#Nesta what like its hard Archeron

[daycourtofficial]

Hello. If you don't mind can I request a fic with cassian with a shy reader where she and Cassian have been trying to get pregnant for years, but reader starts doubting herself when seeing the rest of the inner circle females like feyre and elain getting pregnant, and thinking cassian will leave her because it is taking them ages to get pregnant...but Cassian reassures her and all...and weeks later reader finds out she is pregnant and surprises cassian with the news...

Ask and you shall receive! This is actually super super cute so thank you for this request!

A Teeny, Tiny Illyrian Warrior

Summary: after years of trying, you break down crying to Cassian over your inability to conceive, only to find out several months later that you are expecting

It was irrational. You should be happy for Elain, sweet Elain who you considered a great friend. Elain, who after several years of healing, figured out what she wanted, and moved to live with Lucien to help rebuild the spring court, just announced she was pregnant.

Making her the third Archeron to be pregnant, with Nesta and Eris having a baby a few years prior.

It was exhausting. Everyone around you was churning out babies, except for you and Cassian. You’ve both wanted kids for so long, but when Rhys was trapped under the mountain, the two of you decided to pause your dreams to help run and maintain Velaris in his absence. The fear of a child growing up in Amarantha’s reign was terrifying enough to keep the dreams at bay.

The tonic you took every day to keep you from getting pregnant had felt like sewage down your throat.

When Rhys had returned, you were so excited not just for your brother in law’s return, but for what it meant for you and Cassian. You could try. And try you did. You let Amarantha stop you from conceiving, but the war with Hybern would do no such thing.

So the two of you spent the first few years excited, constantly tearing at each other’s clothes. Until your cycles would come. And come. And come, each one a reminder of what isn’t to come.

Then Feyre got pregnant, and you were ecstatic, over the moon. Then Nesta got pregnant a few years later. You were still happy, but the jealousy was clawing your throat. Now Elain’s pregnant, and it is taking every ounce of strength not to ask why her.

The past year sex has almost felt more like a chore than pleasure, your empty womb keeping both of you wanting more.

You plaster on a smile, congratulate the two of them, and after dinner you go and slink away into the bathroom, hide your head in your hands, and sob.

Sob because it should be you announcing your pregnancy. Sob because everyone should be happy for you. Sob because what if Cassian decides you’re not enough?

He sees all these females getting pregnant - what if he decides you’re the problem? He could find loads of females willing to fill that role. Does he wonder how quickly he could impregnate them?

Your sobs are so out of control that you don’t hear the door open and close and a body sits next to you.

“Here,” he says, handing you a handkerchief. You pull your hands away to find Azriel, your other brother in law.

You and Azriel were incredibly close - both of you perfect foils to Cassian’s loud, swaggering personality. The two of you were more quiet and observant, Cass being enough personality for the three of you.

You accept the handkerchief, wiping your eyes and blowing your nose, creating the ugliest noise imaginable.

Azriel stretches out his long legs, resting his back against the cabinet. “I know it’s hard,” he says, reaching out to rub your back, “but it will be okay.”

You lean into him, and choke out, “what if he decides I’m not enough? That he could easily find someone who is able to get pregnant?”

Azriel’s hand halts its soothing strokes for a brief moment before continuing. “If you think for one moment he would ever be separated from you by his own choice, think again.”

You go to respond but he cuts you off, “Cassian would cut off his own hand before willingly letting go of yours.”

You two sit there, his words echoing through your mind, when he starts again.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, standing up, “if your child has his eyes and your smile, it’ll blow all the other babies out of the water with its cuteness.”

You smile, accepting the hand he reaches out for you, “I always knew you had a soft spot for Cass’s eyes.”

He laughs, tucking your hand into his elbow to lead you out, “they’re just so pitiful. He pouts and he looks like a kicked puppy.”

You laugh, allowing him to escort you back to the dining room, back to your family.

Later that night, as you and Cassian are taking a bath, you decide to broach the subject that’s been bouncing around your head since Azriel found you in the bathroom.

“What if we stop trying?”

Cassian’s hand reaches up from behind you to cup your face, tilting your chin back so you can look at him, “Stop trying what?”

“Stop trying for a baby.”

His grin is gone immediately, about to ask if you’ve changed your mind, and you spin in his laps to meet his eyes.

You grab his chin and tell him, “I don’t mean like we give up. I mean we stop trying. Sex has felt like a chore for a while, and I miss it being fun. Now it’s just a means to an end.

“I want fun sex, I want dirty sex, I want it all. But I want to stop our ‘only doing this to have a baby’ sex. I won’t take the tonic, but I’m tired of the heartbreak. If it happens, it happens.”

He looks at you, your wet hair making you look even more like a goddess to him, as he cups your chin and asks, “are you sure, love?”

You smile, “yes. Maybe we can go back to trying in a bit, but I want a break. I don’t like the feelings it’s causing, like I broke down in tears earlier that you would leave me for a more breedable woman.”

Cassian snorts, “did you actually call them breedable women?”

You smack his arm, “poor Azriel found me a blubbering mess. I’m pretty sure he should just burn the handkerchief he gave me because all of the snot and tears made it gain five pounds.”

He chuckles, but then he looks at you, conveying every emotion he feels for you, and you know you were a fool for ever thinking he’d consider leaving you.

“Sweetheart, I would never leave you for such a thing. I want a baby, yes, but I want you more, and I would be perfectly content spending the next thousand years with only you by my side.”

Your legs bracket around his thighs, and you rub your fingers up his arms as you tell him, “I can think of a few ways we could spend those thousand years.”

He throws his head back laughing, and crashes his lips to yours.

-

It had been six months since Elain’s announcement, and the babe was here. Feyre and Rhys traveled to spring to go visit, leaving you, Cassian, and Azriel alone.

Cassian was out shopping for Solstice gifts, an activity you were going to join him for until you woke up not feeling well. After much convincing and promising him if you need anything you’ll get Az to get it for you, he went ahead without you, needing to pick up gifts before shops closed.

After spending the first hour of his departure in the bathroom throwing up what felt like all of your internal organs, you wandered out into the hallway in search of your husband’s brother.

After a fifteen minute search, you found him in the library reading what appears to be a romance novel that Nesta left behind.

“Doing some studying?” You ask, peering over his shoulder at the particularly raunchy scene he was reading.

He jumps, having had no idea of your intrusion. He clears his throat, asking, “weren’t you supposed to go shopping today?”

You walk around the couch, sitting next to him and looking at the cover of the book he was reading.

“I was, but felt ill so I stayed behind and convinced Cassian to go without me.”

He snorts, “bad idea. You reign him in a lot when it comes to gift giving, otherwise he forgets how much he’s already bought for someone and just buys more.”

You were about to agree, your husband’s joy at buying gifts knowing no bounds, when his brother stills, slowly sniffing the air and turning towards you and asking, almost accusatorially, “are you pregnant?”

You look at him, half tempted to yell at him over his inclusion of the sore subject. You felt freer these past few months, less bogged down by the negative emotions your inability to conceive was creating.

Azriel had seen it all with you, acting as a source of comfort during all the uncertainty the past sixty years have shown.

His asking that question and your earlier illness is what led the two of you to see Madja very quickly, who confirmed the pregnancy.

“How am I going to tell him?” You ask Azriel, as you two walk around the Sidra. You already felt guilty that Azriel had been the one with you when you found out and not Cassian, however that guilt subsided when you realized if you weren’t pregnant the disappointment on Cassian’s face would have ruined you.

“Well anytime anyone ever asks Cass for advice, he always steers them towards nudity.”

You laugh at how true the starement was. Feyre asking Cassian advice on a gift for Rhys? Nudity. Rhys asking for advice on a gift for Azriel? Nudity. He was a simple man, he’d tell them in response.

You pass by a baby shop and find your eyes drawn to it, your feet pulling you back in front of the door. Azriel follows your line of sight, sweeping his arm in front of you motioning ‘after you’.

The two of you walk around, looking through baby clothes when a sales associate comes and speaks to you. “Ah are you two expecting?” she chirps, looking pleasantly between the two of you.

You laugh while Azriel blushes and reply, “he’s my husband’s brother.”

The sales associate gapes, her jaw going slack. “Oh um okay, well it’s none of my business-“

Before she can finish rambling, Azriel cuts her off. “I’m helping her pick something out to tell my brother he’s going to be a dad to a child that is not mine.”

She looks between you two and laughs at the mistake. “Did you have anything in mind?”

You tell her that you actually had an idea.

-

When Cassian got home, he was tired from lugging around at least two dozen shopping bags. He was exhausted, but incredibly proud of himself because he’s fairly certain he was able to get gifts for everyone, meaning most, if not all, the shopping was done.

The house was quiet, so he took the opportunity to hide the ruby red necklace and earrings he got for you in this old dried fruit container he kept on a top shelf, a place you’d never search for, much less be able to see.

After the gift was tucked away, he began walking through the house trying to find you, deciding you’d likely be in your shared bedroom. Making his way there he stopped in the hallway, finding a tiny little baby sock on the floor.

He looks around, not finding anything else strange he picks it up and continues his search. Passing through the kitchen he found another baby sock, in the dining room he found a little tiny hat, in another hallway he found a little tiny pair of pants that look just like his fighting leathers.

There must be a naked baby running around here somewhere, he thinks.

Right outside the door to your shared room is a little shirt that also looks just like his fighting leathers, with teeny tiny slats in the back for wings.

He grabs the door knob, twisting to enter the room as he begins asking, “is there a naked tiny Illyrian war-“

He stops dead in his tracks at the oh so subtle smell in the room, coating the room in florals he never thought he’d smell from you. He looks up from the shirt, finding you sitting on your bed with tears in your eyes.

“It’s me, I have a teeny tiny Illyrian warrior so I bought them teeny tiny Illyrian fighting leathers for all the teeny tiny threats they’ll have to fight.”

Your husband takes off running towards you, kissing you like his life depended on it. Then he picked you up off the ground, spun you around, and ran out of your bedroom with you. He’s running through the whole house shouting, “she’s having my baby!” Repeating it over and over, until he almost collides with Azriel. Before Azriel can say anything, Cassian picks him up too, spinning the both of you. All three of you laugh at the pure joy radiating off of Cassian after so many years of wanting.

#acotar writing #cassian x reader #cassian x you #cassian fluff #request

[ofbreathandflame]

You’re right, Feyre stans are rarely just Feyre stans.

hi anon!

yep! this was specifically solidified for me after silver flames came out. feyre stans have been conditioned to always validate rhysand's intention over feyre's opinion. again - feyre has established that she:

(1) does not want rhysand to speak about her sisters in a disrespectful manner. feyre validates rhysand emotions about her sisters - meaning she isn't saying (and im not saying) that rhysand doesn't have a right to feel a certain way about her sisters. but that rhysand's feelings should not manifest in jabs and disrespectful words:

“Rhys said smoothly, “I’m not entirely sure Velaris is prepared for Nesta Archeron.” “My sister’s not some feral animal,” I snapped. Rhys recoiled a bit, the others suddenly finding the carpet, the divan, the books incredibly fascinating. “I didn’t mean that.”

feyre to rhysand.

“So she keeps saying, over and over,” Amren grumbled. I shot her a glare. “Careful.”

feyre to amren.

that's a boundary being set - clear as day. feyre does not approve or condone outright disrespect of her sisters. this has nothing to do with how we believe xyz or what rhys has a right to do, but what feyre has established as a no go.

(2) that she does not feel comfortable with rhysand being overly protective, to the point he withholds information, is overly violent, or conflicts with her wants:

“It’s hard to shut down my instincts.” Instincts. Just like … like someone else had instincts to protect, to hide me away. “Then you should have prepared yourself better,” I snapped. “You seemed to be going along just fine with it, until Keir said—”

rhys to feyre; feyre to rhys (acomaf)

(3)feyre doesn't care about instincts (as is an excuse used in sf), here she is telling rhys straight up that he needs to prepare himself better. bc she DOES NOT feel comfortable with the way rhys expressed his frustration. and again feyre is sympathetic to his reasonings, but she does not believe his intentions (in this case) justify the way he chooses to go about these things.

“I craned my neck to look up at him. “Never lie to me again. Not about that.”

feyre to rhys (acowar)

(4) again - feyre establishing a boundary. never lie to her about anything, especially important things.

feyre (and also fucking amren) also establishes that she doesn't believe that keeping her sisters couped up in the house of wind to be productive or helpful:

“If you want to start convincing your sisters, get them out of the House. Being cooped up never helped anyone.”

amren to feyre (acowar)

and nesta has established to rhys that she wants no interest in cassian:

“Nesta had made it clear enough she had no interest in Cassian—not even in being in the same room as him. I knew why. I’d seen it happen, had felt that way plenty.”

rhysand to az (acofas)

feyre also establishes - to rhys - that her she knows her sisters don't do well with public humiliation, and making a scene:

“ “I shouldn’t have asked her in public. I made a mistake.” and “I loosed a long sigh. “I should have considered that telling strangers what happened to her in Hybern might … might not be something she was comfortable with. My sister has been a private person her entire life, even amongst us.”

feyre to rhys (acowar).

im saying allll of this to say that in sf - rhysand literally takes all of these boundaries and shits on them. even his creation of the intervention conflicits against what feyre establishes: (1) her sister is a private person, and will not respond well to public humilation (2) nesta wants nothing to do with cassian (3) her sisters are not healty being in the house of wind and (4) feyre wants to be looped in and considered every step of the way. even the act of creating an intervention that goes so instinctively against feyre's wishes is an act of deep disrespect. that feyre stans can see these moments and still justify them bc their hatred for nesta and obsession w/ rhys trumps their 'love' for feyre. its a conditional like. here feyre is the victim and instead of writing metas and ff about feyre being done dirty by rhysand - they flock to justify rhysand's point to the point where they're willing to ignore feyre's opinions. its not abt how much we like / dislike the sisters. but how rhys's behavior conflicts against feyre's wants and boundaries. its about how those feyre stans would rather validate rhys then stand by feyre's emotions. to imply that rhysand's actions were appropriate means u place his actions above feyre.

feyre is adult and mature enough to manage her emotions, she not a child, she is perfectly able to stand-up and put her foot down. and she has - on multiple occasions retorted and fought back against her sisters - to consistently pretend feyre is a child who needs rhys to cosign and stand body-guard when feyre is perfectly able to do it herself says so much abt those 'stans' than they are willing to admit.

like feyre was able to face down tamlin - her abuser - all by her damn self. she's not some child who needs people to consistently defend her by undermining her opinions. if she wanted rhys to be an asshole to nesta - we would have saw that. instead we got this:

“That’s enough,” Feyre snapped at Rhys. “I told you to keep out of it.” He dragged his star-flecked eyes to his mate, and it was all Nesta could do to keep from collapsing onto the couch as her knees gave out at last. Feyre angled her head, nostrils flaring, and said to Rhysand, “You can either leave, or you can stay and keep your mouth shut.”

we got feyre telling rhys and amren that she did not want them to behave that way. and even after that. both rhys and amren continue ignoring feyre's requests. feyre is not respected - these are not the actions of people who respect her as an equal. she's a child to them , and they believe they know better.

idk - if i were a feyre stan- yall would never have shut me up if my fav was treated like a doormat and sidelined. i would have been writing scathing metas on rhys and the ic. - i wouldve been explaining exactly why rhys withholding information was wrong - not just vaguely saying he was wrong and then justifying why he did it. i would have been an amren hater #1 for how she continually undermined feyre. idk...yall are not real feyre shooters. like damn your fav is catching strays by the author and the readers and you're only focused on how nesta factors into that equation?? like youve got bigger problems to worry abt here. feyre has been continually and consistently phased out of her own story by the author and that don't bother yall? hmm couldnt be me tho.

#anti sjm #anti rhysand #anti feyre #anti feysand #anti acosf #anti acomaf #anti sjm: feyre archeron #this is actually not an anti feyre post #rather an anti feyre stans post

[honeybeefae]

Desperate Times (Azriel x Archeron!Reader)

Summary// While tending to Elain's garden you come across a mysterious flower with an even more mysterious pollen. As the effects of it start to hit you, you have to fend for yourself to get the edge off...or do you?

K!inktober Prompt: SEX POLLEN // Creampie // Sexting

(HERE IT IS!! 5,423 words and we have arrived. This story is obviously 18+ and contains LOADS OF SMUT!! So minors, DNI! However, I basically wrote a mini story so it also contains some major fluff and minor angst! I hope everyone enjoys it, thank you so much for reading!)

WARNINGS: SMUT, SMUT, SMUT! Dubcon (the sex pollen kind but they talk it out), pinv, eating out, bjs, no safe sex here, wing touching, mutual pining, minors DNI!

Tag List: @marimorena06 , @mystic-scripture

(If you'd like to join my tag list for future works, feel free to comment or message!)

Elain had given you a simple task while she was away with Lucien. Tend the garden. It wasn’t hard to do and if you were being honest, you loved watering the flowers and trimming the plants. That was one of the few things you had in common with your older sister.

Being the youngest Archeron sister had its many, many downfalls. You were only seventeen when Feyre had been taken by Tamlin, fulfilling her destiny while you desperately searched for yours. During that time you tried your best to look for her, learning what little Nesta and Elain were able to teach so that you could find a way for your family.

However, it wouldn’t have ever been enough to stop Hybern’s soldiers from finding your family and dragging you to the Cauldron as a sacrifice. That day will forever live in your mind, the looks on everyone’s face as the three of you were thrown into the brutally cold water.

You survived despite the odds, as did your sisters. It was a cruel twist of fate when Nesta and Elain got gifts bestowed on them while you were left the short end of the stick. As always.

It didn’t hurt you too much though, you were used to being in the shadows. They kept you company when it got to be too much and you were grateful for it, for them. You didn’t need nor want to be seen as Feyre, Nesta, and Elain were.

But there were a pair of eyes on you that you could never shake off. Rhysand’s notorious Shadowsinger.

Azriel.

Ever since you had been pulled from the Cauldron he had watched you. At first, it unnerved you, this Illyrian spy hovering over you while his shadows whispered into his ear, but now it just feels like you’ve pissed him off in some way.

A small part of you had wondered if you were mates, especially since when Nesta and Elain were Made, the bond for their mates snapped in place. The bigger part of you knew though that if you were mates he would’ve revealed it by now.

Unless he didn’t want you.

Something sharp started to hurt in the middle of your chest at the thought. You were already lonely enough, not wanting to bother your sisters with your troubles as it seemed everyone was finally happy. Except for you.

“You’ve been washing that dish for five minutes now.” A low voice stated behind you, making you drop it back into the sink. You knew who it was before you even turned around.

“Lost in thought I guess.” You replied, shrugging half-heartedly while turning to face Azriel. He was dressed in his typical Illyrian leathers, wings tucked in and arms crossed. 

Those hazel eyes were holding some kind of emotion that made you shrink back and as you did, the shadows around him seemed to flinch as well.

“Why are you-” Azriel began.

“I’m gonna-” You started.

A blush crept up your cheeks from embarrassment. You licked your lips, not noticing how his eyes followed the movement, before leaning to grab the watering can. “I’m going to go tend to the garden. If you need anything, I’ll be out here.”

You pushed through the back door before Azriel could reply, taking a deep breath when the fresh air hit your nose. The sun felt warm against your skin and it helped ease your worries about what was surely watching you from the kitchen window.

After filling the watering can you make your way to the gate, pushing it open with a creak and letting it shut behind you. This garden was Elain’s pride and joy and for good reason.

Flowers and plants of all shapes and sizes were in bloom, trimmed, and cared for to perfection. She spent most of her time here and has been in a mood since she realized she’d have to start all over again at her and Lucien’s new house. You were still stuck at the townhouse so you had promised her to take care of it as best as you could.

It was actually doing pretty well. You were very proud that you hadn’t killed a single one. Elain still technically lived here but she was letting you handle the reigns at the moment.

The wind lightly blew your hair back as you got to the last section of the garden, shadows dancing in the sun. As you bent down to get the ones in the back you noticed a new flower that hadn’t been there before. 

It was a beautiful shade of pink and white, the colors swirling like marble. There was also golden dust on the edges of its petals that seemed to twinkle in the sun. You were almost positive that it wasn’t a weed but at the same time you had never seen this type of plant, even back in the mortal lands.

A sweet smell hit your nose and before you could blink you had reached out to pet the petals. As you touched them, the golden pollen stuck to your fingers. It caused a strange buzz to fill your head and body which had you almost falling onto your ass.

You felt extremely lightheaded and placed a hand across your forehead to take your temperature. That was a mistake though because the pollen traveled with you and fell across your face and nose, making your skin sweat and burn much faster.

“What the hell was on that flower?” You questioned slowly, heart thumping in your chest. The light and sounds around you were almost too much for your senses and something clicked in the back of your foggy mind.

Have I been poisoned?

It would make sense. A strange flower shows up, the pollen is making you dizzy and hot, it could’ve been anyone that put it there. Were you the target? Or was it Elain?

A sharp cramp twisted your lower stomach and you dropped the can, spilling the water across the stones. “No, no, no…” You gasped, looking around frantically. No one was here or else they would’ve heard you, would’ve noticed your pain. You were pretty sure Azriel had gone on some errand as well, leaving you completely alone. 

You needed to get inside and find something to cure you. The clock was ticking yet you didn’t even know when it would be up. The Mother seemed to hate you.

The feeling was mutual.

Your skin was practically on fire, sweat soaking your face and clothes. The second you made it to the back door was when a new symptom hit you, drawing a new reaction out of you.

Azriel’s scent was still lingering in the kitchen and when the smell of cedar and mist hit your nose a huge gush of arousal went immediately to your sex. It had you clenching your thighs together from the force of it, drool collecting in your mouth.

Using all the strength you could muster you practically crawled to your room on the bottom floor, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. You stood on wobbly legs and immediately stripped yourself down to get at least a little relief.

All of your thoughts started to turn to mush as you swayed side to side, falling back onto your large bed. Images of Azriel started to flicker behind your closed eyelids and you moaned again.

His bare chest while he trained, the shadows curling around his arms, the way his wings stretched after a long flight. Each picture made you wetter and wetter until you couldn’t take it anymore.

Whatever was in the flower had turned you into a mindless whore, sex was the only thing on your mind at the moment. You had never felt so tightly wound in your life. Hell, your only sexual experience was with a local boy when you were sixteen.

Realization hit you like a ton of bricks, momentarily stopping your inappropriate thoughts. It wasn’t a poisonous flower at all…it was a fertility flower. You had read about them in books from the continent where it explained that pollen was used in wedding gifts and mating rituals.

The next thing you realized was that there wasn’t a cure for this. You would have to ride this out for however long it stayed in your body. If you remembered correctly, the fastest way to fix this was to have your mate help. 

Unfortunately for you, you didn’t have one. This was something you needed to fix by yourself. 

So, with shaky fingers, you ran two fingers down your pussy, your juices easily lathering them completely. It seemed so dirty to be doing this to yourself, in the middle of the day when anyone could walk in.

When Azriel could walk in.

You groaned at the thought and plunged those two fingers into your waiting hole, hips rising off the bed at the euphoria. A small trickle of guilt went down your spine about imagining him when he clearly didn’t care for you, but, when an image of him between your thighs flashed across your head, it went out the window. 

“Fuck me.” You gasped out as you raised up to your knees, riding your hand while your other one went to paw at your breast. “Please, Az, please…” You whimpered, trying to keep your voice down.

Hair was sticking to your face and neck and you could’ve sworn that a puddle was forming underneath you but you were too busy chasing your orgasm. It was growing inside you like a storm, your walls clenching around your fingers as you cried out again.

It was too much and not enough. You felt as if you were being swallowed by giant waves, pleasure turning to pain when you couldn’t reach that peak. Tears started to gather in your eyes from how much your stomach was cramping and how flushed you felt. 

Soft cries tumbled from your lips a few moments later as you still rode your hand, begging the Mother above to help you take this pain away. 

And gods did she have a funny sense of humor.

Three sharp knocks echoed in your room, your head shooting up as you scrambled to cover yourself. “Y/N? Are you okay?” Azriel asked through the door, his tone short. 

Mother save me, please tell me he didn’t hear me.

It took a minute for you to collect yourself enough to answer, two fingers still stuffed inside of you. “Y-yes Azriel. I’m okay, go back to whatever you were doing.”

He stayed at the door, shuffling his feet before clearing his throat. “Are you sure? I felt a tug on…” He trailed off. It seemed like he had heard you, his voice low. 

“Leave. Please.” You begged though your voice held no edge of authority. A sick part of you wanted him to bust down the door, see you, and claim you. You regretted the line of thought as another cramp hit you. “I’m fine. Just go.”

Azriel didn’t listen. Your scent was suffocating him and he had to know what was happening. The doorknob turned before you could stop it and he stepped inside, eyes widening at the sight of you. You were probably the last person he wanted to see like this and it was made so much worse by your tear-stained cheeks and disheveled hair.

“Gods, Y/N, I can see you dripping from here.” He growled, eyes hooded and voice dripping with desire. “What happened?”

You didn’t have time to register his tone because the scent of him wafted over you again. And again. And again. It felt like your heart was going to give out at any second if you didn’t get him closer.

“Stupid flower, pollen, I just need-” You ground out right before you felt your eyelashes flutter, the overwhelming feeling you were about to faint creeping in. 

