling the dining room until the space was bursting with it, their joy pushing at the seams until it felt like Nesta would break beneath the pressure. As if from a great distance she heard Amren make some dry, cutting comment that she was too far gone to fully comprehend, and Azriel’s retort was a low, dark whisper across the silverware that had Mor’s laughter pealing all over again, like the ringing of a church bell. 

Nesta’s hand tightened on her wine glass.

Did they not realise— did they not see? Or was she just screaming into the void, her pain and her anguish swallowed by their laughter?

The grief was a collar around her neck, tightening with every breath and dragging her beneath the surface whenever she was reminded that this place was not her home, this life not one that she had chosen. When she looked in the mirror and glimpsed her reflection, Nesta saw elegantly arched ears and eyes that glinted silver and she mourned every. damned. time. On the rare occasions she managed a smile, her lips felt absurdly weighty, the curvature forced and unwieldy, too unnatural to be believable given that her chest was still so empty and hollow.

And none of them noticed.

It hurt.

Every breath hurt— still. They had told her it would get better with time, that she would learn to heal, but it hadn’t, she hadn’t, and all she had come to realise was that her anger and her sorrow and her pain could not be parcelled away, couldn’t fit neatly into their little box. It had teeth— teeth and claws and a taste for blood, and it was tearing her apart, day by day by fucking day.

But it was invisible to them, because they had ticked off the days, the weeks turning to months, and now that a full year had passed… Nesta had, apparently, sailed right past the point of her pain being acceptable.

She gritted her teeth now, the meaningless and inane babble making her want to take her fork and drive it through Rhysand’s neck. If any of them spoke to her, she didn’t hear it. Didn’t register it. Instead she sat with her back straight, pushing around the food on her plate and ignoring Mor’s disapproving glance when she barely ate a mouthful and chose, instead, to drain her sanguineous wine.

A silent scream began to build in her chest, one that threatened to cleave her in two.

The laughter grew louder, another bottle of wine was opened, and for all the size of the great dining room in Feyre’s new home, the walls seemed to be closing in, the air suddenly thin as ribbons of ice crawled up Nesta’s spine. When the food was cleared away, Nesta saw as if through water when Feyre pushed away from the table, lifting her glass and suggesting that they move to the sitting room for a while before returning later for Elain’s cake.

She didn’t hear the murmurs of agreement or the clink of glasses as her sister’s family got to their feet. She didn’t hear the scrape of the chairs against the hardwood floors - not even her own - and as the rest of them departed for one of the luxurious sitting rooms overlooking the lawns, Nesta curled a hand around the back of her chair as she stood, fingers curling painfully into the carved wood. 

“Nesta?”

Feyre’s voice drifted to her as she placed a hand on Nesta’s arm, but Nesta didn’t feel any warmth or kindness in her sister’s touch— felt only the icy kiss of the Cauldron and the hands that had held her captive in that throne room— a bruising grip that had held her down before water closed over her head, before her blood had boiled and her bones had shattered. 

The memory slammed into her, made her flinch. 

Against the onslaught Nesta took a breath, fixing her eyes on the windows and the night sky beyond, dark and clouded over, without a single star visible in the sky overhead. She looked into the impenetrable black, like a mirror to her soul.

“I’ll join you in a minute,” she managed after a long silence, her voice straining against the words. 

Slowly, Feyre nodded.

She drew her hand away and looked once at her eldest sister before turning for the door, and as the sound of Feyre’s retreating footsteps grew distant, Nesta found herself standing alone and motionless before the window, looking at her reflection and mourning the life she had lived twelve months ago.

A life where she had a father still, even if he had been absent.

A life where she woke each morning and recognised her face in the mirror; where there was a path laid before that she knew she could follow. A human, mortal path.

Nesta caught sight of her eyes reflected back at her in the glass, dark and humourless, as cold and as empty as a void. From the sitting room the laughter echoed still, Mor’s voice louder than the rest as she told some ridiculous, raucous story that had Rhysand shouting something in good-natured protest, that had Feyre gasping a laugh as she allowed herself to be regaled by some tale from her husband’s past.

Nesta wondered if she would ever laugh again— ever find a reason to smile. 

She had never felt more out of place than she did now, with her arms wrapped tight around herself as she stood alone, listening to the laughter and the joy of a family she would never be a part of. 

A mistake— it had been a mistake to come tonight.

She closed her eyes, wondering how much scorn she would receive if she left right now, without saying goodbye. Glasses clinked in the sitting room, and it was almost enough to make her dart for the kitchen and the door that she knew would take her outside, but before she could commit herself to running away, the sound of footsteps approaching made her open her eyes again. Looking at the dining room reflected back at her through the windows, Nesta didn’t bother to turn as the door was opened again, letting in another sharp slice of the mirth beyond. 

Cassian hesitated in the doorway.

Through the glass Nesta watched as he stood, lingering and drawing no nearer, even though his eyes had found her in an instant— had snapped to her, like seeking her out was the only thing he was good at. Without pause, without fear, he met her gaze in the window’s reflection, standing a handful of feet behind her as the heart in Nesta’s chest twisted painfully. 

“There you are,” he said gently. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, a stance so casual that Nesta could have forgiven herself for forgetting that he was a warrior born and bred, as ruthless as they come, with hands even more bloodstained than her own. The hair hung to his shoulders in a mass of haphazard curls, and the ruby earring he wore caught in the low light as he canted his head to the side, studying her with eyes that held no humour anymore, no hint of jest.

She wished now that Feyre had left the wine behind.

Cassian’s eyes searched hers in the reflection, taking in the hollows of her cheeks and the skin that she knew was too pale, too wan. His eyebrows inched together, a furrow forming in his brow as he took in the tracery of grief left behind, and when his throat bobbed with a swallow, something like concern alighted across his face. The scar slicing through his eyebrow was thrown into relief as his head tilted, his jaw tight as he looked her over, and something sparked in his eyes that she couldn’t bear, something so ardent and sincere that it made the hollow ache in her chest spread until she could feel it in her toes. 

She didn’t know what to do with it. How to handle it. 

So Nesta turned sharply on her heel, whirling to face him and taking some small pleasure in the fact that his eyes widened— that she had managed to surprise him. 

“You don’t want to join us in the sitting room?” he asked, his voice slow and careful. Like he was sizing up an opponent for battle.

Nesta snorted.

Regret glimmered in his eyes, edged with just the barest hint of sorrow, but it was there and gone in an instant. The hazel darkened, and Nesta felt the anger and pain that simmered beneath her skin extending its claws like a beast stretching languorous before the hunt. 

“Why should I?” she asked, poison seeping into her tone— poison as lethal to her as it was to him. Part of her knew she would regret it later, regretted it already, but she couldn’t hold back the tide of her grief alone. It was easier to let it swallow her, to let it drown her— easier to feed the anger than feel the pain, and so she lifted a chin and nodded to the doorway and the sitting room beyond, her lip curling on a sneer that only a small part of her tried and failed to fight. “So I can hear more tales about how wonderful your lives have been?”

Cassian’s eyes didn’t widen this time, like he’d expected every harsh word that had fallen from her lips. But he didn’t draw back— Cassian remained, resolute, with his face blank as Nesta’s arms tightened around her middle, as though her grip was the only thing holding her together. For half a moment she thought she saw his eyes soften— thought she saw him reach the same conclusion.

“So you can sit beside your sisters and remember what it is to be loved by them,” he suggested instead, removing one hand from his pocket and extending it smoothly out towards her. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, splaying his fingers like all he wanted was for her to take his hand and let her fingers slip between the gaps he’d left in his. 

Nesta’s heart twisted again, and she thought that maybe - maybe - a part of her might want that, too. 

A pity then, she thought dryly, that she couldn’t see beyond the tangled mess of emotions that were churning up her chest like dried earth. That she couldn’t reach beyond the shroud of grief to accept the hand that he offered. 

She was silent for a moment, not quite knowing the words to say. His hand hung in the air between them, not quite enough to close the gap, and she was acutely aware that before her was a man who had thrown his life before hers, who had laid his head in her lap and grasped her hand as he lay dying. A man that she had barely seen since, who had started the hours and days after the battle by giving her space, and had never quite managed to stop. The distance between them was so great now that Nesta had no idea how to bridge it. 

And then—

“I know what day it is, Nes,” he said quietly.

He made the nickname soft, breathed it like it could somehow belong to someone with a tongue as sharp as hers. His lips parted as his eyes fluttered, his gaze drifting down, and gods, it was as much of a hand extended out to her as the fingers he still had stretching towards her, a bridge offered when she couldn’t find one herself. Nesta had stilled by the windows, immovable as stone, but when her eyes shifted from his outstretched hand to the eyes that he had fixed on hers…

She had never seen his hazel gaze so earnest. 

It was almost enough to make her weep, forcing apart the cracks in her chest with enough verocity to leave her in splinters. But Cassian didn’t blink, didn’t shy away from her, and when she said nothing, he only took a single step towards her. 

“I know what it is to grieve, you know,” he added softly, in a voice hardly more than a whisper. “I know what it is to mourn.”

The laughter from the sitting room grew louder, and Nesta felt her eyes close against it, like she might protect herself from it if she could only pretend she was somewhere else entirely. She heard the rustle as Cassian’s wings spread a little, and part of her wondered if he’d thought he might extend those wings and shield her, blocking out the entire world. Part of her wished he would. 

“Do you?” she managed as she opened her eyes again, tilting her head in a challenge that wasn’t half as sharp as she had intended. His eyes softened. “Do they?”

“Yes,” he answered simply. “But they don’t allow their pain to morph them into something else—“

“How dare you—“

“Nes.” He dared another step, eyes wide, lips parted. A plea shone in his eyes, edged with desperation. “Please.”

Nesta felt her lip curl, falling back on the all-too familiar anger that served as her shield— the defence she flung up to keep them all from looking at her too closely, from seeing just how much she had been torn apart that day twelve months ago. Just how much she’d been raked apart every day since.

“Please what?”

Cassian didn’t back away, and in the face of her barbed words he only took another breath, as if to tell her he understood— and he wasn’t afraid.

“Please let me help you. Let me do something. Anything.”

There it was again— the bridge he offered, the path back to the surface.

“You think after all these years I don’t know what you’re going through? That I don’t see it?” Cassian dropped his hand at last, curling it into a fist and bringing it above his heart. “That I haven’t been standing exactly where you’re standing right now, facing down the same damn thing?”

The beast inside her bared its teeth, claws raking down her spine. It begged to be set loose again, to snap and bite and lash out and even the slightest provocation, but…

Gods, she was tired.

So, so, tired.

“I can’t sit there and pretend,” she said at last, her voice tight in her throat. She nodded to the sitting room, to the laughter still drifting through the walls. “Just because a year has passed doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly made my peace with any of this.”

“I know,” Cassian said smoothly, reaching out his hand once again. He didn’t wait for her to accept him this time, and there was no hesitation or second-guessing as he took her hand in his and closed his fingers tight around her own. His eyes burned, his face lined with the kind of sorrow that Nesta knew would be etched across her own too, and she wanted to sob, wanted to crumble. But for once there was a crack in the darkness, a sliver of light pushing against the black and begging to be let in, and as Nesta’s fingers slid home between his, she let his warmth ground her just enough to pull her back from the edge— enough to let his light filter through the gaps. 

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispered, and just like that… 

Suddenly it felt like the weight she had carried alone for so long was shouldered by him too. Like he took a portion of it, eased the burden with nothing but a squeeze of his hand and a look in his eyes that said that even now, he wouldn’t forsake her.

And it didn’t fix everything - far from it - but she hadn’t realised how powerful it was to have someone there beside her, to take her hand when the darkness got too much, when the ache was too deep and the world too heavy. Somehow the teeth tearing her apart felt a little less sharp, the claws a little more dulled than usual; the beast calmed if not placated. The pain didn’t vanish,  but it was easier to bear somehow, and for the first time in twelve months, Nesta could see beyond her grief to the world beyond. 

Cassian’s fingers curled around her own, his grip tight, like he was loath to let her go lest she slip away into shadow again.

“Why?” she asked, looking down at their entwined hands. “Why do you remember when they don’t?”

Cassian shook his head. “They remember,” he said softly. “Elain remembers.” He nodded to the cake still sitting on the table, waiting to be cut after dinner. “Why do you think they laugh so loudly, Nes?”

His other hand lifted to her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek, as if to wipe away the tears that had yet to fall. He angled his head to the side, as if to hear the laughter, and when it echoed his eyes snapped back to hers. His grip on her hand tightened. 

“They laugh in the face of it,” he said. “They find the joy and cling to it.”

And what do I have to cling to, Nesta thought dryly. Who do I have to lean on?

She thought of the dim bars waiting for her and the nights she had spent in the arms of strangers, and even though she didn’t ask the question out loud, Cassian’s lips lifted at the edges, giving her a gentle, plaintive smile as he squeezed her hand— as if that was the answer.

As if he was the answer.

He tugged on her hand, his smile lifting to something wider, something more mischievous. 

“If you don’t want to face the sitting room, how about we just stay here instead?” he suggested. “Or slip away to Rhys’ study? There’s a chess board in there and believe it or not, I was never much good at it.” Slowly, the smile curving his lips grew into one that felt more genuine than any Nesta had to offer, but Cassian didn’t let it drop. His eyes glimmered as he added, “Would thoroughly humiliating me in a game of strategy help turn the night around for you?”

“You’d rather sit and play chess with me than be with your family?”

Cassian rolled his eyes indulgently, tugging on the hand she still had clasped in his palm. “Of course I would.”

Nesta didn’t know how to answer, but when she glanced up and met his eyes, there was a warmth there that she hadn’t expected to find. And maybe it wasn’t enough to chase away the dark entirely, but maybe it was the tether that she needed to a world that wasn’t so completely consumed by sorrow. Cassian’s fingers were so warm around her own, still holding tight to her even after she’d spent so long pushing him away - pushing all of them away - and for the first time in twelve months, she wanted to let herself feel that warmth, to let it sink into her bones.

“Come on,” he said, giving her hand another small tug. His smile turned somewhat conspiratorial, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If we’re quick we can sneak down to the wine cellar. I know where Rhys keeps the good stuff.”

The retort bloomed in Nesta’s throat— a cutting remark waiting on her tongue about how she didn’t want anything from Rhysand, not even his most expensive wine. A scowl threatened to twist her lips, but when Cassian waggled a single eyebrow as if to say, well? What do you say? she felt the words die on her tongue, turning to ash as she pushed the scowl back. For too long, the sharpness had been her only defence, the only armour she could call on. But with Cassian’s hand wrapped around her own and the small smirk at the corner of his lips somehow telling her they were in this together… 

Maybe she didn’t need the armour.

Not all the time. Not with him.

After all, he had taken her hand when she was hurting and hadn’t flinched as she spat and cursed. He had let her sharpen her claws, but had been there to bring her back when she needed it, when he realised that those claws were cutting her to ribbons too, and so this time, when Cassian tilted his head in a silent question and squeezed her hand one more time…

Nesta nodded.

Because she didn’t want the next year to be like the last, and she didn’t think she could do it alone, and he was there, holding her hand and throwing a smile over his shoulder as he led her from the dining room and towards the kitchen, headed right for the door leading down to the cellars beneath. And even though the grief inside her continued to snarl and writhe and claw, Nesta felt her steps fall in line with his and thought that as long as she wasn’t alone, as long as he was there, waiting to pick her up when she fell down…

Well, she thought as she squeezed his hand in return, maybe the next twelve months would turn out better than the last. 

New Taglist: (If you want to be added or removed, let me know!) @asnowfern , @podemechamardek , @c-e-d-dreamer ,@lady-winter-sunrise , @starryblueskies7, @melphss , @that-little-red-head , @misswonderflower , @fwiggle , @tanishab, @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard , @hiimheresworld , @wannawriteyouabook , @hereforthenessian @kale-theteaqueen

#nessian #nessian fic #nestaweek2024

[shadowdaddies]

Balter

Balter (v): to dance artlessly, without particular grace or skill but usually with enjoyment

for @nestaarcheronweek day three: "Self-care." I would like to see Nesta find the joy she does in dancing without the judgment and need for perfection she faced as a child, and I think that that could be a form of self-care for her.

Pushing down on the brass handle of the entry door, Nesta pressed forward over the threshold and into the building. Feyre had mentioned an empty dance studio near her art class on the Rainbow, and Nesta had finally worked up the courage to go inside.

The dim hallways echoed with her footsteps, that and her quiet breathing the only sounds in the building. A door was cracked open to her left, light pouring into the hall from what she could see was the studio.

Nerves wracked through her, shaking the anxiety out of her hands before gaining the courage to step into a room so similar to those her grandmother had forced her to spend hours in as a child. 

But when she stepped into the space, there was a warm to the light, and a comfort she felt at being the only person in there. There were no strict teachers, no mothers or grandmothers to critique her form. It was only Nesta, and she couldn’t help the pleasured smile that reflected back at her through the mirrored wall.

Setting her bag down in the corner, Nesta settled in for warm up stretches, breathing deep to let her muscles fully relax as she pushed and pulled them. She was surprised at how peaceful it was in here, a place to herself.

Standing, Nesta moved to her bag and retrieved the symphonia Cassian had gifted her, eyes glittering at the sight of the thoughtful gift. Setting it down in front of the mirror, she tapped the orb and basked in the melody that rang through the space.

She let her body flow with the music as she began to dance. Occasionally trying movements and variations from her childhood dance lessons, Nesta smiled both when she recalled the movements perfectly and when she made a “mistake.” 

There was no one here to tell her how to do things, how her shoulders were hunched or her legs weren’t turned out. It was a new type of freedom she hadn’t experienced yet, and it unleashed a new type of joy.

Twirling as many times as she could, spilling her soul into each motion with precision and error, accuracy and disregard, Nesta bloomed in the freedom of movement. She expressed herself, lost and found herself in the music until she was dripping in sweat. 

Wiping her forehead, Nesta heard a knock at the door and looked up to see Cassian’s proud smile. The Illyrian leaned against the frame, admiring his mate for a long moment before he spoke.

“Feyre mentioned that you might be here. I thought we could go for dinner in the town tonight?”

Nesta’s smile only grew, a release she’d unlocked within herself pouring into the world and spreading like bright wildfire. “I would love to,” she replied, running to press a kiss to Cassian’s lips. “Let me get cleaned up here.”

As Nesta moved to collect the symphonia, a tune started playing which tugged on her heartstrings - the song she and Cassian had first danced to at the Court of Nightmares, and again at their mating ceremony.

She looked to the doorway in search of her mate, but found it empty. Instead, Cassian stood behind her in the center of the room with a knowing smile, one arm politely tucked behind his back as the other remained held out for her to accept.

“May I have this dance?” he whispered, breathless at the sight of Nesta’s gaze on him, those silver flames in her eyes every bit as powerful as when they danced to this song the first time.

Her gentle hand wrapped around his, the other resting on his shoulder as they danced - not how they did at the Court of Nightmares, or even at their mating ceremony. They danced like they were the only two people in the world - two souls recklessly twining together like thread of fabric, without care if they might tangle, for they’d be together forever nonetheless.

The song ended, but they danced in the quiet for some time after that before Nesta’s stomach growled. A soft chuckle escaped Cassian’s lips, the general looking down at his mate to admire her features.

“Let’s get you some dinner,” he whispered, and she nodded, immoderately content in that moment. “I watched you for a moment. You seemed very happy to go back to dance,” Cassian noted.

Nesta nodded, tossing her bag over her shoulder before reaching for Cassian’s hand. “I was. I think it’s a nice form of self care, almost therapeutic for me. I think I’ll keep doing it.”

#nestaweek2024 #acotar #acotar fanfiction #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #nessian #acotar fanfic #acotar imagine #a court of thorns and roses #nesta #nesta acotar #nesta acosf #a court of silver flames #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian fanfiction #nesta archeron fluff #nesta archeron fanfiction #acosf #acotar nesta

[fuckyesnessian]

Creator Highlight #2 - @asnowfern

Welcome back to Nessian Creator Highlights!! We want to take a moment to recognize the amazing individuals in our fandom who kindly use up so much of their freetime and creative energy to share their work with us!

Today we want to highlight @asnowfern

If you've never spoken to asnowfern, you're missing out. Besides being one of the nicest people in the fandom, her talent is immense. Blending history, mythology, and the characters we've all become so fond of, asnowfern is a master when it comes to telling an compelling, gorgeous story.

If you're looking for some nessian recommendations, try out these:

We're Not Strangers: Cassian's muscles twitched as every fibre of his being screamed at him to go after her. He didn't know her, not in this lifetime, not yet. OR another take on the reincarnation/soulmate trope.

Crimson Blade: When Paris-based Feyre stops contacting their London home, Nesta engages private detective Cassian to investigate. The truth turns out to be much bloodier than she ever expected. OR a vampire Cassian and human Nesta Victorian love story

The Writings On The Wall: “So why haven’t you killed me?” she demanded, continuing when he raised a questioning brow, “You’re a hunter. Isn’t that what you do?” “I hunt malicious demons.” he answered easily as the infuriating smile returned. “You don’t seem very malicious to me.” She's a demon, he's a hunter. Their fates intertwined after a chance encounter. Can Nesta and Cassian overcome all odds to be together?

You can find more- including Emorie- on @asnowferns AO3

#Nessian #fanfic #Nessian fanfic #Nessian fic #Nessian fanfiction #pro Nessian #fuckyesNessian #creator highlight

[asnowfern]

I Take Care of Papa Too

A/N: What? It's almost Sunday noon where I am? Sorry, I can't hear you over the fluff I wrote for Day 7 of @cassianappreciationweek

Enjoy!

In hindsight, Cassian knew that he would be facing tough days ahead of him the minute Alea sneezed in his face mere moments after Nesta left for her diplomatic mission in the human lands. Within a few hours, Cassian was blessed with the full package of a cranky, coughing, sneezing and feverish toddler.

The House was a godsend, giving him periodic reminders of mealtimes and to monitor her temperature. By the second night, Alea's fever had broken and he could collapse with exhaustion and relief.

Cassian had faced down armies and feared Fae generals but the courage it takes to force feed his daughter medication? That was something even the infamous Illyrian commander was afraid of.

"Papa?" A sweet voice pulled him out of his self-rewarded nap, continuing at his noncommittal hum, "Alea wants to go fly!"

Cassian groaned slightly, blinking his eyes open, "Now?"

"Fly!" She repeated in a tone which accorded no arguments.

He pushed through the heaviness settling in his bones and scooped his daughter up, looking into a matching pair of hazel eyes.

Trying his luck, he asked, "Can papa take a nap first?"

Flecks of green and gold danced in the young fae's mischievous eyes, her little wings tucking in as she answered resolutely, "No. Let's go fly now!"

Heaving a loud mock sigh, Cassian carried the both of them to the balcony and activated the shield with a tap on his siphon, "Get ready"

The wide toothy smile on Alea's face was all he needed as he launched them up in the air, his daughter tucked firmly in his arms. Relishing every excited yelp and giggle from the toddler, Cassian tuned out the discomfort in his joints and the pounding in his head as they soared over Velaris.

Cassian's heart ached at the thought that one day, Alea's own wings would grow strong enough and she would no longer need her papa to carry her to fly over the city. Tugging her in closer and tighter, he flew higher and faster, knowing just how much his daughter loved those.

It was hence a surprise when his daughter piped up, her eyes suddenly bright and wide, "Home."

He paused in mid-air and turned a concerned gaze on her, "You want to go home?"

The young fae's lips trembled as she said shakily, "Want to go home."

Cassian frowned, worry brewing in his belly as he launched them on a direct path back to the House of Wind. Did he go too fast? Was it too soon after she had barely recovered? Should he call for Madja?

His feet had barely touched the floor before Alea jumped off his arms, running as fast as her little legs could towards the kitchen. The Illyrian followed closely, the unease in him building with every step.

He watched as the toddler snatched up a cup, spell-proofed against shattering, and filled it with water. She thrusted the full cup at him, the water splashing slightly onto the floor.

"Drink," she commanded.

Cassian's fingers closed around the glass and lifted it to his mouth, taking a small sip. His eyes never once left his daughter.

"Papa, drink!" She ordered, her mouth set in a grim line highly reminiscent of her mother.

Once the glass had been drained, chubby hands wrapped around his hand and pulled him towards his room. She stood at the foot of his bed, jutting out her chin as she leveled the same authoritative stare at her father. It would have been effective if it wasn't so darn cute.

"Sleep!"

Cassian felt the edges of his mouth quirk up as he let his daughter usher him into bed and pull a blanket over him.

"Comfy?" She patted the covers around him, asking a question often asked to her.

"Very," he soothed, "but aren't you going to join me?"

"Papa is warm! Papa needs to sleep!" She declared.

Cassian's chest warmed and melted, "Papa is ok, sweet pea. Why don't you join me? Alea is sick too."

"No," her lips puckered into a pout, mini fingers continuing to smoothen the covers, "Alea takes care of papa too."

Hoisting his heavy arms over the blanket, Cassian pulled his protesting daughter into bed with him, murmuring softly into soft golden brown curls, "Papa gets better with hugs."

"Really?" The small skeptical voice asked.

"Yes," he insisted sleepily, the pull of the soft mattress impossible to resist.

***

The scent of his favourite stew wafted over, rousing him awake. He smiled at the golden thread thrumming contently in his chest. Sure enough, his beautiful mate in all her stern braided glory sat next to him, her fingers thumbing through a page of her book.

"Alea?"

"Asleep in her room," she replied, not taking her eyes off the book.

"You came back early," he remarked.

Nesta snapped her book shut, settling it at the bedside table. She turned her silvery blue eyes on him, "My babies are sick. How could I stay away for too long?"

"Alea said she will take care of me," he said, unable to turn off the slightly smug tone in his voice.

"Of course," his mate replied matter-of-factly as a smile played on her lips and she carded slender fingers through his curls, "that's what we do in this household."

#cassianappreciationweek2023 #Day 7 : Free #cassian #nessian #nessian fic

[autumnshighlady]

This Is Me Trying

Cassian x Nesta

summary: It's been a few months since Nesta and Cassian have made things official, but things have only gotten worse for Nesta.

warnings: ANGST! slight inner circle slander, no happy ending, not super pro-Nessian

word count: 2.8k

a/n: this fic is based on 'This Is Me Trying' by Taylor Swift, also spot the Grey's Anatomy quote hehe. This fic is basically me working out my own relationship issues haha, so it was pretty emotional to write because I'm basically Nesta in this situation and it's rough. But I also truly think this is a more realistic version of Nessian than the one sjm tried to shove down out throats in ACOSF.

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

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Nesta sighed as Cassian’s arm squeezed around her shoulders, squishing her farther into him than humanly possible. He belted out a laugh at whatever Mor had said, a deafening noise next to Nesta’s ear. His touch felt like acid on her skin, and all she wanted to do was get away from it.

Nesta had been trying her hardest to communicate her feelings with Cassian, she truly had. But it was hard – everything she said seemed to leave his brain the second he was around the Inner Circle, like they were now. Nesta was at one end of the couch with Cassian to her right, and Elain on Cassian’s left. Feyre was sitting on an armchair across from them with Nyx in her arms, in Rhys’s lap, while Mor and Amren were perched on cushions by the fireplace. Azriel was sitting a bit behind Rhys and Feyre on a stool, quietly observing the scene. A couple hours ago, Nesta had pulled Cassian aside and explained that she was having an overwhelming day, and requested he not touch her for the night. She couldn’t explain why she felt that way – she tried, and nothing came out. All she wanted was some physical space from Cassian’s presence. The male had sworn he understood, and said he would give her space.