He was quick to get to you, reaching out and grabbing both of your arms to sit you upright. His hands almost seared into your skin and you moaned, reaching up to cup his face and pull him towards you. 

Azriel was so caught off guard that he couldn’t stop your lips from joining, one of your hands grasping his hair to tug him closer. He tasted like shadows and secrets, lips plush and soft as you held onto him for dear life. You couldn’t think clearly anymore as the aphrodisiac had now fully absorbed into your skin. The kiss had your head spinning and cunt throbbing ten times harder than before, causing you to groan into his mouth.

“I want you, Azriel. I need you.” You panted, looking into his eyes for the first time in months. He could feel your chest heaving against his, see the wild look in your eyes. “Please help me.”

He took a very deep breath and shook his head slowly. “I can’t Y/N. You aren’t yourself and I don’t know what you did but-”

You cut him off by palming his growing erection in his pants, almost drooling from how long and thick it felt. The other hand left his hair and grabbed his left hand to put it over your bare breast, biting on your lower lip at the sensation. 

Azriel’s self-control was on a razor-thin line. You were too drugged out of your mind to notice but his jaw was tight and his eyes were memorizing every curve of your body. This was everything he ever wanted, you squirming and begging underneath him, but not like this.

Not when you wouldn’t remember it.

The mating bond had formed between the two of you the second you were Made. A strong, primal feeling settled into his blood when you were dragged out and thrown to the floor. You hadn’t noticed, not that you would have any idea what it was, and Azriel thought it was better that way. 

He had seen how well Elain had taken it when Lucien stupidly blurted it out that day, or even Nesta. Azriel wasn’t going to subject you to that unless you expressed interest in him as well, no matter how many times he dreamt of your touch or kiss.

His mind was made up but you weren’t about to be so easily swayed. Just as Azriel went to pull away you used all of your strength and flipped your positions so that he was the one sitting on the bed. You swiftly straddled his thigh and began to grind down, throwing your head back in pleasure as your clit rubbed against the thick muscles in his leg.

“Oooh, Az.” You keened while wrapping your hands around his neck. His pupils were blown wide with lust, so much so that you could barely see the hazel in them. The two of you were quickly approaching the point of no return but he just needed one more push.

A devious thought popped into your lustful mind. 

When you ground down again you let the pads of your fingers graze against the top of his wings. It was a featherlight touch but the moment you did, Azriel let out a growl that could’ve shook the house. Two scarred hands gripped your wrists and yanked you off of him before he shoved you onto the bed.

You watched in awe as his wings spread out while pinning you beneath him. It brought you back into the moment for just a minute, enough to savor his hand coming down to circle around your neck.

“You’re playing a very, very dangerous game. I don’t want to hurt you.”

But the mere thought of stopping made tears spring to your eyes, raising your hips in a desperate attempt to show him where you needed him. Azriel briefly glanced down at your throbbing cunt and took a shuddering breath. 

“I don’t want you to hurt me.” You whispered, licking your lips while gazing up at him through your lashes. His hand was still wrapped around your throat, holding you there. “I want you to ruin me.”

And just like that…you opened Pandora’s Box.

Azriel snarled and claimed your lips in a passionate kiss, immediately thrusting his tongue into your mouth and dominating every space in your mind. His shadows curled around your arms and legs so that you couldn’t move at all. You struggled against the bonds for a second but when he bit down on your pulse point you went right back to him.

“Ah!” You cried out, staring at his face that held a sinful grin. Another wave of wetness hit you and fuck, he could smell it.

“Look at me, princess.” He purred, licking a line up from your neck to the shell of your ear. Azriel bit down on it before chuckling. “I want to taste you.”

A frustrated cry slipped out of your mouth when he trailed a single digit down your pussy, collecting the juices and bringing them to his lips. He groaned at the taste and couldn’t even bear to tease you anymore, needing to devour you at that moment.

He nipped and sucked his way down your body, his shadows still keeping you spread wide and still for his pleasure. His tongue lazily sucked in each of your nipples, rolling the bud around before releasing it with a loud pop. 

You were shaking in anticipation and when Azriel finally got to your core, looking up at you with those dark eyes and sadistic grin, something clicked in you. It was like a thread connecting the two of you and everything got much more intense. 

Before you could say anything he went straight to business, giving your clit a harsh suck that made you try to clamp your thighs around his head. You were still restrained though and all you could do was grab fistfuls of your sheets and cry out his name, your previous thoughts scattering to the wind. 

His tongue felt heavenly but when he started to moan at your enthusiasm it sent an entirely new wave of pleasure through your body. He flicked it over your clit rapidly before going down to thrust the hot, wet muscle into your cunt. 

Azriel knew you were dangerously close to the edge already and wanted you to fill his mouth with your sweet nectar. He doubled his efforts and let his shadows dissipate so that he could snake an arm under your hips to lift them off of the bed.

The second you were free your fingers locked onto his black locks while your thighs went around his ears. This new angle made the pleasure increase and you could feel yourself falling over the edge, the only safety net being him.

“Azriel…I can’t. I need it-I need-” You were a blubbering mess. He took pity on you and thrust a single finger into you, curling it to hit that spot deep inside. 

“Take it. It’s yours, Y/N.” Azriel urged, closing his eyes as the first gush hit his tongue.

A gasp was the only warning you gave before you came on his face. Your body went rigid before completely melting into the mattress, riding his face as best as you could from the angle he had you in. Azriel kept licking and sucking until you gently pushed his head away, memorizing his face that was now coated in your wetness.

You could feel the edge of the pollen fading away, your body not feeling quite as hot and sweaty. The ache to be filled was still there, however, and it was quite obvious from the bulge in Azriel’s pants that he would do the job perfectly.

“That was…wow.” You said breathlessly, looking up at him. He was glad you sounded more like yourself but the guilt was now crawling up his back. Azriel could hardly even look at you. And you noticed.

The gravity of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks. You were fully naked, with the hottest Illyrian soldier between your legs, after having just begged him to fuck you without even having dinner first. He didn’t even like you, couldn’t see you without shooting a glare or turning away. 

A small sniffle had him turning to look at you. You sneakily tried to wipe at your face and grabbed a pillow from behind you to try to cover up your body. “Azriel…I am so, so sorry.” Your voice was low and your head bowed.

“I watered Elain’s garden and found this flower. I thought I was being poisoned but it was a fertility flower used on the continent.” You explained before he could yell or curse you. That would break you entirely. “It’s used in mating ceremonies and such. I thought I was by myself and I was in so much pain…”

He cupped your face with one hand, brushing away a stray tear. “Why did you say my name?” 

Blood filled your cheeks at his question, your face and neck turning red. He wasn’t giving anything away that would tell you what he was thinking. You tried to look down but he held you steady. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I must have been just out of my mind.” A lie was the best thing you could think to do to try and save face. Azriel didn’t need to know about your feelings for him. “Are you mad?”

There was a minute of silence between you, his eyes unnerving you as they searched desperately for something. You could tell he was still very much aroused and tried to ignore the cramping that was ramping up once again in your lower abdomen. 

“You’re lying.”

It wasn’t a question or accusation, it was just a statement. He knew you were lying and you would rather suffer for the rest of your immortal life than tell him why you called out for him. 

“I don’t know what you’re-” You began but he cut you off, nostrils flaring. It was like he knew some secret that you didn’t but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell you.

“Tell me the truth, Y/N.” He ordered you but you closed your eyes, trying to find some peace in the darkness. You couldn’t do this, couldn’t face him.

Until you saw something in that darkness, something that kept fading in and out. You felt yourself reaching out for it and when you got closer, it was a shimmering silver thread. It was beautiful and pure and…familiar. 

Without hesitation you wrapped a hand around it and plucked it, gasping at the sensation. It felt like your entire body had been pulled with it but that’s not what made you open your eyes.

It was Azriel’s matching breath that made you stare at him in amazement. 

Hazel eyes stared into yours with the exact same emotion while his lips were parted just as yours were. A matching pair. Two sides of the same coin. It felt as if the entire world had been condensed to just the two of you, breathing in each other.

“What is this?” You murmured.

“Our bond.” Azriel hesitated as you furrowed your eyebrows. “You finally felt it.”

“Are you…are you my mate, Azriel?” The thread connecting you got impossibly brighter in your head when you said the word. You didn’t need him to answer the question though, already knowing it to be true. 

You were Made for him…and he for you.

Azriel watched with bated breath as you worked through everything in your mind and when you finally, finally, looked at him as he always dreamed you would he didn’t hesitate.

He brought your face to his and kissed you wordlessly, savoring the feeling of your mind through the bond that he had waited five hundred and forty years for. You matched his enthusiasm with passion of your own, biting down on his lower lip while pulling him closer. 

The groan he let out made a new fire ignite in your bones, giggling when he grabbed the pillow and tossed it into the corner of the room. Azriel moved from your lips to your ear, biting down gently.

“Say it again.” He all but pleaded while moving back to look at you again. 

There wasn’t anyone in the world that could stop you from giving him what he wanted. “My mate.” You smiled, pulling him back in for another kiss. “You’re my mate, Az.”

You started to fiddle with the strings of his pants and he all but leaped up to pull them off, watching you with hungry eyes. The aphrodisiac was certainly still in your system but it was nothing compared to what the revelation of your bond was doing to you. 

It was like a primal urge was drawing the two of you to consummate the mating bond as soon as possible. Azriel removed his clothing and when you studied him you swore your pussy throbbed in anticipation.

He was massive and before you could stop yourself, you crawled across the bed to where he stood. You sat on your knees and gazed up at your mate. “May I?” 

Azriel answered by grabbing your hair and tugging you to him, chest rising and falling in quick breaths. You wasted no time in taking him in your mouth. He tasted divine and his musk made you feel drunk. He grunted when you took him in as far as you could, coating his cock in saliva. 

“Good girl, fuck.” He praised you, trying to restrain the urge to fuck your mouth when you looked up at him. 

The praise made a fresh ripple of arousal coat your thighs which had you shifting on your legs. You badly needed him inside you but the urge to get him to cum in your mouth was greater. One of your hands went to the base of his dick to stroke what your mouth couldn’t and he moaned your name.

Your other hand drifted down to your weeping cunt and started to rub circles on your clit. The moan you let out reverberated around him and he suddenly pulled you completely off, lips curled up in a snarl. 

“I’m trying hard to be gentle with you, princess. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” Azriel warned. 

The warning went in one ear and out the other, your head swimming with lust. He was being too nice and you needed to be grounded, to be reminded that what was happening was real and you actually had a mate.

So you pushed his hands away and swallowed him whole until he hit the back of your throat, your eyes rolling back as you tried to breathe through your nose. Azriel sucked in a sharp breath and smirked, using both of his hands to grab your hair once more. “You asked for it.”

He didn’t give you time to pull up, starting a brutal pace of fucking your mouth. Both of your hands flew to his thighs to hold onto as you let him use you. The sounds coming from your mouth were sinful but it didn’t matter. You were enjoying the way his face contorted in pleasure and fuck anyone else who had a problem with it.

Azriel’s fingers started to twitch in your hair when you tried to help him, sucking as much as you could while gagging. He had never seen you more beautiful than now, on your knees with tear-stained cheeks choking on his cock. 

A ray of light being corrupted by the shadows.

The image was too much and you greedily drank down his cum when his hips stuttered, roaring out as he held you there until he was done. When he let you go you drew back with a gasp, cum leaking out of your mouth while you caught your breath. It was only a few moments before your mate laid you back and claimed your mouth once more, tasting himself on your tongue.

That inferno that had been building in your body was on the verge of exploding and Azriel could tell by how much you were squirming. He didn’t want to wait anymore and without questioning, lined himself up with your entrance.

You raised up on your elbows to watch him enter you, biting on the inside of your cheek at the first stretch. It felt exquisite. He pulled out slightly before pushing back in again, watching you consume his dick.

“Azriel…you feel so good.” You sighed, falling back onto the bed when he bottomed out. He had stretched you out to the max but it was as if your body craved more of him as it would never be enough. “Please, move.” 

“As my mate wishes.” Azriel purred before pulling out and slamming back in in one fluid motion. The thrust sent fireworks of pleasure throughout your body and you cried out for him, back arching. 

The pace he set was brutal, the two of you chasing a joint release. He bent down and took one of your breasts into his mouth, sucking the hard nub and nibbling on it until you left scratch marks down his arms. 

You opened your eyes to watch him fuck you, seeing the concentration and pleasure in his eyes when you clenched down. The end was coming all too soon but also not soon enough. 

His wings were covering the two of you, casting a warm light that made you feel fuzzy inside. You knew how sensitive Illyrian wings were, especially when you had made the mistake of touching Azriel’s when you had first met, but that was the goal you were going for,

Your finger gingerly reached up as he rutted into you and stroked down the sensitive membrane, your eyes taking in his reaction. He let out a full body tremble and looked down at you in untamed desire.

“Do it again.”

So you did. Over and over you caressed his wings, even letting your nails graze across sometimes. Azriel snarled and let his mouth come down to bite your collarbone, enjoying your cries of pleasure. He could tell you were getting close and if you kept touching him like that, he would be too.

Azriel doubled his efforts, rutting into you with mindless passion while you allowed yourself to be swept up by it. Your orgasm started to build and just as you ran three fingers down the edge of his right wing, you felt him hit that spot inside of you. 

“Shit, fuck! Az!” You squealed as your hands fell to grip onto something, anything, as you came to the crest of pleasure. “Right there! Please, please!”

He gave you a wolfish grin and angled his hips to hit it one, two, three more times until you came with a loud cry and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. Your cunt squeezed him like a vice, causing him to follow your lead and spill inside of you with a roar of his own. 

The bond between the two of you shone brightly as you met your peaks together. Azriel’s cum was hot inside of you and as he kept thrusting, you felt another orgasm ready to follow your first. You didn’t know if you could take it but he knew you could, dipping two of his fingers to your clit to rub quickly.

Your entire body shook in ecstasy when you came again, your mind going foggy. It felt like you were looking down at yourself, at your mate as he stilled inside of you to drink in the moment. You wanted to stay here forever.

His hand pushing back your hair made you come back to reality, your eyes squinting up at him. Azriel’s gaze was tender as you smiled at him. You cupped his face with one of your hands to match him, rubbing his cheek.

“My mate.” You sighed happily.

Azriel chuckled and kissed you softly, pressing his forehead against yours along with his body. The two of you were joined together in every sense of the word and it felt right.

“Yours. Forever.” He replied, breath tickling your face as you kissed once more. 

#azriel x reader #azriel smut #azriel #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #elain #feyre #rhysand #sjm #cassian #nesta #ic #inner circle #illyrian #bat boys #smut #sex pollen #acotar smut #acotar reader #reader insert #azriel shadowsinger #acotar series #elain archeron #eris vanserra #kinktober #kinktober prompts

[c-e-d-dreamer]

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Prologue

A/N: I know it's technically November first, which means Spooky Season is officially over, but what do you say we keep the spooky vibes going just a little bit longer? And what better way to do that than with witchy Nesta! And future werewolf Cassian ;) I am very excited for what I have planned for this fic, and I hope everyone enjoys! And if you don't, well, this is a love letter fic to @dustjacketmusings only, so I don't care. Also, gold star to everyone who can pick up on the 3 easter eggs in this prologue.

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Next Part

Darkness from the west trembles in the light As the sun rises on a new empire Shatter, crack, and take back what is right The golden bonds escape the pyre Mother blessed unity births power unforeseen The gods will bow before the strength of three

~ * * * ~

“Again.”

Nesta swallows down her wince. Swallows down the tingling pain in her cramped fingers. Swallows down the throb that's taken up home in her head, the way it makes everything fuzzy around the edges. Instead, she takes a deep breath, reaching for that well of power within herself. Sometimes, she likes to imagine it as a cat, napping in the sun when it's resting. She imagines that now, imagines stroking her hand along its fur until it begins to purr to life.

“Nesta.”

The cold, clipped tone has Nesta flinching instinctively. “I'm trying, Mama.”

“Clearly, you are not trying hard enough,” her mother scoffs, and even without looking at her, Nesta can imagine the disappointed scowl that's sure to be pinching Elinor Archeron's face. “You are an Archeron witch, or did you forget?”

“My magic is drained,” Nesta defends, squeezing her eyes tighter and trying to focus. “I just need another moment.”

“Drained?” Elinor's laugh is nothing short of mocking. “Your ancestors could do this in their sleep. You are a disgrace to our family name. I don't even know why I bother.”

“I can do it.”

Nesta knows her snapped words mean nothing if she can't prove it. She reaches for that beast inside her again and grabs fur until it roars. Until she can feel her magic slink between her fingers, wreathing its way up her arms. It sings in her veins and floods her lungs so every breath is pure power, writhing like a dancer in time to her pounding heart.

A hard strike across the face has Nesta crashing back down, a pained gasp tumbling past her lips. She cradles her cheek with her hand, blinking up at her mother, but Elinor's rage is potent. A fire practically blazes in those blue eyes, its path of wrath and destruction pinned right on Nesta.

“You stupid girl. Are you trying to burn the whole house down?”

“I'm sorry, Mama,” Nesta whispers before she swallows hard and stands up straight again, holding her chin high. Never cower, never let her see the cracks. “I'll be better next time.”

“You better be,” Elinor sneers, brushing her hands down the skirts of her dress and turning toward the door. It's a clear dismissal, an end to today's lessons. “Do not disappoint me, Nesta.”

Nesta can't help but flinch at the too loud sound of the door closing behind her mother. She presses a hand to her mouth to quiet the shuddering breath she lets out, blinking hard around the stinging heat pressing behind her eyes. When she presses her fingers to the skin of her cheek, she can still feel the lingering soreness from being slapped, but she's hopeful there won't be any bruising.

There certainly won't be a scar.

As if of their own accord, Nesta's fingers absentmindedly slide along the raised skin on her thumb. At least her mother's lessons aren't like the ones with her grandmother.

A knock at the door has Nesta almost jumping out of her skin in surprise, and for a fearful moment, she half wonders if her thoughts somehow summoned her grandmother back from beyond the grave. But then she hears her sister's voice, tentatively calling her name through the wood.

“Go away, Elain,” Nesta calls back, rolling her eyes even though her sister can't see her.

“But I need your help,” Elain protests, a hint of the whine Nesta knows always works on their father bleeding into her tone.

With a huff, Nesta stalks over to the door, yanking it open and not even bothering to hide her annoyance as she demands, “what?”

Elain chews on her lip, fiddling with the skirts of her dress, before admitting, “I lost Feyre.”

“What do you mean you lost Feyre?”

“Well, we were playing hide and seek, and she must have chosen a really good hiding place because I can't find her.”

“For Mother's sake,” Nesta sighs, already stepping out into the hall. “You know, next year, you'll be of a witch's age, and you won't have any more time for baby games.”

“Just because you came of age last year doesn’t mean you have to be so mean.”

Nesta’s steps stutter at Elain’s words, and she turns back around to find her sister still standing by the study door, her arms crossed and her expression less than impressed. Nesta knows that she’s right, but Nesta would also give anything to keep Elain and Feyre from turning thirteen. To let them play hide and seek and run through the gardens forever. To protect them from their mother’s clutches and her cruel lessons.

But Nesta has yet to find a spell for that.

So Nesta lets out a soft breath and offers Elain a small smile of apology. “Where did you already look for Feyre?”

Elain huffs quietly, practically a lamenting sigh, as she continues down the hall and to Nesta’s side. “I checked all the normal places. Under all the beds. Under Papa’s desk. All the closets.”

“Did you check the cellar?” Nesta asks, leading the way toward the main staircase.

“We’re not allowed down there, remember?”

“Exactly. And this is Feyre we’re talking about.”

Elain hums, and that’s answer enough for Nesta. With a shake of her head, she hurries down the main staircase and down the hall that leads to the cellar door. The dark wood looks unassuming, exactly as their mother intended it, but Nesta can feel the magic imbued within it. It seems to hum and whisper to her, seems to jump off the wood and skate across her skin and up her arms. If Nesta squints, she can even make out the protection runes carved beneath the wood stain.

Checking both ways down the hallway to make sure no one is watching, Nesta reaches forward, her fingers curling around the handle of the door. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath, feeling the magic pulsing through her hand before the handle twists and the door opens. She grabs Elain’s wrist and tugs her inside, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud.

Neither of them say anything as they follow the winding staircase down, Elain keeping her hand firmly in Nesta’s own. Nesta can’t say she minds the contact. The cellar has always made her feel uneasy. It’s the way she always feels like she’s being watched when she’s down here. The way whispers seem to creep along the floor and the walls like fog, Nesta never quite able to hear the words being spoken, but always having the undeniable feeling that they’re saying her name. It’s the way the air is always thick and still, as if whatever ominous presence calls this dark place home is holding its breath, even as it smiles from the shadows with too sharp teeth.

Nesta lets out a quiet breath when they reach the bottom of the stairs, giving Elain’s hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. Or perhaps it’s to help ground herself. She turns her attention to the left, unsurprised to find the door at the very end is cracked open, watery light spilling out around the edges like some sort of eerie beacon.

For a moment, Nesta hesitates, swallowing hard around the churning in her gut, the lump threatening to press into her throat. But then she swears she feels it, a presence beside her and Elain. But it doesn’t bring with it any of the unease the shadows of the cellar do. Instead, it feels almost warm, comforting. Like a mother’s hand curling around her shoulders, it urges her forward, guiding her through the door and into the room.

“You found me!” Feyre exclaims, jumping up from her spot crouched beside the door with a wide smile.

“Feyre, you know you’re not supposed to be in here,” Nesta seethes, already grabbing her youngest sister’s arm to tug her out of the room and back upstairs.

But Feyre yanks herself free, crossing her arms across her chest. “Just because you’re the oldest, that doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

Feyre sticks her tongue out, belying her eleven years of age, and Nesta merely rolls her eyes. “I’m serious. Mama would be furious if she knew.”

“We get it, Nesta. You’re Mama’s favorite, always the perfect child. That doesn’t mean the rest of us want to be.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, what you don’t know.”

“Um…” Elain speaks up quietly, breaking up her sisters’ glaring contest. “Is it supposed to be doing that?”

Nesta snaps her attention to the center of the room, to the magical object she’s always refused to look directly at for too long. The Cauldron stands on a slightly raised wooden platform, the wide circumference large enough that Nesta is sure it could swallow all three of her and her sisters whole if it wanted to. The black iron it’s made from is dark as night, dark enough to drown any light, any life, even as the legends sing of life being poured from it.

And for the first time since Nesta ever laid eyes on it, the Cauldron truly seems alive.

The liquid inside bubbles and pops, dark smoke rising and curling from its depths. The smoke spills over the edge of the platform, slithering down the platform and across the floor to them. Nesta swears it looks almost star flecked as it creeps closer to Feyre, threatening to curl around her ankles. Feyre jumps away from the smoke, hiding behind Nesta and curling her hands tight enough around Nesta’s arm that her nails bite into the skin.

“What’s it doing?” Feyre demands, her voice barely above a hushed whisper.

“I don’t know,” Nesta mutters, her own voice quiet, as if the Cauldron might hear them if they’re too loud. “But we need to get out of here.”

Nesta turns on her heel to do just that, keeping Feyre with her, but her feet stutter before she can even take a single step. Elain’s eyes have completely glazed over, the honey brown color of them foggy, and her gaze is focused solely on the Cauldron. Her expression is entirely blank in a way that has alarm bells ringing in Nesta’s head, has every hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

“Elain…” Nesta starts cautiously, watching with wide eyes as her sister starts to walk closer to the Cauldron. “Elain, what are you doing?”

Whether her sister can hear her or not, Nesta isn’t sure. Elain continues walking until she’s stood right at the foot of the wooden platform, smoke dancing and curling up her calves like flames, sparking against her skin like daylight. Like a puppet on strings, Elain’s hand slowly raises from her side, her outstretched hand reaching forward.

“Elain, don’t!”

Nesta’s free hand curls around Elain’s wrists at the same moment Elain’s fingers curl around the lip of the Cauldron. Nesta’s chest heaves, her entire body tensing up in anticipation, but nothing happens. There’s no explosion, no blinding light. The ground doesn’t shake and rumble beneath their feet. There’s just that choking stillness.

“Darkness from the west trembles in the light,” Elain speaks, her voice somehow sounding far away, like it’s not her own.

“Elain?” Nesta whispers, giving her sister’s wrist a tentative squeeze.

“As the sun rises on a new empire—”

“What’s wrong with her? Why is she saying that?” Feyre asks over Elain’s still speaking voice.

“I don’t know,” Nesta hisses, turning over her shoulder to glare at Feyre.

“The golden bonds escape the pyre—”

“Elain,” Nesta tries again, tugging on her sister’s hand more forcefully. “Stop that.”

“—unity births power unforeseen.” Nesta drops Feyre's hand and steps forward, physically prying Elain’s fingers off the Cauldron. “The gods will bow before the strength of three.”

With a soft gasp, Elain stumbles back, Nesta curling an arm around her waist to try and hold her steady. Elain blinks a few times, and it’s stark relief that floods through Nesta as she takes in the bright brown color, pink flooding back into her sister's cheeks and face.

“What happened?” Elain asks, her words slightly slurred together.