That had lasted all of 20 minutes into the evening before he slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her body into his. He had failed to notice how Nesta froze, rather than relaxing into his touch as usual. She knew it wasn’t malicious, that he wasn’t deliberately ignoring her request. He had just simply… forgot. 

And this wasn’t the first time she felt suffocated and trapped by Cassian. Guilt plagued her, knowing he truly didn’t mean to do it, he was just trying to show his affection. For a while, Nesta thought that the Cauldron had mated them under the premise of opposites attract. Cassian was extroverted and wore his heart on his sleeve, easily making friends and jumping into any conversation or group. Nesta was an introvert, preferring to mask everything she felt, both good and bad. She did not have that confident ease about her, nor did she feel inclined to befriend everyone she met or chat their ear off. She was perfectly content to be more like Azriel, sitting and observing rather than participating. 

But maybe there was such a thing as people being too opposite for it to work out.

Nesta had felt like she was drowning in the Cauldron all over again, slowly being backed into a corner and suffocating under Cassian’s constant presence and need for her attention. Now that they were officially together, he was everywhere. Cassian had lightened his duties in Illyria to spend more time with Nesta, which only made it worse. At first she had found it sweet, but as the weeks passed it became more irritating.

Cassian was supposed to love her. Surely, someone who loved her would be able to understand her enough to know that this wasn’t what she wanted? He was always trying to find different things to do with Nesta, and it was beginning to get overwhelming. It hurt her heart to see how enthusiastic he was, how badly he wanted to make her happy. She was disgusted with herself for not feeling the same, for wanting to fight and pull away.

Her youngest sister’s voice brought her attention back. “Do you have anything to add, Nesta?”

Nesta blinked, not having heard a word of what was said. “To what?”

Feyre sighed. “We were just talking about building another home for me, Rhys, and Nyx in the mountains, since you and Cassian basically live at the House of Wind now. What do you think?”

The room was tense, everyone frozen as they awaited Nesta’s reply. If she was in a better mood, she would have chuckled inwardly. No matter what she did, no matter how many times she proved herself to them, the Inner Circle would always see her as a rabid monster waiting for a chance to lash out. Perhaps if it were another day she’d entertain them, just to show that she hadn’t lost her bite. But she had no energy today. “Sounds like a great idea.” She said simply.

Everyone visibly relaxed, relieved that Nesta hadn’t made a snide comment about how many houses Feyre and Rhys had, even though she wanted to. Cassian patted her arm proudly, as if to say look how much more docile and well-mannered she is now, thanks to me. Realistically, Nesta knew that wasn’t actually what he was thinking, but it sure felt like it. Only Feyre gave her a strange look, as if she could sense something wrong. 

“So, Nesta,” Rhys said smoothly. “Cassian tells me you’ve gotten pretty good in the sparring ring.”

Nesta’s mouth was dry, the hot air from the room closing in on her. “I’ve improved, yes.” She managed a reply, earning another squeeze from Cassian that tightened her throat even more.

She hadn’t wanted to be touched at all tonight, yet he was doing it anyway without even thinking.

“It’s been a while since I’ve practiced, you could probably give me a run for my money.” The High Lord chuckled, taking a sip of wine.

Again, everyone anxiously waited for Nesta to challenge him, to cause a scene and ruin the evening for the group. It made her feel physically sick, how she felt like she was drowning all over again and not only had Cassian not noticed, but the Inner Circle seemed to like her better this way – a shell of the female she was before, a quieter version.

“I think Rhys is challenging you, sweetheart.” Cassian chuckled. “Go on, go kick his sorry ass.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Nesta said quietly, but it was too late. Mor and Amren had stood up, moving over to where Azriel sat in the back to clear the space on the large rug by the fireplace. Feyre had climbed off Rhys’s lap, too, taking Nyx with her and handing her to Elain as she joined everyone over by Azriel. 

Rhys down the rest of his wine and stood up, pushing his chair back and wiping invisible dust off his sleeves. “Come on, Nesta. Show me what you got.”

The room began to close in on Nesta even more, the air stifling and catching in her throat like sandpaper.

“It’s fine, really.” Nesta insisted, but was interrupted by Cassian gently shoving her to her feet.

“My girl is gonna make you eat dirt, brother.” Cassian said as he pushed Nesta up onto her unsteady feet.

More cheers from the females by Azriel began to sound up, all urging Nesta to show off her skills. It should have felt endearing, and she should have felt more excited at the opportunity to punch her annoying brother-in-law in his face. But all she could feel was suffocation, like she was back in front of her mother’s cruel gaze being forced to perform for people that did not care for her. An object, a plaything to be used to entertain others then put back in its box when they were done with her.

“No.” Nesta’s voice was barely above a whisper, unheard amongst the loud cheers.

“Nesta, Nesta, Nesta!” Feyre and Elain chanted from the background, egging her on. But she was frozen, arms slack at her sides.

“Come on, Nes!” Cassian barked playfully. “You’re acting like I haven’t taught you anything. Come on, do it for me–”

“I said NO.” Nesta snapped, her sharp voice silencing the room as she whirled around to face Cassian. He stared at her, eyes wide with shock.

“It’s all in good fun,” He said, brows furrowed in confusion. “He won’t actually hurt you. Besides, when else are you going to get the chance to–”

Nesta cut him off, her anger bubbling over the surface like a volcano that had waited centuries to finally erupt. “What part of the word ‘no’ suddenly means ‘convince me’?” She demanded.

Nobody said a word. Disappointment was written all over Cassian’s face. Amren snorted in the background, her whisper pointedly loud as she said, “I guess some people will never change, even after being spat out by the Cauldron.”

Tears burned in Nesta’s eyes, but she refused to let them see. Wordlessly, she stormed past everyone, making her way to the door of the river house. She hadn’t even made three steps out into the street before it opened up again behind her, heavy footsteps crunching in the snow.

“What the fuck, Nesta?” Cassian demanded, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. 

“Let go of me.” She spat, trying to rip her arm from his grip. But he only held on tighter.

“We were having fun, what’s wrong with you?”

“Cassian, let go of my arm right fucking NOW.”

The male glared at her, but obliged. Nesta yanked her arm back to her side, rubbing the now sore area. Annoyance seeped from the male as he ran a hand through his hair. “The night was going well,” He grumbled. “It was all going well until you made a scene. For once in your life, Nesta, can’t you just try?”

“This IS me trying!” Nesta shouted, his words stabbing her harder than any knife could. After everything she had opened up to Cassian about, how could he not see that she was trying her best? That she was trying to make him happy by going along with his obscure date ideas, putting on a happy face being dragged to dinner with the Inner Circle even though they basically locked her up after the war? 

“Well you’re not trying hard enough!” Cassian’s words hit her like a truck. The tears she had been fighting to keep back began to stream down her cheeks like icicles in the frozen wind. “Fuck, I’ve tried to hard to convince my family to give you a chance after how you treated them. I’ve gone out out of my way to make you happy, and this is what you fucking do? We all try so hard for you, and you won’t try at all.”

Nesta couldn’t stop herself from flinching at his words. Her brain screamed at her to yell back at Cassian, to bring out those claws she spent the last few months trying to rid herself of. But she couldn’t. She was exhausted, tired of pretending to be as happy as Cassian was. It sucked the life out of her, chipping at her away piece by piece until she felt empty inside. Her old self would be ashamed of how submissive she had become.

Cassian sighed, rubbing his face, and taking a step towards Nesta. He held his hands out to hold her. “Nesta, I’m so sorry–”

He stopped speaking when Nesta took a step back, shying from his touch. His hazel eyes were filled with hurt and confusion, and she sighed. “Cassian,” She said slowly. “Did you not remember how I asked you not to touch me tonight?” 

The Illyrian’s brow furrowed in confusion, then softened as the realization dawned on him. “Is that what this is about?”

Nesta sighed, another tear rolling down her cheek. “Not just that–”

He interrupted her. “I completely forgot, Nes I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off?”

“Because I shouldn’t have to. You should have remembered to respect my basic wishes. You don’t listen to me, Cassian. You hear me, but you don’t listen.”

Cassian sat down on the steps by the door, wings drooping in sadness. But she felt no pity for him, only anger. He was the one who didn’t listen to her when she asked not to be touched, who ignored her when she protested sparring with Rhys, but he was somehow the victim too? It made her blood sing with anger. “I tell you not to touch me because I’m having a bad day, and you pull me into your lap like a dog,” She continued icily. “I tell you I don’t want to do something, and instead of respecting that, you try to force me to do it for everyone’s entertainment. You know damn well that Rhys has never liked me, and how he meant it when he threatened to kill me a few months ago. And yet you pushed me to try and fight him anyways.”

Cassian stared at the frozen ground. Nesta could practically feel his confusion, a raging sea of emotions written all over his face. The wind blew his hair into his face, a sight that Nesta would have found beautiful once. But now it only filled her with sadness. She had bent herself backwards trying to become ‘worthy’ of Cassian in his and his family’s eyes, cursing herself alone at night and thinking she was the problem. Cassian was an objectively good male – loving, affectionate, good in the bedroom. Any female would be lucky to have him, so why wasn’t Nesta happy?

The answer had been deep down inside her, trying to claw its way to the surface, begging for Nesta to acknowledge it. And then it washed over her one day – everyone was quick to assume that she was the one at fault in the relationship, not Cassian. And somewhere along the way, she had convinced herself of that too, pushing down her gut feelings for the sake of trying to make it work with the general. She knew that her words shot to kill when she was mad, and she often couldn’t stop them no matter how much regret they filled her with. But when Cassian had come along, she learned to hold her tongue, to push back those claws inside her. The issue was that in the process of doing so, Nesta had begun holding her tongue more often than needed, bearing the facade of a female submitting to her mate just like everyone wanted. 

Nesta had finally been de-clawed, Cassian wearing her talons around his neck like a trophy. She felt like an open wound at every party, her former self slowly oozing out of the gaps in flesh Cassian had clawed from her. And the worst part was, everyone liked her better this way. But she felt the opposite of better, she felt suffocated and empty.

“I understand you are trying to push me out of my comfort zone,” Nesta continued through tears, swallowing the thick lump in her throat. “And I appreciate it because sometimes that is needed. But you’ve pushed too hard, Cassian.”

“I only wanted what was best for you.” Cassian said dully.

She scoffed. “And how would you know what’s best for me when you never asked me? What, you just assume because we’re together you have some sort of decision-making capacity over me? That you have any idea what’s going through my head, what I’m feeling, or even what I want?”

Cassian stood up, taking a step towards Nesta. She stepped back again, wanting to keep the space between them and not caring about the hurt that flashed across Cassian’s face. “I know you, Nes.” He said softly. “And I love you.”

“No, you don’t.” The wet spots on her cheeks began to freeze over in the cold wind. “You love the idea of me. You love being with me, having me by your side. But you don’t truly know me, Cassian. And you don’t truly love me. You just think you do.”

The hurt swimming in Cassian’s eyes churned into anger. “You’re kidding, right? So you mean the past five months we’ve spent together have been nothing? That I truly didn’t get to know you at all in that time?”

“You’re 500 years older than me, Cassian. Five months is a blink of an eye in your lifetime. So no, you didn’t truly get to know me in that time.”

Cassian scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. But Nesta continued. “The only reason you think you got to know me was because others forced us into each other’s proximity. I did not come to spend time with you on my own free will. And I was isolated from everyone and everything, except for you. In that time, Cassian you… you took something from me. You took little pieces of me - little pieces over time, so small I didn't even notice. You wanted me to be something I wasn't, and I made myself into what you wanted. And I let you, because I thought I could make you happy that way. But it will never happen again. I am done changing who I am to make myself ‘worthy’ of you.”

Nesta turned around, not waiting to hear his response as she strode down the snow covered cobblestone. There was no towering presence following after her, much to her relief. She did not go back to the River House, or in the direction of the House of Wind. Truthfully, Nesta had no clue where she was going, only that she was done letting herself fall apart to please people who would never love her for who she truly is.

#nessian #nesta x cassian #nessian fic #nesta archeron fic #nessian angst #acosf #acotar #nesta archeron #cassian #rhysand #feyre archeron #azriel #sjm

[velidewrites]

When the Goddess of the Underworld grants a mortal General an extended stay in the land of the living, she doesn’t expect him to come back with another deal — one she has no idea will ruin her life forever.

Pairing: Hades!Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 14k

Notes: This is Part I of my follower celebration project, Divinity! Thank you for being here <3

Warnings (please read before proceeding): Graphic depictions of blood, injury and death; 18+, explicit sexual content, return of the monsterfucking agenda, this means monster sex; monster cocks; yes cocks plural; Cassian has three of them let's just get that out of the way now; are you reading the tags?; let me just repeat it: there is monsterfucking in this fic; proceed at your own discretion

Beta'd by @melting-houses-of-gold <3

Read on AO3 || Check out this BEAUTIFUL art commissioned by @melphss inspired by this fic! 🥹💕

When Hades appears, the earth beneath her erupts in flames.

They are not the hot, blazing kind the mortals burn for the Gods kind in their temples. Their fire is passion, wild and impossible to tame. It molds the stone to its will and consumes everything in its path, threatening to blind and scorch and hurt anyone who crosses it. It is a living breath—a sign that one day, like everything else, its fervour will fade away, leaving nothing but ash as a reminder of its former glory. A fire that begins to die the moment it is born—the moment it dares to lick, to taste.

It is a mortal fire. A human fire.

It is nothing like hers.

The silver flames surrounding her are made to repel. A display of her power—of the risks involved in getting too close. They swirl around her like pets at all times but when she steps into the Overworld—it is too hot, too volatile to sustain their icy touch. When Hades enters, they slither up her form, the cold pleasant against flesh, and take their rest in the pits of her eyes, where they make her gaze burn with a reminder of what she truly is.

Death.

Thanatos smirks at it sometimes—at the fear reflected in the mortals’ eyes as they meet her own. He is the only one who seems to understand—understand that Hades is not the Harbinger of Death, but its Nurturer. The Underworld is where it thrives, devoid of the passions and distractions above, yet full of a different sort of beauty. Peace. Quiet.

But Hades is not mortal. And sometimes, Death gets too quiet to bear.

Today is that day, and, like always, she makes her way upward until sunlight seeps its roots deep into her bones.

There is a downside to the Overworld, though, one she has no idea how the others stand to endure. For to walk among the mortals, the Gods must become one of them—in flesh, if nothing else. Down in her kingdom, she is allowed to roam free, the same as Olympus—although even there, she is not entirely without restraints. Hades grimaces slightly at the thought, but discards it just as quickly. She did not come here without a purpose—she never does—and it would be foolish to slip into unnecessary distractions.

Besides, she thinks as the flames around her begin their ascent at last, this mortal body is not without a purpose. Right now, if she is to be completely honest, she can’t exactly remember why she despises it so. Today’s form is perhaps her favourite of all, every inch of it revealed to her as the silver flames trail up her legs, her breasts, her neck. Once they settle in her eyes, she can finally appreciate what she has become.

She likes the softness of her skin underneath the pads of her fingers, and the sensuous sway of her hips as she takes her first step. Her hair, a golden shade of brown, falls in part down her back with the rest of it draped over her shoulders, the cascading waves cupping the curve of her exposed breasts.

What pretty sight, she thinks, then smooths a hand over her thigh. Her power responds instantly, its gentle hum weaving the earth, wind and sun into a silky thread. It doesn’t stop until the gown is complete and hugging her body with a fabric of the darkest black. Hades’s mouth ticks up in a smile at that—it seems that no matter what body she chooses, the colour suits her every time. The gown is sleeveless, and she stretches her arm, admiring the contrast of her milky skin against the fabric. She is the paling moon hung over the midnight sky—a light that shines most beautifully in the darkness.

The rest of the garment gathers at her hips before falling loosely to the ground, covering what she thinks is too much of her supple form. She’ll have to amend that later—she may be a Goddess, but she still wants to make a good first impression.

A breathless sound somewhere behind her tells her she has nothing to worry about, and Hades smirks to herself before turning to its source. A mortal man gapes at her openly, his eyes holding nothing but pure, unrestrained awe. He is old, she thinks, taking in his hunched form and wrinkled skin with a raised brow. A part of her is glad her beauty is one of the last things he will see.

There is no hope for him left when his gaze moves up to meet her own. Only the strongest of mortal minds can withstand the deathly fire in her stare—and this man no longer possesses the resolve of his younger counterparts.

She says nothing—does not even move when he finally understands what kind of creature he stumbled upon in this forest. Not a lost, wandering maiden, but a Goddess.

The worst Goddess this world has to offer.

The awe in his gaze freezes into fear, and his jaw hangs open for the last time before his knees buckle and he falls to the mossy ground. The elderly fog in his eyes chills and becomes frost, a thin veil of cold death. Hades sighs at the scene.

This is inconvenient.

She does not wish to see Thanatos today—not when it means another, long lecture and a hundred reasons against her coming here again. He is perhaps the only one who even dares to contradict her, and she appreciates that at times, but with this—with this, she is certain. Thanatos will say she’d lost her senses, to be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time, and just like all the times before, she would deal with him later.

The barest tinge of guilt passes over her, and she silently curses this mortal flesh for submitting to such foolish, such human impulses. Thanatos, after all, is her most valued friend, even if everyone on Olympus believes him her servant. The truth is, Thanatos is no more than her guest in the Underworld, for his presence is undesired anywhere else.

It is why she does not mind when the less astute of the mortals mistake her for Thanatos—for the God of Death. He lives out his eternal life in the shadows, appearing only when situations like the man before her require it. She is content to take the blame, the hatred—she repays it tenfold when their souls arrive in her kingdom.

Thanatos may be Death, but Hades is its ruler. Its Queen.

Still, whatever compassion she holds for her companion in the Underworld is of no use to her now, and so she shoves it away and makes her way to the edge of the forest. Thanatos will know what caused the old human’s death, but Hades will not be there when he arrives.

The moss is soft beneath her feet, dampened by the rainy days succeeding the summertime. She despises the dry heat, the heavy air and the scorching rays of sunlight. It is why she only visits later in the year, when the climate is more welcoming. When there is…more to be seen.

Hades can see him now, in fact, as she looks out to the fields from behind the wide oak that borders the forest. Demeter keeps him hidden almost all year, like a secret she does not want known to the rest of the world—not even to the Gods. Especially not to the Gods, Hades thinks. Though, of course, there is no hiding from them no matter how hard she tries.

She’d been watching him long enough to understand why. Her son’s power is raw and untamed—it is unlike anything she’d ever seen. Hades can’t quite comprehend how a being so impressive in his skill had managed to come out of a woman so gentle as the Goddess of the Harvest. There’s no denying it, though—he is part of her, no matter how much his power differs from hers. Their auburn hair and russet eyes are one and the same, even the placement of freckles on his toned arms mirrors that of Demeter’s. He shines like the fire that burns under his gaze—bright and hungry and unstoppable. Perhaps that is why he intrigues her—his flames complement her own, their passion a balance to her peace. It is not the same kind of mortal passion that fills her with such distaste—he will never die out. He will burn alongside her for as long as she wants it.

He is a God, just as she is. Eternal. Demeter claims she’d crafted him from the autumn leaves that had once fallen over her crops, but Hades sees the lie for what it is. A man like him cannot be anything but the fruit of pleasure and the joining of flesh—though whose, Hades does not know. Another God, to be certain. One shameful enough for Demeter to remain in her cottage amongst humans—a place so pathetic that no self-respecting God would bother looking at it twice.

But not Hades. Hades comes every year.

Every year, she watches the God of Autumn and wonders if he feels her fire, too. If he does, he says nothing—and so Hades chooses to believe he is not aware of her presence at all. He leaves Demeter’s stead on the dawn of the first autumn day, and the season erupts around him in a symphony of bronze, crimson and gold, glistening even in the most rainy of days. He roams the lands then, admiring his work until Demeter appears at the doorstep again, urging him inside with a worried look on her face. He abides every time, and every time, Hades is too late to stop him.

She will not fail this year. This year, he will be hers at last. She will grab him before he returns to his mother’s side and take him to her kingdom with her—show him what true power means. What being a God means.

She has a few months before the time comes, but she had come today to admire him from afar. Eris. A beautiful name, she must admit, for a beautiful man.

Soon, you will be mine.

He will make a fine consort—he is exactly what she needs in the Underworld. A flicker of light, of fervour, a cackling fire to disturb the quiet. At last, she will—

Hades sucks in a sharp breath, her mortal lungs contracting violently in answer. She whirls on her feet, expecting to find someone behind her—another mortal, perhaps, who strayed too far on their evening hunt. But she finds the forest empty.

It is then that she realises the disturbance came from within her—that her power set every nerve in her body on alert, knocked the air from her chest, stirred by whatever dared to come near it. And since there is no one beside her…

A low snarl slips past her throat.

Someone entered one of her temples—and defiled it.

Hades takes one, final look at her betrothed before the earth beneath her cracks and the silver flames swallow her again.

***

The temple shakes as it signals her arrival, the pile of ruined marble a testament to her anger. Hades feels no remorse—she has hardly any worshippers here, if the spiderwebs draped over the large columns are any indication. This is a village of warriors, and fierce ones at that—they do not accept death even as they march bloodied into battle. She’s been seeing more and more of them in the Underworld lately, souls defeated by the neighbouring legion on the other side of the mountain. A pointless, petty war, Thanatos had told her, though Hades had no interest in hearing the rest of the details.

Through the fractured roof, she can make out the dusk slowly melting into a greyish night. The last remnant of daylight is the pale beam of the sun, illuminating one of her ruined statues. Hades recognises this face—it is one she took on ten years prior. One of her least favourites, but pretty nonetheless.

Pretty enough that the sight of blood on her marble cheek fills her with rage.

Defiled, the word thrums through her again. Degraded by mortal touch.

The crimson smudge gleams fresh, its iron scent brushing her nose without permission. She scrunches it in distaste—yet another violation of her divinity. Whoever did this would not leave her temple again. She would see to their punishment personally.

A gargled cough echoes through the stone, and Hades whips toward the sound.

There you are.

The man’s body is curled up on the floor, but no rubble surrounds him—whatever caused him pain, it happened before her arrival. Blood pools at his side, tainting the pristine marble and reeking of him. There is no doubt left in her mind—this is the man who did this.

And he is already dying.

It seems that her job here is done—perhaps Thanatos is already on his way. Hades turns her back to him and gathers her power again—if she hurries, she might still catch a glimpse of Eris before darkness breaks over the sky once more.

But then the cough reaches her again, and this time, it is followed by a strangled sound.

“Please…”

She halts, though she isn’t sure why.

“Please,” the man rasps again.

If he does not die on his own, her fiery gaze might hurry things along.

Hades turns.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself up to his knees despite the open slice across his navel. Whatever sword had caused this, it was no average one—this man is nearly severed in half, blood pouring out of his squelching flesh in a thick, ruthless current. He holds a large hand over his guts, and Hades wonders if it is the only thing still keeping them in place. This is no ordinary man, she realises, no ordinary warrior—he will not die until he’s exhausted every path, every resource, the very last resort he can think of.

His last resort appears to be her.

Interesting.

“What will you give me?” she asks him, her voice dropping an octave. He tilts his head up to meet her gaze, and Hades considers that perhaps she does not need anything in return at all.

He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. Breathtaking in every sense of the word. So breathtaking that she searches her mind for any Gods who might have sired him—she had never seen a mortal this exquisite. A son of Ares, perhaps, or Athena, even, but he has no resemblance to either of them—there is nothing polished about him that she’d seen up on Olympus, nothing refined into that sleek, eternal perfection her kind likes to boast of. No, he is as wild as the howling wind in the harshest of winters, as rough and hardened as the frozen earth at the foot of the mountain towering over her temple. 

His hazel eyes blaze with want, but it is not the hunger she so often sees in the eyes of her betrothed. He wants to survive, to live, but his reasons have nothing to do with him.

“Anything,” he says, and there is new strength in his voice, one Hades did not expect in a man on the threshold of Death. “I will give you anything.”

She doesn’t want to admit this, not out loud at least, but he intrigues her immensely. A man with the face and stare of a God—and yet still, just a mortal, dying man.

She realises then that he’s holding her own stare directly—that he’s taking in all that silver fire and his answering gaze holds not even a shred of fear.

“Your name,” Hades decides. “Your name in exchange for your life.”

His dark brows furrow, and she knows he is turning her words over in his mind until he finds the trap, the secret motive she surely plants underneath her request. A thought crosses her mind that whoever he is, he has been trained to deal with deception, to recognise threat before it even comes to life. But the only threat here is her curiosity, and so, when he looks up at her again, she already knows he has found nothing.

“Cassian,” he tells her, and Hades breathes again.

Somewhere deep inside her, she hears the fading voice of Thanatos, a final voice of reason before she succumbs into this bargain with no hopes of return. Forget his name. Go home. Do not think of him again—destroy the temple, if you must.

She does not have to. Hades is a Goddess, a Queen—she will be damned before she let this distraction ruin the plan she’s been crafting for decades.

Thanatos will honour this bargain—he will not come for this man, and will defy the Fates in doing so. The least Hades can do is listen.

“Do not seek me out again, mortal,” she warns.

And with that, she is gone forever.

***

Forever does not last long enough.

“Ignore it,” the shadows tell her, and she turns to meet their face.

Thanatos’s expression is grave, though that does little to stop her—he always looks this way, after all, pained and somber even in the quiet reprieve that the Underworld allows him.

“I cannot,” Hades says, and her friend’s lips only press tighter together.

She wonders if it is her friend trying to shield her, or the God of Death. Perhaps he is merely trying to spare her—to keep her from making the same mistake he had. Thanatos has never quite recovered from Athena’s rejection, or Aphrodite’s heartbreak, the romance brief as it was. But this—she—is different. This has nothing to with risk, or with romance—only curiosity, burning somewhere deep inside her chest, and brighter than the silver fire in her eyes.

Right now, that curiosity is fuelled by anger, because the man—Cassian—dared to disobey her command.

She felt him the moment he touched one of the statues in her temple, his touch roughened by the calloused skin of his open palm and tainted with battle yet again. To think that this man, this mortal, has now dared to summon her twice—it makes her want to rage for the rest of eternity.

“You ask too much of me,” Thanatos accuses, his words pulling her out of her thoughts yet again.

Hades waves a hand. “I do not ask of anything yet.”

His gaze narrows on her, and she can practically feel his scrutiny clawing at her skin. “Your temple reeks of his blood—surely you’ve felt it, too.” The shadows swirl around him eagerly, like a child mindlessly nodding along to its parent’s words. “You know where this path will lead you.”

“Precisely,” Hades hisses. “I forbade him from ever returning there again, and yet, not even a month later, he came back—no doubt with more demands.” Her anger simmers inside her again, but she manages to keep it contained. The time to unleash it will come later—soon, if Thanatos would just get over himself and let her pass.

The God of Death angles his head slightly. “You intend to punish him, then.”

“Of course,” Hades says, trying her hardest not to take offence at the disbelief in his tone. She knows Thanatos’s faith in her has been shaken, that he disapproves of her plans, her determination. That he disapproves of the Overworld, and of Eris, and—

“You’re wrong,” he interrupts. She didn’t realise she said the words out loud, though perhaps Thanatos could simply read them on her face. “I only want you to understand. This God of Autumn, and now this…this human—they will never be enough for you here.”