Before Nesta can answer her, Elain’s eyes flutter closed, Nesta practically crashing to the cold, hard stone floor in her effort to catch Elain’s deadweight. She wraps her arms tightly around Elain, tugging so her sister’s head is cradled in her lap. Her heart starts to pound when she lifts her hand to Elain’s cheek, the skin cool and clammy beneath her touch. She snaps her attention back to Feyre, her youngest sister standing with wide eyes and her arms curled around herself.

“We need to get Mama.”

~ * * * ~

“Think harder, Nesta.”

It takes everything within Nesta to swallow down her sigh. She already knows what making such a sound will earn her, but it’s easier said than done. They’ve been at this for what feels like hours now.

“I told you, Mama. I can’t be sure,” Nesta explains, keeping her eyes downcast and away from where her mother is pacing across the room. “I was more focused on making sure Elain was okay.”

“Honestly, Nesta,” Elinor sighs, and though Nesta keeps her attention firmly on her own lap, she can perfectly imagine her mother’s expression. “Your sister gives a prophecy in the Cauldron’s presence, and you couldn’t bother to remember it?”

“There was…” Nesta squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus. “There was something about unity. Blessed unity and it creating unforseen power… something about an empire, I think?”

“An empire? What about an empire?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Dammit, Nesta. Focus.”

The slap sings hard across Nesta’s cheek, the metallic taste of blood spilling in her mouth from how hard she bites her tongue to keep in her cry of surprise. Her fingers curl into fists in her lap, nails biting into her skin to ground herself, and Nesta takes a shaking breath in and out of her nose. She can tell that her mother’s patience is wearing beyond thin, that soon her mother will tire of this back and forth. And she knows that if she doesn’t do this, Elinor will turn her methods on Feyre next.

So taking another, more calming breath, Nesta imagines herself back in that room, in that cellar with her sisters. She imagines the Cauldron before her, bubbling and smoking. She imagines Elain’s face and the faraway look in her eyes. She imagines seeing Elain’s mouth move, the words spilling forth.

“The gods will bow before the strength of three,” Nesta recites back, just as Elain had.

She waits for her mother's clipping words, perhaps another slap over only remembering the single, final line, but there's only silence echoing in the room. Tentatively, Nesta raises her head, intent on meeting her mother's steely blue gaze head on, but Elinor's focus is far away, her attention snagged out the window. Nesta turns her own attention outside, curiosity piqued, but whatever her mother is staring at, whatever she sees laid out before her, it's only in her mind. Finally, she turns back to Nesta, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at her painted lips.

“Perhaps you won't be a disappointment to the Archeron name after all.”

—

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 @isterofimias @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

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #When We Howl #my fic

[thesistersarcheron]

Pairing: Feysand Word Count: ~2.8k Tags: AU - No Amarantha, Human Feyre Archeron x Fae Rhysand, Attempted Kidnapping, Dubious Consent - Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares Summary: Five times the High Lord of the Night Court tries to lure his human mate across the wall and the one time she hunts him instead. (Based on this prompt from deepwaterwritingprompts: Sometimes in the dead of night on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I see an extra door in the hallway, black and imposing.)

Read this fic on AO3!

It was hunger that woke her.

She became aware of it slowly—the low, rumbling growl of her belly, the dryness at the back of her throat, the acute emptiness that radiated upward from her gut until every limb ached with it. It was as if some ravenous beast had taken shelter in the vast pit of her belly and, unsatisfied with its sparse accommodations, took to shredding her insides in retaliation.

Brushing off the cobwebs of sleep from her mind, Feyre Archeron pushed back the threadbare quilt she huddled beneath and stood. She flinched away from the icy floorboards beneath her feet, stretching and yawning as she shuffled to the dresser at the foot of the bed for an extra pair of socks. 

Still, even as she straightened, rubbing a bit of warmth into her arms, the grogginess lingered.

She pressed a hand to her aching stomach and swallowed hard. 

The haze of hunger clouding her mind wasn’t a good sign. The pickled vegetables had run out weeks ago, and last night, her family had eaten the last of their bread and dried meat for dinner. The portions were pitiful, just a handful of bites each, and when Feyre went to count the coppers she kept tucked in her drawer to see if they might be able to afford another crust of bread from the village baker for breakfast, there had been none left.

A glance over her shoulder told her that both of her sisters slept undisturbed in the bed the three of them shared. Nesta’s puckered brow and the hand clutching the quilt over her stomach spoke to her own hunger, but sweet-tempered Elain simply sighed, curling deeper into the small pocket of warmth Feyre left behind.

Feyre meant to hunt in the morning. She needed to hunt, if they were to have any more meat for the table or hides to sell in the marketplace. Otherwise, they would starve. There were too many beggars in the village to compete for the rare coin thrown into their cups, and the other methods of earning some cash…

Well. Feyre wasn’t yet so desperate, and the men who could afford such a thing at this time of year were few and far between. She doubted they would take her up on it, anyway. Food may be scarce, but there were still plenty of women in the village whose ragged dresses strained at the bust and whose ribs couldn’t be counted as easily as hers.

But venturing into the frostbitten forest beyond their cottage would be too risky if she couldn’t fight back her hunger. If she didn’t fall asleep and lose fingers to the cold, then she would end up satisfying the appetite of the rangy pack of wolves she’d spotted stalking through her usual hunting grounds a week earlier. 

There would be no outrunning them, even if the bone-deep chill didn’t lull her to sleep and make her easy prey; they were just as hungry as she, just as desperate, and far, far more vicious now that the deer and rabbits they both hunted had pulled back into the heart of the forest for the winter.

She took a deep breath, shuffling out of the small bedroom on a hunter’s silent feet.

Water. That’s what she needed. A glass of water would dull the worst of the hunger pangs, and then she could get a few more hours of sleep, at the very least.

She moved on nimble feet, dodging a crumbling floorboard and slipping through the door. After eight years, she could navigate the Archerons’ small, two-room cottage with her eyes closed—and so she did, pinching the bridge of her nose as the hunger pains migrated to her skull like claws scraping against the boundaries of her mind.

In the hearth to her left, the low embers of a fire crackled. Her father would be on a small cot in front of it; his breathing was just as steady as her sisters’. To her right, the painted dining table and dented, rusting iron range that served as their kitchen. There would be a pail of water at the opposite end beneath the small window, hauled from the well a half-mile away.

Feyre stretched out a hand, blindly seeking the edge of the table. As she made contact with it, following the familiar grooves and contours to the opposite end, the scent of the dried meat and stale bread wafted up to greet her.

Agonizing hope pounded against her breast.

She blinked her eyes open, squinting against the dim light searing into them.

Had she missed a bite? Was there something left to fill her belly—a molded crust or too-tough strip of jerky that made her sisters turn up their noses?

Anything. She would take anything.

But even before she saw the empty table and the barren shelves above it, she knew that hope was futile. No, if there had been even a single morsel left, she and Nesta would have fought over it viciously at dinnertime. There was never any food left after meals like this, not even a single crumb.

The scent seemed to grow even stronger in the wake of that thought, but it wasn’t salted venison or watery rabbit stew perfuming the air.

Feyre took a deep, ravenous breath.

Hot, fresh bread—that’s what it was.

She could picture it clearly. Warm and sweet and yeasty, still steaming, its crust a shining, golden dome. So unlike the flat, heavy loaves she was used to, made with more sawdust and chalk than grain.

Woven into ribbons of sweetness wafting off of the bread was the savory scent of roast chicken stuffed with fragrant herbs and fresh, summery vegetables swimming in melted butter, creamy and smooth.

And there, beneath it all—clean, zesty citrus.

Feyre breathed and breathed and breathed in the scent of that phantom meal.

Simple, elegant fare. Luxurious, but only to those who knew the true worth of each component of the meal. 

She would have to sell a half-dozen hides to afford so much butter. Two dozen of her father’s whittled animals might equate to a small sack of flour for the bread. And how long would Nesta have to haggle down the price of a chicken in the marketplace before Elain swept in, blushing and batting her lashes, to all but steal it from beneath the butcher’s nose?

Feyre’s mouth watered, her tongue seeming to sting with the desire to eat. 

When was the last time she had chicken? Two summers ago, perhaps, when her attempt to raise a hen for the eggs ended abruptly as it started when an intrepid fox took a bite out of the squawking bird.

She had gotten good money for that fox. She’d shot an arrow right through its eye, and one of the wealthier ladies in town had exclaimed over its orange fur and purchased it right there in the street when she went to sell it at the market. After feasting on what was left of the chicken, it felt indulgent to spend a bit of that money on a piece of tart penny candy, but she had anyway.

And the citrus she could smell now… 

Lemon, perhaps. 

Feyre remembered it well. How many afternoons had she spent in her father’s office before the world she knew crumbled, examining crates of exotic fruits from the continent? How many lemons had she held to her nose, greedily breathing in their sweet, sharp scent and wondering where they came from—and what it must be like to be surrounded by a grove of lemon trees full of that scent? 

And how many times had her father caught her snooping and sliced open one of those lemons for her with a wink using the elegant penknife he always carried in his breast pocket, so she could dip one of the peppermint sticks he hid in the bottom drawer of his desk into it? How many sweltering afternoons were spent leaning out of a window of that seaside manor, savoring that cool, refreshing treat while her hair flew free in the salt wind?

Sea salt and citrus, forever the scent of perfect contentment.

She closed her eyes, breathing it in again as her heart stumbled. Sea salt and citrus and a fresh, warm meal…

It was a dream, all of it. It must be. She hadn’t felt such unblemished happiness since—

She couldn’t remember. That final summer before her mother died must have been ten years ago, maybe twelve. 

Still, her stomach rumbled dangerously. If she were dreaming, and the food was real enough in her mind…

She looked at the table. 

Empty, save for the fading flowers she had painted on its surface. The last of her hope gave way, crumbling.

But… Feyre bit her lip. Somehow, some way, chicken and vegetables and bread still scented the air, hanging heavy and delectable around her.

She turned, searching for its source.

And there, behind her: a door on an otherwise empty stretch of wall. 

A door that, in her waking hours, did not exist.

It was made of heavy, polished oak, carved simply enough. Warm. Inviting. The wood was golden, practically glowing, welcoming her inside. The brass knob glimmered in the dying firelight, and buttery sunshine spilled out from the crack beneath the door.

It was such a beautiful door that, for a moment, she hesitated.

She ought to be wary. Traveling peddlers brought stories—more and more, lately—of other border towns reduced to smoking rubble by the uncautious village girls who invited handsome, bloodthirsty faeries into their homes. Strange folk, tall and graceful and shrouded in mist and shadow, searching for something they would not find below the wall that separated the human world from their own and driven into devastating rages when they were left wanting.

But her dream beckoned as a fresh wave of pain clenched her empty stomach in its fist.

She reached for the knob.

And strong, warm fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Feyre couldn’t stop the shriek that tore from her throat. Not a dream, not a dream! 

That invisible hand pulled, dragging her to the threshold as the door swung open.

Feyre barely caught a glimpse of red stone and a long table as she skittered back, wrenching her wrist out of the shadows—shadows!—gripping it. They let go, disappearing as if they were nothing more than a wisp of steam curling off the platters she saw glistening beyond the doorway, and her hips clashed against the edge of her own table as she fell back with the full force of her panic.

Not a dream, not a dream, oh gods!

Her father’s soft snores cut off, replaced by grumbling.  “What in the seven…” His cot creaked dangerously, “Elain?”

Feyre was dimly aware that she was shaking, her face buried in her hands, having collapsed to the floor after hitting the table. And though humans no longer had gods to pray to, her thoughts were reduced to a desperate litany. 

Oh, gods. Oh, gods. Please no. No, no, no.

“Feyre?” Her father’s voice was louder, slurred with sleep.

“What?” In her ears, her own voice was shrill, terrified. Quavering. 

She glanced back at the wall and found—

A hysterical sound bubbled up from her chest.

A wall. 

Just a wall.

“Feyre?” Her father’s cane dragged against the floorboards, and the cot creaked again, louder this time. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing!” She scrambled to her feet, her attention locked on the wall. Not real, not real, please gods, no. She turned her head toward the hearth, but didn’t dare look away from the spot where the door had been. “Just a bad dream. I was getting a glass of water and tripped. Don’t get up.”

“Hmph.”

She listened to her father’s cane return to the floor beside the cot with a quiet clatter. His bedclothes shifted, and a low, pained groan rent the air as several stiff joints cracked and popped. 

“You should be more careful in the dark, Feyre. These floors’re uneven.” His words were muffled, distant, muttered by a man already half-asleep beneath his blankets. “...shouldn’t stay so late. Twilight’s not good for maidens.”

Feyre’s head whipped to him—already sound asleep, wholly undisturbed. “What did you say?”

A soft snore answered her.

It didn’t matter. She knew the answer already, that fractured bit of verse dredged up from the tired mind of a tired man. 

It was the sort of thing he might have said once with a conspiratorial grin. There had been so many nights when he’d caught Feyre up past her bedtime, slipping and sliding across the smooth, marble floors of their estate in her stocking feet in the pale moonlight. 

Some small part of her still expected him to rise from the cot and sneak up on her from behind, to pinch her side and chase her back to her room, singing that hair-raising chant until she shrieked with laughter and woke her sisters. For a long moment, she waited, watching, as if he might wake and do just that…

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. The warning was a rote thing, nothing more than a playful bedtime chant turned to habit sometime during the too-short years of her childhood.

Her shoulders slumped, and she turned back to the wall. To her relief, it was still an empty stretch of wall. 

“Nevermind,” she murmured to herself. The word was bitter on her tongue. “Goodnight.”

She lifted a hand, testing the patchy wattle and daub wall beneath her fingers. Utterly normal, if one considered walls that crumbled under the slightest bit of pressure normal.

She heaved a sigh, squaring her shoulders. Her stomach protested against the movement with such force that Feyre ended up hunched in on herself for a moment, pressing a fist hard into the worst of the cramping in her middle.

Fear—real fear, deeper and more persistent than a split-second nightmare—clutched her, even as cool relief loosened her terror-stiff limbs. That’s all the door was. A hallucination brought on by hunger and exhaustion. 

No. Not hunger.

Starvation. 

The final, desperate act of the frenzied beast in her gut.   

Heavy lead filled the pit of her belly. She had watched as other villagers succumbed to hunger before—at least a handful every winter. It was always the same, and the village was always a pitiless, starved audience forced to witness it. 

First came the crying and begging brought on by the sheer pain and panic of that first, gut-shredding wave of hunger. Day by day, as she entered the marketplace to hawk her hides, Feyre noticed that the pleading slowed, melting into molasses-thick lethargy as round cheeks sunk and limbs withered. 

By that point, most tended to lay down anywhere they could without being trampled at that point. Most never got up.

But a fair few did. They rose, calling out to forgotten gods and long-dead mothers for mercy, and then, without fail, a hunter—one of the older ones, a grizzled old man with dull, brown eyes—was called to put them down.

It wasn’t safe, the rag-tag council of old men who made up the village’s leaders said. Who could know what foul, bloodthirsty manner of faerie might hear them beckoning from death’s threshold and descend on them all, if they were allowed to live?

A chill dragged insidious fingers up Feyre’s spine.

She hastened to get a glass of water, blindly grabbing one of the dented pewter cups from their place on the window’s ledge. She needed something, anything, to stave off the worst of the pain. More sleep, too, and perhaps she would wake refreshed for once, and the door and the hand and the food would be nothing more than a distant nightmare.

The draft seeping through the window’s crooked sashing slammed into her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, conserving what little heat she could in her thin shift. The cheap panes were cloudy, so scratched that only a few small slivers of the world peered back at Feyre as she sipped from her glass. 

Snow had fallen while she was asleep. A great, white blanket of it covered the barren earth of the small clearing beyond the cottage. The trees had long since shed their leaves, and they reached up into the sky like desperate penitents seeking mercy from the harsh cold that was bound to kill off several of their kin in the coming months. If not the cold, then the sheer weight of the snow would strangle and break them.

Feyre followed the line of those branches up and up and up, and there, high above her in the midnight sky, past that sparse canopy, two round clusters of stars twinkled down at her, looking for all the world like a pair of great, laughing eyes. 

She stuck her tongue out at them.

Thanks for reading! I have several chapters of this fic fully written and the rest is thoroughly outlined, so I’m planning to post ~once per week. 💕

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #a court of thorns and roses fic #my fics #atwfd #as the world falls down #please read the tags for content warnings!

[velidewrites]

Don’t Look Back

Five hundred years ago, the humans fought hard for their freedom in the Great War and won. Now, their former masters seek retribution in a rebellion that grows stronger year by year. When Elain Archeron finds out marrying Greysen Nolan might be the only solution to keep her family safe from the ancient, cruel Fae, she doesn't hesitate to fulfil her duty. What Elain doesn't know, though, is that the man with the fiery hair and russet eyes is not her fiancé, but his killer—and when she finally finds out, well…it will be far too late to turn back.

Chapter 5/15 || Read on AO3 || Go to Chapter 1

Chapter 5: The Hold

Much to Elain’s dismay, Lucien decided to put a blindfold on her before she managed to examine the strange place.

The Vanserra Hold, Lucien had called it. All Elain had caught a glimpse of, though, was the circular clearing, and the fire burning around it. As far as she was concerned, the only things this forest held were the Vanserras’ egos and a rather pungent collection of mud.

She could feel the magic around her, though. The metallic tinge of it was familiar enough for her to make out through this blend of autumn and sunlight—she had scented it on more than one occasion in her father’s private repository. It was almost like autumn had somehow found a way to trap this piece of land as the rest of the world moved through the rest of the seasons unaffected.

Despite herself, Elain enjoyed the way it warmed her skin. Her body seemed to move of its own accord as she tilted her chin upwards, as though to soak up whatever light the gaps between the trees offered.

Doing so had been a mistake—something sharp caught in her hair, grazing against the back of her neck lightly, and Elain jumped at the sensation.

“Stop moving,” Lucien instructed, tying the piece of cloth around her head at last. The blindfold may have covered her sight—her entire face, really—but Elain could practically hear his eyes roll at her reaction to his claws. “I thought you weren’t afraid of monsters, Princess,” he teased.

“Stop calling me that,” she barked. Frankly, she was starting to get quite sick of his little jabs—sick of everyone calling her the title she had not earned. In their mouths, it had always sounded like at worst mockery. At best, it had been respect for her father, not Elain. Never Elain.

She felt Lucien shrug. “I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said, taking a step back as if to admire his work. “You’ve had no trouble calling me a beast earlier.”

“I never said beast,” Elain corrected.

A sigh. “Beast, monster,” Lucien said. “Creature. It’s all the same to me, just as I know it’s all the same to you.”

Behind the blindfold, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to know what I mean,” she hissed. “You are a monster. You killed my mother.” 

“Eris did.”

“I don’t imagine you tried stopping him,” Elain said, crossing her arms over her chest in accusation. “He doesn’t even feel a shred of remorse about it.”

Lucien snorted. “No, he does not,” he said. “And neither do I. Think of me whatever you like, Princess, but I’m not even half the monster your mother was.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the Fae slander her mother in the past few hours. The two of them had never been as close as Elain had wished—Mother had always seemed to prefer Nesta, which, as disappointing as it once had been, was not surprising in the least. Nesta was, and always had been, a force to be reckoned with—an heir that would strengthen the Merchant’s position in the new world no matter the odds. Elain…Mother had never once looked at Elain the way she would look at Nesta. With pride, with determination. Still, Elain supposed, it was better than Mother never looking at her at all.

As much as she’d always underestimated Elain, and ignored her youngest daughter completely, Elain had never believed her mother to be a bad person. She was ambitious, yes—stricter than most parents would have been, even the titled ones—but a monster…

She wished she wasn’t blindfolded, if only to give Lucien the nastiest look possible as she told him, “I don’t believe you.”

An equally nasty retort must have been armed at the ready on Lucien’s tongue, because Vassa interjected, reminding them both of her presence, “Give them a chance, Elain.” A hand on her shoulder—Vassa’s, thankfully, if the gentleness of the touch was any indication. “I promise you, all will be explained soon.”

“Ah, yes. The truth.” Elain rolled her eyes, and, as politely as she could muster for old time’s sake, shook Vassa’s hand off. “I want to believe you, Vassa, but how can you be sure they didn’t use their magic to lure you over to their side?” she asked, then added, “In New Prythian, they tell us if the Fae who could hold a person’s mind like it was nothing. Who could make it their own with less than a snap of their fingers. How can you be sure they haven’t done the same to you?”

To her utmost surprise, Vassa giggled. “Eris doesn’t have this ability,” she said. “And neither does Lucien—though I imagine he feels very bitter about it.”

A low scoff sounded beside them. “Can you not see me standing here?”

“Either way,” Vassa continued as if Lucien hadn’t spoken at all, “I didn’t simply trust their word, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There is…” she hesitated. “An object.”

Perhaps it was the Merchant’s daughter in her—but Elain’s brows rose. “An object?” she asked, her interest piqued as her mind began running through her father’s collection of truth-enhancing artifacts.

Lucien hissed. “Not here, Vassa.”

Vassa sighed deeply. “Sorry, Elain,” she told her. “You’ll have to be patient with us, I’m afraid.”

Elain huffed. “It’s hard to be patient with a blindfold around my face,” she complained, blowing the loosened cloth away from her mouth. “I can hardly breathe.”

A light step towards her crunched one of the autumn-coloured leaves as long, slender fingers reached for her, gently adjusting the blindfold and pulling it high enough to expose her mouth to the sunlight once again. It was a nice change from Lucien’s talons and Vassa re-tied the piece of fabric—a little tighter this time, yet not tight enough to pull on so much as a strand of hair.

“Thank you,” Elain told her, shoulders relaxing in Vassa’s warm presence.

But it wasn’t Vassa’s voice who spoke back, so close to Elain’s face she could almost feel its owner’s breath on her neck as he pulled back. “You’re welcome,” Lucien said quietly, leaving nothing but a light tingle on her skin.

The memory of his body’s closeness to her own made Elain suck in a breath, and, for the first time, she truly allowed herself to think about the events before she discovered Lucien’s deception. The way he’d swayed her in a dance, a strong hand braced gently on her waist. The way his laugh rasped against her ear as he told her her eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen—as she had confessed the exact same to him before pressing her mouth to his own.

The reminder of it—the lie, made her empty chest tighten. But before she could take her thanks back, before she could blow up at him for tying her up and taking her from her home all over again, the sound of someone’s steps reached her ears.

Eris stopped by her side, tall and commanding. “If you three are done wasting our time, I suggest we get moving.”

“Let me help you,” Vassa offered, taking Elain by the arm. “This really wasn’t necessary, Eris,” she added pointedly, her gaze palpable on the cloth covering half of Elain’s face.

“I can’t have her running back to the Merchant and spilling all our secrets,” Eris said calmly. “The entrance to the Hold is sealed and has never been opened by anyone who doesn’t bear the Vanserra name.”

And with that, he simply turned and left again.

“So demanding, these males,” Vassa hummed, and, with a light tug as her only invitation, Elain started walking.

The heat of the fire burning atop the pillars signalled that they reached the very centre of the bizarre circle—the entrance to their family hold, Elain suspected from Eris’s words. As much as she hated to admit it, Eris had been smart to demand a blindfold be put on her. Elain would’ve started noting every corner of this place into her mind had she only been able to see them.

Still, she would make do with whatever clues she’d been offered. The ground changed beneath her feet, the heavy echo of stone signalling what had to be a door. The Vanserra Hold laid underground, then—it was not some invisible fortress hidden between the trees she’d initially suspected had been glamoured using whatever remnants of High Lord magic Eris still possessed. If he indeed was the direct descendant of Old Prythian’s Fae regime, Elain needed to be careful. The Fae’s magic had become nothing but a shadow of its past might, but—as Elain had learned—darkness could be haunting if one walked into it blind.

Silently, she cursed the damn blindfold again.

Around her, the flames intensified, and Elain could feel it blaze high up into the sky at whatever command Eris had given it. To have such power over an element, especially one as uncontrollable as fire, filled Elain with unease. Just what, exactly, could the Vanserras do with the fire in their blood?

The stone rattled loudly beneath her feet, and she felt Vassa pull on her arm once more as if to get her to step back. Elain obeyed. She may not have appreciated being taken here, but that hardly meant she’d let herself be swallowed by the depths of the earth itself.

Apparently, she was instead supposed to walk into them of her own volition. The entrance had stopped moving after a few seconds, its final groan sounding in what had to be a hallway stretching underneath. After Vassa murmured something that suspiciously sounded like “stairs,” Elain realised this might take a while.

To have survived this long—five hundred years after the War, to be exact—the Vanserras must have taken all the precautions their magic had allowed for to protect themselves. The Hold must have been carved deep into this enchanted piece of land. Elain couldn’t help but feel some excitement at the thought of being one of the few humans allowed to step foot in it.

Kidnapped or not, she was in Old Prythian. She had visited Braemar only once as a child, and, even so, she had spent the entire trip either in her father’s golden carriage—so unlike the half-rotten wooden wagon Lucien and Eris had her travel in—or the Huntsman’s fortified castle. She wasn’t even allowed outside—not that the Huntsman had any gardens or sights to offer beyond the hunting rounds surrounding his residence. Elain wondered how Vassa must have felt leaving that place for good—seeing the world beyond her father’s iron gates.

Elain had always found ways to occupy herself. The Archeron Manor boasted acres upon acres of rolling green hills, of greenhouses and little fruit orchards Elain tended to on summer days. It was her way of being useful, in whatever way she could. She was not a tactician the way Nesta or her mother had been, or a free spirit like Feyre, sneaking off the family grounds whatever chance she could. Perhaps it was why Elain hadn’t ended up married to one of the most powerful men in the world, like Nesta. Perhaps it was also why she hadn’t ended up killed like Feyre.

The thought made something heavy lodge itself into her throat as she began descending down the stairs. Her quiet life spent conforming to the rules may have avoided her being married to a family as cruel as the Harvester’s, or being taken by the Fae and presumed dead. But, about to discover the trove of one of the most ancient magical families Prythian had ever seen, Elain couldn’t help but wonder if she ever truly lived at all.

Nesta had hardly written her at all these days, kept under the Harvester’s close watch, but Elain had no doubt her older sister’s scheming did not end with her marriage. And Feyre—her wild, wonderful Feyre—while she hadn’t lived very long, Elain knew that, if given another chance, Feyre would not have let herself be trapped in their family’s manor for the sake of something as fleeting as safety.

Perhaps, eventually, she would have run away the way Vassa had, which brought Elain back to the question she’d been meaning to ask ever since that awful carriage ride to the Hold.

“How on earth did you manage to kill twelve men on your own?” she turned to Vassa, grimacing at yet another wet drop of watery mud gracing the top of her head. From the amount of cracks in the ceiling, Elain deduced the Vanserra Hold was a lot older than five hundred years—perhaps twice that, or even more.

“You don’t get to be the Huntsman’s daughter without learning how to fight,” Vassa said, a sly smile creeping into her tone. “I became a warrior on the day I learned how to stand.” Then, “I could teach you, if you’d like,” she offered.

“Oh, I’m no warrior,” Elain said. Someone like Feyre or Nesta may have taken her up on the offer, but Elain…

“Just because you’re not a warrior doesn’t mean you can’t learn how to fight—to defend yourself,” Vassa said. “Lucien isn’t a warrior, but I can assure you he knows how to land a strike or two.”

Somewhere behind them, Lucien scoffed. “Excuse me—“

“Oh, shut it,” Vassa interrupted, much to Elain’s content.

The corridor rumbled with a snarl in answer.

Elain jerked her chin pointedly at Lucien. “He sure seems like a warrior to me,” she told Vassa, who laughed at the comment.

“Lucien commands one of our legions, but his primary role is diplomatic in nature.” Elain felt her shrug. “He’s an emissary—sometimes even a courtier, when the situation demands it.”

Elain arched an eyebrow. “Courtier?” She scoffed. “I’ll make sure to advise all the other human courts to keep him off the guest list.”

Courtier. The Fae certainly had some way of showing it. As far as political envoys went, Elain was pretty sure she’d never heard of kidnapping their host being one of their responsibilities.

Lucien seemed entirely unbothered by her not-so-subtle dig. “I have no desire to attend your human parties—if you can even call them that—ever again,” he said.

Rude. “Looks like he could use some additional training,” she said to Vassa. The woman laughed again, apparently all too happy to play witness to their exchange.

Lucien hummed lowly, the sound reverberating into her bones. “You seemed to find my presence perfectly enjoyable, Princess,” he teased, the stupid nickname quickly prompting the return of the anger she’d been stifling.

Lucien Vanserra was such a liar.

“Is he always this insufferable?” Elain asked gruffly.

Vassa’s chuckle danced off the stone walls. “Oh, yes,” she told her. “Worse, even.”

Elain didn’t get the chance to play along—the entire party came to a halt.

She heard the crackling of flames again, followed by a quiet whisper of something she couldn’t quite discern from Eris’s lips—and then, a loud grunt of heavy, wooden doors, protesting against the clearly rusted, iron hinges.

Vassa led her into the room, an almost indiscernible gust of wind greeting them as they entered. Elain felt the wooden panels beneath her feet—then a balustrade, smooth and polished as though recently renewed. She rested her hands on the wood, then reached out only to find an empty space.

A pair of hands reached the knot tied at the back of her head, working smoothly to undo it. Elain nearly sighed with relief as the material fell from her face, and her gaze immediately darted to follow its direction.

It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.

Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty corner, It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.

Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty space, containing what Elain had to imagine were artifacts the family had gathered over the course of their entire lineage. Sofas, ottomans and small, cushioned puffs waiting at every level, as if to provide reprieve for every Vanserra wishing to take a moment to study the knowledge and wisdom of his ancestors. The entire place had been crafter of warm, auburn wood, with small globes of fire trapped within stained glass floating around calmly, illuminating the space.

It was a library. It was a treasury. It was a home.

Eris led them to the left of the small balcony, then through a foyer where the staircase to the first downstairs level stretched out, and a door waited patiently to let new visitors in. Eris ignored the staircase, much to Elain’s disappointment, and wrapped a freckled hand around the golden handle—then twisted.

They walked into an unassuming, circular study, with red sofas and a large, heavy desk placed at the back of the room. The entire wall was clad in paintings—some of them portraits of the Vanserras of old, most brown or red-headed, all with a piercing, fiery stare—and others displaying scenes of a hunt, with the family mounting proud stallions and flaunting red banners, hoardes of greyhounds running at their side.

The Vanserras, Elain realised right there and then, had once been royalty.

“Stay here,” Eris instructed, as if thoroughly unimpressed by the scenes laid out before him. “Vassa, I need you with me,” he then said, and, without so much as turning over his shoulder, went out the door.

The only thing Vassa offered Elain before following in the High Lord’s footsteps was a rather exaggerated roll of her eyes. “All those centuries, and they never learned to say please.”

***

Because luck seemed to have made its personal nemesis out of Lucien, he was left in the room with Elain Archeron. Alone.

He did not support Eris’s decision to bring her into the Hold. It had always been a trove of their family’s legacy, and, more importantly, their secrets tha Elain was not privy to. With the exception of a few close allies, no living beings apart from Lucien and his brother knew about this place, and Lucien preferred to keep it that way. There were so few places he could call home these days.

The truth, as Vassa had so eloquently put it, could have been revealed to Elain somewhere else. As far as Lucien was concerned, the Merchant’s daughter, of all people, had no business stepping foot into the Vanserra Hold.

But, for some reason far beyond Lucien’s imagination, Eris wanted her here, even when her family had proven time and time again they were not to be trusted.

He would speak to his brother about this later. For now, apparently, he was Elain Archeron’s assigned guard dog.

Lucien dared a glance at the human Princess, and regretted it almost immediately. As much as he didn’t enjoy her presence in his home, she might very well have been the most beautiful thing that had ever made its way into the Vanserra thought.

He could almost feel his ancestors’ sharp looks of disapproval from the portraits above him, as if they had heard the traitorous thought. They haven’t spent much time alone, and yet, whenever the two of them had found themselves with no company to interrupt them, Lucien had a hard time remembering what Elain truly was. It felt strange—that something so beautiful could have come from a lineage of such monsters.

There was simply something about the way she took in her surroundings, wide-eyed with the awe written all over her face—as though she could feel the magic buzzing in this place. It lit up her features like the fire shining above them, like the sunlight warming the entrance to the Hold, turning her brown eyes into pure, liquid honey.

There was some wariness etched into her face, too, though. She must have recognised exactly how much power this place housed, and how unmatched she stood in comparison had she tried to run away again. Clever little thing—he could practically see the wheels of her mind turning, cataloguing every image, every object into the pages of her memory to report to her father later.

Over Lucien’s dead body would he ever let that happen. 

“I have to ask,” Elain’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “What was so horrible about our human parties?”

Lucien blinked—how she’d always managed to catch him off guard, he did not know, and frankly, he didn’t want to. Perhaps it truly was some magic the Archerons passed down to one another generation after generation. Perhaps it was in their blood to be the thorn in the Vanserras’ side.

Their conversation from a few minutes ago flitted back into his memory. What wasn’t wrong with the humans’ dreadful balls and ceremonies, really?

He told her exactly that. “They lack…life. You walk into the room and the very air drowns you.” He shook his head, recalling the engagement festivities arranged by her father. “It’s impressive at first, I’ll give you that—the walls and chandeliers dripping in gold, and the finest cuisine the world has to offer.” He grimaced. “But then, the music starts playing—and it may be performed by some of the most sought after quartets in Prythian, but…”

Elain’s perfect brows rose an inch. “But?”

“The dancing—all of it, really—it feels like a chore. A formality required to earn some standing in society. Your parties,” Lucien added, the word he’d been chasing finally finding its way onto his lips, “feel like a contract. The dullness, the lacklustre monotony of it—

Elain huffed. “Alright, I get the picture,” she interrupted, but Lucien hadn’t missed the curiosity in her gaze as she side eyed the scenes of the hunt stretched out beside them. “What are your parties like, then?” she asked.

It may have been the longest the two of them had spoken since the ball, Lucien realised. So little time had passed since then that it almost felt as though they were continuing their conversation from the night before. “I’m only a little over four hundred years old,” he told her, ignoring the shock parting her mouth at his words. “I never got to witness my predecessors’ celebrations before the War, or any of their holidays for that matter. A shame, really.” He felt his mouth twitch. “One of those holidays, I think I would have been a most devoted participant of.”

“I have a feeling I know where this is going—something terribly Fae and uncouth.”

“Quite,” Lucien agreed, unable to keep the grin off his face. Something told him he was going to enjoy scandalising this female—this woman—his mind immediately corrected, but he ignored the voice anyway. “In most parts of the world, they called it Calanmai, or Fire Night. It originated in the Spring Court, actually—the lands your family has claimed as New Prythian.”

Elain frowned. “We do not have any such holidays in our records.”

Lucien scoffed. “Of course not. I don’t imagine you humans would have found it appropriate by any means. Calanmai was a celebration of the coming of spring—and in the Court itself, it was a most sacred ritual performed by the High Lord to imbue magic into the land. Think of bonfires, thousands of them, lighting up every hill, smoke lilting into the stars. Drums, loud and echoing into the night. And wine—so much of it that you’d end up falling asleep under the sky, waking up to the spring breeze in your hair. The sun warming your face.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “Or, at least, that is how it was described to me.”

He could have sworn something pink heated in Elain’s cheeks. “I could see it, you know. You being a courtier—when you’re not such a condescending asshole, that is.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I have never met a Princess so crass before,” he purred, deeply revelling in the resentment she bore for the nickname. How could she not be a Princess, though? Everything about her stance radiated command as she crossed her arms in disdain, her full lips pursing and those doe-like eyes flashing with challenge.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched. “And I told you I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said. “Comes with the Asshole title, I’m afraid.”

Delighted, he watched as Elain whirled back to the Vanserra family portraits, murmuring something that suspiciously like prick and ridiculous, even her ears flushing that warm, lovely pink. Lucien smiled to himself.

“So, what was the ritual?” Elain’s voice reached him, still gruff as she focused on the rather unpleasant profile of Lucien’s great-great grandfather.

“Ritual?” Lucien questioned, his attention refusing to step back as far as two minutes ago for reasons unbeknownst to him.

Finally, Elain turned to him again. “Calanmai,” she reminded him.

Right. Lucien coughed again. “As I mentioned, infusing magic back into the land was the primary aim of the celebrations—it was the High Lord’s obligation to perform what was called the Great Rite.”

Elain’s brows knitted. “And how, exactly, was he supposed to do that?”

The grin made its way back Lucien’s face as he explained, “Every year, the High Lord of the Spring Court allowed the power of the Rite into his veins. Transformed into a beast, a creature of the very essence of spring, he would allow it to seize his body, his mind, his senses entirely.” He met Elain’s gaze directly as he added. “Each year, the magic would choose a Maiden—usually one of the members of Calanmai celebrations—a companion for the High Lord to…complete the Rite.”

Elain’s eyes widened. “They—they would—”

“Fuck, yes,” Lucien completed for her with a wave of his hand, eliciting a small gasp from Elain’s lips. He chuckled. “And, with the act, they would ah, release the magic into the land. To allow crops to grow healthier, of course.”

The silence hung between them long enough that Lucien couldn’t help but tease her some more. “Something wrong, little fawn?” he asked, realising that he was indeed thoroughly enjoying this—and that perhaps it was a good thing Eris or Vassa weren’t here to scold him for scandalising their guest a step too far. In his defence, Elain had asked him first.

“Your parties sound outrageous,” Elain finally said, that heat in her cheeks rising.

Lucien winked. “That’s exactly what parties should be, Princess.”

Elain smiled at that—a true smile, the kind she’d offered Vassa when she first saw her at the camp. The same kind she’d offered him when she hadn’t yet thought him an utter monster. “Is that why you brought me here? To show me how to throw better parties?”

Lucien choked. “Show you?”

The picture of it invaded his mind without warning—an image of him and Elain partying the way Lucien’s ancestors demanded it. A cave, lit up by faelight and thrumming with magic, their bodies naked and intertwined on the mossy earth, its fragrance mixing with their sweat. Elain laid out bare beneath him, her breasts heaving up and down in panting, shallow breaths as he entered her, so perfect and ready for his taking, his—

Lucien sucked in a breath, nearly choking again on the force of it, the force of the picture pushed back into the darkest, most secret corners of his mind. Eris and Vassa should have been here after all, if only to remind him of what happened the last time Lucien Vanserra had decided to trust a human like Elain Archeron.

Because she was a human. And the humans—the humans took his mother. His father, however horrible he had been. His brothers. They had nearly taken Eris, too, and Lucien’s heart right with it.

Lucien would not let it happen again. He would not let another Jesminda into his life.

“Of course,” he said tightly, “My people’s traditions would not have faded from common memory had it not been for you humans.” He shrugged. “As for why we brought you here—take it up with Eris. If it were for me, I would have never brought you into the Hold.”

He could see it—the way Elain’s smile faded. The confusion filling her shining stare, blending into hurt, so sharp it could no doubt pierce his own chest if she only stepped in closely enough.

Lucien could see it all, and the worst part of it was that he hated himself for it.

“We brought you into the Hold,” Eris voice sounded from a place Lucien was not yet ready to return to yet as his brother walked back into the study, Vassa falling into step beside him, “Because it was the safest place to show you this.”

In a few long strides, Eris reached the desk, and placed the heavy object right at its middle, the wood croaking slightly under its weight. A thick red fabric—an old Vanserra banner, from the looks of it—covered the globe entirely. Eris motioned for Elain to step in closer—and she did, as if drawn by the mystery of it alone. Lucien, though—Lucien remained frozen in place.

“This,” Eris began, placing his hand atop the smooth surface, “is the Veritas Orb.” In one, swift motion, he slid the banner off, revealing one of their family’s most prized and priceless possessions. The Orb shone a quiet, crystalline light, as though somehow made of all the colours and none of them at all, humming gently at the closeness of its owner’s hand—as if begging. Touch me. Talk to me. Ask me.

But Eris turned from its whisper—and looked at the Merchant’s daughter who stood in utter shock, mesmerised by the treasure laid out right before her.

“So, Elain Archeron.” Eris smiled. “Are you ready to learn the truth?”

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elucien fic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar #my writing

[wingsdippedingold]

The purpose of the mating bond (TL;DR at the bottom)

I was thinking about the mating bond (and consequently how much I hate it) and I started wondering about it's purpose. Apologies: This is barely organized rambling.

Our current explanations are: to create the most powerful offspring, and that the mates are perfect equals. We know its not romance since there are examples of unhappy mates so I'm ignoring that.

Rhysand suspected he was Feyre's mate while she was still human, aka before she was a high fae, and they were still mated after she was. This means that the bond doesn't care about physical bodies, which would play a part in powerful children since fae are just supposed to be so much better than humans in EVERY WAY. Therefore it had nothing do with offspring, but knowing SJM Nyx is gonna be even more powerful as an adult because her favs need to be worshipped like gods.

If the purpose was to create the most powerful offspring that wouldn't even work logistically? The two most powerful beings being mated would work, but everyone after that, not so much. Its kinda weird to explain so imagine 4 fae, their power ranking aligning with their number. 1 & 2 are mated because as the most powerful, their children would then also be the most powerful. With Rhys logic, 3 & 4 would be mated. But 3 & 4 child would be much less powerful than a 1 & 3 child, so that mate bond wouldn't produce the most powerful offspring. Of course the mother could just go by pairing the next most powerful people, but we've seen examples where even then that's not what happens. Of course unique combinations of genes could lead to powerful kids without the need of powerful parents, but considering Rhysand's high lord father was mated with an average Illyrian mother, that doesn't always seem to be the case.

Okay so power aside, the other explanation is that the two mates are two equal halves. Sure? I guess? But that seems to be a product of being mated rather than the reason. Rhysand's parents had huge power imbalances and their personalities didn't mesh. Sure, you could be equal without compatible personalities but power and livelihood? I find it hard to believe.

The mating bond is so inconvenient for it to be a reasonable way of getting any offspring produced in the first place. Rhysand and Cassian were both mated to people from the human world, of course those humans came to the fae world so their mating bond lines up with fate. BUT. They went 500 years without a mate just to end up with 20 yr old women as mates? Same thing with Rhysand's parents. A 900 YEAR OLD MAN AND A 19 YEAR OLD WOMAN. WHAT THE FUCK. High fae rarely leave their courts too, and considering everyone supposedly has a mate, most of their mates would be in other courts, whom they'll never meet. The fate argument that works for Feysand and Cassian fails here, because a mating bond being found is so incredibly rare (except for the fact all three archeron sisters found theirs) that it has nothing to do with fate and circumstance.

Nessian. I hate it with my entire heart. Their ENTIRE romance plot was Cassian domesticating Nesta. He consistently abused and ridiculed her, but Oh! They're mates! So it's out of love! Get out. Pack your 50 shades of domestic violence and get out. That man bitch laughed at her as she fell down the stairs, locked her in a house, insulted and made fun of her regularly, and lusted after her emaciated body while she was clearly struggling. He does not give a fuck about Nesta. They were happy at the end! SO WHAT. That doesn't change the way he acted. She kept pushing away his advances and he didn't not care. The same goes for Feysand but I've already discussed them enough.

Considering all of this, I have come to a conclusion!

SJM used the mating bond as an excuse to not have to write compelling romances that actually make sense and instead a fast track to poor fairy porn and her kinks.

#mating bond #acotar #sjmaas #sarah j maas #anti sjm #anti acotar #anti sarah j maas #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti inner circle #anti nessian #sjm critical

[beansidhebumbling]

Angsty Drabble

Reminder if you like something comment or reblog. Writing to the void is a buzz kill x

'What if I kissed you Nesta, what then?'

His voice is not its usual smooth melody but choked and filled with emotion that clogs his throat, drawing lines across his handsome face. A face she wanted turned towards her once.

Now his eyes burn and she wishes he kept his gaze fixed to the floor as he did in the aftermath. He always wore cowardice better than conviction.

'I'm not in the habit of kissing those I hate. '

Nesta does hate him. She has to.

She sees the hurt flash across his face, lightning in a thunderstorm. The rage boils within her. Hurt is not an emotion he has earned, not when he left her, the most beautiful bride Feyre said, Vivienne Westwood silk pooling as she collapsed in the sacristy.

'Do you understand how hard I've fought to stay away? How I've tolerated every glare and cold dismissal knowing I've hurt you, knowing you hate me.'

There are tears rolling now from those eyes across delicate crevices, newly formed five years on, when she saw him last he still held vestiges of a childhood softness in his jaw and eyes, now his face carries the baggage of self-loathing.

She would know, having to confront it in her own mirror.

'Every day I thought of you, you consumed me. And I have lived the last five years on the scraps that Cassian will deign to provide me with.'

He spits the words like acid rain, she wonders if they corroded through his tongue coming out.

She has her own blades too. Nesta Archeron will not be caught unarmed again.

'And whose fault is that?'

As one leg buckles then another, like a stringless marionette he falls to his knees then. He's always been melodramatic, no wonder he chose acting. The puddle beneath his feet seeps into crisp Armani trousers. Despair does that too Nesta muses, spreads into every part of you. Looking at Rhysand she thinks he might be familiar with it also.

And then he says something that stops her heart. Rhysand Velaris had made her heart race and jump and even skip a beat from time to time but in the alley behind her favourite Thai place he stops it in its tracks.

'I was dying Nes.'

In the silence she counts his unsteady breaths as he gazes up like she is St. Peter guarding the gates of heaven.

The quiet persists as a new day dawns.

#rhysta #rhysand #nesta #i wasnt finding the angst iwanted so i wrote some lol #acotar #gemwrites

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

The Bargain (ao3)

People whisper about the god that lives in the forest, that grants wishes to the desolate and the desperate, but when Nesta Archeron takes it upon herself to enter the forest and ask the god to save her family, she gets much more than she bargained for. (For @cassianappreciationweek day 4)

In the darkness, something cracked.

Something snapped beneath her feet, and in the thin shafts of moonlight that broke through the stretching, reaching branches of the trees overhead, she caught sight of the forest floor, littered with sticks and stones— with things that glowed white, luminescent in the dark. Things that might have been teeth, might have been bones. 

A shiver crawled down her spine, a cold touch that was light and terrible and enough to make her shudder. There was another crack, another splinter in the silence, and somehow the forest seemed to grow denser, the woods pressing in on all sides. The darkness was a shroud, thick and cloying and almost impenetrable, and yet still Nesta walked— one determined foot in front of another. The branches caught on her cloak as she went, like aged and crooked fingers— snatching, grasping, hungry.

Still— she walked, her stomach aching with hunger and her bones aching with cold. In her hand she clutched her mother’s iron pendant so hard it left marks in the soft skin of her palm, its bite a reminder, a warning. She hoped it would protect her— hoped it would save her. As she took each misbegotten step, inching her way deeper and deeper into the dark swell of trees where only the truly desperate dared venture, she recited her mother’s old warnings, too.

Always wear iron, Mama had said when Nesta was young. Hang rowan by the door. Never enter into a bargain with a stranger, and remember— the fae can’t lie. 

Nesta had them memorised, clung to them as animal eyes glinted at her through the trees. 

She shuddered. Monsters lurked in these woods— everyone knew that.

But the baker’s boy had told her of an altar hidden deep within, where the lost go to pray. The blacksmith’s wife had been so desperate for a babe, the boy had said, that she’d made the trip in the dark, when the moon was full. She’d found the altar and laid out an offering, begged on her knees for the gods to answer her prayers. Two months later, she knew she was with child. The baker’s boy had whispered it as Nesta had pleaded with him for his last loaf of bread, bartered for it with the last coin they had. The gods live there, he’d said, handing over a small, half-burnt loaf. They take pity on those who dare to find their alter— on the cold and the desperate and the hungry.

Nesta was all of those things. 

And so she walked— through a blackness so thick she stumbled over tree roots breaking through the earth, through the branches that scraped her skin and the nettles that clawed her ankles as if in warning, bitter warning— an omen, not to take another step. Through the old graveyard, past the ivy devouring old tombstones; names and dates worn to dust. Vines snagged underfoot and yet still she walked, unable to face one more sunrise in the crumbling cottage she called home— unable to sit around an empty table with her sisters and their father, with empty plates and an empty hearth. It was dangerous, to go alone into a darkened forest filled with monsters, but dangerous too, to sit at home and starve. Maybe the gods would take pity on her. Maybe they’d listen to her.

After what felt like hours of walking, finally the forest thinned.

She emerged into a clearing bathed in the white light of the moon, and in the centre stood the ruins of a temple. Cold grey stone shone almost luminous beneath the starlight, and broken arches and vaulted ceilings spoke to a lost grandeur, a beauty in decay. Still it towered above her, walls stretching skywards even as they crumbled, and as Nesta stepped over the fallen stones that littered the clearing, she found the three steps that led to the remains of a door— beneath a sweeping, curved archway that might once have been grand. 

And inside…

There was an altar.

In that, at least, the stories had been true,

A great slab of whitened stone, worn smooth with age, sat in the middle of the ruin, open to the air. The roof had collapsed, leaving the temple exposed to the elements, and a fine layer of moss coated the debris that lay abandoned, almost forgotten. Only almost— because Nesta spied the offerings left, clustered at the base of that alter. Pomegranates and flower petals were left scattered, coins and jewellery and all the tokens left behind by the desolate. Nesta felt unconsciously for the bag hung over her shoulder, carrying her own meagre offerings. She’d brought some wildflowers that Elain had grown, along with one of their father’s little wooden carvings. He couldn’t make any money with his work, but perhaps the little carved bat might be enough to earn the mercy of whatever deity lived inside these woods— called this deserted temple home. 

A soft breeze ran through the ruins as Nesta kneeled by that altar, and a chill ran through her as she delved into her bag and pulled out the flowers, carefully wrapped in a length of cotton she’d cut off the bottom of an old dress. The scent was sweet, and even though the stems were a little crumpled, the petals were intact, all muted pinks and purples in the low light. She breathed it in, almost saccharine in the darkness of the temple, and willed herself to think of sunlight and bright places as she pulled out the tiny wooden bat next, setting it down on the white stone of the altar steps. It was stark against it, and as another - colder, much more ominous - breeze brushed the back of her neck, Nesta swallowed. Her every nerve screeched to a half as ice clustered along her spine, freezing the air in her lungs. The silence in temple shifted, making her hair stand on end, and that breeze didn’t feel pleasant, didn’t feel natural. Still, she forced her hands to steady as she set about arranging the flowers on the altar, surrounding the little wooden bat. She kept her eyes down, but she knew, somehow, that she wasn’t alone— that someone, or something, was watching her from the shadows.