Her eyes flare silver. “You mean you will never be enough.”

Hades regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth, but it is already too late. She let her anger get the best of her—to strike where she knew would hurt him the most. She can tell she succeeded from the way his eyes darken, from the way his shadows curl at his sides like snakes ready to defend their master, to fight venom with venom.

Thanatos is not her master, though—and even though down here they may only have each other, she is still the Queen. His Queen, for as long as he chooses to remain in the Underworld. His opinions, his jealousy, she decides, are not welcome here.

Her body relaxes as the momentary guilt lifts from her shoulders, and when she speaks again, her voice is colder than the silver fire pooling at her feet. “I am leaving for the temple.”

Silence falls between them, and when she no longer believes Thanatos has anything of value left to say, she turns her back to him at last.

She’s about to disappear when she hears his voice again. “This will be the last favour, Hades,” he warns her.

Good. She will not need any more.

Still, the words echo in her head the entirety of her journey upward, fading only when the temple comes into view. The ground trembles under the weight of her fury, the stone walls crumbling inch by inch with her every step. She has no idea how the temple still stands, frankly. She was expecting it to collapse after her last visit.

She was also expecting to see Cassian amidst all that rubble, drenched in his own blood and his guts slowly spilling out of his body. Instead, she finds him in perfect health, his chin held up high as he meets her gaze from beneath her statue where he waits.

Kneeling.

Hades is not one to be easily taken by surprise, but the sight of him on his knees before her makes her breath hitch in her throat. He’s cloaked in a warrior’s leathers, traditional to his region, dark and ridged and tight, and Hades can’t help it when her traitorous eyes trail down to admire their work. She can make out the defined muscle of his thick thighs, wondering how they’d feel under the touch of her human hands. She wants to dig her nails into the golden-brown skin—wants to pierce those leathers and find out just how hard those muscles are.

She hears his breath turn ragged when her gaze settles on the bulge at their apex, and the thought crosses her mind that, perhaps, he’d be more than willing to answer all her questions had she only asked. Her form seems to please him as much as he pleases her—though that, at least, comes as no surprise.

The gown she’d selected would no doubt make Thanatos choke in disbelief. The black lace is sheer and hugs her body in all the right places, revealing her smooth skin from the collar at her neck down to the lean muscle of her calves. The thread forms intricate patterns over her nipples before descending to her navel in a V-like shape, covering just enough of her cunt beneath to make any God drop to his knees.

Any mortal, too, of course, she reminded herself as her gaze lifted to the male before her once again.

“I thought you’d like to see me this way,” Cassian says, his voice low and deep and reverberating through her in a slow, shuddering wave. “Hades.”

The moment shatters like glass.

Hades straightens, silently cursing Thanatos, the Fates and, above all, herself for giving into his beauty, to the temptations of this mortal flesh. She is Hades, the Goddess of the Underworld, and this pathetic, mortal male had nearly made her knees buckle at the sound of his sultry baritone. Her anger is renewed, a flame brought to life once again as it replaces the pleasant heat that has somehow managed to pool at her core. Hades reminds herself then that she has come here to exact punishment, not…whatever this is. Whatever he makes her feel.

After all, Hades has plans. In two months or so, she will finally be joined in the Underworld by her betrothed. Her consort. Her equal.

Cassian is none of those things.

“You disobeyed me, General,” she says, because she does not dare to say his name out loud. Besides, she is certain that’s exactly who Cassian is—a male of such strength, such size, cannot be anything lesser than. “I ordered you to never seek me out again.”

Their gazes lock and hold.

Cassian does not even flinch. “I’m afraid I’m in need of your favour once again, Goddess.”

The ground shakes again—then stops as Hades takes a levelling breath. “What makes you think you will have it?”

He shifts his weight from one leg to another, and Hades’s eyes dart to the movement, to this new, exciting position his muscles arranged themselves into. She can swear he kneels wider now, as though he knows, as though he smells the curiosity, the arousal on her.

Cassian shrugs. “I suppose I can only hope.”

“What is it you want?” Hades asks. “You don’t seem injured to me.”

His entire body tenses, and she catches a shadow passing through his features. “It’s not me,” he tells her, his shoulders rolling back and inch as he looks up to meet her eyes again. “It’s my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“She’s dying,” he says, and there is the smallest hint of strain in his voice now. She must be important to him, then, Hades realises. She never understood how humans feel so deeply.

So she tells him, “All things die eventually, General.”

Cassian’s jaw clenches hard. “It’s too soon,” he says. “She was taken by illness none of our healers understand.”

“It is the will of the Fates, then.”

Lightning flares in his hazel eyes at that. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Hades barks a laugh. “You?” she asks, “or me?”

A muscle juts in his jaw, and she wonders if he bit hard enough to draw blood. “I put myself at your mercy,” he says before adding quickly, “Your Majesty.”

Something about the title pleases her immensely, and so she doesn’t kill him right on the spot. “You would give yourself to me?” she asks instead. She can already hear Thanatos’s protests in her head, but her mind wanders anyway. Cassian in her kingdom like a pet she could keep at her disposal, curled by her lap and ready to serve. Pretty. Obedient.

Hers.

He would entertain her—her consort, too, perhaps, when he joined her side at last. A lovely sight to admire in the morning and play with at night.

Hades hums lowly, and Cassian’s eyes flare up again—with a different light, this time, and she swears she can see specks of gold in those endless pools of hazel.

“You propose a bargain, then,” she begins, surveying him head to toe once more.

So beautiful.

Cassian nods. “Save my mother’s life, and my life, my heart, my soul—is in your hands.”

Hades considers.

Kill him, the raging fire inside her says.

But the golden light staring back at her pleads, Take me.

Hades steps forward and reaches out a hand. “Come with me.”

***

They arrive at the Gates of the Underworld hand in hand.

“Am I…” Cassian starts, taking in the sight around him. “Dead?”

Hades smirks to herself.

“No,” she tells him. “You will live for as long as I need you to.”

His eyes widen, as if struggling to grasp the immortality she’s just laid out before him. “And my mother?” he asks.

“You will never see her again, if that is what you’re asking.”

Cassian releases a long, long breath. “Lead the way.”

The only way into the Underworld is through the Acheron river, and though Hades can come and go as she pleases without the unnecessary ordeal, she decides to accompany Cassian anyway—this time, at least. She tells herself she simply doesn’t want him to drown—after all, this is his first time in the Kingdom of the Dead, and it would be a shame to lose a pet she’d only just acquired.

Cassian sways as they step onto the small, wooden ferry, but Hades only looks ahead. “So,” she begins. “You survived.”

His confusion is almost palpable, rolling off of him in waves and leaving creases in the dark water. How strange it is to have someone in the Underworld feel so strongly, Hades thinks. There is only peace and quiet in these lands, and he is a disturbance—Thanatos would surely say so, at least. He might be a disturbance, yes—but to Hades, it is a welcome one.

A useful one, too.

“Oh,” he suddenly says, ripping Hades free from her racing mind as she thinks of all the ways her new guest could be used. “You mean the battle. The first time you saved me.”

Hades stills at that.

The first time?

She would hardly call their bargain saving. His companionship was his price, not…not some kind of gift. The General is chained to her now, to the Underworld—he belongs to her just as the darkness here does.

This is his punishment, and yet…and yet his words ring of salvation, and it makes Hades wonder.

And so she says, “Tell me more of this…battle.”

A step behind her, she hears him loose a breath. “We stood no chance. We…I lost almost all my men,” he says, and Hades feels the Underworld purr in delight at his words. It will feed on this guilt, this regret of a survivor until its endless hunger is appeased. “We defended our village in the end, but at a cost.” His voice breaks as he adds, “So many of us—gone. They took our women, our children…”

And, Hades realises, these fallen souls—they all belong to her now. They all rest here, roaming the quiet darkness—the warriors, the children…The women.

The question escapes her the moment it crosses her mind. “And you?” she asks. “Did you have a…a woman?”

There is only silence between them—silence and the Acheron’s gentle current as they make way toward Hades’s fortress.

When he answers, Cassian’s voice is hoarse. “No, Your Majesty,” he says. “I did not.”

And Hades…Hades no longer knows what to feel.

She shouldn’t feel, she reminds herself. She has spent too much time in this body, this mortal prison of emotion and softness and pain, its flesh strong enough to subdue that silver fire within her that’s used to killing everything that dares cross her path. Once they reach the shore, she will leave his side for a while—will find a place to unleash those flames, if only to remind herself of who she really is.

Of who she’s supposed to be .

But they’re still crammed on the ferry now, the shore nowhere in sight, and so, for the last time, Hades indulges in her curiosity. “Why me?” she asks, still not turning to meet his gaze. “Why not Thanatos, or Athena, or Ares, even?”

She feels his hazel gaze on her back, his presence stronger now, somehow—but this time, there is no confusion filling it, and she knows he understands exactly what she’s asking.

So Hades finally turns.

“Perhaps,” Cassian grins, “I thought you could use some company.”

For the first time in her eternal life, Hades laughs.

***

She returns the next day, deep from where she dwells in her fortress, and finds Cassian looking out to the dark waves washing up on shore.

She took on her human form once again, though for reasons she can’t exactly justify. She doesn’t need this body, not here—but this is how Cassian knows her, and she likes the hunger flickering in his eyes as they sweep over its every curve.

This is merely for her enjoyment, Hades tells herself. He is, after all, to be her entertainment—company, as he called it earlier. She doesn’t really care what he thinks of her—but an inflated sense of an ego is true to any God, and, mortal or not, he seems like the right person to stroke it.

Something heats deep inside her as she thinks of all the places he could stroke her, all the wet, sinful pleasure he could help her coax out of this flesh—

“You’re back,” Cassian says, turning to meet her silver gaze.

Compose yourself, the fire within her hisses.

“Not exactly,” she tells him, thankful for the coolness in her tone despite the heat still shooting through her body. “I was just about to leave.”

His brows knit over his eyes, and he tilts his head slightly, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. “Leave?” he asks. “What for?”

Hades crosses her arms. “Contrary to what you might think, I have pressing matters to attend to.”

“In the mortal lands?”

“Yes,” she says, then waves a hand to urge him closer. “I have something for you, General.”

Cassian’s eyes flash, a glimmer of light in the dim space of the Underworld, and he takes a step toward her. “Oh?”

Hades nods, and lays out her hand to reveal her gift.

“I…don’t understand,” Cassian says, but his gaze remains fixed on the seven crimson stones, gleaming gently in Hades’s palm.

“They are called siphons,” she explains, then waves a hand again. The stones are now edged in his leather armour, the two largest ones resting proudly atop the strong muscles of his arms, and Hades smiles at the sight. They look as thought they’ve always belonged here, as though they’ve been part of him forever. “They’re meant to amplify your power—your speed, your strength, your precision. You may be a formidable warrior in the Overworld, General, but down here, you will need these to keep the more…defiant souls at bay.”

Cassian’s fingers brush over the siphon at the back of his palm, its bleeding light reflected in his marvelling stare. “So…” he begins quietly, then clenches his fist—as if testing the newfound power of his grip, “I’m to be your…guard?”

Hades’s smile curls into a smirk. “Think of yourself as more of a helpful guest, General.”

His eyes finally lift to meet her own. “And are your guests allowed to ever return home?”

The Goddess’s smile sours. “This is your home now.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“If you so wish,” she continues, not really wanting to hear the rest of it, “You are welcome to wander to the Overworld whenever I’m…otherwise occupied.” Then, she adds, “As long as you remember that no matter where you are, you belong to me.”

She half expects him to cower—even Thanatos gives in to the icy bite in her tone from time to time—but Cassian appears relaxed, his siphons still glistening quietly atop his armour. “I am yours to command, Goddess.”

“We’ll see,” Hades only says, then brushes past him and toward the river.

He moves so fast she does not even see his hand dart for hers—and when his fingers lace with her own, Hades is so stunned she freezes entirely in her trail.

She has never been touched like this—not by a mortal, at least. She had taken lovers before, Gods—those of a grand status and those of lesser significance—but they felt nothing like this, and this has nothing to do with the trap of her mortal flesh. His golden-brown hand is warm, and every roughened bit of his calloused skin tells her of him—the battles he’d won and the battles he’d lost, the spirit they crafted like the strongest steel. It sinks into her, as if searching for her own, hidden so deep within her she’d never thought it existed until this very moment.

In a land of eternal dreams, Hades feels awake.

“I’ve offended you,” Cassian says quietly.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Hades replies, but her voice is distant now, still buried with the soul she didn’t know she possessed.

“I have not forgotten what you’ve done for me,” he continues, as though unaware that the world has just tilted beneath their feet. “You saved me—before I met you, I knew only of war and bloodshed and pain.”

“What makes you think you’ll find anything better here?” she asks, the question no more than a breath. “What are you hoping to find?”

The peace, the quiet darkness of the Underworld…Hades knows better than anyone that it will never be enough, not unless the passing soul is already dead—and Cassian’s soul practically sings with life, like the wind ruffling the snow-capped trees, like the gallop of hooves cracking the rocky earth. 

But when his fingers wrap tighter around her own, she realises Cassian doesn’t seek peace. 

“Understanding,” he tells her softly. “I think you seek it, too.”

Hades’s gaze drops to where their hands are joined, life and death, and she is no longer sure where one ends and the other begins.

“I do not wish to return,” Cassian continues when she stays quiet, “My place is here.” His thumb brushes over her knuckles, and the thin hairs on her arms rise at the barest touch. “My place is here with you, Hades.”

Hades blinks.

You know where this path will lead you, Thanatos’s voice practically screams in her head, and finally, finally, Hades realises—this is all wrong. 

Cassian’s place may be at her side as the bargain deemed it—but her place is nowhere near him at all.

Suddenly, Hades is grateful Thanatos, or any of the Gods for that matter, weren’t here to witness this—whatever this thing between them is. She is Hades, after all, a Goddess and a Queen, and Cassian—this man—has no say in where she belongs.

Besides, Hades has already decided—she belongs here, with Eris. With the God of Autumn, the season where everything dies—the perfect consort to the Queen of Death itself. They are going to live in her kingdom exactly as she planned, burning together for all eternity. Death and Decay.

Hades frees herself from Cassian’s eyes, and if there is any hurt in his eyes, she does not stay long enough to see it.

“I’ll return soon,” she says as she once again makes way toward the river. “I must hurry if I am to catch my consort before the dusk breaks.”

Every soul in the Underworld goes utterly still.

Hades smiles to herself.

That ought to keep him at bay.

But when Cassian speaks again, his voice dips so low she swears it makes the ground shake. “Your what?”

He takes a step toward her, the crimson light of his siphons blazing on the river’s surface. Hades doesn’t grace him with a look, her back straight to him as she explains, “My betrothed—the God of Autumn. He will join us once the season ends—at the sight of the first snowfall.”

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, and it’s almost an accusation.

Hades’s smile becomes cruel, and she turns to face him at last. “This matter does not concern you,” she answers, and watches his siphons flare even brighter.

“The God of Autumn.” Cassian chews the words as if the taste is not to his liking. “And you love this man?”

Hades almost laughs. “Love has nothing to do with it, General—he is my consort. My equal in every way that matters.”

“Is power all that matters to you?”

“Yes.” A half-lie, since power is the only thing that matters to Hades.

Cassian hums, mulling over her words. “And if…” he starts, and Hades only keeps listening because this is the entertainment she has been hoping for. His confusion, his anger—they were expected. Jealousy, on the other hand…

“And if there was someone more powerful than him?” he finally asks. “More powerful than your God?”

Hades scoffs. “I have no interest in concerning myself with Olympus ever again.”

“I don’t—”

“Enough,” Hades says, because as entertaining as this is, she knows the sun has already begun to set in the Overworld. “I expect to see you at the Gates upon my return.” She turns her back to him again. “You are to remain here until then.”

How utterly lovely it feels to see the warrior ignite within him again. He is once again reminded of their bargain, of the Goddess standing before him, and the flames inside her purr at the control she’s regained. He’d thrown her off, she can admit that, with the warmth of his skin and the softness of his touch—but this anger, this roughness…This is a language Hades understands. Her immortal skin tingles deliciously under his gaze, under the fury burning underneath. She’d never met a human so…defiant.

It is no matter. One way or another, he will be tamed by her hand. By her cunt, if that does not work. Gods or men, males always seem particularly susceptible to those.

She steps to the edge of the shore, surveying her reflection in the murky water. The black silk clings to her body like the thickest shadows, exposing her bare skin in places she’d carefully selected in her quarters earlier. The curve of her breasts is revealed by a deep cut in the top of her gown—another slit in the fabric teases her bare thigh, all the way down to where it pools at her feet. With each passing day, she enjoys the curves of this body more—human, yet so deliciously divine.

A low, guttural sound somewhere behind her tells her the General shares the sentiment.

A flicker of her power places something heavy atop her neatly braided hair, and gaze moves to admire the onyx jewels when she hears his voice again, his large frame appearing on the river’s surface.

“I will not.”

Her smile fades, but she does not grace him with a look. “You dare disobey me again, General?”

“I am coming with you,” he says, that anger creeping into his tone again.

She scoffs again. “You will do no such thing. Your presence would only disturb me.”

He moves in closer, the warmth of his chest nearly sinking into her back now. “Oh?” he muses, his eyes fixed on their reflection as he leans over her shoulder. “Do you find me distracting, Majesty?”

Cassian’s breath is hot on her neck, teasing her skin, the sensitive spot below her ear. Hades fights the urge to shudder, forbids her body from reacting to the emotion rolling off him without restraint.

His powerful arms come around her then, hands resting heavily on her waist, and her body leans instantly into the touch. Hades gasps out in protest, a small, exasperated sound at the blatant display of the effect he has on her. This body keeps betraying her, keeps answering his call with a song of its own, one Hades isn’t sure she ever wants to hear.

Cassian brushes his thumb over her skin—somehow, she can feel the warmth of his touch beneath the silk—and their gazes meet in the reflection of the Acheron, his eyes shining brighter than the flames in her own. The message is clear.

Don’t you see it? Don’t you see how good we look together?

“Stay,” Cassian murmurs, his soft mouth brushing the shell of her ear. Hades watches the movement in the water, and she’s not entirely sure she’s even breathing as he says again, “Stay here—stay with me.”

Hades closes her eyes, and, for just a moment, she lets herself imagine what would happen if she obliged. She wonders how those hands, that mouth would worship her—the way a Goddess deserves to be worshipped. Maybe his tongue would trail a path down her neck—place wet kisses on her exposed skin until it reached her breasts, already heavy and aching for his touch. Maybe she’d let him flick one of her nipples—trace lazy circles over the pebbled spot as he took it into his hungry mouth. Maybe…maybe she’d let his hands slide downwards, let them feel the slickness they’ve already begun to coax from her. Maybe she’d let his tongue taste it, too.

And then Cassian’s fingers brush her waist again. “You don’t need him.”

Hades opens her eyes.

She whirls to face him again, to face the man who was meant to be no more than a momentary distraction, the man who now thought it acceptable to touch her, tease her as though she belonged to him.

No, Hades thinks. He belongs to her.

“You,” she tells him, “have no idea what I need.”

When he opens his mouth to protest, Hades is already gone.

***

The island is warm and filled with sunlight.

It is so unlike the Underworld that Hades finds herself blinking a couple times before her immortal gaze adjusts to the sight. The sea is bright and turquoise, and its waves foam into a pearly white as they crash against the shore. Even the sand glimmers under the light like dusted gold.

It is exactly the kind of place Hades expected to find her.

She knows Aphrodite is staying over at the palace, towering over the water in an opalescent kind of stone. The small kingdom seems untouched by autumn’s decay, not yet at least, and Hades suspects one of the Gods must hold it in their favour—Helios, perhaps, judging by the sun hanging high up in the sky despite the late hour of the evening.

The island is a beautiful place, though Hades has little interest in staying—she’s here with a purpose, one pressing enough that it cannot wait for her to fully take her surroundings in. Besides, she knows Aphrodite has sensed her arrival from the way the seafoam stiffened as it washed up on shore. It makes Hades smirk—she wonders what, exactly, her presence here has interrupted.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another month.”

The voice behind her is like fresh, sweet honey dripping over her skin, and the first instinct of her human body is to take her fingers into her mouth and lick them just to get a taste. Hades hisses sharply in response—Aphrodite’s always set her traps well. She could only pity whatever mortals she’d chosen to ensnare this time.

Hades turns, the sand molding itself to her feet. “You know I hate leaving things until the last minute,” she says, the words enough of a greeting as the two Goddesses face each other at last.

Aphrodite chuckles. “Of course you do.”

Hades knows she should have expected perfection from the Goddess of Love and Beauty, but seeing Aphrodite’s face makes that fire inside her stir with jealousy anyway. Her face is so impeccable it almost hurts—the mortals, no doubt, fall to their knees at a mere glimpse of it. Full, rosy lips and eyes of a fawn’s coat, gazing upon her from beneath long, dark lashes—the portrait of innocence hiding an ancient, cruel soul.

Aphrodite smirks, as though she can tell exactly what Hades is thinking, and brushes a loose curl off her shoulder. The colour mirrors that of Hades’s, but Aphrodite’s hair is even lovelier, somehow, with a luminescence to it that seems to rival the very sun itself. She’s woven pearls into the small braids tied at the crown of her hair—her preferred symbol of her divinity. Except, of course, for the brief period of time when she’d opted for sapphires as her favourite jewellery. Hades’s scowl deepens even more at the thought.

“Thanatos sends his regards,” she says, if only to wipe that stupid smirk off her pretty face.

Instead, her golden brows shoot up with amusement. “No, I don’t think he does.”

Hades rolls her eyes before they flicker to the grand structure ahead. The palace nearly beams with Aphrodite’s presence—even the wind here seems to carry her scent. Jasmine and honey—a poison too many to count had mistaken for nectar.

Perhaps that is why Hades can’t help herself again. “So,” she muses, “the rumours are true, then.” She looks at Aphrodite again. “Will I be invited to the wedding this time?”

Hades is more than certain Aphrodite hadn’t come to this island for a holiday. The beautiful Goddess never does anything without purpose—that, at least, the two of them have in common. If she resides here, at the palace, Hades can guess well enough who her next victim is.

So she adds, her lip curling slightly, “A coronation, perhaps?”

Finally, that grimace Hades knows all too well blooms upon Aphrodite’s perfect features. For something to rattle her enough to drop her sultry mask…Hades can’t help but be impressed.

“There might not be either,” Aphrodite says, crossing her arms over her pearly white dress. “He’s proving…especially difficult.”

Now that piques Hades’s interest. A mortal immune to Aphrodite’s charms? It seems impossible—Hades had seen the Gods themselves trip over their feet for as much as a shred of Aphrodite’s attention. That whoever this prince was hasn’t yet made her his wife was…

Intriguing.

Still, Hades isn’t here to gossip about Aphrodite’s latest conquest. She’s got her own mission on her hands, and one far too important to indulge in irrelevant chitchat.

She waves a dismissive hand. “Did you bring what I asked you?”

Aphrodite reaches out a hand. “You doubt me, Hades?”

“Always.”

She laughs, the sound weaving into the soft whoosh of the sea. “So mistrustful,” she scolds playfully. “How will you keep your loved one, my dear Hades, with your heart guarded so closely?”

“That’s what I have you for,” Hades says, then takes the seeds from Aphrodite’s open palm.

Aphrodite only hums.

Hades takes that moment to examine what she’d come here for. Four, singular seeds—pomegranate, she realises—shining a gentle ruby in the slowly dying sunlight. An untrained eye would mistake them for merely that—but Hades feels the power thrumming inside. Wicked. Forbidden.

She looks up to meet those brown eyes again. “How does it work?”

“The power contained within the seeds shall bind your lover to your side—simply feed him one of them at the beginning of each season for the spell to be renewed.”

Hades’s eyes narrow. “You only gave me four seeds.” They would only last a year—a year to keep Eris in the Underworld.

Aphrodite smirks again. “Perhaps you’ll have to consider opening your heart then.”

A low snarl slips past Hades’s teeth. “This was not our deal—”

And then she feels it.

A shift in the wind—and a fire blown out.

The same fire she thought would burn until the end of time—the same fire she thought would burn with her.

Aphrodite’s brows furrow as she, too, feels it—and her sneer returns when realisation dawns upon her. “Or perhaps you won’t,” she says, and with that, she’s gone.

Hades allows herself one breath as she stands alone at the beach.

Then her flames erupt, and her fury is unleashed.

***

Divine blood has many forms.

Thanatos’s blood, for example, is the darkest shade of black, thick and viscous and reminding her of tar. Once it slithers down his body, upon its first contact with the ground, its still into obsidian—there are still remnants of it scattered atop Olympus, glinting ominously even in the most starless of nights. They serve as Thanatos’s personal reminder: Don’t ever return. You are not welcome here.

Hades had never seen Aphrodite’s blood—she’s not even sure the Goddess has ever bled—but she imagines it as a thousand pearls liquified, a shimmering silk exuding an opalescent kind of light. It tastes of the endless sea, wrapped up in fragrant jasmine to disguise the salt.

She’d never thought she’d ever see Eris’s blood, either. And yet it pools right before her, seeping into the drying crops.

It gleams a bright crimson and fills the air with a tinge of metal that Hades knows she’s tasted before—it starts off bitter before it sours on her tongue. Iron.

Human.

Hades’s eyes flicker to the cottage ahead where Demeter rests, still blissfully unaware. Not a God then, she thinks to herself, but a mortal—a mortal man has sired her betrothed, and left his blood in Eris’s veins as proof.

It made Eris vulnerable. It made him killable.

Her gaze returns to his body, already chilling as Autumn slowly slips out of his grasp.

Hades’s blood is the silver fire that flows in her veins. Cold. Restless. Unforgiving. An excellent aide in exacting revenge. She cannot use it here, in the Overworld—so Hades waits, letting her burning eyes promise the vengeance she’s already begun plotting.

Fortunately, her prey already waits in the Underworld.

“You know who did this,” Thanatos says behind her.

Hades does not turn to face him. “You don’t have to sound so pleased.”

“I did tell you not to go down this path,” he reminds her. “This—all of it—is on you.”

Hades whirls on her feet. “Save him,” she breathes. “You have to—”

“No.” The word slams into her like a wall of ice. “No more favours, Nesta.”

Hades goes completely, lethally still. Even her blood falters in its tracks, the flames too stunned to keep on raging. 

Her warning comes as a whisper. “You dare?”

Thanatos crosses his tattooed arms over chest, the dark swirls shifting with his golden-brown skin. She’d never asked, she realises in that moment, what the meaning behind them is—she also finds that she doesn’t care.

“I dare,” Thanatos says.

No one—no one in her divine, eternal existence—had ever used her name. Her true name. Too powerful, too sacred to be spoken by anyone but her. Even Olympus doesn’t know—and if they do, they never dared to so much as think it. She’d only told Thanatos, centuries ago—a mistake, she now understands—and Aphrodite, her price for the now useless pomegranate.

For Eris is no good to her dead. In the Underworld, he’d be all but a shred of a soul he was here—powerless. Empty.

Unworthy.

Nesta rages again.

And then leaves to exact her revenge.

***

The Underworld is quiet when she returns—as if the fallen souls themselves have decided to stay out of her way. Even the Acheron seems to have stilled, its gloomy current frozen into place.

They all feel it—the anger, the fury rolling off their Queen. They’re wise to know crossing her now is a fate much worse than death.

Like an obedient pet, Cassian waits for his mistress at the shore. He holds his chin high, his hair swept back in dark waves as he watches the silver flames reveal her inch by inch. He looks every bit the General that he is.

Expect that Generals are meant to obey their masters—to follow their every command without question. And yet this one stands before her with blood on his hands that isn’t his own, the crimson siphons illuminating the proof of his defiance.

Worst of all, his hazel eyes show no remorse—only intense, absolute determination.

He’s proud of what he did, Nesta realises. She’s comforted by the thought that, after she’s done with him, he will no longer be anything.

She lets her flames swallow the ground beneath her, lets them lick up her legs as she steps toward him. It feels liberating to have them to live and breathe her rage outside her eyes—now, every bit of her is that cold, unforgiving fire.

Still, Cassian meets her blazing gaze and doesn’t even flinch.

It angers her even more.

“You,” she breathes, the sound dry and hoarse on her tongue, “ruined everything.”

Cassian crosses his powerful arms. For a moment, he reminds her of Thanatos—his red siphons mirror the sapphires she’d given her friend all those centuries ago. Had she not been so utterly foolish and given them to Cassian, Eris might still have been alive now. Sitting on the throne she’d prepared for him, Aphrodite’s magic coursing through his veins.

But Eris is dead now, his soul likely travelling down to the Underworld right this moment. All because of—

Of her.

She should’ve left him for dead the first time—should’ve heeded Thanatos’s warning and allowed Cassian to die a warrior’s death.

Instead, she created a monster.

“If it’s forgiveness you seek,” Cassian almost scoffs, “You’re in for a disappointment, Your Majesty.”

“Not forgiveness.” Her lips twist in a cruel smile. “Punishment.”

She expects it then—that flash of fear in his gaze, that final realisation that, like him, she is a monster too.

Instead, Cassian lights up with excitement—as though punishment is exactly what he’s been hoping to hear.

Perhaps that’s why she asks, “Why?”

She doesn’t need to elaborate—he understands well enough.

“You deserve someone better than him,” he says, his chin dipping as his gaze sweeps over the fire slowly travelling up her skin. She ignores the heat it stirs within her, tells herself it’s the silver touch of her flames—except that her power is cold as ice, ice that now slowly melts under the burning hunger in his stare.

Still, she schools her features into disdain. “And I suppose that someone is you?”

Hazel eyes flicker back to hers. “It could be.” He takes a step toward her. “If you want it—if you want me.”

Nesta grits her teeth—if only to keep herself still. “What I wanted,” she says tightly, “is gone now. Because of you.”

Cassian’s voice drops an octave. “Good.”

Her fingers curl into fists. “How dare you,” she hisses, channelling that useless heat into anger. “How dare you kill a God.”

Another step in her direction has her mortal body shaking. “You would give yourself to him.” His eyes darken, the black of his pupils drowning out their colour. “You would give yourself to a God who fell at the hand of a human.” Disgust laces his words—a General unimpressed with his opponent, a General who wished for battle only for his enemy to yield before it even truly began. “I killed him in two strikes,” Cassian says. “I challenge you, I said. For the hand of the one who commands us both. Would you like to know what your precious consort told me?” 

She squeezed her fists harder, the circle of fire around her raging up to her waist now.

Cassian takes a final step—another inch, and he’d be swallowed by the flames. “He said he doesn’t know you,” he seethes, “but even if he did, you’d never be worthy of him.”

Nesta’s flames die out—fade into the dark earth beneath her feet.

It wouldn’t have mattered. She’d expected defiance—that’s why she’d arranged for the pomegranate as a precaution. Willingly or not, Eris would have come to the Underworld eventually. It was not up to Cassian to—

“I defended your honour,” Cassian continues. “You would punish me for that, Goddess?”

There is no reverence in the way he speaks her title—as if her status, her kingdom, as if Hades means nothing to him at all.

As if he only cares about her.

As if he only cares about Nesta.

“Tell me your name,” Cassian breathes.

The entire Underworld freezes.

Slowly, she tells him, “You know my name.” A final warning.

“No—your real name. Not the one they carve into temples, not the one they chant before their dead,” he says. “I want to know you.” His eyes are desperate. “Tell me your name, Hades, and I’m yours—the way I was always meant to be.”

“You,” she starts lowly, “already belong to me.”

Cassian’s eyes flash in surprise.

Nesta goes on, “I brought you here at your own request. I could’ve left you, your mother, everything you hold dear—I could’ve left it all to die.” She points a finger to his chest, her long, sharp nail digging into the hard muscle—and Cassian’s gaze darts to the touch. “But I brought you here instead, and I was planning to give you everything. I would have made you mine—my most prized pet, always at my side.”

His breath turns ragged, and he’s so close that she can almost feel it on her neck.

“But you are no pet,” Nesta says quietly. “I see that now.”

Cassian stills entirely.

Nesta smiles. “You are a beast.”

Silver sizzles beneath her finger, tasting his golden-brown skin, and Cassian’s eyes widen at the sight.

He can do nothing when her magic purrs, and his body bursts into flames.

His screams echo through the Underworld, the ground shuddering beneath his pain, the Acheron quivering at its sheer force. She knows it isn’t their cold touch that pours anguish into his soul, but the transformation itself. The steel-sharp claws that tear his skin apart as his limbs shift into large, heavy paws. The sharp needles piercing at his body before they turn into short, roughened fur, dark and gleaming the way his hair once did. The vocal cords twisting and contracting as they turn his smooth, deep voice into a low, primal rumble.

It’s working.

Cassian was already tall as a human, but his form must have grown threefold now—the four-legged beast that now stands before her is massive, towering over her so that she can hardly reach its torso, let alone face him at an eye level. His eyes…

Nesta swallows. Hard.

What have you become?

Three large heads now blink at her, their pointed ears twitching in what appears to be confusion. He almost resembles a wolf, Nesta thinks to herself, though his fur is shorter, and his shape and size is no match for the creatures she’d seen in the Overworld’s forests. Cassian is now a creature of his own might, no longer needing siphons to amplify his power. No, this beast could crush Eris with as little as a swing of his long, dark tail.

Those three pairs of eyes blink again, and Nesta makes herself face the middle, wolf-like head. And when his stare shines a familiar hazel, she finally, finally smiles.

He belongs to her now, and there is no going back.

His gaze shifts into something like understanding—and a deep huff sounds from the big, wet snout, as though he’s trying to tell her, I was yours all along, Goddess.

She angles her head slightly. “Perhaps I simply like you better in this form, General,” she answers.

Another huff—a scoff, almost—and Nesta can’t help but chuckle.

“You have no idea,” she tells him.

Slowly, Cassian makes his way past her, toward the island’s shore, the ground grunting heavily under the weight of his new form. He stops at the river’s edge, and she knows he’s taking it all in—the beast that has always lurked from deep within his soul, waiting to be released.

Yes, Nesta realises. She does like this form very much.

When the beast turns to her at last, there is a question hiding in his stare.

“Your humanity isn’t gone—well, not entirely, at least,” Nesta explains. “I can change you back as I please.” A sly smile creeps onto her lips once more. “As long as you please me.”

A low growl slips past his teeth—sharper than any sword he’s ever held, no doubt—and Nesta begins to wonder if he even wants to be changed at all. He likes this—this strength, this might she’d given him. As if whatever she says, whatever she does, will never be true punishment—as long as it means he gets to remain by her side.

Perhaps, Nesta considers as she eyes his brutal form, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

He must see the thought in her stare, because, as though in emphasis, Cassian shifts his weight to the back and rests on the stony shore. His powerful middle is revealed, every bit of muscle strong and hard before it leads—

Nesta sucks in a sharp breath.

Hanging between his legs are three, thick cocks, already throbbing and out for her taking.

Her mouth goes dry, and she sways forward a step. He’s large, larger than she’d thought he’d be, larger than any mortal she’d ever seen. His dark fur gathers at the base—one, hard shaft at the top, with two others placed just below it. His cocks mimic the positioning of his heads—the prime watching proudly from the middle, and the other two resting at its sides.

“Impressive,” Nesta hums absently, focused on the erection growing before her.

She takes another step, so close now to where the beast is waiting—so close that she can see the need gleaming at the blunt tips—

Her breathing comes faster. She needs him, too, she realises, that familiar rush of heat returning to her core. She needs to feel him throb under her touch, needs to taste him in her mouth, needs to be filled by all of him until the Underworld collapses under the force of her pleasure.

Nesta tries to ground herself, to steady her breath as she reminds herself to take it slow—he belongs to her now, wholly and eternally, and there is no need to rush to chase her want.

After all, this is supposed to be his punishment. And if there is one thing Hades has always known, it’s how to make the males suffer. 

She can feel his eyes on her, focused on her every move. Good.

Nesta leans forward and reaches out a hand. The next breath dies in every last one of the beast’s throats as she gently drags her finger over the middle shaft.

Cassian shudders violently, and from the corner of her eye, she can make out the claws, digging into the solid ground. She smiles to herself—and strokes the large girth again, swiping her thumb over the pearly want beading at the tip.

She studies each appendage again, the way they pulse with his lust, the picture of her next move already coming to life in her wicked mind. Slowly, she straightens, her hand leaving the throbbing heat of his skin.

A small noise sounds above her—a strained whimper of protest as she parts with his desire.

Nesta clicks her tongue. “So impatient,” she scolds, as if she herself had not just had to restrain herself from straddling him.

His eyes don’t leave her for a second, fixed on the hand that had just stroked his aching cock, and she knows it’s taking everything in the beastly General not to pin her to the ground and take her as she is. A part of her wishes it—for him to lose control, to mount her with all its power, to make a mess of her right here, at the gates to her onyx fortress.

But Nesta has a plan—as she always does.

This time, she will not let him ruin it.

“Look at you,” she hums again, smearing the evidence of his arousal between her two fingers. Cassian’s eyes dart to the movement, the jaws of his three heads clenched tight. “The beast has come out at last.”

He makes a low, guttural sound.

“Don’t worry,” Nesta says, “I still find you pretty.”

The rock cracks beneath the strength of his claws.

He wants her—she can feel the heaviness of his lust in the air between them. He wants to tell her just how badly he wants her impaled on his cocks, how badly he wishes to know the taste of her hot cunt. Too bad. 

She offers him a smile she knows is edged with cruelty. “Be a good boy for me, and I will let you speak again.”

And with that, Nesta kneels.

His desire calls out to her, and she wonders if he’ll taste as wild and untamed as she’d imagined—if she’ll taste the howling wind on her tongue, the hunger for battle and bloodshed. Suddenly, this is no longer about punishment—it’s about claiming him as hers, about knowing every part of him as though it were her own. Deeply. Intimately.

Cassian’s heavy pant fills the Underworld as she strokes the middle cock again, letting her hand slide down to its base before returning to tease the gleaming tip once more. She only smirks as she feels him harden in her hold, and takes him into her mouth at last.

The ground rumbles slightly with Cassian’s stuttered growl, and it only incites that heat within her. Her tongue swirls around the thick head, and she knows she won’t be able to take him all in, too large to ever fit wholly in her mouth. She also knows he expects her hand to aid her, to close around the base in tandem with her mouth—but Nesta has other plans.

His cock hits the back of her throat as she braces her hands on the two cocks beneath.

Cassian jerks almost violently at the touch, the two, throbbing shafts twitching in response to the feel of her on the sensitive skin, and she can’t help but smile slightly against him. He’s heavy and solid in her hands, and she pumps him up and down, rhythmically to her mouth as her tongue reaches out to lap at his length. She watches his muscles tighten and his hips jerk up—he’s close, she realises, something like satisfaction purring deep inside her chest at the reactions she’s elicited from him. Something determined to please him, to make him addicted to her touch.

His next growl is deeper, raspier, and he arches fully into her mouth. Nesta’s vision blurs, her moan a garbled sound as his tip bumps against her throat again—and Cassian pulls back, as though not wanting to strain her.

As if he ever could.

She curls her fingers around his shafts—too thick for them to truly ever meet at the base—and she squeezes him gently as her tongue darts out once more to graze along the underside.

Then she opens her eyes and meets his gaze.

Cassian comes in a wave.

His roar reverberates straight into her core, already wet and crying out for his heat, and Nesta delights in the feel of his throbbing cock on her tongue, in her hands. He comes down her throat as she swallows him, hands still pumping him in a slowing pace until he finally slumps, panting as though in disbelief.

Her mouth slides off him smoothly then, and she smirks at the mess she’d made of him—of the release still spilling out of the two cocks she’d made a mess of. Nesta rises to her feet and, unable to help herself, flashes him a triumphant smile.

Cassian steadies himself weakly, all four of his powerful legs now holding him up as his breath settles. He looks at her as though he’d never seen her before—as though now, he finally understands that it is a Goddess standing before him, that what she’d just done is a sacrament he’d fall to his knees before for the rest of his life.

All three pairs of eyes sweep down her form now until they meet her centre—and she wonders if he can somehow smell the arousal pooling at her core.

His low growl confirms her suspicions—and Cassian takes a step forward.

The image flashes in her mind, then—this beast between her thighs, licking hungrily at the heat dripping down her cunt, pressing its heavy tongue to her clit—

Cassian takes another step.

“You,” Nesta breathes, “are in no position to make demands.”

She is supposed to be the one in charge here, she reminds herself, but the words fade immediately into the daze of her weakening mind as she watches his hazel eyes darken. Cassian huffs, and it’s almost like a laugh—as if he, too, knows that right now, the Goddess is utterly at his mercy.

As if he likes it.

His eyes flicker to her again, a silent plea—he will not touch her until she grants it.

Nesta looses one, final breath before she yields the one thing that has always been only hers to wield.

Control.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she warns, even though she already knows he’d die before he let that happen.

Cassian pounces.

She’s pinned to the ground before she can blink, the dark stone smooth and cool against the exposed skin of her back. Cassian’s massive body hovers over her, blocking out the dim light as he leans further down.

Before she can use her magic, his teeth already flash, and the sound of the ripping fabric fills the air between them. Her gown now lays shredded around them, and the soft breeze sweeps over her naked body, chill against her hot, aching cunt. She arches off the ground an inch, her human body already desperate for his touch, for the delicious fullness of him inside her, thrusting in and out until she can no longer sustain her breath. Nesta wants him—wants all of him like she’s never wanted before, rough and without restraint.

But then Cassian’s monstrous heads lower further down, and do not stop until—

Until one of his snouts presses against her abdomen and he sniffs, a low growl slipping past his sharp teeth.

His eyes burn dark, intoxicated by the scent of her, spread open and utterly, obscenely wet.

Nesta knows he’s begging for a taste.

She knows what’s coming now, knows he’ll feast on her until she comes again and again and again, until he gets to feel that fire on his tongue and deem it sweeter than ambrosia itself. Two of his heads lower, then, as they lick up her inner thighs, their tongues hot and heavy and wet, stopping an inch from where she needs them most.

She makes an exasperated sound as her walls clench around nothing, only more of that slickness coating them, urging for friction. Cassian huffs a laugh and looks up to face her, an infuriating sight when his head should be where it belongs—right between her legs.

She swears that beastly mouth curls into a smile before his middle head dips and drags its tongue clean up her centre.

Nesta moans then, low and wretched, her head falling back against the ground. The crown of her golden hair is like beams of sunlight against the onyx stone, but she doesn’t care—doesn’t care about the looks of this body anymore—only the way it twists and tightens at the rough tongue swiping over its sensitive cunt.

Cassian licks her like a creature starved, like he’d just crossed a desert and she’s the only fountain in sight. His tongue is heavy and large as it drags itself against her walls, and she wonders just how, exactly, she’ll be able to take any of his cocks when his tongue already sends hot bolts of lightning through her veins.

His other two heads resume their journey up her thighs again, and she writhes at the overstimulation—at the wet trails he’s leaving all over her like an animal marking its territory. I might belong to you, he seems to say, but you belong to me now, too.

Somehow, Nesta doesn’t mind.

The realisation is like the first breaking of light in the darkness, like the first birdsong at the end of a silent night. Nesta—Hades—has always only claimed, for herself, for her power, for her kingdom. No one’s ever claimed her—no one has lived long enough to even try.

No one except Cassian.

He doesn’t want her power or her kingdom—he doesn’t even want Hades. He only wants to be Nesta’s, and for Nesta to be his in return. 

Perhaps this—all of it—has not been some twisted curse from the Fates. No, she can almost see their thread now, bright and golden and tied between the two of their souls.

And what a beautiful sight it is.

She speaks, but her words come out quiet, strained.

Cassian pauses.

“Nesta,” she repeats, the word no more than a breath.

He looks up then, his tongue parting with her cunt just barely, and she moans in protest, rolling her hips higher up into him again.

But Cassian doesn’t move—only stares at her, something golden shining in the darkness of his eyes.

So she explains, “You wanted to know my name.” 

His gaze holds nothing but revelation—he looks like a beast waking from a long-suffering dream.

“My name is Nesta,” she says again, a desperate urgency in her tone.

Her name is the last snap before he unleashes himself.

She can practically hear how wet she is as he licks her, the sounds of her pleasure loud and depraved and stirring something deep within her gut. Her breath becomes short, uneven as he sinks deeper and deeper with every thrust. Her fingers sink into the ground, her power slipping out of her and into the stone, pressing thin cracks beneath the pads of her digits. Her eyes flutter shut, no longer able to register anything but the tongues exploring every inch of where she aches the most—until the middle one slips out of her at last to circle around her clit.

It’s everything Nesta needs to fall apart.

Release tears through her, hot and white and shuddering every last crumbling bit of her world. She comes with a low, strangled cry, and her body falls flat against the ground, swirling with heat despite its cool, welcoming surface. Her human heart thumps loudly in her chest, and she opens her mouth to say something—anything—but words fail her entirely as Cassian continues to sweep at her in a smoother, slower pace, coaxing her through her climax.

Only when her breath finally returns, pouring enough air back into her lungs to speak, does she wave her hand weakly, her power flickering between them.

Cassian blinks, as though something shifted inside him—and understanding dawns upon his features as he finds the change at last.

The look he gives her takes her breath away all over again.

“General—” she starts, a pulse of that familiar heat shooting through her once more as he rises to wedge his powerful middle between her thighs. 

He growls—but this time, the sound is different—changed as it shifts into a voice. Into words. “No more,” he says in a deep, guttural rumble. “No more titles. Speak my name, Nesta.”

His paws rest heavily beside her arms, bracing themselves as he leans over her.

Nesta’s eyes dart to the thick cocks inches away from her core. “Cassian,” she breathes.

Another rumble—lighter, this time, one she can only take for a chuckle. “So impatient,” he mocks, parroting her words from before.

“Give me everything,” she gasps as his middle cock grinds against her sopping folds.

Cassian chuckles again. “You wouldn’t survive everything.” Nesta shudders. “I need to prepare you,” he says, one of his heads lowering to nuzzle at her neck. “Trust me.”

Anticipation coils inside her belly as he guides himself to her entrance—and she gasps out in protest as the tip of his cock pauses right before it.

She knows why he does it—knows exactly what he wants to hear.

“Cassian,” she calls him again, his name like a plea on her lips.

Cassian slides in, and all the worlds collide.

He bottoms out in a deep, rough thrust that rips a wanton cry free from her throat. She jolts against him, his two hard cocks pressed against her thighs, the tingle of his short, black fur on her naked skin setting every last one of her nerves on alert. Nesta’s chest heaves for a breath as he knocks all the air from her body, as she adjusts to the large girth of him in the tightness of her cunt.

His cock stretches her deliciously, reaching a place inside of her no one has ever reached before—and she rolls her hips against him, begging for more friction, begging to feel him stroke it over and over again until there is no more space between them to close. Until they become one.

When he doesn’t make a move, Nesta wiggles again, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to focus on pushing the air back into her body. But no movement comes—only the low rumbling of his voice again.

“Nesta,” he says, and it’s like a prayer. “Look at me.”

She does.

When her gaze locks onto his, she realises she can see her eyes in the reflection of his—or so she thinks, at least. For her eyes always burn with that deathly, silver fire—they have been from the moment she was born.

But the eyes she sees in his own are a light, lovely shade of blue—like the paling winter sky, calm and gleaming like fresh snow under an arctic sun.

It’s the first time she ever sees them, but the sight is familiar as though she’s been seeing it every day in the mirror—they’re Nesta’s eyes, the ones hidden beneath Hades’s wrath.

She likes them.

She wonders if, this whole time, Cassian has been seeing them, too.

“Mate,” Cassian whispers.

And then, he starts moving.

Slowly, he drags himself in and out, his pace easing into a melting rhythm. He stretches her, watching her face contort in pleasure, groaning as looks down to watch her split open on his cock. Nesta quivers around him, she, too, mesmerised by the sight—by how perfectly he feels inside her, by how perfectly his cock slides in and out of her body.

With every thrust, he reaches deeper, pushing the head of his cock until it fills her so thoroughly that she flutters wildly around his thick length. Her breath turns ragged again, quickening after every stroke of his cock against the spongy roof of her walls.

Cassian growls, throbbing harder inside her, his own pace rushing to match her panting gasps. He drives into her, in and out and in again, the wet sounds of their pleasure mixing with the heavy air. She moans his name, matching him stroke for stroke, hips urging him closer, urging to him to push deeper into her, to find their peak together the way they were always meant to do.

Her walls grip him tighter, and he starts rutting into her frantically, giving into some wild, primal urge to claim her fully, openly, with everything he’s got. He isn’t holding back anymore, he doesn’t care for a steady pace—only the wails of her pleasure and the heat of her cunt welcoming the monster all the way in. 

Nesta nearly chokes as she actually sees his cock puff out her lower body, its perfect curve hitting that spot inside her that made everything but him completely, utterly insignificant. She’s close now, so tight around him that he clenches his jaws to keep himself moving, to hit the back of her cunt with his thrusts.

“Nesta,” he pants, and the sound is her undoing.

They erupt together, the hot slick of her climax coating the length of him as she shakes with the force of her pleasure. Cassian’s cock twitches, and the pumping stutters before he roars and buries himself deep.

His orgasm slams into her, the hot rush of his seed throbbing up his shaft and coating her insides. There is only him, now—only the chase they take on together, the rest of the Underworld fading away. She might be chanting his name, might be gripping the muscled paws she’s nestled between—the only thing she knows is that Cassian is filling her as they ride out their release.

Slowly, the world falls back into place—enough for her to catch a breath, at least. Enough to open her eyes once more and look at the one who’s ruined her life to build a better one anew.

“Mate,” he breathes again, understanding clear in his hazel stare.

As if in answer, something thrums deep within her chest, something warm and golden and not at all like the darkness she’d been used to her whole life. Something that fills the silence—one word, beautiful and unending.

Mate.

Taglist: @melting-houses-of-gold @fieldofdaisiies @octobers-veryown @sunshinebingo @autumndreaming7 @augustinerose @demarogue @helhjertet @jmoonjones @madgirlnesta @areyoudreaminof

#divinity series #tw monsterfucking #nessian #nessian au #nessian smut #nessian fic #pro nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #nesta acotar #nesta acosf #cassian acotar #cassian acosf #acotar au #acotar fic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

[fuckmelifesucks]

Cheap Alcohol and Ruined Sleep

Pairings: Elriel/Feysand/Nessian

Summary: Cass and Rhys make regretful 'college student' choices. Az is homicidal. The sisters' night is ruined with them having to help play babysitter. Nesta is annoying. Feyre is tired. Elain is trying to help Az keep his sanity.

Warning: Modern college AU.