Tentatively, Nesta looked up.

Her fingers stilled over the petals, her hand trembling. Behind the altar, close to the ruined temple walls, there was a shadow. A large shadow, lurking in the dark corners the moonlight couldn’t reach— the corners the light seemed to shy away from. She heard the whisper of a breath, saw a glint of silver, and as Nesta’s heart began to race hard in her chest, the last of Elain’s flowers dropped from her fingers, lying in the dust as the shadow moved.

It was nothing but a shifting of the darkness, a movement so smooth it was imperceptible, but as Nesta fixed her eyes on that dark, dark corner… 

Footsteps sounded against the stone, slow and steady and purposeful, and she caught the scent of cinnamon and leather and something… other, carried to her on that strange breeze. It was something like petrichor, like the earth after a heavy rain— something ancient, something dark, that made her think of tales and myths and legends, something that made her every hair stand on end.

Was this the deity rumoured to live in these woods?

Was he here to bless her— to grant her wish?

The shape in the darkness emerged slowly from the shadows, becoming more discernible, and still Nesta kneeled. She looked up, tried to see the god’s face, but the darkness still masked it so completely that all she could see was a broad outline. It was vaguely human— she could see two arms, two legs, but nothing else. A dark hum echoed on the stone, deep and low and entirely male, and it had something inside her coiling tight, a shiver running through her as the sound skittered across her skin. It was smooth and dark and weighted somehow, decadent, and it had her looking up, searching in vain for his face, desperate to find his eyes… but he was still cloaked by the dark, and as that hum died away, an echo fading into nothing, something stirred inside her. Some ancient instinct began to awaken, some primal sense that something was… wrong here. 

He took another step, a single move that resounded on the stone.

The silence was suffocating, pressing, and still the god hid his face, lingering in the shadows until Nesta was convinced he was borne of them, at one with the dark. She couldn’t speak, the words trapped in her throat, and as her heart pounded in her chest, unease sluicing through her, the god took another deliberate step forwards, purposefully slow and almost mockingly meandering, as if he had all the time in the world. 

Nesta knew then that he was toying with her— playing with her, with the fear that hammered through her veins. She thought she heard a low chuckle, but it was stolen by the wind, and as a shaft of moonlight at last touched the edges of that shadow…

A talon glinted in the silver light, right above his shoulders.

Brutally sharp, it shone like an onyx and Nesta knew, suddenly, that this wasn’t a deity at all. 

He took another step forward, and Nesta could suddenly make out wings spreading behind his shoulders, as black as the night itself. The great membranous things stretched out, and the scream got caught in her throat as she blinked, her heart thundering and her breath falling short. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, and oh, his face. Her mouth turned dry as she watched the moonlight filter across sharp cheekbones, glinting in eyes that gleamed with menace. She took in the swell of his mouth, generous lips parting as he gave her a wicked smirk, and her skin erupted in gooseflesh, something inside her seeming to shrink, to shirk, as she felt his presence swallowing the space between them, devouring it. The air began to thrum, and Nesta’s pulse raced as warning bells begun to ring and ring and ring out in her head, clamouring and clanging through her as every single sense she had begged her to run.

“You’re not a god,” she whispered.

Her voice was a whisper in the darkness, soft on old stone. The creature took another step forward, all predatory grace and terrifying, rugged beauty, and suddenly he was close enough to reach out and touch the flowers she’d left scattered across the altar.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, in a voice so delectably smooth that Nesta could almost feel it melting into her skin. He ran one long fingertip across Elain’s petals before lifting his head. His lips curved into a menacing smirk, making her shiver as he tilted his head and added, slowly, “I’m better.”

His lips split, revealing rows of white teeth— elongated canines, so sharp they could sink through skin as easily as a hot knife through butter. He was grinning now, in a way that threatened to devour her, and though fear ran rampant through Nesta’s chest, she found herself frozen on the steps of his altar, unable to run, unable to look away.

He was beautiful.

Monstrously, terrifyingly beautiful.

“Pretty,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across the petals she’d left— but his eyes weren’t on the flowers. They were on her, on her face. His gaze dropped to her lips, hungry as that smirk continued to curve a mouth crafted of pure sin, and Nesta felt her heart kick an unsteady beat as she studied him.

Dark eyes looked back at her, reflecting the silver light of the moon. Equally dark hair hung in waves to his shoulders, framing a face so ruggedly handsome Nesta almost thought it was a pity that he lived in the woods. A scar cut through his eyebrow, but his bronze skin was otherwise smooth. She swallowed again, taking in the bulk of him, the languid spread of muscle that corded his arms, his chest. He was wearing a simple black tunic but it clung to his chest, leaving little to the imagination. He tilted his head, almost cat-like, and as his hair fell forwards, Nesta caught sight of his ears. They rose to a sharp point, small tufts of fur crowning the tips. Silver glinted there, a chain earring crossing that pointed tip, shining almost sinister in the dark. He was the most brutal and beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and as his broad hands stroked the petals of Elain’s flowers, she knew that he could break her neck in a heartbeat if he wanted. 

Fae, she thought, suddenly cold all over. He’s fae.

“Tell me, love,” he purred. “What brings someone like you out into the deep, dark wood on a night like this?”

Nesta swallowed. “Isn’t this your shrine?” she asked, looking at the offerings left. The creature snorted and rounded the alter, suddenly close enough to brush her skin with one of those large hands, those fingers that might have been claws.

“No,” he answered. “But perhaps it could be.” He hummed again, low and dangerous, the sound seeming louder than it should, echoing on the expanse of empty, desecrated stone. “Perhaps it should be.”

“Why are you here then?” Nesta asked sharply, and distantly she realised it was probably incredibly stupid to be rude to a creature that could kill her with no effort at all but— she had walked for so long in the hopes that she would find a god to answer her prayers, and all she’d found was an empty sanctuary and a creature that looked like he might devour her.

The smile he gave her was cruel and cunning, chilling her blood even as his beauty threatened to steal her breath. Those wickedly sharp teeth bit down into his bottom lip as he dragged his gaze over her, assessing. His wings flared, sharp talons winking in the moonlight, and when he blinked, it was with all the practiced study of a predator sizing up its prey. She was nothing but a rabbit to this creature— a doe that had wandered too far into the dark parts of the forest. 

He didn’t answer her question.

Instead, the creature plucked up the little wooden bat, stroking one long finger over its wings.

“You need something,” he observed. “Perhaps I can give it to you.”

Nesta hesitated.

It was a moment of reckless stupidity, a moment that could cost her her life— you didn’t make a deal with the fae, everybody knew that. But she was desperate, and well…

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

In the silence, she could hear the wind drifting through the ruins of the temple, whistling through crumbling arches. Her heart stuttered. She had come in the hopes of finding somebody to answer her prayers, and though this creature wasn’t at all what she’d been looking for… perhaps he would do for now.

Slowly, she asked, “what would you want in exchange?”

He dropped the bat back onto the altar, against the bed of flower petals. He waved a hand.

“Oh, nothing you won’t want to give.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Nesta said curtly, and he laughed— so loudly the sound bounced on the cracked and broken stone.

“Well, aren’t you a fiery little thing.” He laughed again, and in a blink he had moved closer, so close that he was right beside her now, towering above where she remained on her knees. She hadn’t even seen him move, but he was there nonetheless, almost pressed against her, and before she could move away, he dropped into a crouch beside her.

“I like it,” he added in a low murmur.

Nesta felt her blood rise to her cheeks, her breathing become laboured. She should be running, should be screaming, and yet… she didn’t have it in her to rise to her feet, to draw away from the creature with the wings and sharp teeth and piercing eyes.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, princess,” he continued. “All I want from you is one word in return.”

“…A word?”

He hummed again, rising to his feet in one smooth, lethal movement. He extended a hand to bring her up too, an assortment of rings glinting on his fingers. She wondered if they had been offerings once, too. If he had plucked them from the altar as easily as he now looked to pluck her, his fingers stretching towards hers in a silent offer that Nesta knew she shouldn’t take.

She hesitated.

He grinned, teeth gleaming sharp and wicked, his hand lingering in the space between them for a moment more before—

Nesta took it. 

His fingers curled around hers, her hand so small within his own. It dwarfed her, made her feel as though her life were the most fragile thing in the world, the most tremulous and brittle piece of glass. She forced herself to remain calm, steady, and his dark eyes glimmered. With mischief or something darker, she wasn’t sure. 

“Just one little word,” he promised smoothly, squeezing her fingers within his palm— like he owned her already, had laid claim to a piece of her soul.

Nesta frowned. “Any word?”

He shook his head, dark hair falling over his forehead as he did. The talons at his back winked, and when he tilted his head to the side, he looked more like an animal than anything even remotely human. Like a cat, his eyes glinted in the darkness, green and gold when the moonlight touched them. 

“No, sweetheart. A word of my choosing.”

“What could you possibly want with that?”

He grinned again, a smile that said he would ruin her. Trepidation crawled through her, her blood turning sluggish in her veins, and he didn’t answer her question.

Never enter into a bargain with a stranger.

Her mother’s warning rang through her, a warning bell, but Nesta shook her head and chased it away. Mama was gone— dead, long ago. Papa might as well be gone too, with all the effort he made to keep them alive, and with Feyre out hunting in the forest for their meals, there was nothing Nesta could do to make sure they didn’t have to spend one more night in that cottage. If a bargain with this creature would save them— she’d pay the price, whatever it was.

Still, she hesitated.

“You can’t lie,” she said carefully, remembering her mother’s warnings. “So tell me— is this a trick?”

The creature only smiled in the darkness, that generous mouth parting in a slash of white, wicked teeth. The fae can’t lie— she’d had it drilled into her since before she could walk. The fae can’t lie. She held onto it now, clutched it like it might keep her safe as the creature before her, this false god, looked at her with eyes that suddenly seemed… hungry.

“Can’t I?” he purred, his voice a low rumble through the night. He tilted his head, cat-eyes sparking like embers. “Tell me, sweetheart. Who’s been filling that pretty little head with such tales?”

He laughed then, and ice bloomed in her chest, spreading until every inch of her was cold. His eyes dragged over her, and she felt every place his attention lingered. Over her neck, her collarbone, down her arms until he reached her waist. Something thawed— something heated, the ice within her turning warm and curling deep in her stomach as those predatory eyes lingered, snagged at her hips. 

“So you can lie?” she asked, her voice hard even as she began to feel a little breathless. He grinned again.

“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

Silence followed, where he looked at her with that predatory gaze. Nesta had always been stubborn, always been able to hold her own with her sharp tongue and sharper nature, but now she felt like little more than a mouse writhing beneath the claws of a wolf. He grinned still, revealing the teeth all too equipped to tear her apart.

But as she turned her face away, her eyes alighted on Elain’s flower petals.

“What word?” she asked.

The creature tsked, dragging a thumb across his lips as his eyes turned molten in the darkness. “Ah, ah.” He shook his head. “Not before you agree.”

“So I’m supposed to go into this blind?” Nesta asked flatly, and though wariness still cloaked her like a second skin, the fear was beginning to subside, beginning to be replaced by… something else. His teeth shone white through the black, sharp and menacing and oh, so delectably dangerous.  

“Not blind,” he said with a shrug. The movement shifted the wings behind him, catching in the moonlight and reflecting silver on those sharp, sharp talons. “You know exactly what I want from you. A word.”

“But not what word.”

The beast shrugged again. “Life is full of surprises sweetheart. You can’t ever know everything. That would leave no place for…” He grinned, his eyes sparking as he looked at her like he was about to eat her alive. She felt his attention, his gaze like a physical touch he dragged languid over every single inch of her. “…Fun.”

Silence followed— one where the world seemed entirely too quiet, not even the trees rustling in the breeze, like nature itself was holding its breath, waiting to see which way she would fall. The creature in the darkness was so close— he was all she could see, all she could hear, all she could breathe, and he was like the most potent kind of poison, the most delicious. She was losing her mind, slowly falling into madness, but he smiled at her, and Nesta felt something inside her shiver, but not at all from fear this time.

“Tell me princess,” he murmured. “Are you going to take my offer, or are you going to break my heart and turn me down?”

His smile was menacing, feral. Nesta scowled.

 “Do you even have a heart?” 

He tipped his head forward, lips brushing her ear. “Why don’t you come closer and find out?” 

Her heart stuttered, and she drew back an inch. It was impossible to come closer— he was so close to her already, she could feel his heat. But she couldn’t go back to that cottage— she couldn’t go back and watch her sister starve. She could embrace death here, in his arms, feeling its bite as he sank his claws into her skin, or she could meet her end in that cottage, slow and drawn out and aching as starvation took them all. Either way, Nesta figured, she would end up damned— so she swallowed, steeled herself, and found her resolve.

“Alright,” she said at last. “Alright.”

Cat-eyes glinted through the dark, a low hum reverberating through his chest and echoing in Nesta’s very bones as he dipped his head, the tip of his nose brushing her jaw. There was a scrape of teeth, a hand winding possessively around her waist as he stepped behind her.

“What is it that you want from me then, princess?” he asked, his mouth at her throat. “What have you come to take?”

“I don’t want my family to starve,” she began slowly, ignoring the hand that splayed over her stomach, drifting towards her hips. Beneath his teeth, her pulse fluttered. “I want my father’s lost ships to be found, with all his treasure and gold intact. I want us to be able to leave that cottage in the woods and live the way we did before, with no need to worry about where our next meal will be coming from. I want…” She paused, swallowed. “I don’t ever want to go back to that cottage again.”

She looked up over her shoulder and saw the creature grin, an almost feral look in his eyes. A hollow feeling spread in her chest, and briefly Nesta wondered if she ought to have been more careful with her wording— if she not had just unwittingly signed away her soul. She watched his wings spread behind him, so large she feared he was going to enclose her in them and suffocate her, but after a moment he closed them again, tucking them back against his spine, and when he looked at her Nesta forgot that she was supposed to be afraid.

“Done,” he purred.

Nesta blinked— as if it were that simple, all of their troubles erased, just like that. She let out a breath of relief, feeling it wash over her as she turned to face him, studying the lines of him that melted into the darkness. In her hand, she still held her mother’s pendant, the one she’d been clutching tight ever since she’d left the cottage. 

“And now for my half of the bargain,” he whispered, and his voice set her on edge, made her hair stand on end. Using one broad hand, he dragged his touch across her neck, over her collarbone, claws at her neck edging pain with the most beautiful kind of pleasure. Shivers erupted in his wake as he brushed her hair back over her shoulder, baring more of her skin, and Nesta felt herself grow dizzy. She should run— should have been running ever since he’d opened his mouth and spoken, but she couldn’t move.

Didn’t want to move.

Something about him was alluring, drawing her to him, and she didn’t know if it was some spell he’d worked on her or whether it was just something about him that spoke to her— the way he looked at her like he appreciated her sharp tongue and stubborn nature.

“Just one word,” he said, his voice deep and low and seductive.

“What word?” she asked once more, tipping her head back as his thumb skated up from her collarbone and rested beneath her jaw. He smirked again, dipping his head to whisper against her skin. With warm lips he pressed a kiss to her jaw, dragging his mouth up to her ear. She shivered, and one large hand came to rest at her waist, a firm presence that held her in place. Almost unconsciously she leaned into it, her chest brushing his as he let out a low rumble of approval, of appreciation.

“Tell me your name, princess.”

“That’s what you want from me?” she asked, breathless as his hand began to skate over her hips. With those lethally sharp teeth, he nipped lightly at her ear. She let out a small whimper, but as a warmth ignited deep within, she couldn’t say for certain that it was a sound of pain rather than pleasure.

“No, that’s not the word I want,” he said idly, almost lazily, as his tongue danced across her neck. “But I’d like to have it all the same.”

And Nesta knew she should have lied, should have given him a false name, but she found herself opening her mouth as his hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more fully against him as she breathed, 

“Nesta.”

“Nesta,” he repeated, his thumb rubbing circles along her spine. His other hand was still at her hip, but he grew daring, drifting lower with a touch so maddening Nesta understood, now, why there were so many warnings of the fair folk. He was going to be the death of her, and when he slowly bit down once more on the skin beneath her ear, Nesta fought back a moan, and the hand that she’d had clenched ever since she arrived suddenly slackened. The iron pendant she’d held onto like a lifeline tumbled to the ground, and against her skin she felt him smirk.

“You won’t be needing that,” he whispered.

Once more, a bolt of caution ran through her. He was fae, a monster lurking in the woods, but still Nesta didn’t leave, and as he kissed his way down her neck, his hands bunched in the fabric of her dress, she found she really didn’t want to run, as stupid and as reckless as it was. She wanted to let him carry on kissing her, wanted to find herself drunk on the pleasure he could give her, and as she tilted her head back even further, he hummed again.

“Good girl,” he said as she melted into him, the angle of her neck giving him better access as his teeth scraped across the skin at her throat. 

A breathless, disbelieving laugh left her as she looked up at the sky littered with stars. Her hands came to rest on his wide chest, hard and firm beneath her fingers.

“What word?” she asked again.

He nipped at her skin once more, his hands finding the hem of her skirt and dipping beneath, fingertips ghosting over the bare skin of her legs, her thighs. She gasped.

“Yes.”

Nesta blinked, swallowed. Some of the elation, the ecstasy, dimmed as she shook her head.

“I don’t understand,” she managed, but her breathing was more laboured than ever, because she was pressed so fully against him that he engulfed her, and his hands were at her thighs, his teeth at her neck, and his wings had spread above them, blocking out the sky above.

���I’m going to ask you a question,” he said lowly, his voice almost sultry. “And you will say yes. That’s the bargain.”

Nesta blinked again, but something other than horror ran through her— in the places where fear should be, in the gaps between terror, there was something else, something distinctly different, something thrilling. Even though her stomach twisted and her heartbeat tripped, she looked up into those luminous eyes, caught sight of the talons and the wings and the lightly-furred ears, and found herself nodding.

“You said you don’t ever want to go back to that cottage. I have made it so.” He pulled back just enough so that she could see his face in the moonlight, his devastating smirk. “I will take you away from here and make you mine. Neither you nor your family will want for anything again if I take you here and now, if I claim you as mine. All you have to do is fulfil your half— let that one word fall from those pretty little lips.”

“Why?” Nesta breathed.

“Because,” he said simply. “I want to keep you.” His head dipped to her neck again, teeth grazing across her skin. “Let me have you.”

And Nesta thought of the cottage waiting for her— and the life waiting for her when the cottage was gone. She thought of the dreary life set out, winding before her, the one her mother had wanted— balls and society gatherings and polite conversation that would kill her soul long before death stopped her heart. And then she turned her attention to the monster in the dark, the stretching wings and sharp talons and pointed ears with soft patches of fur. She looked at his big hands and long fingers, almost like claws, and all of it belonging to a creature with a face so beautiful it made her heart ache.

“Let me have you,” he repeated, bringing his mouth lower.

Nesta couldn’t catch her breath, but she let herself lean more fully into his arms, letting him take her weight entirely. He hummed, satisfied, and the sound of it rumbled through her. His hands wandered, finding their way back to her hips, down— dipping once more beneath her skirts. Her skin suddenly felt tight, too hot, and when those damned claws dragged over sensitive flesh, her breathing stopped, her mind emptied. His hands rose higher, her back arched, and at her neck his breath danced, his lips pressing against the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

“Let me have you,” he said once more. “Let me keep you.”

His fingers skirted the very centre of her, right where she was suddenly aching, burning. He hummed against her once more, a sound of approval as she pressed against his chest, and oh gods— he was overpowering, overwhelming, and her entire world had shrunk, encompassed within the space between his wings. She could practically taste him on the wind, and as his hands grew more daring, roaming across the bare skin beneath her dress and sliding up her stomach, she felt herself falling, felt herself losing whatever grip it was that bound her to reality.

“Nesta,” the beast chided, nipping at her ear. “Answer me.”

And this time, Nesta gasped and breathed at last, a desperate, aching,

“Yes.”

#cassianweek2023 #nessian #monster fae!Cassian is here at last!

[violet-shadows]

Missing Piece (Part Seven)

Series Index | Masterlist

Summary: Cassian and Nesta are happily mated and in love, so why do they feel like something is missing? When a newcomer arrives in the City of Starlight, they learn that their bond is not yet complete. 

Pairing: Cassian x Nesta x Reader (She/Her) (Poly Relationship)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: non-graphic mention of death of a parent

A/N: I apologize for the delay. I’ve been having a hard time lately and couldn’t find it in me to write. I’m trying to get the next few parts published much more quickly. 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

“She can’t stay there!” Cassian declared, slumping back on the sofa. He and Nesta had returned from taking Y/N home hours ago and had been fretting about the state of the place ever since. The building was little more than a dilapidated hovel, its run-down state rivaling even Nesta’s first apartment. The sight of it was all too familiar for the oldest Archeron, reminiscent of dark times gone by when she lived in tiny cabins and holes in the wall instead of a palace at the top of the world. It made her heart squeeze with grief to leave her mate behind in such a derelict place, and the seedy neighborhood had both she and Cassian ill at ease.

“Maybe we can fix up the place for her,” Nesta suggested, deep in thought. She knew better than to try and force her to move, remembering what it felt like to lose the first place she called home on her own. Still, a mattress on the floor in a drafty, bare room wouldn’t do at all. 

“The door’s getting replaced, that’s for sure,” Cassian mumbled. “And she needs furniture. And the stairs aren’t safe. I’m going to talk to Rhys and find out who owns that place. There have to be laws about that, right? They can’t just let the thing crumble while people pay to live there.” 

“We’ll get her some furniture, try to make it suitable until…” Nesta trailed off, the unspoken bit hanging in the air between them: until she moves in with us. It wasn’t a sure thing, not yet, and she was trying not to get ahead of herself in planning for a future that might not happen. 

“Maybe we can rent her a place, in the meantime. Something better,” Cassian said hopefully. If it was too soon to move in, perhaps they could find her a townhome on the Rainbow or an apartment with a view of the Sidra, something more befitting of someone like her. “Why did she even rent that place, to begin with?!” 

“It’s probably cheap,” Nesta shrugged. “With her parents gone, money might be tight.” She cringed at the thought. At least she had her sisters, and in some way, her father. As far as she could tell, Y/N was on her own after her parents died. ‘Not anymore though,’ Nesta assured herself. She wouldn’t be alone ever again. 

“We’ll get her something better,” Cassian replied decisively. 

“No,” Nesta said, shaking her head. “We can’t just… insist. It’s her place, whether we like it or not. We have to respect that.” 

Cassian sighed deeply and nodded, running a hand down his face wearily. “You’re right,” he conceded, “I’m fixing that door though.”

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

When I woke the next morning it was to a soft, continuous knocking at my door. I ignored it at first, writing it off as more noise from my neighbors, but when the tapping persisted I resigned myself to the fact that it was my peace being disturbed. I forced myself out of bed with a huff and fetched my dressing gown, tying it with haste as I opened the door. My sleep-addled mind didn’t put two and two together until I was face to face with my visitors and the memory of my plans with Cassian and Nesta came back to me. The night prior, I had made a note to be up early so I could get ready for their visit, but judging by the bright sunlight pouring in from behind them, I had overshot early by quite a bit. I gave a cry of surprise when I saw them, momentarily freezing, and in my moment of panic, I did the most sensible thing I could think of and slammed the door in their faces. “Sorry!” I yelped through the door, the rudeness of my actions not registering until it was too late. 

“Are you alright?” Nesta’s muffled voice came from the other side. She didn’t sound insulted, but rather concerned. 

“Yes! I’m sorry. Just… give me a moment,” I replied, cringing. I darted to the bathroom, nearly tripping over my mattress in my haste, and quickly smoothed my hair. Since there was no time for bathing, I settled for brushing my teeth and dabbing on perfume. There wasn’t much to be done for my appearance otherwise. I still looked tired and my bruises had faded marginally. I tried not to dwell on my appearance, tearing myself away from the mirror before I could begin to spiral into self-doubt. After I dressed, I allowed myself one more glance before opening the door. “Sorry, I overslept,” I explained, slightly winded.

“We can come back later if—”, Cassian began.

“No!” I cut him off, suddenly aware that, despite how much I wanted to rest, I wanted to be around them more. It was an unmooring realization. “No, it’s fine. Please, come in…” 

Nesta sauntered past, her scent wafting toward me. She smelled like warm spice and cracking fire. It was a scent I could envision growing addicted to. Cassian paused before he followed her, turning to retrieve a large leather bag from the floor. I raised my eyebrows questioningly and he shot me a bright smile. “We were thinking you and Nesta could go shopping while I get this door fixed,” his gaze drifted over to the drafty window next to my bed and he added, “and that window.” 

“You really don’t have to—” I said, feeling my cheeks heat.

“I want to. We want to,” he assured me. I considered telling them I didn’t have money to spend, but they both looked so enthusiastic about the idea that I couldn’t bear it. I figured I could probably get away with helping Nesta shop without buying anything for myself, so I agreed. 

“Excellent!” Nesta fetched my coat off the peg in the wall. “We’ll need to get breakfast first, of course.” She held out my coat and I slid my arms through the sleeves, blushing when she smoothed her hands over top, straightening the material. 

“What about Cassian?” I fretted. 

“He already ate… twice,” Nesta informed me. “Now, shall we?” 

Breakfast with Nesta was surprisingly relaxing. Although we had our fair share of differences, Nesta’s bold nature and sharp tongue far outmatching mine, we also shared quite a bit in common, especially our love of reading. We spent the majority of the meal discussing our favorite books, and she promised to bring me some of her favorites to borrow since I had left the majority of mine behind in Winter. Nesta seemed excited to introduce me to new literature, and I couldn’t help but daydream about a future where we might sit together with a book, taking turns reading to one another. 

After breakfast, Nesta led me to a square near the Rainbow, where she said we could find housewares and furniture. As we walked, I asked her about her own home, which she had been gifted by the High Lord as a mating present. She told me about the changes she had made since moving and the plans she had for the future. “Cassian doesn’t mind much either way, but I still run things by him. Of course, when you move in—”. I nearly tripped, doing a double take as Nesta halted her speech midsentence. A light blush colored her cheeks and she dipped her head. “Sorry,” she muttered, “that was… presumptuous.” 

I hadn’t let myself picture living there, with them, though a part of me was quite taken with the idea. A beautiful home overlooking the city with two gorgeous mates at my side was the stuff of daydreams and idle fancy, and I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment. Unsure of what to say and unwilling to push the issue, I changed the subject quickly. I didn’t miss the way Nesta grew somewhat solemn thereafter, but as soon as we reached our destination, she brightened again and the knot in my stomach unfurled. 

The first shop we stopped at was a pottery studio full of hand-thrown cookware and dishes. A particular set glazed in swirls of chartreuse, ochre, and steel blue caught my eye, and Nesta floated to my side and examined a plate. “Those colors are beautiful,” she commented.

“They remind me of your eyes,” I said without thinking, “yours and Cassians.” Nesta released the slightest gasp and I blushed, suddenly aware of how forward that may have sounded. 

“We’ll have to get them, then,” she concluded. I nodded, assuming she meant for the House of Wind and wandered around the store while she placed the order with the shopkeeper. As we departed to the next shop, she linked her arm with mine and I couldn’t help but grin. The next store we went to was a large textile shop, with three levels accessible by a large spiral staircase. The first floor had bedding in every shade and color, and I made a mental note to save up for a particular duvet made of green velvet and fine satin. The second floor had rugs and curtains, and Nesta and I had fun picking out a new rug for the House of Wind’s foyer. On the third level were scarves and wall hangings made of soft cashmere and embroidered silk. Nesta grabbed my hand as we reached the top, all but dragging me to a display by the window. 

“You have to try this on,” she said, draping a shawl around my shoulders. It was a shade of deep crimson embroidered with gold thread that glittered in the sunlight. The silk material was some of the finest I had ever felt, and I had to admit it was quite a stunning piece. Secretly, I enjoyed the way it matched Cassian’s siphons almost perfectly. Nesta clasped her hands together, stepping back to look at me, and declared, “it’s perfect for you.”

I smiled, moving to take it off before I could become enamored as well. I didn’t even want to look at the price, knowing it was almost certainly extravagant. “No, no, no,” Nesta grasped my wrists gently, stopping me in my tracks. “We’re getting it.”

“It’s expensive,” I replied, avoiding her eyes. Her hands slid from my wrists to grasp mine, holding them in her between us. 

“Consider it a gift,” she said earnestly. I hesitated, opening my mouth the protest, but she shook her head. “Please, I want you to have it. Besides, we’re mates. It’s the least we can do.” 

“I don’t know,” I muttered, feeling uncertain about accepting such a lavish gift. I had courted people in the past, but none had ever offered much more than flowers stolen from a neighbor’s garden. The sincerity in Nesta’s eyes made it impossible to turn her down. “If you’re sure… thank you.”

She smiled, dropping one of my hands but keeping the other held in hers. We descended the steps and checked out, with Nesta shooing me away so I wouldn’t know the price of the shawl. I kept it wrapped around my shoulders for the rest of the day, running my fingers over the smooth fabric and smiling to myself each time. It was a beautiful piece, but the fact that Nesta had so desperately wanted it for me made my heart warm. 

The sun was high in the sky when we reached the Sidra, and Nesta brought us to a cafe by the water for lunch. She asked me questions about the Winter Court while we ate, and in turn, I asked her about the human realms. Towards the end of the meal, she grew quiet for a moment, as if contemplating something. “May I ask… you don’t have to tell me but… how did your parents pass?” 

I drew a deep, steadying breath, unable to suppress the shudder that overtook me when I recalled their deaths. I hadn’t talked about it to anyone since, certainly not giving them details, but Nesta wanted to know and I found it difficult to deny her anything. “The Winter Court was staunchly opposed to Amarantha,” I lowered my voice when I said her name as if it was a curse. “As punishment, her guard was particularly… destructive… when they came through. My mother’s skill in healing their victims got back to them and she was summoned to work Under the Mountain. My father tried to stop them from taking her but—,” I swallowed the lump in my throat, my eyes stinging with tears. “They cut him down. And my mother never came back from that place.” 

“I’m sorry,” Nesta whispered, placing a comforting hand over mine. “I’m sorry for all of it.” 

“I suppose I have you and your family to thank for ending her reign,” I murmured. “I have never been more relieved than when I heard of her death.” 

“We owe a lot to Feyre,” she nodded, eyes downcast and expression unreadable. 

“And you…” I added.

“I didn’t—”

“You did, though. Feyre’s fierce nature had to come from somewhere,” I said. Nesta smiled, but it was melancholy. 

“I wasn’t the best older sister to her,” she whispered. “I should have done better…”

“All three of you made it this far. Despite everything that happened. I think that says a lot,” I insisted, giving her hand a squeeze. The waiter interrupted us then, delivering the bill, and Nesta paid before I could argue. 

We walked in comfortable silence along the river’s edge, slowly making our way in the direction of my apartment. When we reached a quiet spot on the path, under the shade of a great oak, Nesta stopped. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For saying that. For seeing the good in me.” 

I stepped towards her, intertwining my hands with hers. “I see quite a bit of good in you, Nesta Archeron. Quite a bit.” She bent down, angling her head towards mine, and before I knew it I was pulling her in for a kiss. It lasted for no more than a few seconds, and when I pulled away, she was grinning. She leaned forward again, pressing her lips to mine once more, and time stood still as we embraced. The sound of an approaching group interrupted us and we sprang apart, both blushing fiercely. We started walking again, hand in hand, neither of us quite brave enough to acknowledge what just happened. 

My mind replayed the feeling of her lips on mine over and over again as we walked. The feeling was heaven and would have been utterly perfect if Cassian had been there. I thought of him, working at my apartment to make it more livable, and felt slightly guilty. “Do you think Cassian’s finished his projects?” I asked, wanting to fill the quiet before it grew awkward.

“I’m sure he has,” Nesta replied. I glanced sideways, noticing how her face had fallen slightly, her eyebrows drawn together. She looked contemplative at the mention of her— our— mate and the feeling of apprehension began to fester. Her grip on my hand loosened and I let it fall away. Triad bond or not, I wondered if I had crossed a boundary kissing her when she was already bonded to another. I mulled it over as we walked, trying to keep the worry off my face, and hoped I hadn’t just ruined everything. 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

Likes, reblogs, comments, and feedback are greatly appreciated. Click here to check out my other work.

Taglist - All ACOTAR Fics (Part One): @answer-the-sirens @microwaveallthedemons @judig92 @wolfyland07 @donttellthecats @goldentournesol @mulansaucey @starlit-terror @starrstrucked @bankerfrog @xxoverthinkxx @luv-xoxo @abrunettefangirlnerd @smellys-cats @crazymar15 @feyretopia @we-were-beautiful @simplywitchy @milllionthingsihaventdone @sevikas-whore @lunaralaraspace @sfhsgrad-blog @lucyysthings @debramclaren @powerfulpantera @blurredlamplight @nightscourtt @disneyandkpoplover @linduzmunna @shadowhunterfangirlforlife @shadowcrowsworld @nightcourtwritings @thefandomswhre @high-bi-andreadytocry @percyjacksonspeen @tayrae515 @a-little-disguised @itendswithussadness @strawbwebbie @hopelesslyuncreative @cityofidek @hopelesslyuncreative @5moremin @meritxellao @shadowdreamur @orangecreamsicle54 @bubnix @a-mexican-waffle @maddistyles17

✨CLICK HERE TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST✨

#cassian x reader #nesta x reade r #nessian x reader #cassian x you #nesta x you #nessian x you #poly!nessian #acotar #nessian #acotar fanfic #ff #my stuff

[azsazz]

Summer Daze

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Anon Request: heyy i’m the anon who asked for dad!az fics and i had an idea… what abt a fic where az spends the day with the kids like he has a day off and just goes around velaris with reader and his fam… 

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,372

Note: so not quite Velaris with the fam but still cute af

_________________________________________

You remember being in this exact spot with Azriel years ago. 

After your mating ceremony you had gotten away from the chilly winters of Velaris and into Summer, tucked under your mate’s wing on the plush lounge on the beach. The setting sun casting its lovely pinks and creamy oranges across his tan skin.

You’d never seen him so at ease, shadows out of sight and wings hanging low, brushing against the soft sand of the Summer beaches as you curled further into his embrace, his thumb stroking across your sun kissed skin though he had told you to put more sun protecting salve on. 

He’d thrown you over his shoulder and you had squealed as he ran into the night chilled water once the sun had gone to rest and that familiar night sky appeared, stars blinking awake. This was everything you had been waiting for your entire life, lovingly wrapping your arms around Azriel’s neck, cheeks hurting from smiling so hard. His hands slipped around your waist, holding you against him and staring down at you with sparkling eyes, pressing his forehead against your own.

“This is by far the best decision we’ve ever made, my sweet,” he whispers, kissing you passionately for a moment. Your hands wind their way into his salty hair, tangled from the ocean. The bond between the two of you glows golden and warm like the sun had set within you.

You hum in agreement, resting your head against his chest, looking out across the serene waters, the moon just making its appearance over the horizon. His heart is a steady beat beneath your ear, strong and comforting as it had always been.

“And someday, we can bring our children here, to experience Summer like we have.” Your heart swells and you hold him tighter in your arms, twisting so your chin is on his chest as you blink back the happy tears in your eyes.

“Yes Az, I want that with you so badly I can hardly wait,” you admit, and he smirks suggestively at you, his light.

“Who says we have to wait?”

__________

You can’t help but to smile, remembering the first time you’d been here.

You relax beneath the shady pergola on a lounge fit to fill your entire family, Jax settled and sleeping against your chest while you read, the shrieks of joy from your children and their cousins as Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys toss them up into the air above the water.

Nesta, next to you, admires her own mate, failing to hide her smile behind her fruity drink.

“One of these days Nes, you ought to have another,” you comment softly, watching how Cassian cradles your daughter just a little closer to his chest as he dips the both of them down into the water. You can hear the squeal of surprise at the cool water, then giggle as she splashes her tiny hands around.

He’d been hinting at having another for a while now, and always had Zuzu in his arms when she was around. It was so painfully clear that he wanted a daughter of his own.

“One of these days,” she agrees, flipping the page of her own book with indifference. You’ve been around the oldest Archeron sister now to know, can hear the mirth beneath her bored tone, the idea sparking in her mind.

Your heart swoops and you clutch your youngest tighter to your chest, jolting the small child as you straighten, watching Wren and his cousins – who had just learned to fly – getting as high in the air as they can, then tucking their wings in tight and freefalling into the ocean below.

You pass a whiny Jax into the arms of Feyre, who is on your other side, sunbathing, as you scramble up from the daybed, taking a few steps towards the rest of your family, “Not too high!”

Azriel’s head perks up at your voice, Baz sitting on his shoulders, his father and his own little shadows splash in the water around them. Your mates’ halt at the worry in your tone, immediately looking for danger, and you can hear him warning his son to be careful before he’s taking Baz off of his shoulders and tucking him against a hip, retreating from the water and jogging over to where you’ve settled back in on the lounge, Jax content in his aunts arms.

You can’t help but admire him as he comes to console you, your second son laughing as he bounces against his hip. His skin is glowing under the bright sky and he looks every bit as relaxed as he did all those years ago, happier now that he has his children, mate, and family near.

He places Baz down on the cushion and he immediately scrambles away for a refreshment of his own, Elain helping him drink from the straw of the coconut, Lucien’s chin hooked around her shoulder and beaming down at your son. Rhysand was always one to go all out when it came to important events, and this was no different. You were all staying in the most lavish of houses Adriata had, backing right up to the ocean with enough rooms inside for you all to have two.

Nesta and Feyre groan playfully as your mate climbs up on the lounge, immediately standing and retreating towards the water where the rest of your family is. The shadowsinger stops, kneeling between your legs, an easy smile on his lips. Hands planted on either side of your hips he kisses your swelling belly, not quite showing, the next babe inside.

He then moves to your lips, pecking you lightly and staring down at you, sprawling out into Nesta’s abandoned spot beside you, head propped up on his fist, other hand caressing your stomach lovingly.

“They’re just having a bit of fun, Love,” he says softly, and you give him a knowing look, “Just like we did when we were young.”

“Not all of us had wild childhoods,” you tut, brushing back his hair from his face as he rolls his eyes. You are utterly in love with him, and admire how much he’s grown since you’ve known him. How he’d come out of his shell over the years, finally finding his place within the Inner Circle. His shadows didn’t hide him as much, and though he was still quiet and sneaky, Azriel had really opened up over time.

“I’ve known you to get a bit wild, (Y/N),” he muses, tone suggestive.

You laugh, fingers dipping down from his hair to play with the shell of his ear instead, hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“I love you Az,” you sigh, closing your eyes and letting the sun beam down on your face.

He takes your hand, kissing up the inside of your wrist, “I love you too, my sweet.”

Baz takes the chance at a peaceful moment to jump on his fathers back, wrapping his little arms tightly around his neck, giggling with pure happiness. 

“Daddy, sand,” your son cheers as Azriel wrestles with his son playfully, all while being mindful of where you lie.

“Okay buddy,” he agrees, “Give mommy a kiss first.”

Your son climbs off of Azriels chest and over to you, your mate keeping an arm around him in case he tries to jump on you, the little rascal. He presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek and you hug him close for a moment, breathing in deep. He smells like coconut and the strong sunblock salve and he sighs against you and you know he’s torn between wanting to stay with you and take a nap or go back and build sandcastles with his father.

He opts for playing in the sand again, and you watch as his father chases after him, screeching with laughter. You look at all of your family, smiling to yourself, knowing that the kids will be out like lights as soon as you get them cleaned up, a long day of playing under the sun with their family.

You couldn’t ask for anything better. This is the dream, and you rub your belly. You can’t wait to welcome the little one into this big, happy, family.

#Azriel #AZ #azriel x reader #dad!azriel #azsazz #azriel/reader #azriel x you #acotar #acomar #acowar #acomaf #acotarxreader #fluff #az fluff #inner circle

[elliemarchetti]

Enchanted to Meet You

Hello @corcracrow, your Secret Santa here! I know I haven't filled you with questions as I would’ve liked, and you probably have the feeling of not knowing me that well, but unfortunately real life has hit hard both on my creative process and my free time. Anyway, I don’t want to spoil the mood for I'm very happy to reveal myself and I hope you likethe first chapter of the fic I have prepared for this year’s @acotargiftexchange

Plot: The Archeron sisters are prominent members of the Upper East Side, as are the Vanserras. Elain is fresh out of a disappointing relationship, while Lucien is the neglected seventh child of a couple who haven’t loved each other for a long time. Will they be able, after a chance meeting at a Christmas party, to build something they could cherish or will gossips and meddling families stifle the budding interest they feel for each other?

Words: 2241

Elain looked around, a glass of champagne held firmly in her right hand. The celebrations were going well, Feyre was having fun, laughing at a joke delivered by her new boyfriend, while Nesta twirled on the dancefloor like a ballerina in a music box, barely noticing her partner. It was the second Christmas party they attended this year, but since their business was booming, she guessed it wouldn’t be the last. At least the host picked some quality wine, a competent catering and classy live music. All the participants belonged only to the best families of the Upper East Side although, and she suspected not by mere coincidence, the Nolans were missing from the guest list. Some had already begun to whisper ill-will about their absence, but since the event was being held on one of Rhysand’s properties, Elain had the privilege to screen out those who were no longer welcome in her vicinity. She was aware she shouldn’t have been so naïve, a marriage proposal so hasty and at such a young age could only come from the heart when net worths like theirs weren’t at stake, but since she still struggled to figure out what to do with her feelings about it, she thought it wiser to let those social climbers stay in the dark place they called home.

Graysen had defined the architecture of his house as designer modern brutalism, but Elain, for the short time she had spent within its walls, had thought it nothing more than a luxurious prison. There were few windows, practically no natural sunlight, it didn’t have a balcony, a veranda, or even a garden, and although the underground swimming pool and spa had done their duty when she needed to relax, everything, including the obsessive order kept in the rooms by a bevy of maids she had never met, appeared fake. Like the love of its heir, after all, like the glittering gifts of his mother. There was no sentiment in everything they did, and since nothing was more distant from the teachings of her father, Elain had decreed that what happened before it was too late was for the best. Not that she would’ve completely ruled out the idea of a divorce if she found out after she married him that Graysen had joined their families only for financial benefit, but it was a nuisance she preferred to avoid, just like the fast-approaching gossips.

Luckily, someone was ready to save her, or so it seemed from the twinkle in the russet eye she met.

She knew Lucien Vanserra only by name, but his story was almost legendary and the reason most rich parents won’t let their kids go to public schools anymore, even if they were renowned and the courses were the best in the US: coveted heartthrob while still in college, a young professor not in her right mind developed a crush on his socially anxious best friend. When he’d rightly rejected her, she had decided to disfigure him with a kitchen knife. Lucien had been quick to push his mate away from the blade, but had been hit in turn, losing his eye and, despite countless surgeries, finding half his face permanently disfigured by a deep white scar, in stark contrast with his amber skin.

“I wanted to wait for some mutual acquaintance to do the honors, but given the situation it seemed like an appropriate time to come and introduce myself,” he said by a way of greeting, extending a manicured hand. The sleeve of his green jacket ran up a little, showing off a probably priceless watch, matched with the eccentric gold prosthetic with which he had replaced the missing eye.

 “We’ve really lost our manners these days,” Elain joked, offering him a firm shake. It was her mother who told her, before she died all those years ago, that a weak hand was a sign of a weaker character, and after the misunderstanding with the Nolans, she was determined to convey confidence in every detail of her being. That was why she had chosen the dress she was wearing, with a neckline not too exaggerated but not even as chaste as she would’ve once preferred, the skirt narrower on the hips, where previously would’ve been tulle and wide pleats.

“Who do you think is the rudest?” Lucien asked, scanning the people by the bar. Being caught red handed, those who had distracted themselves from their conversations to glance curiously in their direction suddenly turned back to their interlocutors, making Elain smile bitterly. She could already imagine what they would say about them at the next brunch they were going to attend, she could already hear them referring to Lucien as the Beast to Elain’s Beauty regardless of the fact he was extremely charming, his disability just a means to spout malice.

“After careful consideration, I think Keir wins the prize,” Elain admitted, glaring at a blond-haired man who was displaying his voluptuous daughter like a beast at the farmers market to a group of older guests. The young woman seemed incredibly uncomfortable but didn’t leave her father’s side until a scary guy, all cradled in black, asked her to dance.

“He has been trying for nearly a year to convince my father that she and my brother would be a good match, but I think Eris’s interest lies elsewhere,” Lucien replied, nodding at Nesta’s current dance partner. His hair was a little more orange than Lucien’s, way shorter but still long enough to be tied at his nape, and although his skin was lighter, the resemblance was uncanny despite the age difference.

“She’s a though nut to crack,” Elain warned him, wondering if at least this bachelor would last a few months with her. The previous suitor didn’t get to the end of the third, retreating in his chase because of her cold and detached attitude.

“Who knows, they might have found each other, then,” Lucien muttered, drawing a surprised laugh from Elain. She was happy not to be an only child, but sometimes being three sisters and with such different characters was a real challenge. She couldn’t imagine how Lucien managed to get along with everyone in his large family, although, being the seventh, it probably meant nobody paid him much attention.

“Are you as difficult as him?” she asked, once the silence stretched for a little too long. She was enjoying their conversation, the ease with which Lucien opened up, as if he wasn’t used to be associated with the same high-class circles as the rest of the presents. His quick remarks had the same taste as notes passed under the desk during boring lessons, thrilling and personal, even if they talked about nothing of substance, and his presence was grounding, capable of freeing her mind from unpleasant thoughts and calming her anxiety.

"If I want to, but fortunately it’s not something I have often to retort to,” he replied, before downing the glass of liquor in his right hand in a single sip. “And are you the gentles of the bunch as is rumored?”

Elain thought about it for a second. Regardless of how she wanted to behave, her nature wasn’t as wild and showy as Feyre’s or as relentless and demanding as Nesta’s: her qualities lay in diplomacy and understanding of her surroundings, she liked to observe more than act, and make thoughtful decisions to prevent mistakes. She was reserved, always composed, and knew how to keep her opinions to herself, but that didn’t make her any less dangerous, just easier to underestimate.

“I suppose so, or maybe I’m just really good at my job,” she replied, finishing the champagne herself and depositing the flute on an empty tray.

“Which, if I’m not mistaken, is sadly required,” he murmured in her ear, sending a shiver down her naked back. Elain followed his line of vision, and saw her father suspiciously pale and unsure on his legs.

Her eyes involuntarily rolled back in her skull. It was always the same damn story: he was the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company, not a small-town carpenter unfamiliar with open bars, therefore he should’ve known better than to get wasted before midnight, but punctual like a Swiss clock, he proved to be unable to complete even such a simple task. Elain didn’t expect him to suddenly stop drinking, despite all the help his daughters offered and the professionals they were handsomely paying, but she felt like it wasn’t too much to ask for him to not make a fool of himself at public events.

“I could show you where the backdoor is,” suggested her interlocutor, offering his arm with a wink of his good eye. “That’s where I usually sneak out from anyway.”

Convincing her father to move away from the corner of the room where he had retreated, probably in vain search of the poorly positioned bathroom, wasn’t as simple as it may sound, but once they succeeded, Lucien helped her to keep him upright, to make as few guests as possible notice his state.

“After you,” he told her with a polite smile, when they finally reached their destination, before opening the plastic door and bowing to let her pass like the humble usher of one of the luxurious hotels where he too surely used to stay when he did something his parents wouldn’t have approved of.

As soon as she stepped out, the acrid smell of New York immediately flooded her nostrils, and she was sure that if it hadn’t rained so heavily a couple of fat rats would’ve welcomed them back into the real world too.

“My usual luck,” Elain muttered, trying to keep from shivering in the cold. Her jacket had remained in the wardrobe, as to attract as little attention as possible, but the taxi Lucien had kindly called was at least a couple minutes away, so she could only hope that the thin fabric of her dress didn’t show off her nipples hardened by the winter air.

“My mother told me cream goes great with green,” Lucien whispered, and before Elain could ask him what the hell he was talking about, she felt the weight of his blazer settle on her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his gaze perhaps for the first time since they’d taken shelter under the tiny plastic canopy. He wasn’t pitying her, he wasn’t amused nor even annoyed, he simply seemed used to helping strangers in need and vaguely sorry that their time together had come to a premature end.

“No need to thank me Cinderella,” he replied, very tenderly, the corners of his mouth slightly raised. “But now we have to load your father into the carriage.”

The taxi had indeed arrived at the only exit of the dead-end street, as close as possible to its future passengers. The pouring rain didn’t take long to soak her hair, and Lucien’s white shirt stuck to his arms, the muscles tense from the effort. The cold seemed to have brought her father a little back to his senses, but his tremors, mixed with an innate lack of coordination exacerbated by the alcohol, weren’t helping.

“Your jacket…” Elain started, once she was seated, but the owner shut her with a shrug.

“See it as a reason to look for me if you ever want to see me again,” he replied, and with that, he closed the door, gesturing for the driver to start moving.

“Where am I taking you, miss?” asked the man, who was already taking the road furthest from the entrance of the venue to avoid the paparazzi camped nearby despite the adverse weather, when he realized she wasn’t going to give him directions soon, the girl too focused on the encounter she just had. Blushing for the embarrassment, and with her mind focused mainly on the heat emanating from Lucien, whose shadow remained on her in the form of his velvet jacket, she absentmindedly provided him her address.

In a moment of clarity, Elain forced herself not to be delusional. Such a handsome and charming guy was certainly already taken, or at least he had a roster of sexy lovers. But then why be so nice? Why help with her father? She was still up wandering the kitchen and asking herself questions she couldn’t know the answers to when Nesta returned home, fortunately alone.

“Judging by your state no redhead was lucky tonight,” she tried to joke, but Nesta’s expression was deadly grave and she plopped down on one of the chaises longues in the living room dimly lit by the fireplace.

“Do you think we should send him back to rehab?” Elain asked, sitting down on the expensive rug the subject of their conversation had bought on his last trip to the Middle East.

“I say give him a second chance, but only one,” she replied, her gaze following the dancing flames.

“You should’ve stayed at the party,” Elain scolded her, resting her head on her thigh, left bare by the deep slit of her dress. “The situation is under control.”

“I can’t have fun when I know you’re shouldering his addiction alone,” Nesta replied, stroking her still damp hair, destroying definitively the elaborate hairstyle. Elain didn’t say anything else, but for some reason, as Nesta recounted her version of the evening, her eyes kept slipping to the door in hope a certain gentleman would ring the doorbell just to say goodnight. 

#acotar gift exchange #elucien #modern au #enchanted by taylor swift is the main inspo behind this #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #nesta archeron #neris if you squint #but they danced in canon too so if it's not your cup of tea you can ignore it #if it is tho let me know and i'll put together a little spin off in the blink of an eye

[ofbreathandflame]

Personally, I dnt see Nesta abusing Feyre because of how vague their history in their past home was like. They seemed on v equal ground wit the way they argued and fought. Feyre calls Nesta a burden then Nesta retaliates. Nesta warns Feyre about the old hag and Feyre brings up their past fight from the other night. Nesta tries to save Feyre and Feyre realizes there is more to her sister than she thought.

They always were at odds with each other but their never seemed to be any serious power dynamic between them. Neither was afraid of the other and both saw themselves in the other. I honestly think they both have stuff to answer for from their days in the cottage.

In SF, the book even says that Feyre wasn’t perfect and that she made mistakes but their past doesn’t have to define their future. Again, we dnt know what those mistakes could have been since there is such vague exploration of their dynamic back then. But passages in the books like these make me see that it wasn’t abuse between them. It certainly wasn’t healthy but definetly not so one-sided as many antis make it out to be.

hi anon!!

my response is loooooong 😭

i do really want to talk about this. i think the set up in the cabin is very important to the foundation of the sisters' relationship, and because its left as this gaping hole that lacks nuance and logic, it muddles the characterization going forward. a court of silver flames runs into trouble for this reasons, hence why is said it employs the use of 'placeholder' plotlines. to start, as many have stated before me, the set-up in the cabin makes no sense. none. not even a little. that matters for a lot of reasons but specifically because we can't really argue the validity of any of the sister's actions when the worldbuilding around them has none to begin.

its very hard to apply a real system of continual power, abuse, and neglect, when the circumstances around such dynamic is vague and uncommitted. the story doesn't want to commit to the consequences, but it also doesn't want to establish a relationship between the sisters without placing feyre as the permanent victim. so - it created an absurd scenario that doesn't make any sense. what i am saying is - the story has to go wayyyy out of its way to make elain and nesta 'villains' - to the point that the plot can't even support it. like for example, the girls live together in the cabin without feyre hunting for about a good 3-4 years. that means: someone clothed them, someone fed them, someone cleaned, someone took care of them. someone picked up the slack and its wasn't feyre. we know that mama archeron dies when the girls are 8, 10, and 11 - and the shortly after that, they lose their wealth. so - the girls are maybe 11, 13, and 14. literal children. and again - someone had to be taking care of them, a dynamic existed before feyre went hunting, but somehow never gets brought up. if the story is committed to this story, why doesn't it highlight nesta/feyre/elain's relationship in the moments where feyre isn't hunting? what was their relationship like? what was feyre like? these are perfect moments to establish the relationship. even if the sisters were lazy - what would they be doing all day? how would they even sustain themselves on meat all year long? even if the sisters were evil sisters there's little motivation for them to even be like this. the sisters are only three years apart. literally. when feyre was 8, elain was 10, and nesta was 11. thats not a big enough age-gap to even sustain partially of what the story argues about why the sisters have a disconnect. nesta would have been a BABY when feyre and elain were born - where is the motivation? how do elain and nesta develop a faction when they would have been mere toddlers when feyre came into the picture???

either papa archeron isn't a deadbeat or some mysterious force clothed, bathed, fed, and took care of them. like even the circumstances behind papa archeron being a deadbeat make no sense??/

and then there's the added layer of the suppose abuse the grandmother and mother were doling out to nesta, elain, and feyre. nesta was physically abused, and feyre was neglected to hell and high water - there's a plot pont to exploit right there. if the story wants to commit to nesta being abusive, but also wants her to be sympathetic, validating where her anger comes from, while acknowledging how it negatively affected her relationships with her sisters would be the perfect way to go. playing into the mirror sacrifices these sisters (youngest and oldest) made towards one another would have been *chefs kiss*. but again - the story leaned way too moral to even attempt a conversation like this. its willing to forgive the tamlins, rhys's and cassians, but not the women in the story. the thing is - the story doesn't commit to real faults with feyre - and it doesn't do that with nesta or elain either. they are only a standard to compare feyre against. and that's why the story cannot commit to a basic conversation between the sisters - there's nothing that exists between the except the drama. nesta has to atone for mystery reasons bc the story has rewrote their dynamic too many times. sjm acknowledges that the sisters are caricatures at this point of the story, but she doesn't rewrite the first book to accommodate her switch is plot direction.

nesta can't really tell feyre 'why she treated her x way ' bc the story doesn't know why either. a reason doesn't exist. elains book will probably have the same issue, on an even broader scale bc it doesn't actually have a reason these sisters chose to stare at a wall for 24 hours out of the day. the reason elain 'chooses not to help' is even more flimsy than the reason it gave nesta. esp bc the story later establishes that elain isn't even supposed to be a bad person, she can actually be caring. shes also a gardener so it also makes no sense that she would...cringe away from feyre bc of dirt???? that part makes no sense. she literally refused gloves at some point bc she liked to use her hands. she does so in the same book. and i don't even like this character but its the truth, and its why i cannot adequately take what the story argues about the sister seriously. nothing about what it argues makes any logical sense. it for this story...yeah that matters.

so....its valid that people don't take those chapters seriously. they are actually written with unserious intent. like how can i be angry at the sisters when the story argues they were essentially staring into space for eight years??? argues that papa archeron with 10000000 connections couldn't just....use those connections like he literally did near the end of tar and war? that the sisters could live off wild meat for years and still be alive? that toddler nesta and baby elain annexed toddler feyre??? its an unserious situation here. like feyre would rather -- @ 11, 14 or whatever age the story chooses to argue -- would immediately turn to the deadly woods and not yknow...an actual job??? mmkay.

#anti sjm: feyre archeron #anti sjm: nesta archeron #anti sjm: elain archeron #anti acotar #anti acosf #really pro archeron sisters (anti sjm) #for those who don't want to see anti content i do always put anti sjm in front of whatever so if you have the anti tags blocked #it should just block my posts #bc yall me going ham in the inbox - when you can just block me #queue #i hope i did this queue right bc it never works #also if u wanna block #do not reblog my post and then block me. #literally defeats the purpose of blocking in the first place #and will only bring more angry ppl. #so if u disagree just make your own subpost and im cool #its not fandom ettiquette and im tired of people doing this #should be 9:30 #thumbs crossed #anti sjm

[voidcommascreamintothe]

Cassian is not going to die in the next acotar book, what are y’all on?

I’m talking about acotar again. I gotta. The thoughts must be let out!

Come, walk with me here.

I’ve seen a couple of tiktoks saying that Cassian is likely to die, or that he is fated to die. But I am convinced that media literacy is much lower than the experts thought, because some of the arguments are just… inaccurate interpretations of canon?

My arguments are as follows:

1. Elain saying it wouldn’t take much to kill him, was only in the context of the battle with Hybern. And i know this because acotar was supposed to be a trilogy!!! You dont even need to read between the lines here, you just have to read. It was supposed to end with Wings and Ruin. It was planned out and plotted as a trilogy; altho i am partly convinced that Maas never intended the books to continue past the first one (more on that another time). Elain either saw that Cassian dies and intervened because she saw that his death leads to Nesta’s death, or she warned him, to let him know that he is not infallible. His death means Nesta will probably die too, as is established when Nesta refuses to leave Cassian and covers his body with hers, so Elain warned him to not do anything stupid. Altho the fae people have long lives, they are not Deathless. They can still die. So that warning of Elain’s, only served as a reminder to Cassian.

2. We have canonical resurrections. Rhysand died and came back. All three Archeron sisters died and came back.

2.1. We also get a cop-out. Near the end of acosf, when Bryarlin is controling him, he turns the knife on himself and pretends to fall to his death, so that Nesta can unleash her power to its fullest. This fake “Cass dying” scenario happens like two or three times over the course of the books. It would be poor cheap writing on Mass’s part if it happens AGAIN. And poor and cheap writer she is not.

3. What would be the point?

No, i am serious here. Narratively, what purpose would a Major Character Death serve at this point in the story? When has an important character died, and stayed dead in these books?

I truly believe that Amren’s death would’ve served a narrative purpose. If she sacrificed herself - and stayed dead- for the sake of everyone else, it would’ve been definitive proof that she was more fae than cold blooded monster. She was not one for sentiments and warm hugs. This act would have been her showing just how much she changed, how much the love she received from her friends changed her for the better. But no, she gets scooped up from the magic cookware and becomes yet another powerful female character that looses her powers.

Side eye. Major side eye to Maas for that one.

And thats for Amren, a secondary character. I do not for one second believe that permadeath is in the cards for any of the acotar characters.

4. Maas got her start in writing Sailor Moon fanfics. Do you think that someone who writes Sailor Moon fanfics would NOT write a HEA?

Ok this is more of a meta-textual reading of the text, looking at the bigger picture and incorporating details from real life into the contextual interpretation of the text, but it is important still.

Maas’s stories are high fantasy with a hard magic system and also a focus on love and loving relationships between people. Throne of Glass specifically, but the Maasverse generally, follow this kind of pattern and genre. A Court of Thorns and Roses is much more of a Romantic Fantasy. Romantic not as in smut, but as in Princess Bride. Romantic as in the Romantic movement in literature. It is idealistic. It shows a world through pink lenses in the shape of love hearts. It is much more of a 80s or 90s fantasy movie than anything else.

Game of Thrones these books are not. GRRM, Sara is not. The tonal shift that would come with a Major Character Death would be jarring. It would be off putting to a lot of the core audiences, and if Maas doesn’t see this, then Bloomsberry does. Or someone on her team does. If they cut a threesome scene, citing messiness and over complicating character relationships, then they most likely advise to stick with the status quo: HEA.

Love and loving connections is a huge part of the plot in Sailor Moon. The meaning of love, life, bonds with other people, all of this warm fuzzy way of telling a story is the point of the immaculate conception of Maas’s world building. She will bot go against it. It is not within her style nor her pattern of storytelling.

4.1. My loves, Aelin made it out of the box. Aelin got her happy ending with Rowan by her side and a crown on her head. Her Majesty the Queen of Therassen, got out of the box and got her happy ending- without her powers (side eye) but that is for another post. We were worried for a second there, but it was a HEA at the end wasn’t it?

When Maas said that we should be worried for Hunt, (or Rhun really, both are in a bit of a pickle at the point the story left them), I am confident she meant we should worry for them in the same way we were worried for Aelin. Who went through hell, but came back. To her HEA. Do you see what in putting down?

4.2. I also don’t really have a way of saying this, but smutty romantasy books do not kill off their breeding pairs. The style/subgenre of smutty romantasy does not come with main girl/boy death. Side characters, maybe; parrents or siblings (often off-screen) definitely.

But not your breeding pair. Cmon. We’ve read enough of those books to see the established pattern right girls?

I am by no means an athority on ACoTaR lore. Im just a girl in the world, reading smut. But I do have reading comprehension skills. Well developed ones, in thanks to all that classic literature i read as assigned reading in school. If I can analyze the motivations and traits of Raskolnikov and the original Lady Marmalade, as well as accurately surmise the plot of War and Peace, a book that gave me no peace and gives me war flashbacks, then a book about hot people having hot skysex is not an issue babez, truly it is not.

Bonsoir.

#cassian acotar #nessian #nesta acotar #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #maasverse #pro acosf #acotar #acowar #tog #throne of glass #queen aelin #rowan x aelin #aelin ashryver galathynius #cc1 #cc hosab #cc hoeab #rhun daanan crowned prince of the valbaran fae #sarah j maas #hunt alathar #elain archeron #elain kingslayer #pro elain #aelin apologist #crime and punishment #war and peace #dostoyevski

[autumnshighlady]

I’ve Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 13)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: Rhys finally confronts the reader, and Nesta meets Beron.

warnings: Night Court slander, semi graphic torture

word count: 5.3k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: once again I apologize for the wait, this chapter is a long filler chapter but I promise things will ramp up again soon! x

feedback is appreciated, just no hate pls! these are just my opinions, i’m more curious to see how you all like the writing and characterization and storylines!

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / 

read on ao3

Spotify playlist

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

READER POV

Rhysand’s words washed over you like a bucket of ice. Even your very heartbeat seemed to still – all sense of time had been lost to you already, but you swore the moon itself stopped its rotation in this very moment. Your mind was clear as you felt the urge to throw up, thinking back to those looks Rhys had been giving you at the ball in the Hewn City.

His words confirmed what you had feared the most: he knew.

“What…” Your voice trailed off, shaking. Even the ache in your shoulders and wrists from the strain of the shackles disappeared at the quick rise of your panic.

“Do not think these things go about in my court unnoticed.” Rhys said coldly, his eyes gleaming with arrogance at your squirming. “I knew there was something going on between you and Nesta. I’ll give you credit, (Y/N), not even Cassian or Azriel figured it out. They failed me in that sense, but it matters not. All it took was one peek inside your friend Gwyn’s head to figure everything out.”

Rage joined the panic that was churning within you. “You had NO RIGHT to look inside her head.” You spat at the High Lord, letting every ounce of hate shine through. It made you feel sick, Rhysand knowing exactly what Gwyn had gone through yet still choosing to invade her privacy. The priestess had been violated in one of the worst ways possible, and now the High Lord who had supposedly offered her protection had violated her mind.

You thought of Gwyn’s kind face, her large teal eyes that shone when she spoke about something she was passionate about. You thought about how long it must have taken for her to smile like that after Hybern, to trust people again and open herself up. If you didn’t hate Rhysand before, you definitely did now.

“It is my court, I have every right to do as I please if it concerns the safety of my court.” He said simply, brushing off your anger like a speck of lint.

You growled. “How could you do that to her? To a priestess so afraid of the world and males like you that it took her weeks just to leave that library?”

“Well, technically it’s your fault. I tried to look into your head to get answers, but could not get in no matter how hard I tried. Same with Nesta. That’s when I began to suspect something more than just friendship between the two of you, and dear Gwyneth was my last resort.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” You hissed, jerking your arms as much as possible. The chains clanked loudly, a harsh sound echoing throughout the eerie quiet of the cell.

“No, you will not.” Rhysand snorted. “But it seems Nesta came to Gwyn one day about an ancient spell, trying to find more information on it and how it could be used. Dear Gwyn tried so hard to help, pouring over dusty manuscripts for hours and hours but to no avail. Until one day she came across a record of an old spell between the goddess Estelle and her lover, Jayana. According to what Gwyn found, it dates back to when ancient gods ruled across the realms. Estelle was a mother goddess, a symbol of life, while Jayana was a goddess of war and death. They were opposites, yet the two fell in love. The mother and the warrior, joined as one.

 “When war broke out between the gods, Estelle and Jayana were taken by the other side and thrown into the pits of Hel as prisoners. The goddesses knew they were likely to die, so Estelle created a spell that would bind her with Jayana. It would allow them to communicate, even when they were far apart. They could feel what the other felt, sense both every ounce of fear and love the other had. But then the slaughter began, and many of the gods within the prison were slain. Jayana was dragged from Estelle’s arms and beheaded in front of her lover. It is said that the rage of Estelle is what broke the realms apart. She absorbed the life forces of the slain gods, including Jayana, and burst out of Hel. Nobody knows what happened to her after, apparently. Gwyn’s information ended there I am afraid.”

The story began to sink in, leaving your head reeling. Nesta had mentioned that the spell was from an ancient goddess, but to know the full story brought you both comfort and unease. While Nesta hadn’t told you this new information and Rhys very well could have been lying, some part of you knew it was true. It lined up with everything you felt through the bond – the fear you felt when Nesta was pulled into the Bog of Oorid, the ache in your chest at being away from her… it all made sense. Jayana and Estelle, if they even existed in the way Rhysand described, felt real. As you pondered the story, something akin to a soft glow warmed your chest for a split second, as if the bond itself were confirming the story.

“Which takes us back to you and Nesta,” Rhysand cleared his throat and continued, a small stream of dark mist twirling around his fingertips. “You used the spell, that much I know. And you used it for communication, to plot against me and my court, did you not?”

You couldn’t help but laugh dryly, causing the High Lord to cock his head angrily.

“Did I say something funny?” He said sternly.

“Look at yourself…” You rasped, unable to stop chuckling at how blind, or willfully cruel, the male before you was. “How could we not? It was never plotting against you, Rhysand, it was about not wanting to live under your roof and indebted to you for eternity. You locked us up, just like Tamlin did with your mate.”

At the mention of Feyre, that dark mist erupted from Rhysand’s palm and clamped around your throat. It was ice cold, stinging your skin but not cutting off your air entirely. His eyes were nearly black with rage, knuckles clenched as he snarled. “Do NOT speak of her.”

“What’s wrong, don’t like to face the truth?” You croaked. “At least Tamlin did it because he thought he loved Feyre. You, no…. you did it out of hate. You wanted to control us, not protect us.”

“Wrong.” The High Lord hissed furiously. “Nesta had a choice, and she chose the House of Wind.”

“Her other option was death. That is no fair choice, Rhysand. She would have been slaughtered in the human lands for being fae and you know it. The only reason you even entertained the House of Wind was because your mate is her sister. Admit it, you wanted us both either dead or completely under your control.”

Rhysand did not say anything, only growled with pure, feral hatred. Despite the pressure around your neck, you lifted your chin triumphantly. Rhysand had many masks, stacked on top of one another so that his true self was hidden by layers and layers. But you had ripped those down, seeing the High Lord for who he truly was – a cruel, bitter male who made no move to deny his desire to control you and Nesta. He prided himself on advocating for Illyrian women, patted himself on the back for helping the traumatised females in the library. Yet at the end of the day, he did not care. He was just like every other cruel High Lord before him.

With one final snarl, Rhysand withdrew his dark mist that clung to your neck. You gulped in air as the pressure was released, lungs aching for breath by that point. Even still, you chuckled. You must have looked like a mad woman, laughing after the cruel male in front of you had just choked you to the point where you had begun to feel lightheaded. Rhysand turned his back to you, walking back to his original position in the corner of the cell. Despite still being chained, you had gotten under his skin.

But then he stopped, movements pausing as if an idea struck him. Slowly, he turned back around, all anger gone. Instead, it was replaced by a look that made fear coil in your gut instantly. It was a look of pure cunning, an evilness that promised nothing good for you.

“If I cannot get into your head, then I have other ways of bringing forth the symbol of that bond.” His voice was a purr, seductive like a cat luring in its prey. “Unless you want to show me.”

Despite the terror within you, you did your best to hold firm. “No.”

Rhysand chuckled darkly, taking a step towards you once again. “That’s fine. If my theory is correct, then it will appear if you are in danger, will it not? Cassain mentioned a glow coming from the bog water before Nesta emerged, but it wasn’t the mask that emitted it, was it?”

Your heart rose in your throat as you realised what was about to happen. The glint in those violet eyes confirmed it, and tears began to well in your eyes. “Nesta will know” You blurted out. “She’ll come here and kill you for it.”

“Oh I don’t think she will. This cell is so heavily warded it blocks the magic of your bond. It is why I am guessing you haven’t been able to feel her through it. She will know nothing of what I am about to do to you.”

“Please….” You hated begging, but all strength and defiance had left your body as survival instinct finally kicked in. “Don’t do this…”

Rhysand merely chuckled as tendrils of dark mist began to creep towards you. “Scream as loud as you want, (Y/N). Nobody is coming to save you down here.”

You whimpered in fear as the mist began swirling around your limbs, stinging slightly. You flinched as it crept up your half exposed back like the edge of ten blades.

“This is your last chance.” Rhys said lowly. “Show me the symbol of the bond, or I will make it appear.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to brace yourself. When you didn’t answer, it began.

Searing pain shot up your back as a dark cloud sliced against it like a sword. You gritted your teeth, determined to not scream despite the feeling of blood welling from the cut. Another tendril that had been stroking the inside of your wrist quickly shot up the inside of your arm to the nook of your elbow, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. You opened your eyes, biting your lip so hard even more of your blood spilled from your body. The High Lord was staring at you with no remorse, only coldness as his magic lashed at you like a whip.

The slices continued, and by the time they returned to your raw back, you began screaming.

ERIS POV

Eris nodded as he passed by his servants on his way to Nesta’s room, or rather his room that she had been staying in. Each servant smiled or nodded back respectfully, bringing pride to Eris’ heart. He never would have done this in the main Autumn House. No, he would have kept his chin in the air and not acknowledge the staff. His father had spies everywhere, especially amongst the servants. Eris’ autumn house was the one place where he trusted everyone within its walls.

Admittedly, he was nervous for the dinner he was presently on his way to escort Nesta to. He had done his best to prepare her, coaching her on what to say and how to respond to Beron’s prompts just as he had been taught by his mother during his childhood. She had listened attentively, soaking in every word he said. Deep down, Eris knew she would probably be fine. From what he gathered, Nesta had most likely been groomed by her mother from a young age, learning the art of appealing to the wealthy male courtiers. It was one of the few things human and fae shared, the politics of navigating snobby dinner events just like these.

But Beron was dangerous, and unpredictable. Eris did not fear that the High Lord would throw Nesta in a cell or beat her at the dinner table. No, he would do worse. He would prey on Nesta and use fear to coerce her into doing his bidding, into becoming his own personal weapon he could deploy on a whim. And then once that was done, force her to produce children bearing the Vanserra name that would hopefully carry her magic. Eris had planned a hundred different scenarios for tonight, but it was never truly enough when it came to his father.

As usual, he knocked on Nesta’s door three times, then clasped his hands behind his back as he waited for an invitation to come in. Usually Nesta’s response came within a few seconds, but he heard nothing. Eris’ brow furrowed, and he knocked once more.

“Nesta?” He called. Judging by the sound of pacing, he knew she was in there. At least she had not jumped out the window and attempted to flee.

The footsteps grew louder, and before Eris could call out again the door was pulled open to reveal a worried-looking Nesta. Stress lined her sharp features, grey eyes clouded as if her mind were elsewhere. That honey-brown hair was braided in her usual cornet, not a single strand out of place. She wore a simple red dress with long sleeves and a high neckline – Eris’ choice, a modest one that would appeal to his father but also emphasise her beauty.

Nesta looked absolutely ravishing, but Eris brushed those thoughts aside for a moment. “Nesta, what–”

Before he could finish his sentence, the female grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room, slamming the door behind him. Her hand was ice cold and clammy in a way he hadn’t felt from her before. It was not the same cold as her fire that day in the Hewn City – a powerful, dangerous cold. No, it was the icy cold of fear.

“My lady,” Eris jested, masking his own uneasiness. “If you drag me into a room like this my father will definitely be reassured that we’re trying to conceive–” “Something’s wrong.” Nesta cut him off, letting go of his hand. She continued her pacing, one hand coming to press against her chest as she steadied her breathing.

“Okay,” Eris kept his voice steady and light, despite the worry he felt. “And may I inquire as to what exactly is wrong?”

“I don’t fucking know, Eris!” Nesta practically yelled. The hand that wasn’t pressed to her chest was clenching and unclenching by her side, as if it were grasping for something. A thin layer of sweat coated her forehead, and her breathing was visibly shallow.

Eris had never particularly cared for anyone, but seeing Nesta this anxious made the fire in his bones crackle, begging to be unleashed at whatever enemy was causing this. He could practically hear the song of Nesta’s silver fire, but the Archeron appeared to be too lost in worry to hear it herself.

He resisted the urge to go to Nesta, to grab her arms and stop her pacing before it drove both of them crazy. But he did not want to corner her, make her feel obligated to accept his help in the way he wanted to give it rather than what she wanted. His every instinct protested, but he remained where he was. “Explain why you think this, then.” He said slowly. “Is it about the dinner?”

Nesta shook her head. “No. I just…. I feel so cold it almost stings. There’s this feeling in my gut telling me that something’s wrong I just…. I don’t know what. I’m worried it’s (Y/N).”

“I thought you couldn’t feel her through the bond right now.”

“I can’t, I just… goddammit Eris I don’t know how to explain it but something is happening, okay? I need to…”

Nesta turned towards the door, but Eris was quicker. He stepped aside, blocking her way. “No.” He said, guilt already gnawing at him at the look of betrayal growing in Nesta’s eyes.

“Get out of my way, Eris.” She growled, glaring up at him.

“Nesta, listen to me.” The Prince forced himself to speak calmly, choosing his words carefully. “Is this feeling you’re getting giving you any indication of where she is?”

“No, but–”

“Then there is nothing you can do. I already have spies looking for her, and if they find even a trace of a hint they will let me know. Now, unless you have some grand plan of somehow running out of the Autumn Court without my father being alerted then by all means, let me know and I’ll join you. Even then, where would you go? What would you do to find her?”

Anguish seeped into Nesta’s voice, a desperate wail creeping into her tone. “I don’t know, but I’d try something! I can’t just….” Her voice cracked and broke off, tears welling in her grey eyes. The sight chipped away at Eris’ heart, seeing such a strong female so broken down, but he quickly cupped her face in his hands.

“Do not cry, Nesta.” He said sternly. “As much as we both want to help (Y/N) right now, we cannot do that if my father smites us both into the dust for being late to dinner. He will be able to tell that you have been crying, and we cannot have that. I do not want to tell you not to weep because you are allowed to feel what you feel, but in this court, while my father reigns, we cannot let emotions cloud our judgement. Understood?”

Nesta inhaled slowly, nodding into his hands. Gods, her face was so cold.

“She refused to leave me when I was at my lowest,” Nesta’s voice was barely above a whisper, broken like shards of glass. “And she needs me now, and I’ve left her.”

Eris summoned warmth into his palms to warm her cold cheeks and add some colour to her face. “I know,” He said. “But there is nothing you can do to help her right now other than help yourself. First, we will get through this meeting with my father. One thing at a time, Lady Nesta.”

Without thinking, Eris leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Nesta’s forehead. It was like kissing an ice cube, and for a split second he feared she would rip herself from his grasp and yell at him. But even though she appeared to stiffen in surprise, Nesta did not pull away. He felt her flames sing louder, and his own calling out in response at the contact. Like calling to like, once again.

Eris looked into Nesta’s eyes. “Do not forget you are the woman who stole the power of the cauldron itself. You were brave enough to share your story at a meeting of fae High Lords you didn’t know. You were tossed into a war you had never prepared for and came out with the King of Hybern’s head. You are much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Nesta Archeron. Do not let the shadow of the Night Court take that from you.”

*********************

With his arm linked through hers, Eris led Nesta through the entrance into the dining hall. As they walked through the doors, the remaining traces of Nesta’s stress melted off her like snow from the branches. She did not hold her chin high with her usual confidence, but kept her head level so as not to appear too submissive, but also not too challenging. Beron was a master at playing people, and Eris only hoped that he and Nesta could keep a step ahead of him.

Beron was already seated at the head of the table, a scowl written across his aged face. In the first chair next to him down the long side of the table sat Eris’ mother, her lifeless auburn locks covering her face like a curtain. It prickled Eris’ heart how she did not turn to look at him upon his arrival. There had been a time where her eyes glowed with pride upon seeing Eris, but now those were few and far between. She still visited him, still loved him, but deep down he knew she secretly feared he was too much like Beron.

“You’re late.” Beron’s voice was cold, his eyes devoid of any positive emotions as he glared at his eldest son.

“Apologies, father.” Eris quipped, pulling Nesta’s chair out for her. “I was showing my fiancé the paintings you commissioned in the gallery.”

Beron fixed Eris a stern glare, one that warned him not to make any snide comments. Eris shrugged, taking his seat between his father and Nesta. The role he played with his father was a fine line – on one hand, he dared not challenge the High Lord lest he receive a beating. But on the other hand, he could not appear weak. Beron would expect the occasional snide remark and disrespect, like it was part of a routine. One that kept him above his brothers, for he was the only one who could remotely get away with it. His brothers, on the other hand, would be far worse off than him.

His father’s gaze switched from him to Nesta, watching the female like a hawk as she curtsied before settling into her chair. His gaze was hungry, like a predator sizing up a lump of prey for its next meal. Eris sat next to her, nerves churning. As good as Eris had gotten at predicting his father’s moves and words, this was a new situation to him. Never before had he encountered someone who his father had so desperately desired to have in his court, to control. Nesta Archeron was a new entity, even for Beron. Eris was not stupid – every fae in Prythian who had heard of Nesta wanted to know more about her, how they were fascinated by the tales of the role she played in the war. But Beron would want more, to be able to sink his claws deep into Nesta and break her into pieces and put her back together over and over again until she moulded the image he wanted.

Perhaps Beron and Rhysand aren’t too different after all. Eris sarcastically chuckled to himself mentally as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“High Lord,” Nesta faced Beron and met his gaze, then dipped her head respectfully. “Thank you for graciously having me at your table tonight.”

Eris resisted the urge to smirk at Beron’s surprised blink, apparently caught off guard given that the rumours around Nesta had claimed that she was a witch, snarky and easy to anger. But Eris knew Nesta was smart, and likely needed little instruction on how to handle Beron. She was respectful and used flattery to appeal to his ego, but held herself high enough that she would not be walked over. Her presence was strong compared to the Lady of Autumn’s – it was like she was a ghost in her own home, and despite seeing it every day, it broke Eris’ heart to see her like this.

Beron then turned to Eris, electing to ignore Nesta for now and brush her off. “So, boy,” He said gruffly. “This is the female you are to marry provided she earns my blessing?”

“Correct,” Eris said casually as a timid servant loaded up his plate with food. “I figured it was time for me to settle down after my betrothal to the Morrigan all those centuries ago was ruined.”

“That was not your decision to make, Eris.” His father growled, eyes blazing. Even though Eris had already been punished for proposing to Nesta without his father’s permission, he knew that Beron would never forget it.

But Eris only shrugged, letting his father’s anger wash over him like waves. “But it was a good decision, was it not?” He said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Call it an eye for an eye. The brutes ruined my first marriage arrangement, so I took one of theirs in return. They owed me a debt, so I finally got my Night Court bride after all.”

Beside him, Nesta said nothing. She politely ate the food in front of her, as if she weren’t the object of conversation. Her sharp cheekbones gleamed in the light of the candles around them, casting a fiery glow across her face. To avoid staring, Eris turned his gaze back to his father.

“And yet neither Rhysand was consulted on the matter either, it seems.” Beron pointed out, eyes still fuming. “You made this decision on a whim. Now I need to see if it’s worth it. I have no intention of going to war with the Night Court over a female you thought was pretty enough to be your bride.”

Before Eris could speak, his father turned to Nesta and continued. “So, girl,” He growled. “Why should I let you remain in my house for even one moment longer? I should just send you back to your High Lord in a box and be done with this mess. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

Nesta set her utensils down on her plate, lifting her chin and turning her head towards Beron. Eris grew nervous at how firm her gaze was, unsure of how his father would react. She straightened her spine, voice steady as she spoke.

“My lord,” Nesta said. “I apologise for my presence in your Court causing tension. Neither of us wants war, I promise. But I have essentially been a prisoner within the Night Court, confined to one of Rhysand’s houses and being forced to train as a warrior. I have no desire to fight, but I was not allowed to use my magic. I was wasting away, and Eris saw that. He said I have more potential, and I do. My mother raised me to be a courtier, and to find a good marriage and provide my husband with children. It is still my every intention to do that, and I will do whatever you ask of me if it means I have your permission to stay in Autumn. But please, High Lord, do not send me back. I have a powerful gift from the Cauldron, and Rhysand would rather see me six feet underground than allow me to use it.”

Eris wasn’t sure he was breathing as Beron sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, staring at Nesta. On the one hand, Nesta had admitted a desire to use her magic and become stronger – something that Beron would loathe seeing any female do. But Eris could practically see the wheels turning in his father’s mind as he debated what Nesta could offer him, how he could maybe allow an exception to his misogynistic rules just this once to see what he could get out of it. His interest in the Archeron’s Cauldron-stolen powers was palpable, so Eris spoke up before Beron could think too hard and let his prejudices cloud his judgement.

“The ball at the Hewn City appears to be the first time Nesta’s magic has been used since the war,” He interjected, addressing his father. “It’s why she was out cold for so many days afterwards. I believe it would be in our best interest to let her learn how to use it and–”

“Quiet!” Beron snapped, shooting Eris a glare that would have sent most people scurrying away. “I’ve heard enough from you.”

The room was quiet for another few minutes. Nobody even dared eat, not while Beron clasped his hands together and propped his elbows on the table, staring down Nesta Archeron. To her credit, she did not flinch from his gaze. She met it evenly, a blank expression on her face that the High Lord was so clearly attempting to decipher to exploit a weakness. But Nesta was a statue, cold and frozen, mirroring Beron’s emotionless expression from earlier.

Beron finally spoke after what seemed like an eternity. “Show me.”

Nesta blinked once. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“Show me your powers, and I’ll decide if you’re even worth entertaining this marriage.” Beron’s tone left no room for question, as he sat back in his chair expectantly.

Nesta looked at Eris, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. He nodded, giving her the go-ahead for what they discussed earlier. Eris knew his father would want a demonstration, and they had spent over two hours preparing for what she would do when he asked for one.

Pushing her chair out from behind her, Nesta stood up. She smoothed her skirts, stepping a few feet back. Even the Lady of Autumn lifted her head to watch, concern written across her pale face. She glanced at Eris one last time, and took a deep breath while closing her eyes.

“Now.” Beron growled impatiently. “Before I decide you’re definitely not worth it and send you back to Rhysand as a pile of ash.”

A few seconds later, Nesta’s eyes opened. A silver fire glowed within them, illuminating her face. Eris tore his eyes away from her to glance at his father. Beron was leaning forward, watching Nesta like a hawk.

Nesta spread her arms slightly, palms opening to reveal a bright silver flame in each hand. It spread out, streams of it curling up her arms and weaving around her body while others pooled at her skirts.

“Mother above.” Eris’ mother whispered softly.

“Quiet.” Beron snapped at her, and she flinched.

Nesta stood there, glowing as if the moon itself had liquified and turned into flame that now danced around her body. The flames licked the air playfully, as if delighted to be let out. She remained utterly still as the silver fire quickly spread, climbing up the walls around them and engulfing the room. The guards began yelling, but a firm shout from their High Lord to not do anything made them freeze.

Like tidal waves, Nesta’s fire came gushing from her body and flooded the room. Seconds before it hit the table, Beron stood up quickly and summoned a wall of orange flame around the table, shielding himself and his family from the flames.

“Are you seriously telling me to light your dining room on fire?” Nesta had snapped earlier, shocked.

“That is exactly what I am telling you,” Eris had replied. “Very good listening skills.”

“Why the fuck do I have to do that?”

“Because if you appear to control your magic too much, Beron will see it as a threat. He is paranoid, and will immediately think you will use it against him. He has to see it in all its glory, and be threatened by it. Let your magic out however it wants, Nesta. You forget Beron is an extremely powerful male, he will be able to repel your flames for a time. But I want you to push back a bit. Not too much, just enough to let him feel the strength of your power. And then when he begins pushing really hard, let him beat you. He will not want you to stay in his court if he thinks your magic could overpower his own.”

Nesta had rolled her eyes. “So be strong, but not too strong?”

“Precisely,” Eris had smirked at her. “Dealing with my father always involves balancing on a fine line. Now let’s practice.”

As predicted, Nesta’s flames pushed against Beron’s, beginning to engulf them before he pushed back. Her flames grew higher, and Beron’s own matched hers. It was a dance of orange and silver, each one fighting to overpower the other. Eris watched in awe as his father battled Nesta’s, the High Lord’s jaw beginning to clench with effort.

But then Nesta’s flames shallowed, Beron’s immediately smothering them. The tension in his face was replaced by smugness as Nesta’s flames retreated, chased by his own. Black ash marked the floors and walls where Nesta’s fire had utterly scorched it, more and more being revealed as Nesta’s flames vanished. The second they did, Nesta staggered, panting.

Eris rushed out of his chair and wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her steady. The female was trembling slightly, her skin ice cold as Eris led her back to her chair. Beron had sat back down, already having ordered the servants to begin sweeping up the ash.

“Spectacular.” Beron murmured, his eyes ripe with hunger. His gaze did not move from Nesta, sizing her up like a piece of meat. The ambition on his face was undeniable.

“Wonderful, isn’t she?” Eris quipped, passing Nesta a glass of wine. “She gave Rhysand quite a scare with it. It was a truly wonderful scene, father. Pity you weren’t there.”

“Indeed.” Beron’s voice was far away, as if he were already lost in his own scheming thoughts. It made Eris unsettled, how quickly his father was already plotting.

The High Lord took a long sip of wine before speaking again. “You may stay in my court, Nesta Archeron, for the time being. You may train your magic with Eris, and I will reassess your abilities in a month. If you fail to impress me, I will throw you out of my court to the wolves. But if you prove useful, then I shall grant you my eldest son’s hand in marriage. Am I clear?”

Nesta nodded, but stayed silent. She still shook slightly, eyes fluttering at the exhaustion of using so much power. Beron didn’t give her a second glance as he turned to Eris.

“Do not think this is a reward for your brash actions, boy.” He hissed at his son. “If she was anyone else I’d have flayed her alive and hung her on your wall for your stupidity. But she may not be useless after all, and I want her on my side. If she complies, I will see this marriage through and you must breed her within three months of the wedding. Understood?”

Eris swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes, father.”

Beron stood up. “Good. We are done here. Get out.”

His wife quickly stood up and followed Beron out of the room, head bowed as her dress trailed in the ash. Once they were gone, Eris gently took Nesta’s arm. “Good job,” He murmured, helping her up. “I’m proud of you. Now let’s get you out of here.”

Nesta nodded, as if her ability to speak was trampled by her exhaustion. Noting how limply she hung in his arms, Eris flung her arm around his shoulder and reached down behind her knees. He scooped her up easily, noting how worryingly light she still was. You had mentioned that Nesta had been training, and if this was her having gained muscle and meat on her bones then it sickened him to think of the state of her body before.

He wasn’t lying when he said Nesta had been wasted in the Night Court. It angered him how arrogant Rhysand was to act like he was doing her a favour by forcing her to train. There were many paths in the immortal like that did not require a sword, something Nesta clearly did not want. To force her to do so was cruel, and proved to Eris even further that Rhysand was a complete and utter asshole to the core.

Before they reached the gates leading away from the main castle, Nesta had already fallen asleep in Eris’ arms. Her breath was steady, her soft exhales calming Eris’ racing heart. The dinner had made him more nervous than he’d have cared to admit, but he could not let Nesta see that. She looked so peaceful, her thin body curled into his as she snored quietly. It was a long trek to his grounds from the castle, but he did not mind. Selfishly, he liked having Nesta in his arms. But he felt a twinge of guilt as he recalled how fondly Nesta spoke of you. He was not a blind male, he knew you loved Nesta, and Nesta loved you. There was a part of him that was jealous, for her had grown a soft spot for both you and the eldest Archeron sister.

Eris pondered how he let his life get to this point as he walked through the forest. Marrying Nesta would not be a hardship. She was beautiful, intelligent and strong, which Eris admired very much. But trying her to him would be taking her away from you. He did not know whether you were even alive, but he hoped you were, even though you would likely unintentionally cause complications down the road. Eris could get away with sneaking one female into Autumn, but two? He did not think he would get lucky twice.

But part of him felt the same urges as Nesta, to abandon everything and search for you. Not only because Nesta cared for you, but for some reason he did not want you to be alone out there, wherever you were.

The stars shone overhead as Eris was lost in his thoughts. The details of how you would fit into his arrangement with his father would have to be set aside until he knew for certain where you were. He debated telling Nesta about his research on the bond between you and her, but decided against it. He knew it would be breaking his promise, not telling her immediately what he may have discovered, but he wanted to be certain first. Nesta would punish him for it, but it was a risk worth taking.

Eventually, Eris reached the doors to his house. Nesta remained asleep as he set her down in his bed, pulling the covers over her shivering frame. The room had been heated without fire, making it nice and warm for Nesta’s shivering body. He only hoped that dress was comfortable enough to sleep in.

As Nesta nestled her head into the soft pillow, Eris gently pushed a lock of hair out of her face.

“Sleep tight, Nesta Archeron.” He murmured before leaving the room, letting her sleep in peace.

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @queercontrarian @kitkat-writes-stuff @moonfawnx @sevikas-whore @weird-and-wise @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @kingshitonly @ladyofcherries @eerievixen @readingwritingwatching @peacecoffeeandflowers @a-frog-with-a-laptop @shadowqueen25 @lana08 @highladyofillyria @rachelnicolee @ladespedidas @little-darlingo @manonblackbeakquidditchteam13 @demirunner @terorovaerangi @hauntedandhopeful  @younxii @microwaveallthedemons @fanfictioniseverything @lovra974 @maddietheshoe @peaceandcrackers @emy1-9 @lostinfantasyworldsbi @issybee0611 @thoughtfulshepherdmongerkid @belledawnidk @whhyyynottt @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @littlebbb @piceous21 @sevendeadlyshins-blog @searchingford  @marigold-morelli @thesapphiclibrarian @

#ialtpwf #nesta archeron #nesta archeron fic #nesta archeron x eris vanserra #nesta x eris #nesta archeron x reader #Neris #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris acotar #neris fic #neris fluff #neris smut #acosf rewrite #acosf au #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #sjm #a court of silver flames #anti acosf #anti rhysand #anti feysand #beron vanserra #autumn court #anti inner circle #inner circle slander #anti ic #Azriel #azriel acotar

[ann-writes-universes]

Archangel (Azriel x reader) Pt. 4

A/N: Okay i took some creative liberties with the Hybern stuff so I am incredibly sorry if its inaccurate. I dont have my books with me presently and its been a minute since I have gone over that scene ; -; I wanted to get this out for you all though so I tried my best <3

Also! At some point today I will be posting a mood board for the series and some outfit details <3333

Warnings: Gore (?), angst, mentions of torture and wounds, Possible inaccuracies (im sorry yall)

WC: 1.7k ish

 The throne room was a massacre.

You had not met the king during your internment here, but he was not at all what you expected. The fae sitting upon the throne was tall and lithe, not at all the imposing stature you had envisioned during the days you had spent lying in wait.

When you were pulled into the throws of whatever mess had been occurring, the king’s dark eyes zeroed in on you. The room was littered with fae. Feyre was sobbing on the floor, a puddle of what you assumed was her vomit not far from her. Rhysand stood nearby, restrained by two very terrifying guards who were armed to the teeth. You cocked a brow at the sight of them together, Tamlin was standing across the room looking absolutely furious.

From her position on the floor Feyre was clutching the bloodied body of a tanned fae-male with leathery wings that had been horrifically shredded. The male groaned and sputtered on the floor, failing to sit up no matter how hard he tried.

Your heart flipped upside down and your brows knitted in confusion. Who the fuck were these people? Why the fuck was Feyre here with them and not the man she loved?

And then you saw them.

In a puddle on the floor laid Elain and Nesta Archeron. They were naked and trembling. Something about them had changed, they seemed… it hit you like a ton of bricks. Just as Feyre had been changed so had her sisters.

“How?” You whispered, utterly dumbfounded.

The others took notice of you then, Feyre looked to you and there was no hiding the utter terror in her pretty eyes. From his seat the king let out a choked laugh and clapped his hands.

“Oh, little Beddor you have missed all of the revelry. Adler, please bring her to me.” The King spoke and his voice sent chills through you. All the air in the room seemed to have dissipated and the fae male that held you jerked you forward.

A pained yelp escaped your throat at the sudden white-hot burn that shot down your shredded arm. A deep growl sounded from somewhere amongst the strangers and your eyes met with the deep brown hues of a male near Rhysand.

He had been wrestled to his knees and stared at you briefly before turning his gaze to the King.

“Strip her.”

The words broke you from your daze and you looked to the King frantically. Before you could begin to protest Adler had released your arm and reached for the hem of your shirt.

“N- no…” You were choking on your words, violently thrashing against Adler’s hands. Without a moment of hesitation, he reared back and slapped you. Your ears rang from the impact and you stumbled backwards. Feyre gasped behind you and the guards that restrained Rhysand and his friend struggled as the males reeled.

Successfully stripping you bare, Adler shoved you onto your knees before the King. Warm tears slid down your cheeks and you raised your arms to cover your chest. Your nose was bleeding, and you focused on the crimson drops that fell to the floor, unable to bring your eyes to the fae before you.

“Why are you crying, girl? You should feel lucky to have received an opportunity such as this one.”

“Enough Hybern. She has no part in this, let her go.” Rhysand ground out. His words were met with the sound of bone cracking and the muted scream of his friend slowly bleeding out on the floor. Whoever it was held some weight in Rhysand’s life, enough so that his attempt to help you was not followed by any others.

Your blood was making constellations on the stone below you. It seeped into the cracks of the floor and began to pool. How hard had he hit you? In your bones you could feel the shock beginning to take hold. Your body had been tormented for months and sitting here, naked before the King of Hybern seemed to be its final straw.

Your gaze finally found the King’s and in it you found nothing but evil so intense it made your stomach hurt.

“Just fucking kill me already.” You ground out, anger was taking hold, or was this feeling acceptance? You had survived the mountain and had one? Two hours of freedom? Only to end up here, naked and shaking so violently you felt as though your head was going to fall off of your shoulders. How poetic would that be? To suffer the same fate as Adam had. The same fate your parents had.

The thought made you laugh.

Hybern raised a brow as he stared at you, bleeding and laughing, naked before him.

“Kill you?” He questioned. His gaze now held some sort of fucked up amusement, of course he enjoyed watching your descent into madness.

You dared to turn your head and gaze at those behind you. A red headed male who you had seen under the mountain was crouched beside Nesta and Elain, the former of the two had gained consciousness and was staring directly at you. There was a murderous rage building on her features, and it startled you so much that you returned your gaze to Hybern.

“I’m sick of these stupid fucking Faerie games. Kill. Me.” You had nothing left to say then. You gathered the blood that had pooled in your mouth and spit it directly onto Hybern’s feet. From his position beside the crowned male, Tamlin grimaced.

Hybern merely frowned and nodded his head. You were pulled to your feet by your hair and drug towards Nesta and Elain. The red-headed male beside them was drug backwards by a masked guard, as if he would intervene in whatever the fuck they were about to do to you.

And sitting there, dark and impending was a cauldron.

It was the size of a bathtub and hummed loudly as you approached. As you neared its edge the glint of swirling liquid caught your eye and you reeled.

You planted your heels into the ground and pushed backwards against Adler with every bit of remaining strength you had.

“You wanted death Beddor, here is your chance. From the looks of the wild cat on the floor you might beg the Gods that it does kill you.” Hybern called from his dias.

Another high fae came forward then and helped Adler lift your struggling form. You began to scream then. Your eyes found Feyre’s and she was sobbing. Rhysand looked as if he was being gutted alive as he watched her, and the kneeling male was staring at you with his mouth hanging open. He struggled against the fae holding him.

“Im so sorry.” Feyre repeated those words over and over as the fae holding you shoved you under, and then the whole world went dark.

-

You had never felt a pain like this. Not even the torture you had endured under the mountain had come close to this. You gasped violently and your lungs filled with liquid thicker than mud. There were hands holding you beneath the fluid and as much as you thrashed, they did not release you. They were everywhere, gripping, and pulling, and stroking. Every bone in your body was breaking and knitting back together, your skin felt as though it was peeling off, and all you wanted was to be able to fucking breathe.

You wondered if Clare had been this terrified while she bled to death on the floor of Amarantha’s throne room.

As the pain reached a pounding crescendo you hoped that wherever you went after this life, she and Adam would be waiting for you.

Suddenly, as though it had never begun the pain stopped and the hands lifted. The cauldron was being tipped over and you tumbled from it in a tidal wave of liquid and muck.

Nothing in your body worked, you lay there, eyes unnervingly opened wide and staring at the sky through the throne room’s glass roof. Stars dotted the night outside and twinkled faintly. There was no more pain.

There was nothing at all but you and those tiny stars millions of miles away that twinkled and danced in the night sky.

And then there was Feyre. She stood over you gasping and shaking. Without a word she grabbed your arm. Shaking it violently you realized then that she was calling to you, screaming your name.

“(y/n)! Please! Look at me!”

You began to cough violently, realizing then that you hadn’t been breathing only moments before. Liquid bubbled out of your mouth, Feyre rolled you onto your side and you emptied the slimy contents of your stomach and lungs onto the floor.

“Rhysand I can’t carry her… I can’t- we can’t leave her here.” Feyre was frantic. The red headed male had Elain in his arms and Nesta was staring daggers into his back. You had no clue where Hybern was or even the guards that had been surrounding the small group.

“I can.” It was the male who had been kneeling by Rhysand. He was standing now, and his wings drooped behind him. He looked like hell and when he made to walk towards you, he stumbled greatly.

“Azriel you can hardly hold yourself up-“

“I said I can get her.” He snapped. Feyre’s mouth formed a tight line and she nodded. You were scooped off the floor and cradled against Azriel’s chest.

Wind encased you suddenly and the throne room disappeared, in its place was a new room.

Whatever magic that had been used by Rhysand to get your small group here had nearly killed him it seemed. He collapsed to the opal floor and Feyre rushed to his side. Azriel fell to his knees, still cradling you close.

People were shouting and running back and forth frantically. The male with the shredded wings was being rushed out of the room by a small ebony haired woman and two larger men.

“Are you okay?”

Azriel implored, gently shaking you to grab your attention. You slowly turned your gaze to his and marveled at the color of his eyes, the glint of blood on his forehead, and the way his hair curled slightly. Everything seemed so much more detailed now.

“What happened to me?” You whispered. A stark laugh from nearby caught you off guard and you turned to see Nesta being wrapped in a towel by a wraith like fae.

“The same thing that happened to us. They changed you into one of them.” She ground out.

“I don’t understand.”

“What about it don’t you understand Beddor? You aren’t human anymore.”  

----

TAGS:

@wanderer-by-heart

@marigold-morelli

@esposadomd

@blitz-fall

@a-little-disguised

@sevikas-whore

@judig92

@@we-were-beautiful

@willowkirk

@ariaaira

@paasrin

(If I am missing anyone please let me know!)

#azriel spymaster #azriel acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #Helion #sjmaas #azriel smut #batboys #ACOTAR #acofas #acomaf #acosf #rhysand x feyre #rhysand x reader #helion x reader #annwritesarchangel