Words: 2.4k

Characters: ACOTAR; Sarah J Mass.

~~~~~

“Huh?”

Elain sat up in her bed with a frown, resting the book she’d been reading on her nightstand. The furrow of her brows deepened when she saw what time her clock displayed. Another knock was heard from across the small apartment she shared with her sisters, both peacefully asleep in their own rooms.

Pushing away the glaring screen of her laptop displaying the assignment she’d been working on for the past few hours, she climbed out of her bed and padded out of her room and towards the entry door, wondering who it might be this late at night.

She curled her fingers around the knob and pulled open the door only to be greeted with a sight that surprised her but also didn’t at the same time. “Azriel?”

Hazel eyes like sunsets and autumn leaves and spring trees shot up to meet hers, a weariness to them that made her eyebrows rise as she asked, “What’s wrong?”

With all the seriousness of the world, Azriel questioned, “Would you, by any chance, have some chloroform lying around?” As if that were the most normal thing to ask, and not at all concerning.

“Umm…” Elain blinked up at him, taking in his disheveled raven hair falling onto his forehead and his wrinkled white tee and black sweats and the slight redness to his eyes along with the circles underneath. “Az, why would you need chloroform at two in the morning?”

So monotonous in his reply, it genuinely surprised Elain as he spoke, “I plan on using it on Cassian and Rhysand and then I’m going to drag them out and load them into my truck to go dump them in a shallow ditch somewhere faraway so that I can finally be rid of them and get at least one good night’s sleep.”

“Huh.” Elain stared up at him in the dim light of the silent hallway with her lips parted. Her eyes flicked to the door behind Azriel almost as if she could see the other two men inside. “And what are they up to this time around to get you so worked up?”

Before Azriel could even open his mouth to answer, a disturbingly loud bang of someone’s body slamming into a wall sounded, followed by muffled cries of curses, startling Elain.

A moment later, the door to the apartment opposite Elain’s, that Azriel shared with his brothers, swung open and out came two very drunk and very clumsy men who just so happened to be said brothers and Elain’s question was answered without Azriel having to say a word. Azriel groaned out a series of colorful choice words while burying his face into his hands.

“Lainy!” Cassian gasped as he rushed towards her, face flushed and eyes droopy, and squeezed her in a hug that lifted her off her feet and almost made her lose the ability breathe.

“Oh God, Cass, put me down, please,” she wheezed out, repeatedly tapping against Cassian’s shoulder.

“Put her down, you idiot. You’re suffocating her, for fuck’s sake.” Azriel rubbed at his temples, already over having to babysit two grown adults who were acting like children.

Elain took in a deep breath the instant Cassian let go off her. With a hand to her chest and wide eyes, Elain could only watch as Cass barged right into the girls’ apartment, slamming the door against the wall in the process with a very loud ‘Nes!’ on his way. Nesta was so going to kill him when she woke up. And she most definitely had woken up by now. Elain just knew it. Feyre had most likely too.

“Hiya, ‘Lain,” Rhysand slurred with a drunken smile and ruffled her hair clumsily before joining Cass, murmuring if his ‘Feyre darling, love of my life’ was awake.

She slowly turned to the third person who was currently busy glaring daggers at his brothers while massaging temples a little too hard. Az turned his attention back at her with an apologetic look. “Sorry for ruining your night as well.”

“No need to apologize, even though I would’ve much preferred a quiet night,” Elain murmured out the last part under her breath as she rubbed her palms against the sides of her pajama-covered thighs. “Just…why are they drunk on a weeknight anyway?”

“Cass came home with some cheap alcohol to celebrate the fact that he passed in a test he was sure he’d fail. Managed to rope Rhys in as well, somehow.”

“Dear God…Nesta is going to be so pissed,” Elain groaned.

“I know,” Azriel sighed.

As if she’d been summoned by her name, the door to the room next to Elain’s flung open to reveal a murderous Nesta, blue-grey eyes shimmering with rage as she took in the scene—Cassian conveying something absolutely incoherent to Rhysand while the two sat on or more like threw their weights onto the living room couch that looked way too small beneath the two large men.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Nesta snapped.

The door beside Nesta’s opened as well, though a lot slower this time around, and Feyre stepped out with her hair in disarray, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nes!” Cassian all but cried out as he jumped up from the couch and Elain winced at the way Nesta’s eyes narrowed on him.

“You. What the fuck are you doing here at this time?” Nesta demanded, steel voice sharp like knives.

“I missed you, Nes!” Cass was going to get himself killed.

“Rhys, why are you here at two in the morning?” Feyre, though clearly annoyed at being woken up so rudely, was comparatively calmer than their older sister.

Rhys, suddenly standing in front of Feyre now with his hands cupping her face, only grinned at her lopsidedly. “I—I’m so drunk, Feyre darling.”

“I can see that. Why are you drunk?”

Rhys shrugged, though it was difficult to tell with all the swaying he was doing, unable to hold his own weight. “Cass—Cassian he…” God, he could barely get the words out. Elain didn’t know how Feyre managed to keep a straight face. “H—He made me drink.” Was he actually pouting?

“I so did not!” Cass, not yet so far gone, protested with an overly dramatic gasp and slapped a hand over his chest rather too loudly. “You wound me with your lies right here, in my very heart, Rhysand!”

“Shut your trap, you idiot!” Nesta hissed, clearly still very grumpy while Rhys flipped Cass off and threw back a “Like I give a fuck.”

“Oh, my god. Someone kill me,” Az murmured.

 “Let’s…” Elain blinked, turning away from the shitshow currently taking place in her living room. She made sure the guys’ apartment door was closed before gently pulling Azriel into the girl’s apartment, closing the door behind them. “It’s better if the neighbors don’t hear them.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want they at our necks with noise complains in the morning.”

“This escalated a little too quickly,” Elain commented, looking back at the scene and feeling Az rest his forehead on top of her head.

“Hmm. Tell me about it,” he grumbled. Elain only patted his disheveled hair.

Nesta was out of her room now, busy threatening Cassian’s family jewels while he only smiled down at her lazily. Feyre was still handling Rhys, listening to his ramblings. It was a chaotically wholesome and hilarious scene and Elain wanted to capture it in her memory to laugh recalling it come morning when she knew there would be many regrets coming from the two drunken men.

“Don’t you have an early class tomorrow?” Elain asked Azriel, making sure to keep her voice low.

“I do.”

“Reason why you’re contemplating homicide?”

“You know me so well, flower.”

“Um-hm. You might just have to skip, unfortunately.”

Azriel only groaned and then proceeded to curse the fuck out of his brothers’ bloodlines under his breath. “I might just have them sleep on their backs tonight, just in case. Wanna come help me prove my innocence when the cops arrive?”

“Azriel!” Elain gasped, eyes wide and all.

“Kidding. Kidding.” A beat passed. “Or am I?”

“Alright, none of you are leaving this apartment until those two sober up.”

“There you go spilling unnecessary water on all my plans of peace and freedom, flower.”

“Well, forgive me for not wanting you to get locked up for familicide.”

“Whatever would I do without you, love?”

“Probably something morally questionable and self-hazardous.”

“Hmm.” He finally lifted his head to see how much the shitshow had progressed.

Cass slung his arm around Nesta’s shoulders, either not registering or blatantly ignoring the daggers she was shooting at him with her heated glare. “Did you fall out of a vending machine, Nes?”

“What?” Nesta scrunched up her nose, arms crossed across her chest, though made no move to throw Cassian’s arm off her shoulder. She probably sensed he’d fall right on his ass and hurt himself if she did.

“Because you’re one hell of a snack,” Cass smirked, looking very much pleased with his shitty-worse-than-an-amateur flirting skills.

Nesta blinked at him, looking very unsure if she wanted to smack him or get him some help. “What is wrong with you, honestly?”

“Nes! Nes, are you an edible? ‘Cause I’d eat you right up.” Cassian wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, a shit-eating grin pulling at his lips. It was all far too painful to watch.

“Oh, my god, that was so bad it makes me want to kick you in the nuts,” Nesta stated, cringing. Though, amusement, just a tiny speck in her eyes, gave her away.

“But you still wanna kick me in the balls. Me. You want to fuck me so bad, it’s so obvious.” Talk about delusional.

Azriel wondered what past sins he’d committed that were so atrocious that he was being punished for them like this. He wanted to be taken out. Preferably quickly and at that very moment.

Nesta looked at Az then. “Just what type of blasted shit is he on? Did he snort something or what?”

“Cheap alcohol does that to him,” Az replied with a withering glare at Cass who was busy trying to get Nesta’s attention back on him.

Rhys on the other hand… “Feyre darling, I’m the most handsome, aren’t I?” he slurred his words, arms tightly wrapped around Feyre’s waist and face buried deep into her neck.

Feyre just hummed, stroking her fingers through his hair and rubbing gentle circles on his back. “Sure are, you big baby,” she drawled with a smile, affectionate humor sparkling in her blue-grey eyes.

“And you’re even more pretty, Feyre darling. You’re the prettiest,” he went on.

“Um-hm.”

Not even giving her a chance to open her mouth again, he continued, voice muffled and childish, “And I won you over with my glamourous wit and charm…” and on and on he went and Feyre let him, content in just babying the grown-ass man.

“It’s a good thing Mor isn’t here to join in with them,” Elain joked as she watched everything unfold.

“I’d have thrown myself out of the nearest window if I had to babysit her as well,” Azriel deadpanned from behind her, dead eyes glaring with murderous intent.

Elain leaned back into his chest and patted his cheek considerately, shaking her head gently with a smile that conveyed both pity and amusement. It was a good thing Mor was away on a field trip.

On that note…“What of Amren?” Their senior probably wouldn’t have been of much help either but still.

“Busy with Varian, as usual. She probably would’ve chewed everyone up for even thinking about disturbing her quality time.”

Elain huffed out a laugh. “Definitely.” Straightening back up, she sighed, a small smile still on her face. “Alright. Let’s go help them before Nesta actually kills Cassian or poor Feyre gets crushed under Rhys with all the weight he’s putting on her.”

“Eh… I’ve got an even better idea. How about we sneak back to my apartment and let those two deal with their drunk men.”

“Az...”

“…”

“Azriel.”

“…fine.” He let out a long suffered sigh. “Just ‘cause you asked nicely, flower.”

“Good.” Elain shook her head with her smile still intact and physically pulled Az with her to deal with their respective siblings’ antics.

“Come on, Rhys. Get off me. You’re heavy.”

“But Feyre darling…”

“We’ll both fall!”

“Cassian, I love you but I’ll seriously chop your dick off if you don’t stop with the cheesy pick-up lines.”

“I thought they were working!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Azriel, come get your brother!”

“Why do I have to put up with this shit?”

“Elain! Help me with Rhys, please!”

“Dear God…”

~~~~~

It seemed that in the midst of chaos, no one was actually able to return back to their designated spaces. At some point, everyone had found a spot to fall asleep in the girls’ living room itself, though their backs were sure to be disagreeable with when they were to finally wake up.

Cassian ended up falling asleep on the floor with one foot on the couch, snoring loudly. Nesta was right there with him, her head cushioned on Cassian’s stomach as she slept soundly, not paying any mind to the rumbling under her head.

Rhysand and Feyre were a few feet away, both on the floor as well, all cuddled up with each other. Rhys had a hand wrapped loosely around Feyre’s waist, curling up against her as they both slept facing each other, legs intertwined and all.

Azriel and Elain slept leaning against the couch. Or more like Az with his back against the couch as he sprawled out on the floor with Elain’s back against his chest as she slept curled between his legs. Head tucked under Azriel’s chin, Elain was all but glued to his front with his arms resting circled around her shoulders.

All were in awkward positions and yet all were deep asleep. Completely and utterly relaxed. Alarms were missed, classes were skipped and assignments were left forgotten and incomplete.

Although, there was a ton of grumbling and groaning and cursing when everyone finally came to. Especially from the two who were miserably hungover and regretting their life choices. They did get quite an earful and a few particular choice words each from the others who did not take it easy on them for fucking up their sleep with their drunken escapades.

~~~~~

Wanted to try writing about all three couples and not just elriel tho this is still kinda elriel centric I just can't seem to help myself 🫠

#acotar fic #elriel #feysand #nessian #the archeron sisters #elain archeron #nesta archeron #feyre archeron #azriel shadowsinger #rhysand acotar #cassian acotar #elain x azriel #feyre x rhysand #nesta x cassian #elriel fic #feysand fic #nessian fic #acotar #fuckmelifesucks

[shadowisles-writes]

ACOTAR Writing Circle 3 Masterlist

The Syren, part 2, part 3 @headcanonheadcase @secret-third-thing

I Choose Who. I Choose You., part 2, part 3 @hlizr50 @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship​ @headcanonheadcase​

The Great Escape, part 2, part 3 @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship, @aldbooks​ @starfall-spirit​

Blindsided, part 2, part 3 @bennylavasbuns, @azrielshadowssing

Peer Pressure, part 2, part 3 @azrielshadowssing @mercarimari​ @foreverinelysian​

Tangled Cable Car Wires, part 2, part 3 @thelovelymadone, @bennylavasbuns​ @thehaemanthus​

On the Edge of Losing You, part 2 @starfall-spirit, @thegloweringcastle

Right There Beside Him All Summer Long, part 2, part 3 @rosanna-writer​ @sideralwriting​ @hlizr50​​

Grounded, part 2 @writtenonreceipts, @thehaemanthus​

Fictional, part 2, part 3 @mercarimari @rosanna-writer

Sailing Ships, part 2, part 3 @foreverinelysian, @writtenonreceipts​ @sideralwriting​

Down This Road, part 2, part 3 @thegloweringcastle, @headcanonheadcase​ @thelovelymadone​

Heatwave, part 2, part 3 @secret-third-thing, @starfall-spirit​ @azrielshadowssing​

Someday, Today, part 2, part 3 @thehaemanthus, @hlizr50​ @vikingmagic33​

A Sunshine from the Ocean, part 2, part 3 @sideralwriting @thelovelymadone @sunshinebingo​

Cool for the Summer, part 2, part 3 @aldbooks, @vikingmagic33​ @rosanna-writer​

I Hate You Too, part 2, part 3 @sunshinebingo @foreverinelysian​ @bennylavasbuns​

This One Even Blooms, part 2, part 3 @vikingmagic33 @sunshinebingo​ @thegloweringcastle​

#acotar writing circle #acotarwritingcircle #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #gwynriel #elucien #feysand #nessian #helion x lady of autumn #emorie #gwynriel fic #elucien fic #feysand fic #nessian fic #emorie fic #writing challenge #acotar writing #gwynlain #jassa

[wildlyglittering]

Illyrian Comfort Pie

I shared a post with some Christmas OTP prompts and asked if anyone wanted any for Nessian and @dustjacketmusings chose:

"Every country has different traditions for Christmas when it comes to food: trying something new when they have always eaten the same dishes for the holidays feels wrong at first. But when it’s cooked with love by their favourite person, it can sure taste like new traditions."

I don't know if this entirely fills the prompt and it's a lot rougher than I'd like but please enjoy!

Illyrian Comfort Pie

“Fuck you, Morrigan.” Nesta wiped her bare arm across her brow, spices and herbs transferring straight from her forehead onto her forearm, the little green and orange specks dusting her skin. “And fuck you Rhys come to that.”

The alarm on her phone screamed and Nesta whirled around in her small kitchen space. She’d put the device down earlier, stabbing at the timer with a flour covered fingertip whilst trying to shove her pie into the oven.

Where the hell had she put the damn thing?

On the counter stood an open cookbook entitled ‘Recipes from the Heartland of Illyria,’ a bottle of wine which doubled as a rolling pin and cooking motivation, and Nesta’s pathetic pastry attempts one, two, and three – each one slightly less gloopy than the last - until she finally made semi-successful attempt number four.

No phone.  

Nesta let out a noise halfway between a screech and a yell, her hands reaching either side of her head, ignoring whatever food stuff would end up in her hair.

“Shit!” At least she managed to remember what the phone alarm was for, swivelling behind her and yanking down the oven door, reaching for the mitts as she ducked a plume of smoke.

This one didn’t smell too bad. Nesta grabbed the pie and shoved it onto the trivet on the counter. The crust was a little singed on one side but, if she was careful, she’d be able to scrape that off.

Her movements jostled a reem of paper towels and as they fell to their side, they revealed the object of Nesta’s irritation. One phone.

“Thank you,” she muttered, her eyes drifting upwards to the ceiling as she turned off the alarm. Her thanks was to whatever cookery god was willing to listen and half to the smoke alarm not going off.

Three notifications waited for her. She took a breath in and hit open on the first one.

Hahaha. You agreed to what?! Even *I* run from making that dish. Pretty sure my *grandmother* ran from making that dish and she used to be a baker. Anyway, are you coming Thursday?

Emerie. Not providing the answers Nesta was so desperately hoping for, instead reminding Nesta she had yet to confirm drinks with her and Gwyn. Nesta typed out a quick response.

Yes to Thursday. Any chance your grandmother would attempt making this again if I paid her?

Sent. Nesta moved onto notification number two - Feyre.

Did you want me to see if the Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street will do a delivery? If you put it in the oven for a bit and burn the edges no one will know.

Nesta raised an eyebrow. The audacity of her sister to assume Nesta would need assistance and that she’d burn the pie. She had burnt the pie but still, the audacity.

She chose not to respond to that one and instead moved to the final notification. Cassian. Nesta took a deep breath and hit open.

Are you having as much fun as I am? Thinking I could do this as a side hustle.

There was a photo attached. Cassian had taken a selfie of himself standing in front of his obnoxiously large quartz kitchen counter. His dark hair was tied in a messy bun and he winked into the camera. He wore an apron Nesta had never seen before, deep red with candy cane striped ties and in Christmas style writing was embroidered ‘Kiss the Chef’ underneath a sprig of mistletoe.

Nesta squinted at the image, zooming past Cassian himself to the dishes behind him slightly out of frame. Was that a bowl of perfectly glazed parsnips? A tray of immaculate shortbreads?

She let out another noise and flung the phone back onto the counter so she could press her palms into her eyes. At this point she was covered in flour, meat juice, and soggy pastry pieces. Sweat gathered under her breasts and trickled down her back from the constant heat of the oven.

Nesta had been baking for over six hours now and though there was a small part of her which wanted to cry, she refused. Although she’d cursed Morrigan and Rhys the biggest ‘fuck you’ should have been delivered to Nesta herself.

She’d agreed to this when she should have declined, and now her pride would cause her to take a fall.

There had been five of them for drinks at Rita’s. Should have been two – only Nesta and Cassian for their quiet post theatre drinks, but Morrigan had been there with other friends who she swiftly abandoned as soon as she saw Cassian arrive.

Within minutes Morrigan had called Feyre and then before Nesta knew it, she was being squished into a booth, Cassian to her left and Feyre to her right, while she sipped her chilled white wine and counted the minutes until it was socially acceptable to say her goodbyes.

“Oh my god,” Morrigan had been saying. “That was the best dish I think I’d ever eaten. Do you remember it Rhys? The caramelised onions and gravy? What was it called again Cass?”

Cassian groaned and lolled his head back. “Illyrian Comfort Pie. My favourite.” He took a sip of his beer. “The Illyrian army did a version with off-cuts, almost ruined a perfect dish.”

“What’s this pie?” Feyre asked.

“Only the best pie in the world,” Cassian replied, his eyes misting over. “Imagine thick tender beef soaked in its own juices for hours, drowned in rich gravy and embedded with caramelised onions all under a cover of hot crust pastry.”

“You need a room, Cass?” Rhys laughed.

Cassian raised his middle finger to Rhys but joined him in the laughter.

“Cassian’s ex made the best version,” Morrigan said, her eyes sliding to Nesta. “Honestly no one would be able to top it. Bri wasn’t even Illyrian but it was spot on.” She took a long sip from her own glass of red wine. “I guess it doesn’t need to be your own tradition if you care enough to put in the effort.”

There was a heavy silence which would have lingered if not for the clearing of Feyre’s throat. “Who’s got who for Secret Santa?”

“Oh, I’m sure if Nesta put in the effort it would be just as good. Right?” Nesta looked up and met Rhys’ eyes as he ignored Feyre’s question. He smirked as he finished speaking, cocking his own beer bottle to his mouth.

Three more pairs of eyes looked her way. Nesta felt the slight, almost imperceptible tensing from Cassian but it was Feyre’s eyes which widened the most. There was a kick against Nesta’s shin under the table.

“I’m sure it would,” Nesta said, “if I had the time.”

“Cassian was telling us at the bar you’re now on vacation. All your gifts already wrapped and under the tree. Sounds like you have time.”

“Rhys...” Feyre began but Morrigan jumped in.

“I think that would be a lovely Christmas present for Cass. You can start your own tradition now you’re official. Illyrian food is so hearty.”

There was a part of Nesta which was too stubborn for her own good. Rhys’ smirk and Morrigan’s too-wide grin opposite her, the meeting of the cousin’s eyes like this was some in-joke they had just started. Feyre kept kicking her under the table, the jostling movement irritating Nesta further.

The flash of irritation was the problem. That, and the second glass of wine she’d drunk on a half empty stomach fuelling it. Her temperature rose and her skin prickled and instead of counting to twenty like she’d been practicing in her apartment Nesta opened her mouth.

“Fine,” she said, “this whole thing sounds great. One Illyrian Comfort Pie it is. When do you want it? Day after next?” Nesta quickly grabbed her glass to take a swig of her drink before she agreed to anything else.

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t want to meet his eyes, he was probably thinking how Nesta wasn’t implementing those ‘take a moment’ techniques. But his hand reached down to clasp her free one under the table, giving it a squeeze.

“You know what?” he said, looking at the group. “I want in on this. New traditions sound great. You’re making mine so how about yours. What’s the Archeron family dish of choice?” He asked this looking at Nesta but she still had the wine glass clamped to her lips. No longer drinking, just holding it there to feel the cold.

“Ooh,” Feyre said, clapping her hands and jiggling a little on her seat. “Roasted venison, but that’s quite tricky. We haven’t eaten that since Elain went vegetarian. We also had roast potatoes and honey glazed parsnips. Green beans. There was a cheesy mash and – oh, oh, the shortbread biscuits with a chocolate drizzle and the Prythian Pavlova. That’s Nesta’s favourite.”

Cassian laughed. “You want to take a breath there, Feyre?”

In response, Feyre’s stomach grumbled. “No, but I think I need some dinner.”

Aside from Nesta, the table laughed. Her wine glass was now empty and back on the table, her fingers toying with the stem, her mind too preoccupied with the thought of this pie and how the hell she’d even find the recipe.

As the chatter resumed, now about where Rhys and Feyre were going for dinner, Cassian’s weight shifted against her, his arm casually slinging around her shoulders.

“You ok?”

She glanced up at him, plastering a smile on her face. “Absolutely fine.”

“Hmm. Is that genuine fine or Nesta fine?”

Cassian was staring at her intently, concern swimming in his dark eyes. She knew if she immediately conceded he’d let it go, their friendship group knew Nesta wasn’t known for her domestic pursuits and Cassian could whip up a mean dish filled with flavour.

If she really wanted to, Nesta could cheat her way out of this. Getting Elain to bake the pie for her would have once been a consideration until Elain and Lucien’s diet change. No meat, no dairy, no sugar.

No flavour, Lucien had added, ignoring Elain’s frown.

Still, there was something else shining in Cassian’s eyes. Excitement. He was pleased she’d agreed, he relished competition in all its forms and he seemed eager to do this with her.

Nesta’s smile melted in a more genuine one and she squeezed his hand back. “Honestly, it’s good. Dare I say I may even find it fun?”

That was two days ago. Two long days.

“Ha!” She now shouted to her cramped kitchen. “Two drink Nesta has no concept of what the fuck fun is.”

Everything was a mess, even the edges of the cookbook were singed and Nesta cringed at the sight. Gwyn had managed to track down the edition on her behalf and Nesta hated to see a book suffer.

She looked at the clock. Two hours to go – plenty of time to shower, dress up and cart the pie to Cassian’s where they would have a grand unveiling in front of their friends. Her phone pinged and Nesta glanced down to see a reply from Emerie.

She says no chance.

“That’s not a problem,” Nesta said, wiping her hands on her thighs and staining her jeans further. “Because I now have a half decent pie.” She picked up the sharp knife. “Just scrape some of the black bits off and we are good to go.”

The knife slid through the crust and Nesta lifted some of the burnt pastry off using the blade. Odd. What was a deep and crispy brown on the surface seemed pale and soft underneath. Almost as though the pastry hadn’t fully cooked all the way through.

“It’s just this bit,” Nesta told herself. “I’m sure the rest is just fine.” But as she gently lifted the pie-top she could see the same pale colour underneath. Worse was the distinct lack of steam rising from the filling. “No, no, no, no. You’ve been in the oven for almost two hours.”

Grabbing a fork, she stuck it into the dish and scooped out a lump of meat. Juice, which looked far too oily for her liking, dripped off the prongs. Nesta placed the meat on the counter and cut through it with a knife.

She was met with resistance. The beef was still cold. A noise left her throat unbidden, something akin to a half sob. Nesta had researched the best meat cuts for the pie, she’d made sure to go to the best butcher and spent no less than forty-five minutes asking the rather exasperated man behind the counter questions from her list.

Her eyes flew up to the clock. Less than two hours to go. The time she’d budgeted to get ready and go to Cassian’s now shrivelled up. Just like my hopes for this pie.

She peered into the dish, the caramelized onions bobbing in the gravy like some apple bobbing contest gone wrong. “You’re mocking me,” she said and then groaned. They wouldn’t be the only ones.  

Nesta sank down onto her floor, ignoring the drip of gravy she sat on and put her head on her knees. She could imagine it all now; Feyre, Rhys, and Morrigan all dressed up, swanning around Cassian’s apartment waiting to be served their multiple courses.

Feyre’s eyes would go wide at Nesta’s attempt but she’d try and make Nesta feel better and yet somehow by trying, she’d only make Nesta feel worse. Cassian would likely tuck the monstrosity – if she even bothered bringing it – behind some extravaganza he’d made and perform an elaborate distraction.

Rhys and Morrigan would probably just snigger behind their drinks and tell her that ‘at least she tried.’ Patronising fuckers.

A tear dripped from the corner of her eye down her chin.

Nesta had tried. Had really tried. She’d memorised the recipe from back to front before she even started, she’d gone out into Velaris Market with a clipboard, she’d called Elain early for pastry tips ignoring Lucien joining the call to ask Nesta if she could describe what real food tasted like because the memory of butter was fading fast.

She wiped her eyes with her fingers, knowing she must look even more of a state than before. But wait – there was an option open to her. Hope flared yet.

Nesta grabbed her phone from the counter. What had Feyre said? The Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street might be able to deliver. If anyone served an Illyrian Comfort Pie, it would be them. She scrolled through her favourites for the number. Her and Cassian had eaten there so often, she practically had them on speed dial.

The phone answered after the second ring.

“Hello? Hi. I know it’s late notice but I’m in a bit of a bind and hoping you could help.”

She explained the situation, confirming that yes, her pie request was for that Cassian, the one with the tattoos and arms.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Nesta said, eyeing up the clock and tapping her foot against the cupboard. “I’ll ask him. Some kind of protein shake, I think. Yeah, it’s really glossy hair. I’ll ask him that too. Anyway – the pie?”

They were regretful. Truly. Nesta could almost feel their sorrow down the phone. They didn’t have any pies pre-baked and they wouldn’t have one ready for the time she needed it by. They offered Nesta and Cassian a discount on their next visit and Nesta thanked them before hanging up.

“Well. Shit.”

Her eyes itched and she wanted to cry again but this wasn’t the Archeron way. She shook her shoulders and cleared her throat. There would be no pie but Nesta would be damned if she turned up without bringing anything and looking like a chaotic mess.

The kitchen horror show was a problem for future her, but in less than an hour, she had showered, dressed herself in her most confidence boosting little black dress and practiced her affirmations in front of the hallway mirror.

“You are a calm, confident, capable woman. You did not achieve the pie. Others have probably not achieved the pie. You have achieved other things. Like your best friends, two degrees, and this awesome looking pavlova.”

Nesta held the covered bowl to the mirror as though to show her reflection the cream and meringue evidence. Her lipstick red smile shook a little but the taxi driver was calling to say he was downstairs so there was no time for doubt to creep in.

On a usual night it took too long to get to Cassian’s. The drive was less than fifteen minutes from one end of the small city where Nesta lived to Cassian’s address and every second stretched out painfully slow.

Tonight, it was as though all roads had cleared especially for her just to say ‘look, you can get to your ritual humiliation even earlier.’

“It’s not like I’ve ever seen Rhys or Morrigan cook,” she mumbled to herself as she exited the cab and entered Cassian’s building. The porter nodded and buzzed her in and then Nesta was counting the too-quick numbers on the elevator.

Cassian’s apartment was one of two at the top of the building and though the sound-proofing was excellent, which they could attest to personally, Nesta was surprised at the distinct lack of any festivities sounding from behind his door when she approached.

He answered after one knock, hair freshly washed and dried. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons were undone, swathes of black swirling tattoos on display.

Cassian let out a low whistle and grinned like a wolf when he saw her. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite lady, in my favourite dress of hers, with my favourite dish.”

He leant in to kiss her and Nesta winced at the mention of food. Cassian’s lips met hers in a chaste kiss but he must have noticed her response as he was frowning when he pulled away.

“Come in,” he said with a light tone. “Let me take that.” He held his hands out for the bowl she was carrying but she clutched it tighter to her body.

“That’s ok, let me find a space to put it.”

“Sure.”

Nesta stepped further into the apartment. Everything was chrome, quartz, or wood but Cassian couldn’t help himself when it came to Christmas. What was once an interior designers dream for a ‘bachelor living’ magazine spread was now a grotto fit for the dreams of any eight-year-old girl.

A smile lifted the corner of her lips. She’d never begrudge him this. Foster care and ten endless churn of care homes hadn’t left Cassian with any sense of home and the orphanage tried their best but lacked the funds.

Cassian had told her that his best Christmas eventually came in the Illyrian military and all that involved was eating dry turkey from paper plates and reading stupid jokes from cheap crackers. But he was with people that felt like family and that’s what mattered the most.

Now, garlands hung from the oversized windows, a tree larger than Cassian himself stood by the fireplace decked with shining ornaments. A range of presents piled up under the tree to the point where they spilled across his floor.

Stockings on the mantel, rugs everywhere, gingerbread houses which increased in number each time Nesta was over. Candles on every surface.

“Wine?” Cassian asked as Nesta slid the bowl onto his counter. She nodded while taking a breath in. Ham and apricot, honey, a distinct scent of rich chocolate. All the food laid out but under coverings to keep them fresh.

Her stomach stank. She’d failed him so miserably.

Her face must have painted a picture because Cassian moved beside her. “Hey, what’s up.” His fingers tucked under her chin, tilting her face to his. Those deep eyes of his, again swimming in concern.

She hoped the best Christmas present she could get him was honesty.

“I fucked it.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“The pie, I completely fucked it up.”

His confused blank expression immediately melted and he laughed, his head thrown back and the column of his throat on display. His face in laughter was a delight, he was young and happy and in love with life. “Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“There is no pie. I botched it.”

He looked down at her, his expression softening, his smile gentle. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That pie is an art only the devil knows how to get right. Did you know Emerie’s grandmother won’t even make one and she won Illyrian baker of the year for fifteen years?”

Nesta coughed and reached for the wine poured out for her. “No, I didn’t know that.”

Cassian moved round the counter to Nesta’s dish. “So, what did you bring?”

“The only thing that didn’t involve my oven. The meringue isn’t even home-made. I’m such a sellout.”

He peeked under the covering and exhaled. “Oh, thank the Mother.” He stepped back, his hand over his heart. “I fucked it.”

Now, Nesta blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“The meringue for the Prythian Pavlova. It was the one thing I wanted to get perfect but do you know how hard meringue is to make? I couldn’t even make it to the store.”

He shook his head, grabbing his own glass of wine. “I even rang Elain to ask her for tips but Lucien answered and begged me to tell him in great detail how the filo wrapped parcels were smelling. He said, and I quote ‘go low and take your time’. I’m not sure how comfortable I am having them over for New Year.”

Nesta laughed, shaking her own head, glancing around the apartment. It had taken her long enough but something finally dawned on her. “Am I early? When are the others arriving?”

Cassian paused, swirling his glass. “Yeah, about that... I thought ‘fuck ‘em.’”

Nesta’s eyes bulged. “I think I’m missing something.”

Cassian put his glass down and leant back against the far counter.

“You know Bri’s pie wasn’t all that great. Mor was being...” he trailed off, scratching his eyebrow the way he did when he was uncomfortable. “Mor was being difficult and it was unfair. Rhys too. But I liked the idea of you and I doing our own holiday tradition so I guess I thought I’d see where we ended up.”

He gestured to his apartment and the dishes before them. “So, we ended up here. Just you and I, a bottle of wine, lots of delicious food and a very comfy rug we’re fucking on after dinner.”

“Is that right?” Nesta said, putting her glass down. She walked over to him. “Have you seen what you’ve made? We are not fucking after dinner.” She placed her hand on his chest, his heart beating a rhythm against her palm as she ignored his disappointed face. “We’re fucking before dinner.”

That wolf grin was back on his face and he leant forward to kiss her but Nesta stopped him. “I feel bad, everything here is an Archeron dish. You didn’t get your pie.”

“Oh, I’ll get to eat my pie.”

“Cassian!”

He laughed again, his broad arms wrapping around her body. “The fact that you tried means everything. I promise. This is a great start to our forever tradition.”

Nesta looked up at him; the hours of failed baking, the constant smoke alarms, the mess she had to clear up tomorrow. Worth it. All of it. “Forever you say?”

“Forever.”

#nessian #nesta #fanfiction #fanfic #nesta archeron #cassian #nesta x cassian #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #i wrote something #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nessian fan fiction #nessianfic #nesta archeron x cassian #nessian fan fic #illyrian comfort pie #writing request

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Just Looking At You Got Me Thinking Nonsense

A/N: happy Day Four of @nestaarcheronweek! Sometimes, to really be a lover, you have to risk it all in a bidding war, ya know? This was a fun little fic to write, and I want to give a big ole shout-out to the Anon who sent me this prompt! I hope everyone enjoys :)

Read on AO3

Cassian digs his phone out of his back pocket, opening back up the group chat and the most recent messages still waiting there. With a nod, he pockets the phone again, rolling out his shoulders. There’s a glass case full of pictures and some sort of awards on the wall opposite him, and Cassian uses it as a makeshift mirror. He’s always had a bad habit of running his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, and now his curls are a tangled mess as a result.

A door opening down the hall has Cassian almost jumping out of his skin. He turns just in time to see the exact woman he’s here for walking down the hall, her arm looped with a red head that Cassian is pretty sure was in his trig class last year.

“Trust me, it will be over before you know it,” the red head says as they walk.

“Until I have to sit through some stupid dinner after… You’re lucky that I love you.”

“I know, and I am lucky you’re doing this with me. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to go up there alone.”

“Hey, Nes,” Cassian calls in greeting when they’re close enough, raising his hand in a wave.

Whether she doesn’t hear him or is just ignoring him, Cassian isn’t sure. But both women don’t acknowledge him, walking through another door further down the hall. One that, he presumes, leads into the large hall.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” Cassian mumbles to himself, letting his hand drop back to his side. “Idiot.”

“Idiot is certainly one word I’d use to describe you.”

Azriel’s low chuckle echoes Rhys’s remark, and Cassian turns to glare at both his brothers. He knocks his shoulders against both of them, leading the way back toward the front of the building and the main doors into the hall. There’s more laughter, but at least his brothers fall into step behind him. He doesn’t have time for their teasing. Not tonight at least. This is his one chance, and he’ll be damned if he fucks it up, if he loses it. He needs to focus.

Cassian knew that Nesta Archeron was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen the first time he saw her walk into his gen-ed English lecture earlier this semester. Her blue gray eyes had been piercing beneath the lights of the lecture hall, and Cassian wanted to dive into them and drown in them right in that moment. Even more so when he watched her roll those eyes at something said at the front of the lecture hall.

Gods, he wanted to make those eyes roll.

He was sure that the Mother must be smiling down on him when Nesta had ended up in his seminar after the lecture too. It was clear that she was smart. That she had a passion for books. That she didn’t take any bullshit. He could sit and watch and listen to her in that seminar for the rest of his life and be happy. And when she absolutely eviscerated Tamlin for his “analysis” of Lolita, Cassian had been ready to drop to his knees right then and there.

It made him try harder. He made sure he actually paid attention in the lecture, made sure he did the readings, made sure he came to each and every seminar with his analysis prepared in hopes of impressing her. He wasn't sure it was working or not, but sometimes, he swore he saw her lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile, of a smirk, when he spoke. He swore that sometimes he could feel her gaze on him when he wasn't looking.

And then, one day, he’d walked into the seminar room to find the seat next to Nesta open. He’d practically stumbled over his own feet in his rush to slide into that open seat, earning an amused head shake from Kallias. Using the few minutes before the seminar started, Cassian had called her Nes and gotten a withering glare in response. He was sure the look was meant to cut him down where he sat, but it only stoked the embers in his chest into a full wildfire, only made him grin wider.

It became a game after that. Every seminar, he’d take the seat beside Nesta, and every seminar, he’d spark a back and forth between them. He cataloged every look, every response he was able to draw out of Nesta. Every eye roll. Every derisive snort. Every sarcastic quip. He got drunk off it all and kept coming back for more and more. And when he made Nesta blush, the pretty pink spreading across her cheeks, he knew that was it for him.

He spent the whole rest of the week after that trying to figure out the best way to ask Nesta out, sure that she wouldn’t appreciate being asked in front of their whole seminar group. He wondered if it would be weird to ask her to speak to him after the seminar, prayed to the Mother to take pity on him, and blessedly, take pity on him she did. It’s what led Cassian to finding out that Nesta was pledged to Mor’s sorority.

How he found out that she would be here tonight.

One of the sorority members greets Cassian and his brothers when they step through the doors to the hall, her name tag reading Deidre. She holds out three paddles, but Rhys and Azriel both wave her off, only Cassian taking one. Lucky number nineteen, just like his jersey. They settle into seats at an empty table, and then it’s just a waiting game.

It doesn’t take long before Mor is stepping out onto the stage, giving her welcoming speech as president, but any words she says fade away as soon as the women participating tonight walk onto the stage. As soon as Cassian catches sight of Nesta. Her dress is a silky, silvery blue that, along with the stage lights, brings out the blue of her eyes, and the hem is short enough to show off the stretch of her legs. She has that look on her face that’s Cassian’s favorite, and just the sight of her has his mouth going dry. She’s gorgeous.

“And next up we have Nesta Archeron.” Cassian’s attention snaps back to Mor. “She’s pre-law and minoring in English. She loves romance novels, so you better be ready to bring out all the stops if you’re the lucky one who gets to take her on a date. Now, we’ll start the bidding at–”

“One hundred dollars,” Cassian calls out before Mor can finish, jumping up to his feet and holding up his paddle.

“Mother save us,” Rhys mutters under his breath.

“Wow. That’s…” Mor clears her throat. “That’s quite generous. I guess we’ll be starting the bidding at one hundred.”

“One fifty.”

Anger flares low in Cassian’s gut at the second bid, and it burns even brighter when he turns his head and finds the owner of the voice. Eris Vanserra. Cassian has hated the man ever since he had the misfortune of sharing a class with him freshman year. Ever since he watched him stroll into a college class wearing designer clothes and look down on everyone. He’s pompous, pretentious, and has a face practically asking for Cassian to punch.

And punching Eris’s snooty face is definitely something Cassian’s fist itches to do right now.

“Two hundred,” Cassian declares, turning back toward the stage.

“Two fifty,” Eris echoes.

“Two seventy five.”

“Three hundred.”

“Holy shit,” Mor mutters before seemingly remembering that she has a microphone in her hands. “I mean wow. That’s officially our highest bid. Ever. Do we have a response?”

“Five. Hundred.”

Gasps and murmurs of surprise sweep through the room at Cassian’s announcement. He glances toward where Nesta still stands on stage, her eyes wide and pink settled high on her cheeks. But those wide eyes are pinned on him, not Eris, not Mor, and her attention has his heart stuttering between his ribs, has it tugging toward the stage as though she holds the thread so firmly wrapped around it.

He dares to toss Nesta a wink before turning to smirk at Eris, but Vanserra is still lounging casually in his seat with a sort of cool arrogance that ice starts to prickle beneath Cassian’s skin.

“Five fifty,” Eris declares, eyes cutting toward Cassian with a smirk of his own.

“Fucking prick,” Cassian mutters under his breath before he leans down to speak to Rhys. “Okay, I’m going to need to borrow more than what we originally agreed to.”

Rhys sighs, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Seriously, Cass? This is getting a little absurd for a single date.”

“She’s worth it.”

“Is she? You know, I’ve heard stories, and–”

“Fuck you,” Cassian growls, turning back toward the stage before he runs out of time. “Five seventy five!”

“He’s clearly dedicated. You’ve got to give him that,” Azriel mutters with a low chuckle.

“You know Vanserra’s not going to stop, right?” Rhys adds, his tone almost bored.

As if in answer, Eris’s voice rings out again. “Six hundred.”

“Seven hundred,” Cassian calls out quickly before dropping his voice again. “If you’re so worried about your rich boy checkbook, then do something about it.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Seven fifty,” Eris’s voice drowns out Rhys’s question.

“Alright,” Azriel sighs, pushing up to his feet. “This is just sad to watch now.”

Cassian sighs as his brother walks away, knocking his fist against the table in frustration. “Eight fifty!”

He waits for Eris’s answering bid, but there’s only silence ringing out in the hall. Cassian’s brow pinches in confusion, and he snaps his attention back toward Eris’s table. The man in question is on his feet, standing toe to toe with Azriel. There’s a suspicious looking stain across Eris’s shirt, and his lips are pulled back in a sneer.

Whatever lashing Eris is giving for his now ruined designer shirt, Azriel takes it unfazed. He merely reaches for a napkin, the movement nothing short of sensual as he wipes it against Eris’s shirt, against his chest and down his stomach. Even from across the room Cassian can see the way Eris’s face has turned a color to match his face.

With Eris thoroughly distracted, Cassian looks back toward the stage, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Mor.

“Oh! Right,” Mor speaks into the microphone. “We have eight fifty. Do we have higher than eight fifty?” Cassian motions with his hand to hurry up. “Eight fifty going once. Going twice. Sold for eight fifty.”

Cassian falls back into his seat with a relieved sigh, unable to bite back the wide grin that pulls across his face. He did it, he was the highest bid. He gets to see Nesta outside of their lecture, outside of their seminar. He gets to spend time with her one on one and to find out what really makes her tick.

He gets to take Nesta Archeron on a date.

He’s practically bouncing on his feet waiting for the rest of the women to have their bidding, for the evening to come to a close. He all but jumps back up to his feet, plucking the check from between Rhys’s fingers. The look on Mor’s face is all too knowing when he hands over the money, but even that doesn’t deter him.

He gets to take Nesta Archeron on a date.

“Eight hundred fifty dollars, huh?”

Cassian spins around to come face to face with the exact woman in question, her arms crossed and her expression unimpressed. But Cassian has learned a lot sitting next to Nesta this semester, and he recognizes the light sparking in her blue eyes, the slight pinch at the corner of her lips. Try as she might, she can’t hide her amusement from him.

“What can I say, sweetheart?” Cassian drawls, grin still wide. “I’m quite dedicated to getting what I want.”

“Oh? Is that why you pulled that stunt with Eris?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was merely Azriel flirting.”

Nesta laughs, and it’s already Cassian’s favorite sound, a sound he wants to draw out of her again and again. “He flirts by spilling drinks on people?”

“Everyone has their own version of flirting. Look at us, with our back and forth.”

That comment does earn him an eye roll, Cassian’s blood singing and his heart soaring at the reaction. He dares to step even closer to Nesta, until he has to tip his chin down to keep smirking at her. Dares to reach up between them for a stray strand of Nesta’s hair and tug on it teasingly. Dares to tease the backs of his fingers along her now pinkening cheeks.

“You might actually be crazy, you know.”

“Only because you make me that way, Nes.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

#nestaweek2024 #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #my fic

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxix, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-nine: it's the reunion we've all been waiting for, but with Cassian as desperate for Nesta as he's ever been, and Nesta not quite convinced he'll feel the same about her post-Cauldron, it might not be as smooth as Cassian hopes.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

“Nesta.”

Her name fell from his lips like shards of glass, broken and cracked. 

In its wake he forgot the pain in his wings, brushed it aside as the roaring in his bones dulled to nothing but a distant, feeble whisper. Still too weak to stand, Cassian gripped the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles barked and his hand began to hurt but…

Nesta.

Nesta stood there, lingering on the other side of the room, in the doorway that connected her room to what Cassian presumed was Elain’s. The wooden frame groaned beneath his fingertips as she stilled— so completely, so preternaturally, that the air between them seemed to tighten. To sharpen. 

The world seemed to tilt, lurching and staggering— or perhaps that was just Cassian, and the way it felt like he was balanced on the precipice of some great cliff, with the rocks beginning to crumble beneath his feet. His breath came in ragged gasps, sawing from his throat, and only with effort did he force himself to straighten. To take a breath as his eyes alighted on the woman he loved for the first time in days. 

The moment stretched, indeterminate, as Cassian raked his gaze over every damn inch of her.

Mother save him and Cauldron boil him.

She had always been the most beautiful thing in the world to him, but now…

Cassian didn’t have words.

Language wasn’t enough to do her justice as those familiar eyes pinned him in place. Something flickered in his chest, a distant kind of heat as he looked on her for the first time since Hybern. Her hair was tied in a plait that hung straight down her back, far less formal than the coronet he had grown so used to, and he longed so desperately to plunge his fingers into the braid, to feel its strands slipping through his fingers as he held her mouth against his own. Her skin was smooth, glowing like the pale face of the moon, and where she had been elegant and graceful before, she was devastatingly so now.

She could ruin him— lay waste to everything that he was and ever had been, and he would probably fucking thank her for it. 

But beneath all of that statuesque beauty was a tightness that lined her face and sharpened her jaw, and an emptiness in her eyes that gave him pause. When she stilled like a deer caught in a trap, Cassian banked every ember that had begun to stir inside his veins. 

A note of caution flickered along the bond, a warning bell beginning to ring. 

From across the room, he caught her eye.

He had looked into those eyes enough to know them like the back of his own hand— to recognise anywhere that perfect shade of grey-blue, like storm clouds gathering over the open ocean. And when Cassian looked into her eyes now, he saw the glimmer of something else there too, a thin ribbon of silver skirting her irises. It shone just beneath the blue, and gods— when he looked into her eyes, it felt like falling. 

But then— hadn’t he always been falling for Nesta fucking Archeron? 

It’s her eyes, Cass.

Rhys’ words rose unbidden in his memory, and perhaps it should have concerned him, that hint of something other shining in her eyes. Perhaps he ought to have been worried. But he didn’t care, not when all he saw was the same ferocious blue-grey that had always reduced him to little more than a beggar on his knees, prostrate before the altar of a goddess. 

For a moment he, too, was frozen entirely— weak at the sight of her. 

And then his mate took a single step forward and breathed, 

“Cassian.”

Just his name, drawn from her mouth, was his undoing. 

With trembling legs, Cassian crossed the room in three strides. He was already reaching for her, not entirely certain how much longer he could bear to stand. His steps stumbled only once, but something about her fortified even the most broken parts of him, giving him the strength to stand when there was none left in his bones.

He ignored how his hands shook when he reached for her, swallowing as his fingers brushed her cheek and trembled at her jaw. He had dreamed of this, of feeling her warmth, and as his eyes darted across her face, scanning and searching and committing to memory, Cassian studied her the way he would a map or a battlefield. She blinked up at him, half-dazed as his hands dropped to her shoulders, skated down her arms and reached her wrists. Every inch of skin was one that Cassian thanked the Mother for, and every moment he had her in his hands was one he cherished. It was the kind of touch that he had thought, lying on that throne room floor in the jaws of death, that he would never get to have again. 

So he lingered, made each and every pass of his hands last. He dragged his hands down, brushing his thumb across the soft skin of her wrist, right across the string of the bracelet she still wore— the bracelet he had bought her. 

It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. That night when they had danced beneath the stars. When he had kissed her and held her and told her that she was his. 

How much had changed, since.

Nesta barely moved as Cassian checked her over, searching for injury even though he knew would find none. She stood perfectly still, the gentle cadence of her breathing the only sound between them besides the pounding of his own heart. 

She said nothing as he took her in, but Cassian didn’t miss the way her brow furrowed when she glanced at his wings, hanging limp at his back. He didn’t have the strength to lift them, the muscles required still too weak, and her lips thinned as her eyes grew wide with concern. He was certain that pain was still etched across his face, and though the burning in his spine had dimmed, it hadn’t vanished. But it wasn’t enough to stand against his need for her— to make him wish for his bed and his painkillers instead.

But before he could offer her any kind of reassurance, Nesta glanced away— like she couldn’t bear it, and didn’t want him to look too closely at the silver shifting in her eyes.

Cassian wanted nothing more than to smooth away every crease and line that anguish had carved into her brow, but there was too much— too many things he needed to say, too many parts of her he needed to hold, and he didn’t know where to start. His heart keened in his chest, something inside him wailing as the silence grew heavy, and Nesta didn’t stop him when he finally crushed her to his chest, banding his arms around her and holding her so tightly that it became a promise in and of itself.

Nothing was ever going to take her from him again.

He didn’t care that his wings protested the movement, tugging painfully when he engulfed her in his arms. He didn’t care that he could feel the stitches pulling taut again, threatening to rupture. 

As Nesta splayed her fingers across his chest, Cassian cared only that he could hold her.

“You’re here,” she whispered against him.

“I’m here,” he said, his lips against her hair. He swallowed, closing his eyes and taking a breath, ignoring the way his knees felt weak. He held her against him, every line of his body singing where it lined up with hers, and gods— he was so close to unravelling, could feel himself coming undone. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words spilling out before he could contain them. And like the breaking of a dam, he couldn’t stop once he had started. Suddenly his tongue was clamouring for the words he needed, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. “I should have stopped it— should have never let this happen. I should have been there that night when they…” His voice broke, his hands clutching her tighter as though he was afraid she might slip away. “I knew something was wrong. I knew, and I got Azriel to send a shadow beneath the wall, but he didn’t know… I didn’t know - didn’t think - that you would be with Elain, and I didn’t…”

Cassian had never been one to lose control of his tongue, never one to be so at a loss for words in front of a beautiful woman. But he was grappling now, searching for the right thing to say as a thousand different things rose up from his chest— a hundred apologies. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

Her silence was louder than anything else, the look in her eyes more painful than any wound.

“I didn’t do enough,” he said, his hands fisting in the silk of her nightgown. His temper flickered as he remembered that this was all she had, nightgowns and Mor’s cast-offs. 

But Nesta hardly moved. She was still and silent in his arms, her face impassive, and his heart cracked as the hand she had rested on his chest moved to rest above his heart. To feel its beat or push him away, he wasn’t sure. With the furrow still in her brow, Nesta didn’t seem sure either. Her eyes were wide, like she had too much to say too. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice breaking once more as he brought his brow down to rest against hers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice hoarse and her tone flat. His eyes flicked down to the hand she still had pressed against his chest, her bare fingers curling in his shirt. Bare fingers, with no band encircling her third finger. Cassian practically stopped breathing when he saw that space on her finger where her wedding band had once been, but he didn’t dare to hope. 

Not yet. 

The scar was still there too, he noticed, on her thumb. The Cauldron hadn’t wiped it away.

Cassian’s soul ached at the sight of it, and the temper that had flickered when he noticed the nightgown she wore surged. The anger he’d felt when he was with Rhys bubbled in his gut, reaching new depths, carving a ravine inside him so jagged and sharp he wondered if he might bleed. He could have killed Rhys. And Mor. And Amren. All of them— he could have killed them for letting Nesta open her eyes to find nothing but silence waiting to greet her.

Oh, he wasn’t just angry. He was livid.

The siphon on his hand pulsed. His mate had been forced to become something she despised, had been broken so completely whilst he had looked on, helpless. And now she stood like a statue in his arms, the distance between them feeling greater than ever before. 

And when Nesta pulled back, retreating from his touch, Cassian felt his heart break.

His eyes closed. He heard the whisper of her movements as she took a step away, but when he opened them again and searched for her, all of that anger… melted. It didn’t cool, not entirely. But it retreated too, like an invading force that recognised a greater foe, a power it couldn’t withstand. 

Because Nesta stood before him now, her back straight and her head held high like a queen despite the pain he recognised in every inch of her. There was a fury in her too, hiding just beneath her skin, and it was so potent that it put his own to shame. 

And fuck, half of him wanted to stoke that fury. Wanted to see what she might do, how many worlds she might tear down. The warrior in him couldn’t breathe in the face of it, torn between wanting to fall at her feet and longing to kiss her until he breathed his last.

He might have stumbled a little, drawing a breath sharpened by the pain still spearing through his wings. Nesta reached out a hand, as if she might touch those wings now, but she drew back, cradled her hand to her chest as if she’d been burned.

“You’re alive, then,” she whispered.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Disappointed, princess?”

She didn’t rise to the teasing, only turned her face away. 

Something in his chest cracked. The bond that he clung to seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and though he knew there was no way of breaking it, suddenly it felt… fragile.

That thrumming sense of unease spiked, the warning bell still ringing inside his head. 

Cassian scanned her again, taking in the braided hair and loose nightgown. He scowled, resolved all over again to find her something better, and when Nesta evaded his gaze with expert precision, Cassian stepped forward and curled a finger beneath her chin, urging her face up towards the light. Reluctantly she met his eyes, and her own widened— with anguish, with pain, with grief. His heart broke for her, and keeping one finger beneath her chin, Cassian’s other hand darted out and drifted to her middle, rounding it and finding the small of her back, pulling her closer because he didn’t have the strength to take another step himself. 

He just needed to touch her, to reach out and feel her warmth beneath his hands.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered as he pulled her flush, once more, against his chest. She was stiff, and though her hands rested on his chest, she didn’t sink into him the way he expected.

Apprehension pooled in his gut, coalesced with concern until it was thick in his throat. For the first time since the day the Attor had attacked Feyre in the woods, Cassian had a sinking feeling that he was on the other side of those high walls of hers, completely locked out. 

“Don’t shut me out,” he murmured - pleaded - dragging his hand from the small of her back to the nape of her neck and back down in long, soothing strokes.

Nesta shook her head, closing her eyes tight. 

But Cassian knew enough of grief and despair to recognise it for what it was— to know that she was simply hurting too much, with too much to adjust to, and though he had foolishly hoped that she might let him take her hand and guide her through it… she had closed herself off, letting the pain and the anger and the worry consume her.

Every year he watched as warriors stumbled from the forests around Ramiel, emerging bloody and broken from the Blood Rite. Every damn year he saw boys come home from the week long trial, still so green it made him feel sick. He’d watched them receive their tattoos, watched them plaster over the horror with a victorious smile, and when the sun went down and the night went quiet, he’d been the one telling his soldiers that it was alright, too, to acknowledge the brutality of what they had just been subjected to. He had seen too much not to recognise a soul in pain; knew too much firsthand not to see the way Nesta coiled like a wounded animal caught in a trap, ready to snap at any who came near.

She pulled away again, and this time Cassian let her. 

Her jaw was tight, her teeth clenched. Her hands were curled into fists, and though her face remained blank, he could sense something roiling along the air between them, something tumultuous that made his instincts sharpen. Like the darkening sky before an almighty thunderstorm.

The space between them was charged. It always had been, had always felt alive somehow, but there was an edge to it now, something sharper that said that one false move would make the both of them bleed— would cut them both to the bone.

For the third time, her eyes fell on his wings.

He wanted to hold her— to feel her against him one more time, to cradle her in his hands until the stars stopped shining. And he wished she’d reach out again, wished she’d graze the membrane with her fingers. Just so he could prove to her that she still could— that nothing had changed between them. 

Illyrians don’t let just anybody touch their wings, he’d told her once, and she was still the only one he would ever let near his wings. The only one beside a healer that he would ever allow to touch them.

“It’s alright,” Cassian said slowly. “I’m alright. Grounded for a week or so while they heal, but I’ll be fine soon enough.

Nesta lifted her chin, glancing briefly to the window. Something in her voice guttered. “So we’re both trapped here then.”

“You’re not trapped.”

“Aren’t I?” Nesta challenged, her voice low and bitter. He could feel her temper fraying, like a wave about to break. “If I wanted to leave, would you let me? Would Rhysand let me?”

It took everything in him to stay standing when he caught the pain in her voice, the grief she was trying to hard to bury beneath her anger. “It’s not about that—“

“When does it end, Cassian?” she demanded, the silver flaring in her eyes— like lightning forking through the sky. It didn’t scare him. No, instead he felt that same crackle of electricity, that same swell of power calling out to him. It made the siphon on the back of his hand glimmer. Nesta shook her head, sharp.  “When do I get to start making my own decisions about my life?” 

Cassian made himself step forward, reaching for her, but Nesta jerked back. Her lip curled, a snarl sounding from deep in her throat. 

“I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to be here,” she said, quietly furious, and there it was— the crux of it all. “I never wanted to be one of you.”

She said it like an insult, imbued with so much venom it might have stung had Cassian not been expecting it.

He let it roll off his shoulders like water. “I know,” he said carefully. He noted the ire in her eyes and added, “Say what you want to me Nes. Whatever it is you need to get off your chest. It’s not going to make me run.” He blinked, his voice turning gentle. “You know I always loved that sharp tongue the most.”

She took a shuddering breath, and it killed him— as sure as a blade slipping between his ribs, angled up to nick his heart. It killed him, the way she looked at him like she might break if he reached out to hold her. 

“Tell me what you need,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“Nothing,” she answered, deadpan. “I don’t need anything.”

She was cold, like a candle flame close to snuffing out. One that needing coaxing to be brought back. He let out a small breath, looking her in the eye and remaining exactly where he was. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He meant it, when he said that nothing she could do was enough to make him run.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her eyes flashed, a spark that was there and gone in an instant, swallowed by the darkness. He wanted to clutch at it, to bring the spark back before it could die, but it flickered in her eyes, fading until there was nothing left to grasp. And he knew, knew without her needing to say it, why she had shut herself off. She had watched Elain be dragged towards the Cauldron, watched him lie bleeding on the floor. Could he blame her for drawing back, for trying to find a way to breathe around the grief of it all? 

Something passed between them, unspoken. The bond seemed to tremble, and though Cassian felt it stronger than ever before, he wondered if she felt it, too. There had been so many times, even when she was mortal, that her eyes had widened when it tugged, when she seemed to feel the weight of it behind her ribs. Could she feel it now, he wondered, when every piece of him seemed to be holding on to that bond for dear life, clinging to it in the hopes that it might somehow prove a bridge between them, something to keep her with him even when she drew back from his reach?

With everything he had, every ounce of strength left, Cassian poured all the warmth he possessed into that bond, hoping she could feel it, unaccepted and unacknowledged as it was.

It was all he could do— standing there, trying to prove in the only way he could that he wasn’t about to turn away now. 

“If you want to talk about it…” he began slowly, lifting one shoulder in an offer that was only falsely casual. He watched every breath she took, every swallow that caused her throat to bob. 

Talk to me, he begged internally, whispering it along the bond as if she might somehow be able to hear him. Let me in. 

Silence reigned for long moment, where even the House seemed to hold its breath. 

At last, Nesta shuddered, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Cassian thought he might have wept. 

“I lost your dagger, you know,” she began, in a voice that was so detached it hurt. “That night. I tried…” 

Her voice faded to nothing as she turned to face the windows. The light was a halo about her frame, lining her silhouette with gold as she hid her face from him, and Cassian’s fingers twitched by his sides, longing to reach out and feel her in the palms of his hands. She shook her head, drawing a deep breath before finding the words she needed. 

“I don’t know what happened to it,” she said quietly. “But they took it from me.”

It took him a moment to sense the weight in her tone. The remorse. The fucking apology.

Cassian could only stare at her back, bewildered. His brows bunched as he tracked his gaze over the nape of her neck and down her spine, his frown deepening. After a stunned moment, he curled a hand around her shoulder and turned her to face him. 

“You think I give a fuck about a dagger?”

Nesta blinked. “It was clearly old. It must have been a favourite for you to have kept it for so long.”

It was. He’d had that blade centuries. Kept it oiled and cleaned and so meticulously looked after that even Azriel teased him about it whenever he got the chance. But did he mourn its loss now? No. Not at all.

“It was,” Cassian answered easily. He kept his voice slow, every word deliberate. “But forgive me, sweetheart, for putting things into perspective. I’d rather have lost that dagger a thousand times than lost you for a second.”

Her eyes rolled. “I don’t know why.”

The bond pulled uncomfortably in his chest, twisting and wringing as unease snaked a path through his entire body. He had watched as his words had landed, watched as her eyes had dropped to that scar on her thumb. Her lips had pressed together, thin, like she couldn’t understand why he’d ever value her life over a prized possession. 

“Don’t you?” he asked softly, daring to take a step closer. The scent of her filled his lungs, made the bond constrict around his heart. “I thought I’d made my feelings for you quite clear.”

She didn’t answer.

It was like they were standing back in that morning room below the wall, whilst Feyre and Rhys and Azriel dealt with the Attor. Nesta had the same look in her eyes now as she did then, the same patina that coated her every move. She was wounded and angry and trying hard to keep her own heart from breaking, and when he extended out a hand and silently begged her to take it, she left him standing there, fingers curling in thin air.

“Nes,” he breathed, caring little that the desperation in his chest had leaked out into his tone. His heart hurt, and though he wanted to beg her again not to shut him out, somehow he couldn’t speak. Somehow he could think only of the three little words he should have said long ago— the ones he should have said that day in her father’s house, before Rhys had dragged him away. “Please. I love—“

“Don’t.”

Nesta reared back as though he had slapped her. Her voice was a pained rasp in her throat, sharp and cutting as she drew in a ragged breath. 

“Don’t,” she repeated, whisper-soft.

But Cassian couldn’t breathe around the weight in his chest, the agony that had nothing to do with his broken wings. 

“Why not?” he asked, searching her face, trying to find her eyes. With a half-turn of her head she avoided his gaze, leaving him standing there with his heart on his sleeve, bleeding and exposed.

“Because I’m not that person anymore,” she answered, the eyes he’d crawl over hot coals for flicking down to her hands, to the space where there had been a ring, once. “Whatever you felt before, I’m not the one that you…”

A soft snarl sounded in his throat, one of disbelief as Cassian stepped forward, bolder.

“Not the one that I what?” he asked, shaking his head and pushing the hair from his eyes. He caught her gaze and held it, refusing to let her turn away this time because fucking hell, he had loved her then and he loved her now. Did she think that what had happened in that throne room was enough to change things for him? Did she really think his heart could be so easily swayed? 

“Say it, Nesta.”

When she shook her head, Cassian supplied the words for her. 

“You don’t think you’re still the one I fell for so fucking hard, you had me over a barrel from that very first day?” 

His voice didn’t waver, didn’t tremble. 

It was the most fundamental truth he’d ever known, the fact that he loved her more than he’d ever loved anything in all his long years. He took another step closer and felt an ember of hope flare in his chest when she didn’t back away. Cassian tipped his face down, swallowing as he came close enough for her chest to brush his. The bond strained so tightly he thought it might be the death of him, and when he heard Nesta’s heartbeat flutter, he raised his hand and drifted his fingers across her face, ghosting his touch across her jaw. He kept his voice low as he said, at last,

“The one that I fell in love with?”

Her eyes closed, like she couldn’t bear it. 

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “All of it.”

“No,” he countered, his voice firm. He pressed his palm against her cheek, looking down into those blue eyes edged with silver and refusing to look away, even when the silver coiled and curled around her irises. “No, it isn’t.”

Nesta shook her head before turning her face down into his palm. Her lips brushed the base of his fingers, and in one smooth movement Cassian angled his thumb beneath her jaw and lifted her face back up into the light.

“If you want to search for someone to blame,” he whispered, “then blame me. I’m the one who promised to protect you. I’m the one who didn’t think to check your father’s estate that night. I’m the one that failed you.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said, taking a deep breath as Cassian’s thumb lingered beneath her chin, stroking idly along her jaw. He relished the touch; savoured it. 

“And I don’t blame you,” he said smoothly. “So we’re agreed, then.”

Nesta huffed, and he swore then that there was the barest hint of something— a kind of sardonic laugh that was so quiet that even with fae ears he barely heard it. There was a tentative spark in her eyes when she looked up at him, searching his gaze with her own for the first time since he’d stumbled into her bedroom. 

There she is, he thought.

He offered her a small smile in return, relief swelling behind his ribs. 

Whatever hand he had extended, whatever rope he’d thrown down to her in the darkness, she’d taken it.

“Elain,” he said a minute later, glancing towards the door left ajar on the other side of the room. “How is she?”

Slowly, Nesta eased from his grip. Cassian’s hands mourned the loss of her warmth the moment she drew back, but he gave her the space she needed as she, too, looked towards that door. She shook her head gently, as if that were answer enough to his question. Cassian didn’t know what else to say— what comfort he could offer her. There was none. 

Elain had been the first to go into the Cauldron, the first to emerge from its depths.  And fuck, one of the first things she’d heard afterwards was Lucien’s stunned revelation about being her mate. 

“About Lucien…” Cassian began slowly.

“No,” Nesta interjected, cutting him off. “I don’t care what claim he thinks he has on her. Elain isn’t his.”

Cassian hesitated. “Should he not have told her, then?”

Nesta laughed, bitter. “No,” she answered with finality. “No, he shouldn’t.”

“And how long would you have had him keep it secret?” he asked, just a shade shy of a challenge.

She only waved a hand. “He should have said nothing, should have done nothing. He should have left her alone entirely. She was engaged. What makes him think he has the right to—“

“He’s her mate,” Cassian cut in carefully. Nesta shook her head violently. Her eyes were like flint, just begging to be ignited, and her indignation sparked like an oil spill by an open flame. 

“And that gives him the right to her?”

“It gives her the right to know,” Cassian countered. “Gods, it gives him the right to speak it out loud rather than bear the burden of it alone.”

“Burden?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” she snapped.

Cassian let out a heavy breath. “I just mean that it must be heavy.” It was his turn to shrug now, to turn away. “To have felt it snap on his end and not hers. It can’t be easy.”

He couldn’t look at her as he said it— couldn’t bear to see her scowl. He thought his heart might break for good this time, because Mother above, he’d once thought that letting Nesta slowly adjust to the idea of a mating bond was the right thing to do, but now… Fuck, he couldn’t see a way out of it at all now. 

Nesta huffed, frowning as she folded her arms across her chest. His heart bleated behind his ribs, but when Cassian found the strength, at last, to turn and look at her…

His resolve slackened, frustration dissolving.

The light danced across her face, playing in the strands of hair that had escaped her plait and strayed across her forehead. Her jaw was tight, but when she caught him looking, her eyes softened. Her lips parted on a breath, and Cassian blinked slowly as he took her in, from the tips of her newly-arched ears to the hem of her borrowed nightgown. 

More than anything he wanted to tell her he loved her. 

He sighed softly, running a hand through his tangled hair. He was tired of fighting, of her being more than an arms length away. If she wouldn’t let him tell her he loved her, then he’d fucking show her. So Cassian shook the tension from his shoulders and stretched his wings as much as his wounds would allow. Her eyes widened, lit with concern, but Cassian waved her off with a flick of his hand. Wryly, he smiled.

“Tell me they showed you the library, at least?”

Nesta blinked at the change in topic, dropping her folded arms. It took a moment, but slowly she shook her head. Cassian lifted his eyes and glared darkly at the ceiling. 

You fucker, Rhys.

He added it to his mental tally, the list of things he was going to make sure Rhys paid for. A grim smile curved his lips as he thought of it, and when he brought his eyes back down, Cassian turned to his mate and felt warmth blooming along the bond that tied them together. Something flickered in Nesta’s face, cutting through the silver in her eyes, and as Cassian extended a hand, he didn’t fail to notice the way she slid her fingers between his without hesitation.

He squeezed her hand; a silent I love you.

And as Cassian clung to her like she was the beginning and the end of his everything… Nesta squeezed back. 

Giving his mate a tentative smile, he tugged on her hand and said, “Well, then. Let me give you the tour.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time #happy bank holiday here's some angst

[thefangirlofhp]

29. present @nightcourtseer, thank you for the prompt!

Nesta was on her fourth glass of apple juice, and only mildly wishing it was whiskey. A small victory, considering her abstinence, and a victory she relishes in all the same as she’s only wishing for the alcohol to numb her sensitivity six hours after indulging in the great family gathering of Solstice. Around her, everyone’s either drinking a juice mixture or plain water. Elain brewed an aromatic large pot of tea that no-one aside from her and once, Feyre, has been drinking. Nesta stands in the corner of the family room, her back digging into the two walls and her hand tight around the glass she clutches. Rhys is sprawled lazily in the armchair listening to Morrigan, Feyre close by watching Amren and Nyx put together an eighteen-thousand-piece puzzle Azriel gifted a touched-Amren and occasionally giving pointers. Elain’s closely listening to Cassian describe one winter in Illyria centuries ago that’s shaped up many parts of his survival skills, and Nesta can’t tell if her sister is that interested in learning how to differentiate bears from the marks they leave behind them.

Over the past two years, Nesta’s grown much more comfortable around Feyre and Cassian’s family—has taken to regarding them with a degree of begrudging fondness and only snaps at Rhys out of habit or if they’re both bored and she wants something to scratch her claws with. She’s happier to attend their family dinners, even sometimes contributing a dish or two from the records of her human memories, and has been buying them thoughtful presents every year. She’s not as canny as Elain is with her observations and niche gifts, but Rhys’s smile was true and grateful when he unwrapped Merrill’s newest transcript on multi-universe theories and star formation and confessed he didn’t think Nesta would remember him expressing the interest.

And in turn, Nesta thinks it’s an astute observation to make when she says they’ve grown equally comfortable with her. Morrigan’s gotten to offhandedly ask Nesta for opinions without thinking about it, and the entire family’s stopped drinking when they gather; have developed a new tradition of inventing non-alcoholic mixtures every-time. Nesta isn’t so comfortable with her own skin yet so as to confess how much the gesture warms her heart, that she holds it near and dear to her cupped in her palms like a hot coal that doesn’t burn and the thought alone is more than she’s equipped to handle.

She blinks her eyes roughly, and breathes in through her nose slowly. Perhaps she’s eaten too much of Elain’s casserole at dinner, and it’s why she’s so short of breath and sweat is breaking out in prick-points at her temples. She swallows the rising surge of nausea. The room feels a little hazy, or her head’s floating and dizzy.

Fresh air and the cold would set her straight. She puts her glass in Cassian’s gesturing hand, and quietly withdraws from the warm and slightly stuffy room to the hallway, her heart-beat accelerating with every step until she steps out into the gardens.

As expected of a mountainous terrain such as the Night Court, the snowing cold is sharp and unmerciful and the air crisp and clear. She gasps it in as she shuts the door behind her and leans against it, finding her dress a little too heavy on her shoulders.

Her eyes track Azriel’s figure in the moonlit night, sitting in the iron-wrought garden chair around a round table, reclined back in it with fog rising up before him. Nesta’s noted his absence some hour ago, and didn’t think much of it.

“Are you sleeping out here?” she crosses her arms over her chest and trudges through the snow towards him, her dress dragging it behind her. She stands over him, discovers he’s in-fact fast asleep in the uncomfortable chair, or at least his eyes are shut and he’s not moving, and in his fingers a smoldering rolled paper that’s smoking. Some more convenient version of a pipe, she presumes, brushing the snow off the nearby chair and sitting down.

“I was,” Azriel sighs.

Nesta regards him closely. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers, bringing the rolled tobacco to his lips and breathes it in before holding it out. Nesta leans across and accept the offer, glances at it briefly before doing what he just did. “Felt hot in there. You?”

“Same,” she replies, the smoke billowing out and instantly sending her in a coughing fit. Azriel cracks open one eye and faintly smiles as he turns his face towards the snowing sky. “Felt too loud and too warm, all of a sudden. Too much.”

He hums quietly, taking back the shortening coughing-smoke that Nesta holds out and burning through the rest of it in one deep breath. The ashes drift with the smoke, but disappear into swirling shadows sweeping up every evidence. Azriel blows it out, and Nesta admires the movement of it in the still breeze, watches it drift into nothing.

She enjoys the quiet understanding she has developed early on and quite easily with Azriel long before she’s established any bridges with anyone in Prythian. They’ve had their understanding before Nesta’s even come to terms with her own sisters, or accepted her mate. The gnarly beasts of the family fiercely protective of their loved ones—Nesta liked that Azriel minded his business, even if it was his job to be invasive of other people’s, and that he’d never had a bad word to say to her since they met. Not even when she and Elain fight, or when she used to particularly badmouth Rhys (a transgression that remarkably got under Cassian’s skin).

It's a long time before she realizes that she’s calmed down, and her head’s clear and quiet once more. The doors open, flooding in a rush of golden light before they close again and someone approaches through the snow. A faelight glides over their heads and pauses above the table, curtesy of Elain who stops between their chairs.

“If I realized there’s a nicer party out here, I’d have come out much sooner,” she remarks, amused. “But a little chilly, don’t you think?”

“What are you doing out here,” Nesta abruptly sits up as Azriel turns to his wife, clad in her festive off-shoulders dress and her hair shortened in tight waves to her midback. “Go back inside!”

“It’s rude to hoard the fun,” Elain teases, running her hand through Azriel’s snow-dusted hair before he tugs her into his lap and wraps a wing around her shoulders. Elain takes the new roll of tobacco from his hands and surprises Nesta by inhaling a little of it, her cheeks rounding up with a smile as the cherry-red end glows brighter and she blows it up into the air.

“You’re pregnant,” Nesta needlessly reminds her sister. “Get out of the cold. Azriel, say something.”

The winged-idiot only smiles up at her sister, his arm tucked around her waist and the other holding her free hand like a school-boy. “Hello.”

Elain’s eyes wrinkle in the corners when she smiles back. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

Nesta bites back a smile, despite herself.

“It’s chaos inside,” Elain tips her head towards the estate. “Amren and Nyx are turning the place upside down. There are only seventeen-thousand and nine-hundred and ninety-eight pieces in the box and somehow two center pieces are missing.”

“Mm. Pity.”

Elain’s eyes sparkle. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? Because Amren definitely counted a eighteen-thousand pieces when she opened it.”

“I have no idea, no.”

“If you’ve taken them, I can only say that’s beyond sick,” Nesta splutters. “They’ve been putting it together for hours.”

“You’re both scolding me for a crime I’m only hearing of now.”

Elain tilts her head. “Give them back, Azriel.”

He relaxes against the chair and smiles. “No.”

“Azriel,” she softly admonishes. “It’s cruel. How long are you going to make her pay?”

“For a really long while.”

Nesta props her chin in her hand. “Is this about Amren’s comment four months ago when you told us you’re expecting?”

“Maybe,” Azriel answers shortly.

“She apologized,” Elain reminds him, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“She’s not sorry, yet. She will be.”

“Oh, Az,” Elain chuckles. “I won’t lie that this pettiness isn’t adorable, but it’s all water under the bridge. And she didn’t mean it like that.”

“Her immediate response to the news was to ask you if you’re sure it’s mine,” Azriel says, his voice cooling and hardening with every word. “If she was anyone else—”

Elain leans close, and lays her palm along his cheek. “Water under the bridge.”

Nesta glimpses his jaw tightening with annoyance before he sighs.

“I’ll gift it to her next solstice.”

“No!” Nesta bursts out laughing. “She’ll have aged centuries by then. Please, don’t curse us with an even grumpier version of Amren.”

“Who’s substantially grumpier than her previous self,” Elain reminds him wisely before frowning. “Azriel, you’re burning up.”

“Really?” he murmurs. “I thought it was the room.”

Elain feels his face once more. “Yes,” she carefully stands up. “Come inside. I’ll run you a bath.”

Azriel lets her tug him to his feet. “I’d actually like that,” he remarks, standing up straight. He holds out his hands to Nesta and drops two small puzzle pieces into her opened palm. “Tell her I’ve forgiven her.”

Nesta watches them walk back inside, Elain’s arm wrapped around his waist and helping him walk and Azriel sheepishly indulging the attention by playing along—Nesta’s seen him walk around straight for an entire day with an open chest wound before like nothing was the matter. She does understand the desire to be doted upon, actually, and soon enough follows them inside to seek out her own mate.    

**don’t smoke when you’re pregnant, lads.

#nesta archeron #nesta fic #azriel fic #elriel fic #elain x azriel #elriel fanfic #elain archeron #elriel #azriel #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #cassian #acosf #nessian #winter solstice #fictober23 #flufftober 2023

[ofduskanddreams]

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

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

Rhysand: Enjoys Vampire Diaries but refuses to talk to Mor about it

Mor: Enjoys Vampire Diaries and torments Rhys for liking it - has choreographed dances to High School Musical with Rhys, Cassian & Azriel against their will. Will pull out said dance moves at every opportunity.

Azriel: Loves Avatar the Last Airbender and has cried more than once about it

Cassian: Watches Avatar the Last Airbender with Azriel to bond but secretly prefers Teen Wolf (no one knows), can't fall asleep without a nature documentary in the background

Amren: Love is Blind, Ex on the Beach, Too Hot to Handle - thinks The Bachelor is overrated

Feyre: Cries at Bob Ross

Nesta: Will always tell everyone she prefers books to movies and TV... if there's graphic nudity she's in

Elain: Great British Baking Show

#nessian #nessian fic #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #gwyn x azriel #azriel x gwyn #elain x azriel #elriel art #a court of thorns and roses #acotar meme #funny acotar #incorrect acotar quotes #nyx acotar #acotar #acomaf #acosf #acowar

[velidewrites]

Summary: Nesta is having the worst time on her vacation—until she spots a handsome stranger in a restaurant. Lucky for her, he's determined to show her a good time.

Pairing: Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: Smut, mature language, Mrs Archeron

Read on AO3

The only source of light in the restaurant were the candles, laid atop each table and flickering whenever the evening breeze dared to gently whoosh inside. There were no windows in the space—the climate here was warm enough to not have to bother with such things—so instead, someone had opted to carve rounded, open archways into the sandstone walls. Every now and then, the wind would find its way in, prompting the small flames into a dance that threatened to smother their enthusiasm for good.

Such cruel fate had been suffered by the fire burning over at Nesta’s table, its only remnant the thin swirl of smoke that was now slowly trailing upwards. Nesta’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the blackened wick, as if she could still feel the soft flame casting shadows over her face.

It had only been seconds, and yet the wax had already begun freezing into place as it dripped down the candle’s ivory length. To Nesta, though, the moment had somehow managed to extend into eternity—a fate even more cruel than the flame’s unfortunate death. Right now, she would do just about anything to simply evaporate into the nightly air.

A light click sounded somewhere near her side, and time resumed in an instant. A symphony of voices poured into her ears—conversations in too many languages to discern, tangled between the music playing quietly from the speakers hung in the gap between the back wall and the ceiling. Everything became too loud, too rushed, like an impending wave of the sea, the same kind that was now crashing into the shore overlooked by the restaurant. With a will of their own, Nesta’s eyes squeezed shut, as though shutting off one of her senses could somehow ease the fervour of the other, and she quickly blinked, realising there were too many gazes on her to allow an escape into her own head.

When her eyes opened again, her candle was burning anew. The fire rose from from the spent wick, resuming its dance as if never interrupted at all.

Nesta blinked one more time before finally looking up.

The waiter stood over their table, a sleek, electric lighter in his hand. He flashed her a smile, his perfect set of white teeth nearly brighter than the flame itself.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked in a thick accent. Nesta thought it made his question sound like a song. Rich and lovely—each word enunciated, each syllable important.

She opened her mouth when another movement caught her eye—a glimpse of lustrous silk, reflecting the light softly. Pink.

Nesta’s mouth closed with a flat exhale. Elain always managed to select the perfect fabric for the occasion—as if she could somehow predict how the setting would best compliment her outfit. Indeed, her own pencil skirt and a sleeveless top were no match for her sister’s dress, which could probably challenge the very sun with its own gleam. Nesta’s all-black ensemble, on the other hand, seemed to suck in all the light.

Seated to her left, Elain’s brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the menu carefully. “Do you have any vegetarian options?” she asked, brows creasing in worry.

Another movement—opposite from Nesta, this time. Her eyes darted to its source, just in time to catch the wave of their mother’s dismissive hand.

“She’ll have the octopus,” she told the waiter, whose own frown mimicked Elain’s before he quickly jotted down the order. “We’re at the seaside, after all.”

Elain’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“My eldest will have the calamari,” their mother continued, gesturing to Nesta. “Grilled, not fried. And the mussels for me.” And with that, she returned her gaze to the menu.

Elain cleared her throat pointedly, though the sound was hardly acknowledged as the woman flipped onto the last page, already examining the restaurant’s wine selection. Their mother did not deign to look up as Feyre spoke.

“I’ll have the salmon, please,” she said quietly, something strained in the back of her throat.

All the numbness Nesta had carefully cultivated in her chest prior to this evening vanished at the sound, a fire much more angry than the candle’s filling her instead. A ruthless, icy flame.

Her fury must have been evident in her eyes, because before Nesta even managed to make her feelings about mother’s obvious dismissal perfectly clear, Feyre’s slender hand wrapped around her wrist.

Nesta’s head snapped toward her little sister.

It’s not worth it, blue-grey eyes told her, even as their mother continued to question the waiter about the bitterness of the local wine.

Nesta swallowed. Hard.

Then, she looked to Elain—who shook her head quickly, honey-brown curls shifting over her shoulder.

Fine, then.

Nesta let out a deep, deep breath, and did not stop until all the fire was out and that familiar numbness filled her again.

She never thought she’d say this, but Nesta missed New York. Missed her apartment, however small, and the peace and quiet it offered on days like these—days when she felt forced to exist in the moment, to flow with its relentless current. She would give just about anything right now to be able to curl up on the grey couch in her living room and disappear under her favourite, plush blanket. She’d left a book on the coffee table beside it—she meant to bring it along for the journey, but it seemed that her mind had been too preoccupied with the destination to remember. The story—four hundred pages of her favourite romance—would have been the perfect escape for this occasion.

Frankly, Nesta had wanted to turn back and go home the moment she’d stepped on the plane. Her mood had only darkened when she discovered a raging six-year old was seated right behind her. The child had been intent on making her life even more miserable, opting to spend over half of the ten-hour flight frantically kicking her seat until his legs finally gave out about two hours before landing. The insufferable kid had been carried out by his mother, sleeping soundly in her arms and no longer resembling the devil’s spawn that he was—until they’d reached baggage claim, of course, where he’d taken the carousel for his personal playground, jumping right over her suitcase before Nesta had managed to fish it out.

The air had been warm and humid from the minute she’d left the airport, and it had only grown heavier since then. Not even the occasional breeze seemed to lift it as it swept over her face—as if mocking the beads of sweat that had begun to gather under her hairline. The climate didn’t bother her that much, to be honest—the island was beautiful, after all. The golden sand sparkling in the beaches, the turquoise water surrounding it. The palm trees growing on both sides of every stone-clad alley. Perhaps, in different company, she’d even be able to appreciate this place.

But alas, this trip was not the case. She and her sisters had been putting off this trip for two months now, though none of them had ever voiced their lack of enthusiasm aloud. Feyre would always cite her classes as an excuse, Elain was quite literally elbows-deep in work, and Nesta…after her fifteenth job interview, she was practically losing her mind.

Now, though, with the semester over and summer quickly approaching, the three of them found themselves with a lot of free time and too many missed calls from their mother. And so, when Nesta suggested they get on the plane and get the whole thing over with, neither one of her sisters even tried to protest.

It wasn’t that Nesta didn’t love her mother—they all did, truly. But love was a complicated thing, almost as complicated as the woman herself, and sometimes…sometimes it overwhelmed her.

She did feel guilty, of course. Mother’s health had been deteriorating over the past few years until finally reaching its critical point in early January. Her doctors strongly recommended a change of climate—a place where chaos didn’t thrive as wildly as it did in New York. Somewhere warm—somewhere quiet, where she could live out the rest of her days undisturbed by other worldly afflictions.

All of it was merely delaying the inevitable—even their mother knew that too well. Still, Nesta supposed, a remote island far away from the rest of the world did not seem like the worst place to turn to for comfort. She would have probably done the same had she found herself in a smilier predicament.

Except that comfort seemed to elude Mrs Archeron no matter where she fled—in fact, Nesta was starting to believe there wasn’t a single place on Earth that the woman could truly be satisfied. Even here, surrounded by nature’s radiant beauty, there was something missing. Sometimes, it was her favourite boutique in New York. Other times, the friends she’d left behind there, the weekly card games they always held at the Plaza. And lately, it was her three daughters, who, after all had not visited her in six months.

She’d seemingly forgotten that it had been Feyre who’d helped her move all the way across the world—who’d taken care of all the planning and paperwork until their mother had set foot in her new, beachfront suite. Her youngest sister had missed an entire week of lectures because of that trip, and would later sacrifice her sleep to catch up on the material overnight.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Nesta blinked, the question snapping her focus back into the present. The waiter was long gone—instead, mother had now seemed to engage Elain in a conversation, from the exasperated flush on her sister’s cheeks.

“Nesta,” Feyre murmured.

God, she needed to get it together.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta said carefully. “I got distracted for a minute. You were saying?”

The woman let out a long-suffering sighed. “You spend too much time in your own head, Nesta, and I know very well why.” Nesta’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’ve always told you should read less—or at least, read something more productive than those silly rom-coms I’ve seen on your shelf.”

Suddenly, Nesta regretted ever inviting her mother to her apartment. She’d only come over for tea once—and apparently, it had been enough for her to restock her ammunition for later.

Forcing a smile which came out a bit crooked, Nesta met the woman’s gaze. Blue-grey eyes, the same exact shade as hers and Feyre’s, stared back, adorned by wrinkles not yet smoothed out by botox. “What was your question, mother?” she asked.

Another sigh, aimed to make her disappointment clear. “I was saying you should perhaps speak to your boss about Elain,” she suggested.

Nesta angled her head slightly. “Whatever for?”

“Mother,” Elain cut in, “I told you it’s not—”

“A job, of course,” she said, dismissing her daughter completely. “You work for a high-profile company.” It was the closest to a compliment Nesta had ever heard fall from her lips. “Surely they could find something for Elain, too.”

“Elain already has a job,” Nesta reminded.

Her mouth twisted in distaste. “A different job.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I do now,” Elain spoke again, her tone sharper now, colder.

Their mother raised a hand, the golden rings on her fingers glistening under the candlelight. “Of course there isn’t, dear. You misunderstand me again.” She turned to Nesta. “I’m only saying you could ask your boss if there are any opportunities. I’m sure Elain could use the extra money.”

“I’m doing perfectly fine where I am, mother. But,” Elain added through gritted teeth, “thank you for your concern.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I take it business is going well, then?” She never called Elain’s bakery by what it was—as if the mere thought of her daughter spending her days dabbling in flour already filled her with some unimaginable horror.

“Yes,” Elain said tightly. “Perfectly well.”

Mother shrugged. “If you say so. Still,” she looked to Nesta again. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Elain’s face practically burned red.

“Fine, mother,” Nesta quickly said, making sure to squeeze Elain’s hand under the table. “I will.”

She sure as hell wasn’t asking Tomas Mandray for anything. As of Monday, she’d never have to see him again.

Her mother didn’t have to know about the resignation latter, saved on her laptop and waiting to be sent out the second she returned. If she found out Nesta was planning to quit her stable, corporate job…not even the island’s lovely climate would save her.

Mrs Archeron nodded. “Good. You should ask him about your promotion, too,” she added. “I keep hearing about it, and yet nothing ever happens.”

Nesta tried not to cringe at the displeasure in her voice.

“A fine man, that Mandray,” she mused innocently. “Good looks…good social standing.”

Dread began to build in her stomach. Please, don’t, she begged her silently. I hate him.

Something twinkled in her mother’s eyes, and she opened her mouth.

“Greysen and I broke up,” Elain announced loudly.

Mother’s face whipped to her middle daughter, and Nesta’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Why?”

A one-shouldered shrug, so similar to the one mother had given her only a minute ago. Thank you, Nesta wanted to shout across the table, though she suspected Elain hardly needed her gratitude. She was clearly enjoying this—especially as she added, “He wasn’t good for me.”

Mother was practically seething. “Greysen Nolan is a good match,” she said, as though unaware they were living in the twenty-first century. “His father and I are friends.”

“Just how good of a friend is he?” Elain shot back.

Nesta stilled.

Beside her, Feyre’s eyes widened.

Slowly, their mother leaned back in her seat.

“Ladies,” a deep voice sounded. “Your drinks.”

The waiter appeared as if out of nowhere, leaning to set their wine atop the table. Nesta had never reached for her glass quicker, urging the crimson liquid to flush down the heart lodged in her throat. Feyre, it seemed, had opted to do the same.

Only when the man pulled back, moving to approach another table, did Elain finally sway the wine in her hand, her gaze still levelled on her opponent. While mother had taken Nesta under her wing from a very young age, and completely dismissed Feyre as anything other than a tiresome presence in her house, she’d never seen Elain as anything beyond her looks—it was no surprise that she’d quickly become their father’s daughter—calm and unyielding, unafraid to face her head on and risk her disapproval. Mother had always underestimated her.

She seemed to realise that at last, as lightning seemed to rage in her blue-grey eyes, just barely restrained—an ancient storm ready to ravage a blooming land.

Not good.

So Nesta spoke, “Mother, did you know Feyre passed all of her finals with an A this year?” Feyre’s head snapped to her at that, even the freckles on her face paling. “Tell her about your post-colonialism class, Feyre.” And when Feyre didn’t manage to utter a single word, Nesta turned back to their mother, explaining, “It was the most difficult one, and she got the best grade out of her entire cohort. At NYU.”

Feyre released a breath. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

Those icy flames licked at Nesta’s chest again. Acknowledge her, she wanted to scream. Praise her.

“It’s not nothing,” she told her sister. “You’ve been brilliant, I—Mother?” Nesta frowned, realising the woman had already risen from her seat.

“Oh, please, keep going,” she waved a hand. “Don’t let me disturb you—I’m just going to go find the restroom. I need to freshen up.”

And with that, she was gone, the light click of her heels on the stone floor following her to the back of the restaurant.

Nesta eyed the movement, willing that inner fire to stifle its rage—until her eyes settled on something else entirely.

“You broke up with Greysen?” Feyre spoke beside her, but her voice was distant now, as if sounding from miles away. “When?”

“Last month,” Elain answered. “But he had it coming long before that, really,” she added quickly.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. You were dealing with your finals, I—I didn’t want to add more onto your plate.”

A sigh. “I get it. Just—please know you can always talk to me?”

“Of course. Besides, Nesta was—Nesta?”

But Nesta had long stopped participating in the conversation.

For sitting at the table a few away was the most ridiculously beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She would’ve spotted him right away had it not been for her mother’s seat shielding him from view the entire night. It was impossible not to take notice of him—and not simply due to his size, the broad chest, the strong, golden-brown arms, their muscles practically glistening under the soft light. He looked like he’d spent the entire day on the beach, his dark, windswept hair loosening a few strands over his forehead—over his hazel eyes, bright with amusement as he listened to his companion.

And his companion…of course he’d come with a date. A woman so beautiful she seemed as though the sun itself had crafted her, her golden hair cascading down the red silks of her dress, down her exposed back. What the hell did they put in the wine in this place?

From the corner of her eye, Nesta could just barely make out Elain following her gaze.

“Go talk to him,” she urged.

At that, Nesta turned, schooling her features into cool indifference. “Who?”

Elain’s brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t act stupid now, Nesta. You were practically drooling.”

“Is it a crime to appreciate a good looking man?” she asked innocently.

“It’s a crime not to do anything about it.”

Feyre huffed a laugh. Nesta shot her a glare.

“Just do it, Nesta,” she told her.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s clearly here with a date.”

“Could be his sister,” Elain supplied helpfully, though there was little confidence in her tone.

“They look nothing alike.”

Feyre sighed deeply. “Nesta, just go talk to the guy.”

“She’s right, you know.” Elain’s head tilted slightly to the side. “When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched. “I’ve been busy.”

“Exactly,” Feyre said. “And now you’re on vacation—you deserve to…let off some steam.”

Elain chuckled.

“Is that so funny?” Nesta challenged. “Maybe you should go talk to him, Elain—a little rebound’s never hurt anybody.”

Elain sipped from her glass. “Normally, I would,” she started, a small twinkle appearing in her gaze. “But I don’t think Lucien would appreciate it.”

Feyre’s jaw practically hung open. “Lucien? NYU Engineering Lucien?” She shook her head. “No, scratch that—my friend Lucien?”

Pink bloomed on Elain’s cheeks, and Nesta suspected it had little to do with the wine. “He came by the bakery a few days after your party.” That’s right, Feyre’s end-of-exams party—the one she’d quite literally begged her to show up to. The one she’d told Tomas about when she requested a day off—and so naturally, he’d made her work overtime well into the early hours of the night. “We’re going on a date next week.”

Feyre’s arms folded over her chest. “I can’t believe that asshole didn’t tell me,” she grumbled. Lucien may have been two years above Feyre—but he was still a good friend. At least, that was Nesta’s understanding from the one time she’d met him.

“I know what would lift your mood right up, Feyre,” Nesta suggested, a sly smirk curling up the corner of her mouth. “Go talk to the guy.”

Her eyes gleamed with challenge. “I will if you don’t do it first.”

She gestured towards his table. “Be my guest.”

Feyre groaned loudly.

“Nesta, would you please stop being so stubborn?” Elain begged.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself,” she huffed.

“We’re literally on the other side of the world,” Feyre argued. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

What indeed?

Nesta considered—they were leaving after the weekend. If the golden woman really was his date, and Nesta was about to face a blatant rejection—she’d never have to see him again. She would probably have to avoid every beach on this island for the next two days, but now that she thought of it, she’d always been more of a winter person, anyway. And then, she’d simply go home and never think of him again.

If he was single, on the other hand… 

Nesta sighed. “Fine.”

Elain squealed in delight.

“Ask him what he ordered—it’s good small talk,” Feyre advised.

“I can see what he ordered from here,” Nesta protested. “Besides, his plate looks horrible. Who orders steak in a place like this?”

“You’re starting to sound like mother,” Feyre cautioned.

Oh, god.

“Do it your way, then, Nesta,” Elain hurried. “Just go.”

Alright then.

Nesta set her glass, rising from the table carefully. She did not nearly have enough wine for this, she realised. Her body felt warm—but not warm enough to untangle the knots that had managed to form in her stomach. It wasn’t like her to put herself out there so…publicly. Honestly, she’d never had to work this hard to catch a man’s attention before.

“Have fun.” Feyre smirked. “We’ll be watching.”

Nesta hissed, “Don’t you dare.”

The sound of her sisters’ quiet giggles carried her through the space. She didn’t think she’d ever walked more slowly in her life, each step determined to drag this out for as long as possible. God, did she at least bother to check her hair beforehand? What if she’d smudged her mascara by accident?

Too late—she was so close now that she could make out just how perfectly the man’s stubble shaped his sharp jaw. Could see how large his hands were as he clasped them together, seemingly in excitement at whatever the woman had just told him.

She could see the perfect fullness of his lips as he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Well, shit.

Nesta practically lunged for the bathroom, making a turn so sharp she almost slipped on the polished stone floor. Damn her and her stupid heels—everyone wore sandals in this place, anyway. What devilish forces pushed her to leave all of her flat shoes back home, she did not know. She could only pray no one saw her obvious escape—or the heat that was no doubt burning her face red.

The restaurant had been booming with conversation and music all night, and despite this, the only sound she was convinced everybody could hear now was her heels, loudly carrying her away as she disappeared into the corridor that led to the restrooms.

The door swung open before she’d even managed to reach for the handle.

“Ah, Nesta,” Mrs Archeron said, and Nesta almost stumbled back a step. Her mother reached for something in her handbag as she continued “Here, use this.” She fished out a small packet of tissues and pressed them into Nesta’s palm. “Public restrooms are an atrocity.”

And just like that, she left.

Nesta stared at the packet for a few seconds before finally entering the quiet room.

It was a cozy space, with golden-framed mirrors, hanging from an old mural of the sea, and marble sinks. She placed the tissues atop one of them and faced her reflection at last.

Well. She did not look half bad, at least.

Her makeup was still intact—by some miracle, even the dark wings of her eyeliner remained sharp. She’d braided her hair into an updo earlier, and though a few loose strands had fallen out to frame her face, the entire ensemble looked somewhat presentable. Nesta reached for one of the tissues, dabbing it lightly over her face in places where the heat of her embarrassment melted her foundation slightly, and sighed. What was she thinking?

She made herself count to ten before going back into the dining area, her mind already crafting a pathway back that did not involve walking past the guy’s table. There was a staircase on her left, in the corridor right by the bathroom door, that she hadn’t noticed before. The sign next to it had been written in a language she did not understand, though the message seemed pretty obvious—no entry. Shame. Nesta would have done just about anything to hide upstairs for the remainder of the night.

“I was wondering where you went,” a voice appeared beside her.

Nesta stilled. He sounded exactly as she’d imagined.

Please, let this be a dream, she begged silently. A hallucination from the humidity.

If only.

Slowly, she turned from the stairs and faced him.

Up close, he was almost criminally beautiful. He knew it, too, there was no doubt in her mind about that—not as he folded his golden-brown arms over a powerful chest, leaning against the wall with a smirk. He was so ridiculously large that he shielded most of the restaurant from view—barely, just barely, she could make out her sisters’ forms, sure to be watching them intently.

The idea made her thoughts sharpen, like a fog lifting from her gaze—pretty or not, he was still a man, and Nesta was hardly one to fall at their feet at first glance.

And so, schooling her features into what she hoped was cool indifference, she asked “Excuse me?

A chuckle.“When you left your table, I was hoping you were coming over the say hello,” he mused, his voice like a melody sang by the darkest night—low and smooth over her skin, penetrating every fibre of her being. Nesta nearly gritted her teeth as a new fire awoke inside her—hot, teasing and wet.

He’d sought her out.

“I don’t think your date would share the sentiment,” she said, careful to keep her tone aloof.

His brows knitted over hazel eyes—from up close, she could see the speckles of green dancing around his pupils. “My…” he paused, a shadow of confusion clouding his face as he took in her words. “Oh.” A smirk curled the corner of his lips. “Mor is a friend.”

“You have very pretty friends.”

He hummed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have one more.”

She couldn’t help it—couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her own lips. “You’re very cocky for a…” A what? With a face like that, she couldn’t really blame him.

He flashed her a grin, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—and enjoyed every last bit of it. “What’s your name?” he asked. God, she liked his voice. She liked everything about him.“Nesta,” she said, extending a hand.

He lifted himself off the wall, stepping in close enough to take her hand into his. That delicious heat stirred in her again at the contact—at the warmth of his skin, the slightly calloused fingers. She began wondering what he did for a living—until all thoughts evaporated from her head as he leaned to brush his mouth over her knuckles in a light kiss.

“Cassian,” he said, and the liquid fire descended down to the deepest, most aching part of her.

“Cassian,” Nesta repeated, testing out the name on her tongue. It did not sound nearly as nice on her tongue as it did on his—though Cassian hardly seemed to agree, from the way his eyes darkened at the sound.

He released her hand much too soon for Nesta’s liking. “I was about to have some dessert. Would you like to join me, Nesta?” he asked, motioning to the stairs and up.

Nesta’s brows furrowed. “Upstairs?” she questioned. “Isn’t it a private area?”

Cassian smiled at her again, and suddenly, she stopped caring about signs altogether. “Oh, it is,” he said. “Lucky for us, my brother owns this place.”

Lucky indeed.

“What of your date?”

He snorted. “I told you—not a date.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cassian jerked his chin to his table, a secretive twinkle in his eyes. “She was waiting for somebody else.”

Nesta followed his gaze—to where the beautiful woman, Mor, now smiled openly as she took the hand of her new companion. The woman who had taken Cassian’s seat returned her expression, her dark eyes shining brightly.

“Oh,” Nesta simply noted.

“Yes,” Cassian agreed, something like amusement creeping into his tone. “What’s your final verdict, then?”

Nesta shot a quick glance at another table—where Feyre was now giving her what seemed like a thumbs up. 

“Lead the way,” she told him.

Cassian, it seemed, did not need to be told twice.

The room upstairs was a lovely studio, the interior similar to that of the restaurant. A small but well-equipped kitchen made up the corner on the left side of the entrance, divided from the rest of the space by a dining table of dark, polished wood. A couch stood by the windows toward the back wall, overlooking the village beneath. Nesta moved closer to the sight—it only took her a few steps to reach the other end of the apartment—as though unable to help herself, to admire the soft lights glinting from inside every household. The sea laid on the other side of the building, but she could still hear the gentle rustle of waves docking ashore. Now, with a peaceful view and a change in company, she felt her appreciation for this place grow.

“It’s beautiful.”

Somewhere behind her, Cassian hummed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nesta turned on her feet to meet his gaze—only to find it occupied. Cassian’s eyes surveyed her closely, sweeping over the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts—until they finally settled on her mouth, something bobbing in his throat at the sight.

For some reason, Nesta’s mouth felt dry. “Do you stay here often?” she asked, but her words felt distant, absent even as she spoke them.

Cassian shook his head, his gaze reluctantly moving to meet hers again. “Only sometimes. My other brother usually watches the place.”

“You have two?”

He nodded.

“I have two sisters,” she said.

He took a step towards her. “I saw.”

“You were watching me?” she asked, the question no more than a breath. He was so close to her now—she could wrap her hands around his neck if she wanted to.

His voice was hoarse as he admitted, “I was.”

Nesta went molten, all the heat he’d rallied inside her fluttering in her belly and swirling down to her core. She needed him to touch her now—anywhere, everywhere, all at once. She wanted to know how those fingers would feel as they traced the curve of her breasts, how they’d stroke that aching place deep inside her that thrummed under his stare.

He saw her—had spotted a stranger in the sea of candlelight and decided to wait for her move. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—she fascinated him just as he did her. 

Perhaps this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.

Feeling bold, Nesta closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his broad chest. She tried not to gasp at the hard muscle she felt underneath—at the heartbeat that began to race under her touch. She couldn’t help but smirk.

A large palm covered her own. “So, Nesta,” Cassian said, the low rasp of his voice caressing that desperate tightness inside her. “Tell me what brought you here tonight.”

She had a feeling he didn’t mean the restaurant. “I wanted to have some fun.”

Something twinkled in his gaze as he asked, “Not enjoying your time on the island so far?”

She slid her hand up to his neck, her thumb reaching to brush the roughness of his stubble. She could’ve sworn he shuddered slightly at the touch. “Could be better,” Nesta teased.

His eyes darkened. “Let me show you, then,” he pleaded. “Let me show you a good time.”

“Yes,” Nesta breathed.

In a quick and definitely practiced move, Cassian grasped both her hands in one of his palms, lifting them above her head. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as he pinned them to the wall behind her, his grip on her deliciously firm. Nesta’s exposed shoulders brushed the stone, its cold touch instantly smothered by Cassian’s hot breath on her skin as he leaned down to crash his lips into hers.

He tasted like fire and the richest of wines, the feel of him nearly dizzying, consuming. His other hand rested heavily on her waist, trailing upward as if wanting to explore every last inch of her. Nesta’s lips parted slightly when he cupped the side of her breast, and his tongue slipped forward to meet her own like a hungry flame.

His body pressed in closer, and Nesta arched into him, desperate for more friction. Like a bolt of lightning, pleasure rocked through her she felt the hardness bulging under his trousers, digging into her stomach in repressed need.

“Take this off,” she commanded between breaths. Cassian chuckled.

As he pulled away, sliding his shirt off in one, swift motion, Nesta allowed herself a moment to admire the man before her. With his chest laid bare to her, he looked like one of the marble sculptures that decorated the space downstairs—like some kind of ancient warrior, crafted from iron and flame. He was intoxicating.

With her hands freed, she moved to trace the cords of carved muscle with her fingers, delighting in the sight of his chest falling in uneven rhythm. “I was right,” she mused, more to herself than him.

“About what?” Cassian asked, his question no more than a rasp.

Nesta flashed him a smile. “This is going to be fun.”

His lips found hers again at that, the kiss deeper now, more desperate, as if he wanted to ingrain the feel of her into his memory forever. A rustle of fabric signalled his hands on the hems of her shirt, and Nesta raised her hands, suddenly feeling very smug about her decision not to wear a bra for the evening.

A low, feral noise escaped Cassian’s throat as he took in the sight. Nesta shivered, and it had little to do with the breeze that made its way in through the open windows she was nestled between.

His hands slid down her body, and Nesta stopped breathing entirely as he circled the tip of a finger around her pebbled nipple. Her nails dug into his arms, the sensation of his touch on her sensitive skin tantalising. She needed more of him—and she needed it now.

Then, Cassian flicked her nipple, and a wretched moan ripped free from her throat. Cassian snickered in delight and flicked again, the touch drawing just enough pain this time to spur another, clawing ache that dripped between her thighs.

“Cassian,” Nesta pulled away, panting. “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, moving back an inch to meet her frantic stare. “What is it?”

“The windows.”

Cassian frowned slightly. “What about them?”

“They’re open,” Nesta said, her breath still uneven. “There are guests downstairs—”

A very satisfied smile curved his lips upwards. “Well,” he teased, his hand on her side moving to wrap under her thigh. “I guess you’ll just have to be very quiet, then.”

And with that, he lifted her up.

A thrill shot down Nesta’s spine as he pinned her to the wall again, and she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him in to settle between them.

“Just like that,” he praised, his other hand sliding down to grip her ass. There was a feral edge to her smile as she looked up at him, and a low rumble reverberated through his chest. “Nesta—”

She let her name drown in his mouth as she brought her lips to his, her legs wrapping tighter around him. The core between her thighs throbbed with her need, her anticipation, begging to be filled—to be given what she so badly wished. Keeping one of her hands on his neck, she slid the other down to the buttons of his trousers, working them quickly until another, grey fabric appeared.

Cassian groaned into her mouth as she skimmed her hand down his length.

“Who’s quiet now,” she mocked, her fingers teasing him again.

“Bossy,” he panted, his own hand moving to spring himself free at last. Any smug retorts her mind began crafting died on her tongue as she took in his cock, the breath in her chest hitching at its size, at the velvety shaft promising to completely and utterly wreck her.

He pulled her own, black skirt up to her hips before she’d even realised, as desperate for her as she was for him. Cassian’s hand moved to cup her ass again, fingers digging into the pliant flesh deliciously, as the other reached down to guide himself to her entrance.

His cock brushed the thin layer of her underwear, practically soaked with the pleasure he’d coaxed from her. “You’re killing me,” Cassian breathed, feeling the wet heat welcoming him, urging him in. She could not longer endure it—the feel of the blunt tip of his cock so achingly close, and yet not nearly close enough.

He seemed incline to agree as the sound of a ripping fabric filled the space between them. Cassian discarded her underwear to the floor before Nesta managed to open her mouth in protest, the darkness in his eyes drowning out the hazel.

“You won’t be needing it anymore,” he told her simply, his hand returning between her legs.

Her gaze followed the movement. “Is that so?”

The asshole had the audacity to wink. “I promised you a good time, did I not?” he asked, another wide smirk blooming on his beautiful face as he lazily teased a finger at her entrance, her aching cunt coating him in her slick. “Seems to me like you are,” he hummed, crooning his digit inside her.

Nesta gasped, her walls immediately clenching around him, pulsing with need. He hissed at the sensation, his cock twitching impatiently beside his hand, begging to take its place. Nesta could not agree more—she needed more, needed to feel the fullness of him inside her, to find out just how deeply she could take him. Her vision glazed with lust as she watched him add another finger, stretching her with ease.

“Cassian,” she urged, her voice tight now, strained as those fingers retreated and dipped into her again, stroking in a slow, steady rhythm that threatened to push her over the edge. Too soon—she had to find out now, had to get her craving satisfied, had to have him fill her entirely before she exploded. “Cassian,” she said again, louder, this time as her thighs shook slightly around him. It felt so fucking good and he knew it, from the smile she felt on her neck as his mouth lowered to nip at the exposed skin.

“So impatient,” he purred, his breath hot beneath her ear and shooting that familiar lightning through her again, setting every nerve in her body on high alert, tingling. His pace quickened, pulling in and out of her increasingly tightening centre, and she rolled her hips into his hand, pushing him deeper, her efforts messy, needy. “I want you to come for me, Nesta,” he told her, his lips descending on her neck again as he added, “Before the real fun begins.”

Release crashed into her without warning, her inner muscles clenching him tight as she moaned loudly, unable to contain her the sweet, white-hot fire inside her any linger. Cassian’s mouth found her own again, the kiss muffling out the sounds of her pleasure from any unwanted spectators as his fingers continued to ride her through it. Nesta’s tongue darted into him, scraping over his teeth, not nearly satiated enough—she wasn’t sure she would ever get enough of him. 

He did not break apart from her as he wrapped both arms around her again, taking them to the couch a feet away. She straddled him the moment his back rested against the cushions, the feel of his hardness against her now dripping core rekindling that greedy fire inside her. She rolled her hips once, twice, relishing in the feel of him, in the guttural sounds he was making in return. His palms rested on her sides, lifting her slightly before flashing her a wicked smile.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he teased, the broad tip of his cock nudging at her entrance again.

God, she was in such deep shit.

Without another thought, Nesta slid her hands to his neck and drew him inside her.

All the air was sucked from her lungs at the stretch of him, of every aching inch as she lowered herself on his cock. Cassian hissed sharply, his grip on her hips tighter now, as though he needed to restrain himself from thrusting deep inside her, to give her a moment to adjust to the thickness of him.

But Nesta was done waiting.

She grasped a hand at his shoulder, urging him to move closer, deeper, to move with her until she could no longer see anything but stars. She could practically hear how wet she was as his strokes grew steadier and devastatingly precise, each one of them reaching further into her core, each one making her breaths go shorter and her legs grow weaker.

“Nesta,” Cassian panted, his head dipping to the crook of her neck, “You feel incredible.”

Maybe it was the way he spoke her name, low with a flash of possessiveness in his dark eyes, or the praise he’d thrown at her, but she shuddered with delight as she sunk fully onto his length, her walls gripping him tighter. Cassian swore loudly, the curse in that language she didn’t understand yet still shooting jolts of pleasure through her body. She looked down to where they joined, to where she was split open around his cock, where he dragged himself up and down the slick folds of her cunt.

Her pace quickened at the sight, something in it breaking the last shred of composure within her.

Nesta mewled as he pushed in deeper than ever before, his cock hitting the back of her cunt, stroking that sensitive spot inside her that made her melt entirely. She moaned his name, no longer caring for whoever might hear—there was only the fire erupting inside her as he filled her, the sound of his heavy breaths as he matched her pace, the wildness in his eyes as she moved on him, deeper and deeper.

She felt the inevitable tug of another climax, creeping in closer and closer with every thrust, every flutter of her cunt around him. Her legs trembled, threatening to give in the next time his cock found that secret spot inside her, her breasts bouncing with her movements.

“Cassian,” she choked, throwing her head back as his hands slid up to cup them.

Cassian’s mouth closed around one of her nipples, and she exploded.

Her walls clenched around him hard as she came, Cassian following swiftly after as his thrusts became messier, more chaotic until he finally gave in. His groan reverberated into her body, settling deep beneath her skin, caressing every shuddering inch of her as she rode them both through their joint release. They recovered together, their heaving breaths syncing into one, and it felt so good and so right that she never wanted to leave.

When Cassian’s eyes searched her own again, flickering brightly, Nesta couldn’t help but grin.

“I believe you promised me dessert,” she told him.

His gaze swept over her body, over the mess she’d made of him, and when it returned to hers at last, it was filled with a new hunger that sent heat into her once more. “Yes,” he hummed. “I believe I did.”

Taglist: @sv0430 @queercontrarian @asnowfern @helhjertet @isterofimias @octobers-veryown @fieldofdaisiies @teamazris @a-frog-with-a-laptop @jmoonjones

#aka the time nesta saw cassian in a restaurant and went insane #based on real life events with (unfortunately) a very different ending #god this is so self indulgent #but you can read it too #nessian #nessian au #nessian smut #nessian fic #pro nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #nesta acotar #nesta acosf #cassian acotar #cassian acosf #feyre archeron #elain archeron #acotar au #acotar fic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses