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azsazz · 1 year

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Run Baby Run

Summary: Anon Request: For the vampire Rhys.. you choose 🫣

Warnings: Descriptions of blood.

Word Count: 1,603

Notes: Why vamp!Rhys kinda...🥵

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“You,” he prowls, caging you in. Hands planted on either side of your head, his biceps strain against the tight fabric of his finely pressed shirt. You can feel the chill radiating off him, cutting through the already cool night like a blade made of ice. Goosebumps break out across your flesh, but you will your body still as the spider-like shivers claw up your spine. Your heart stutters in your chest and you catch the gleam of his elongated canines glinting in the bright moonlight. “Don’t smell like the Night court, and you must not be from here because if you were, you’d know better than to walk alone at night.”

He trails a finger down your cheek, and you flinch at how frozen it feels against your hot cheeks. Your breath hitches in your throat and you press your palms into the building behind you to ground yourself, gaze slipping away from his intense violet eyes to stare at the embroidered collar of his shirt instead.

The Night Court insignia stares straight back at you.

Vampire. You want to cry, to knee him in the balls and run screaming up the streets, all the way back into the inn. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it. The lock will slide shut and you can hide underneath the thick quilt, far, far away from the monster before you, from the ones lurking in the night.

The corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk, and he nods, dropping the arm keeping you before him. “Go ahead and run, darling. Let’s see how far it gets you.”

You gulp, eyes flickering up on a moment of their own will to look at him again. He’s devastatingly handsome, straight features and dark hair pristinely cut and styled. His skin lacks the tan glow of life but if you squint you might just be able to make out the barely there color of his lips, the fangs peeking out at you.

But those eyes, rich violet and glowing with excitement. He looks ready for a hunt, as if it would be an absolute honor to chase you through the streets and hold you down as he takes what he wants from you. It makes you wonder how he might look afterwards, disheveled hair and pupils blown wide. How he’d hold you and the sounds he might make when he gets that first taste of the heating blood running through your veins.

You just wish your blood wasn’t the only thing he was after.

It all comes tumbling back to you in an instant. The thick crimson drinks at the bar, thickly coating the lips of the face drinking them. That unnatural grace they all seemed to have, twisting their hips and beckoning you towards them with shimmering eyes and tight-lipped smiles. All to hide their fangs, you realize now, knees shaking.

The smell of metal hung heavy in the air, lustful and heady, and you realize that the far couple you’d seen on your way out of the bathroom hadn’t been making out, but she’d been feeding off him, sucking the blood straight from his neck.

Your stomach roils as you try to swallow back the acid creeping up your throat.

“The people in the clubs,” you breathe. Your dress is too tight around your chest, you can hardly breathe.

“Yes,” he encourages, smile growing as you seem to be realizing just how much danger you’re in. Vampires rule the court, but he’s aware that you don’t truly understand the extent of the situation you find yourself in right now. “All vampires.”

Your brows knit together as your startled gaze meets his. He looms over you, shifting closer as your heart races in your chest. You think you hear the soft inhale he makes, know that he’s breathing in the scent of your blood by the way his lips part and he flicks his tongue against his teeth like a viper.

“But the ones in the cafes,” you stutter, mind racing, “They were eating.”

“Vampires,” he confirms, his hands sliding down the wall an inch.

“What about the ones–”

“Let me save you the time, darling. All of my people are vampires.”

“Oh,” your response is a defeated exhale. You don’t know what to do, how to get out of this situation. Surely if you were able to get away from the tall, handsome male before you, you’d wind up someone else’s dinner if all his people are– “Oh.”

He hums, grin going wicked. You watch his sharpened teeth press lightly into the stretched skin of his lower lip. “That’s right,” he drawls, “I’m Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court.”

This is so much worse than you thought.

“Rhysand,” you can’t help but breathe, eyes locked on his. His name tastes like the stars, fresh and bright and it makes you want to wish.

The slip of his name from your lips makes him still, pupils dilate as something within your own chest stirs. The feelings pull the breath from your chest in a gasp. It nearly hurts, feels like your heart is being tugged from the confines of your bone and flesh. You feel like you can almost see it, the stardust he’s made from intertwining with the shimmering gold of the entity of your soul given form. They weave together like light and dark, shadows weaving themselves between rays of silken sun, tying together in an intricate pattern, his soul filling all the holes of yours and yours, his.

Rhys stumbles into you as the strings pull taut, heaving chest to heaving chest as the feeling in your chest dies down. It stings like icicles are running through your veins and this time when you shudder, it’s against his firm front, and his hands fall from the wall you’re pressed up against to your arms, steadying you.

He can’t look away from you. He’ll never be able to again, and all of the instincts that were telling him to sink his fangs into your neck and taste the warm blood against his lips are raging at him to protect. Protect his mate, looking so small before him, not a vampire, but an ethereal fae that had intrigued him from the very start. Even if it weren’t for the blood running through your veins, there had been a pull that had made him want to follow you, made him want to sink to his knees and use those fangs to pleasure you instead of taking from you. He had wanted to give, and the High Lord was usually one to receive, all the vampires he let entertain him had been nothing compared to this very moment. Rhys has been waiting for this for long enough.

“My mate.” His voice is a whisper, one of disbelief. He can’t seem to force himself to step away not because his body will not physically allow him to, but because he doesn't want to part from you. He feels like he’s been away from you for far too long, like he can breathe at full capacity again even though he doesn’t need to. For the first time in forever he finally feels warm. It has been so long that he’d forgotten it, like early morning rays of sunshine shining down on him, touching his soul.

Rhys lifts a hand like he wants to touch your cheek, but he draws away at the last second. The hungry glint in his eye has been replaced by a soft look, transforming his face completely, leaving him looking even more handsome than before, like you’re the one turned predator and can break him at any moment.

He’d let you.

Tentatively, you find his hand, taking it in your own. It’s cold and his fingers stick to your skin the way ice does in the winter. You lead him towards your cheek, brushing his knuckles softly across your rosy cheeks as Rhys watches, unblinking.

Rhys draws in a sharp breath at the gentleness in which you move. He’d wanted to ravage you before, when the bond had made its mark known, but he’d forgotten just how fragile fae beings can be. Having been surrounded by vampires and fae that had thrived off his harsh nature, it had simply slipped his mind that he was capable of such things.

“My mate,” you echo. The sweetness of your voice has him growling in response, hand slipping from yours to place over your throat, brushing his thumb against the bob of your throat in a rough, yet tentative gesture.

Your mate leans down, nosing his way across your throat, scenting the luscious blood that rushes in response to the graze of his teeth.

“Let me take you home, where I can show you how much finding my mate means to me.” He tilts his head to look up at you, violet eyes wild with desire. It turns your insides molten, heat blossoming between your legs. He’s so close that if he needed to breathe, you’d be sharing the same air. If you nod your agreement, you’ll be able to taste his lips.

That gorgeous smile reappears as he catches the flicker of your gaze to his lips and back. Rhys brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, smirking at the scent when not just your blood consumes his senses.

“Or we can stay right here and let the entire court know that I’ve finally found you?” He questions and you breathe a shaky laugh that he swallows whole.

“Take me home, High Lord,” you answer, sliding your hand into his. “Take me home, my mate.”

#rhysand #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #vampire!rhys #azsazz #acotar #acomaf #acowar

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doomedandstoned · 4 years

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Wasteland Coven Summon Doom From the Rust Belt

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

You're about to meet a true blue, dyed in the wool doom band from Ohio, which I discovered just a few weeks ago. This is WASTELAND COVEN, aptly named considering the industrial devastation that has visited the midwest, accentuated now even more in a time of pandemic. 'Ruined' (2020) is their debut EP and it features a singer, Susan Mitchel, that I would rank with Susie MacMullen of Brume and Dorthia Cottrell of Windhand. Sometimes vocalists try to pull off that coveted, full-bodied range, but end up sounding thin and wobbly. Not here.

Performing double duty on bass, Susan is joined in this Toledo crew by guitarists Bill Anderson and Brandon Collins, along with drummer Jason Wilcox. This is meat and potatoes doom, too, each of the three tracks on Ruined bearing the formative influences of Candlemass and Saint Vitus (the vocal cadence and guitar solos of "The Great Colossus"), Trouble and My Dying Bride (the mysterious and dramatic "Endless Night"), and the aforementioned Windhand (the riff laden intro to "Midsummer Days").

This mix of beauty and beast works well for Wasteland Coven. Susan's vocals take wings with sad urgency, rising above the dense, darkly downtuned procession of smoke and fire. Bittersweet leads break through the haze here and again, too, if for no other reason than to accent the gravity of the moment.

I've listened to the EP multiple times in a row and it is substantial enough to keep my appetite for doom satiated, without overstaying its welcome with an overly-familiar taste. Look for its release on Friday, April 17th (pre-order CD here), and listen to the record whole right here, right now via Doomed & Stoned!

Give ear...

Ruined by Wasteland Coven

A Chat with Wasteland Coven Guitarist Brandon Collins

Take us back to the band's origins. How did it all begin for you guys?

Things got started in late 2018, when our drummer Jason posted on Facebook asking if anybody wanted to play something dark and heavy. He was already playing in a punk band (The Old Breed) and a noise rock band (Sog City) so he was really looking to start more of a Manilla Road inspired band - he's a big Manilla Road fan. Sue (bass and vocals) and I (guitar) were both interested in Jason's pitch but style shifted a little bit as we all got together. By the first time we met up, he said to aim for Candlemass meets My Dying Bride (which I declared sorcery) and from there we drifted into the doom menagerie that we're at now.

Jason quickly roped in another guitar player, but after a month or two he lost interest, so we spent some time looking for another. During that search period we sketched out our first songs and booked some studio time for later in the year - we were going to record what we had regardless of who we had. Eventually Sue reached out to Bill who solidified the lineup midway through 2019 and we were officially a band. We practiced, finished up the songs as a four piece, and went to Lakebottom Recording House in September 2019.

How about a walk-through of the songs on 'Ruined' (2020)?

Midsummer Days

I think we all agree that this is the best song on here. It was going to be a shorter and simpler song originally, but it really kind of blossomed with all of us adding new bits to it. Lyrics mainly involve the imagery and feelings of a dying world. Really it's a sad, poetic veil over the changing of seasons, summer to fall to winter - seeing everything in nature fade and decay as seasonal depression kicks in. Admittedly, "Midsummer Days" isn't really a doomy title, but when you realize that they're dead. That'll teach you to judge too quickly! Kinda had to push Sue a bit to do the "trailing off into the void" vocals right at the end. She was reluctant, but I'm really glad she did them. It really adds some resonating loneliness.

Great Colossus

So originally, I came up with the riffs for this, played them for Jason, and when he added drums, his style immediately put Sue in mind of robots -- giant robots. And that drove us to make this our weirdest song lyrically, about falling in love with a giant robot with sexual overtones. Sue and I went back and forth on the lyrics for this one a lot, tweaking it to put just the right sultry spin on something cold and mechanical. This song sort of prompted the cover art. Around the time we were recording songs Sue was at an art show and saw the piece. Made her think of the song and said we needed it on our EP!

Endless Night

This was our first song, so I like to say it has first song syndrome -- not quite as strong as the others and maybe sticks out a little more 'cause you're trying to find your direction. But the main riff and the solos are still fun, so why not? Since it was going to be the first song for our doom band, the lyrics hit on a pretty typical doom metal topic: death. But I suppose the twist is that it's more about setting aside your fears and finding peace in your demise -- even as the music kind of betrays that peace and hints at the dread and dark thoughts behind it all. Solos here were fun to do. I take the first half of the solo section and Bill takes the second half, so we each get a chance to go our own direction just meeting for a moment to hand it off in the middle.

What was the recording process like for the band?

The bulk of it was done over the course of two weekends, September 27-29 and October 4-6 in 2019 (with a bit of touch up and review a few times afterwards). We went to Lakebottom Recording House in Toledo owned and operated by J.C. Griffin. Jason had recorded with J.C. many times before and refused to go anywhere else. But for the rest of us, it was our first time there and it was fantastic.

It's hard to imagine how it would have worked out with anyone else. J.C. is super encouraging and immediately invested in making sure you're getting a great sound - he's gives great direction for process, equipment, and performance. Really great weekends overall hanging out and playing music the whole time. The hardest part might have actually been the work week in between those two weekends -- coming down from all the joys and excitement with days full of music made "regular" life such a dull slog where we were just desperate to go back and do it again. Easily the most fun and best experience I've had recording.

In retrospect, maybe it was a bit weird that we were all so happy and having such a great time producing this melancholy music, but I don't think we put any thought into it at the time. Susan was extremely nervous and self-conscious when it came time to do her vocals, but with enough liquid courage she nailed it.

It looks like you had the album cover commissioned?

Artwork was done by Jackie McKown who lives here in Toledo. Sue saw the piece at an art show where Jackie was showing her stuff. These giant robot creatures wrecking shit was pretty in line with the initial themes of Great Colossus - it was lacking the sex/love angle, but it still fit just fine with the kind of destructive war-machines that could inspire love. Sue was very taken with it right away, so we went with it.

There's also presumably death and longing for better times involved in that kind of city-wide rampage, so you can tie into the other tracks as well. We sort of let that guide us, having the artwork inspire the title "Ruined." We had a city being ruined on the cover and we could find some form of ruination in each song. Then when it came time to lay everything out, we decided to ruin things a little more, adding wrinkles and dirt marks and imperfections.

This last question is just for the gearheads! Tell us what you're sporting these days?

Brandon: Epiphone Les Paul Studio guitar with an Orange Crush CR120C amp (frequently used to accidentally drown out everyone else), and for pedals: Big Muff Pi (with Tone Wicker), MXR EVH Phase 90, Cry Baby Wah.

Sue: Ibanez BTB 5 String Quilt Top bass, DR Dragon Skin strings (allergic to nickel), with a Fender Rumble 500 Combo amp and Big Muff Pi pedal.

Bill: ESP LTD Viper-256 w/Gibson 498T bridge guitar, ESP LTD EC-100 w/EMG 81/85. Amps include Peavey Valveking 2x12, Carvin X100-B 100 watt head*, and Carvin 4x12 Cab (used as needed). Pedal of choice: Digitech GNX4 Multi-Effects.

Jason: Tama Rockstar Drums.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

#D&S Debuts #Wasteland Coven #Toledo #Ohio #Doom #Metal #D&S Reviews #HeavyBest2020 #Doomed & Stoned

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c-clarkia · 5 years

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Quarter to Three

Bloody knuckles, bruised lip, hundred aches and pains — but there’s only one thing on Frank Castle’s mind tonight: you.

He comes in, knuckles the same shade as the red-painted door. Rests a hand on the frame just for a moment, draws his shoulders deep, breath stretching low and long in his throat; some jungle cat filling its lungs after a hunt, flexing its claws, filing away its hurts. Still, they dog him as he bolts the door, crosses to the kitchen, frown on his brow as pain flares between his ribs, flicker of teeth as he bites down on his lip.

Water. Whiskey. Wine glass in the sink clouding crimson around its stem as the blood washes off his hands, turns the soapsuds red.

Runs a fingertip round its edge — some hollow, haunting sound ringing off it — as he drains his tumbler in one quick swallow, fire-brand of whiskey burning up the breath in his throat. Pours another, sinks it back a little slower, fingertip still playing a strange little melody on the wine glass, eyes hooked on the cherry-red imprint smeared by his song.

There’s the barest trace of that lipstick on your mouth still, darkening the very edges of your lips. Crushed berries, day-old bloodstain; he tries to decipher the shade as he stands over you, half a frown still dappling his brow, wine glass abandoned in the pink dishwater. Lashes swept down on your cheeks, chest rising and falling in the soft breath of sleep. He kneels beside the couch, reaches out, fingertip seeking a new melody. A moment, then —

“Frank?”

So much sweeter than any glass-spun song: the sleepy edge to your voice, tongue a little thick from dreams, full lips half-pressed by his gentle tracing of them with his thumb. Swoops down to feather your chin as your eyes roll slowly open, slide shut again, squint back open. He watches you rove toward wakefulness with a crooked smile on his lips, soft sound fixing in his throat as his fingers flutter along your jaw.

“Time is it?”

“Quarter to three.”

“Mmm, anything… anything need stitching?”

“Ain’t nothin’ but bruises, baby girl.”

“Bed, then?”

“Bed.”

Arms slipping round you — vines, ropes, great iron anchor-chains — lifting you from the couch, from the quicksand of sleep. Grain by grain, it sifts from you till your eyes blink open just a little wider, fingers flexing till they find flesh to grasp at in place of air. Try to keep a grip on him — nape, shoulder-muscle nudging into your palm — as he sets you on the mattress; but he slips from you like a panther, stalks on soundless feet to shut the bedroom door, pull the curtains at the window. Lazily, you watch him.

Jungle cat amongst all the ferns and teakwood fixtures of your bedroom, some dense dark shadow stretching out his shoulders, rolling the knots from his neck, scrubbing a red-knuckled hand over his close-cropped hair. Left his boots at the front door, his coat on the hook — always does — but his vest is still strapped to his chest. Glimmers bone-white in the moonlight, that bulletproof skull as he shrugs it over his head, sets it carefully on the chair in the far corner, rubs a hand where it’s pinched him a little: hollow of his throat, groove of his armpit, hard line above his hip.

Stands there for what seems like an age; fingertips rasping at the aches rent across his skin, eyes hooked on the ghost in the corner. It’s got a power, that thing. Even off, it owns his body, sinks its bony claws into his mind, twists its teeth between the crooks of his ribs, wrenches at his heart. Frank, Pete, Punisher… Makes him question what a man like him — gunslinger, gravedigger — is doing here, blood barely washed off his hands, lungs full of air that carries half a hundred scents too sweet — too good — for someone like him to breathe: vanilla, thyme, meadowsweets, washing powder, you — mmm, you, most of all.

Half-turns from the ghost in the corner to cast a glance at you all rumpled on the bed. Charcoal tee shirt slipping off your shoulder as you crook on your elbows, bright eyes turned to the ceiling, dainty feet pointing as you stretch your toes. Kaleidoscope colours as a car rushes by in the street below; lamplight mixing with the moon-glow at the window, limning every cotton-clad curve of your body till you shine like some goddamn jewel amongst a trove of sheets and quilts and pillows. Doesn’t deserve something — someone — so beautiful, so bright, so —

“Frankie, stop.”

Huffs something like a laugh as you cut across the doubts in his head. “Thinkin’ too loud?”

“You’re always thinking too loud, Frank Castle. Thinking all the wrong things.” Roll onto your side, then clamber to your knees, fingers finding the hem of your tee shirt, whisking it over your head. “Making lies into truths. Turning truths into lies.” Throw it at his feet, rock back on your haunches; bird-tilt of your head as you extend a hand toward him. “Only one truth here, now, baby. Me. You. Us.”

He dips down, picks up the charcoal tee shirt, runs it between his fingers before shaking it out and — carefully, so carefully — draping it over the chair in the far corner. Punisher, Pete, Frank… Smooths it down till it covers up the bulletproof vest; a cloud of ink swallowing up a bone-white skull, handful of dark soil thrown on a grave, burying a ghost — even just for the night. Frank. Frank — Frank. Looks from the corner of the room to the curve of your wrist, the curl of your fingers as you stretch toward him.

“Just us,” he murmurs, hand half-lifting from his hip to indicate the chair. “Now it’s true.”

You nod slowly, hands coming to rest on your thighs. Like smooth sun-warmed stones, the way your palms light up skin that’s already hot to the touch. Rock a little to ease the ache between your legs, the pit of fire burning at your hips; give a little gasp as — fuck, oh, fuck — the heel of your foot briefly connects with damp cotton. Merest hint of pressure, a glance of white-hot pleasure, and you’re pressing down hard for half a heartbeat, teeth sinking into your lower lip, eyes rolling as you rasp at your clit through your panties. That drag almost as delicious as the drag of his eyes over your face, obsidian gaze flickering down to your thighs, tongue threading out to wet his bottom lip.

“Take ’em off.”

“You first.”

He raises an eyebrow at your retort. You raise one right back, slipping a thumb through the cotton-and-lace twist of the panties riding your hip. Another roll down onto the heel of your foot — mmm, fuck — then you’re lifting slowly to your knees, rearing up like a viper as he paces toward you. Slow, stealthy, some wild look glimmering in the gaze he keeps hooked on you. Jungle cat — fucking panther — skulking through the shadows of your bedroom, all stoop-shouldered, lick-lipped, like you’re his prey and nothing’s going to stop him sinking his teeth into the blood-beat of your throat.

Should scare you, the intensity of that coal-black look, the way he growls out another command — off now — voice like gravel ground over glass. Should scare you, the ghost covered up on the chair in the corner, the red-ringed mess of his knuckles same colour as your door. Should scare you, those hands — those gunslinging, gravedigging hands — just now resting their backs gently against your cheeks, the shapes of the scars that mark them pushing into your skin like hills to the skyline.

He should scare you…

… but he doesn’t — and for the life of him he can’t figure out why.

Slips from his eyes then, that wild look. Puzzlement takes its place; half-squinting at the ceiling as he flutters his fingers across your cheeks, thumbs running the gulley of your jawbone. Back and forth, back and forth. You watch him fight himself for a moment, hear the mantra in his head as if he’s whispering it aloud. Frank, Pete, Punisher… Ghosts pulling him back toward the chair in the far corner, gentle face at his fingertips pulling him toward you. Punisher, Pete, Frank…

“Look at me.”

Tears his eyes from the ceiling at the soft command — ground glass spun back together — lifting from your throat. Meet his gaze for a moment, then you focus on the buttons of his Henley, slowly pull them loose. Palmprint-patch of skin bared; you press your lips to the hollow of his throat, breathe him in — steel and gun oil and leather and malt liquor — fingers slipping to pull the shirt up off his sides. Tilt into his touch as his hands find grip at your waist, thumbs pushing up beneath your heavy breasts, flush warming your cheeks as he skates a pattern over the day-old indent of your bra, fingertips flexing to burrow at your ribs. Ache of absence as he lifts his grip for the half a breath it takes you to whisk the shirt off over his head; half-hitched breath now in your throat as his hands settle back, fingers digging a little tighter.

“That’s it, Frankie.” Soft as a whisper, the trail of your fingers up and down his upper arms; coiled muscles flickering beneath his skin, cogs turning in his heady eyes as he drinks your gaze. “Me. You. Us.”

“Us,” he rumbles. “Here, now… just us.”

Crushed berries, day-old bloodstain; he can taste the sweet and salt of each as you open your mouth for his kiss. Water. Whiskey. Wine. Can feel it all wash from him as the blood from his hands in the sink: every ache in his bones, every burn, every bruise, every black mark scattered as ashes over his skin. Pinprick of nails as you trail your fingertips down the broad slope of his back, slide them just inside his waistband, skate round till you find his belt-buckle, pull back from his lips with a whimper as you slip the leather out of the brass-metal loop, use the heels of your hands to try and free up his hips.

He catches your hands midway through their task; circles your slim little wrists in a single fist, pushes your bound fingers against your belly as he bears you back onto the bed. You fold almost immediately, knees falling wide as he moves up between your legs, dark eyes on yours as he presses your hands into the pillows above your head. Well-strung bow, the arch your body makes as he trails his free fingers the valley between your hipbones, thumb gently tapping the lacy edge of your panties.

“Told you to take these off… didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Try to sound defiant, but that’s mighty hard when you’re on your back, legs spread beneath his bulk, hips canting up toward the press of his thumb, desperate for it to roll lower. Nigh on impossible when he looks at you like he’s looking now — all ink-dark intent, hint of amusement at the very edges of his eyes — nose nudging against yours as he lifts the soft sound from your mouth with his lips, swallows it down with half a smirk.

“Left ’em on.” Cocks his head to the side — tut, tut — as he dips his fingers beneath the lacy hem, cups the heat of you in his palm; every muscle tense as you fight the urge to roll your hips, buck up into his hand. “Wanna leave ’em on now… huh, girlie?”

Bursts out before you can bite it back. “No. Take them off. Please.”

“With what?” Smile in his voice, on your neck as he ghosts a kiss to your pulse-point, palm slowly pressing in tighter. “My fingers?” Pinprick beneath your ear now, flick of tongue to soothe the sting of his bite. “My teeth?”

Skin on fire, a moan falling from your lips that sounds more animal than human. “Cut them off if you want.” Another nip at your pulse-point as he huffs a laugh; back aching with the strain of holding off the roll starting in your hips. “I don’t care — just take them off.”

“Cut ’em off, huh, girlie?” Noses at your neck, the the line of your jaw, then pulls back to level his face with your own. “Switchblade in my boot… shame it’s out in the hall.” Smug little half-smile lifting the shadow-stubble of his cheeks, eyebrow raised earnestly as he slowly scissors his fingers. “Mmm… could go get it?”

Now your traitorous hips roll. “Son of a bitch.” Spit it between clenched teeth, as much to him as to yourself. He chuckles: a low, rough sound that skates along your spine. Makes to get up, chase after his errant switchblade. “Don’t you — ah, fuck.” Thumb and fingers now, working a sweet wet tune. “Don’t you dare leave this room, Frank Castle.”

Smirks as if he’s considering it. Like hell he is. How could he? All laid up beneath him, your cheeks the colour of street-vendor apples, teeth nipping at your full lips as you rock your head back and forth across the pillows, sweet little moan ebbing out from deep in your throat. Water. Whiskey. Wine. Sucks it up in a kiss that leaves you light-headed, breathless, reeling. Blink up at him with fuck-me eyes; feel him sag into the contours of your body as if he’s finally — finally — seeing that you want him just as much as he wants you.

“Ain’t going nowhere,” he rumbles. “Not now. Not ever.” Drags his nose across your cheek, dips his lips beneath your ear. “Hear me, baby girl?” Try to nod but you’re too lax, too heavy, soft, pliant — like sun-warmed candlewax between his hands, his mouth, tongue, teeth. “You hear me?”

Fight through the haze. “I hear you.” Faces level, you hook his gaze with your own; brow furrowing as his thumb twists and slips down over your clit. “Fuck… Frankie, I hear you.” Something clears in his eyes, storm-clouds burnt away by the sun as you whine softly. “Mm, inside. Please, baby, please. Want you inside me.”

But he’s worshipful tonight. Shakes his head. Takes his time. Scenting, slipping, stalking till you’re white-hot, electric, arching up off the mattress, thighs spreading even wider as he shifts his weight, runs his tongue the curve of your throat, the valley between your rolling breasts. On your elbows, watching, whimpering; obsidian eyes glittering on your own desperate gaze.

Jungle cat — fucking panther — the way he shadows down your body, sinks to his knees beside the bed, pulls your hips to the edge. Nip of his nails; cotton-and-lace ribbons drifting down your ankles. Legs looped over his shoulders, breath on your bare pussy, thighs tensing reflexively as his mouth closes on you.

Soft at first. Barely touching. Not even teasing. Glancing, open-mouth kisses that send jolts of heat straight to your belly. Cat flexing its claws, scenting the air, testing the water. No whisper, no warning — clit sucked up into his mouth just as your thighs begin to unknot.

Can’t tear your eyes away from his even as your neck aches to be thrown back, tongue twitches to throw cries up at the ceiling. Mesmerised by him. The way he works you. So soft and sloppy and utterly fucking perfect. Tongue rolling, flat and wide, then tucking up, twisting round your clit; plush mouth parting to suckle at it gently. Fuck, the feel of it, sight of it, sound of it: could be the last thing you heard on earth and you’d die happy.

“Baby… fuck, Frankie.”

Fingers scrabbling at his scalp, thumb pressing hard against his temple. His palms hooked round your thighs, holding you steady as you start to squirm, hips rolling up against his face, toes curling against his back, shoulders shunted into the pillows as your whole body arches up to chase the waves of heat cresting between your hipbones.

Try to hold off. Want to wait till he’s inside you, pushing deep — but he’s more stubborn than you. Lifts a palm from your thigh, presses down on your belly. One last flick and tease of his tongue. One long, endless suck and you’re coming. Coming. Coming —

“Frank! Frank… oh, Frank.”

Kill a man just to see you as you are now. Swears he would. Boneless, bright-cheeked, breath blossoming into a hundred curses, each one filthier than the last. Barest trace of that lipstick pushed up over the left edge of your upper lip. Crushed berries, day-old bloodstain; groans to taste it, surges up from his knees, chases you back up onto the bed. Fire in your eyes as you join his fingers frantic at his belt. Skin his jeans off his hips, fill your palm with his cock, buck against him impatiently.

“Easy… easy, sweetheart.” Voice a blur, his fingers on your hip, steadying you as you see stars; but you’re frantic, whimpering, aching to be stretched, aching for that deep, sweet ache as he fucks you good and slow and steady. “Mmm, that’s it, baby girl.”

Hot and hard and heavy as his weight and musk and muscle bearing you down, splitting your thighs, sliding between your slick hot folds still so fucking tender from his tongue that you feel a second climax building already.

Rocks you before you’re ready. Walls clenching, clamping, rippling round his cock as he sags down onto his forearms, head hanging low, mouth on your throat. Hips like pistons; yours roll in response, desperate to keep up even as your insides turn to white-hot mush and the world goes dark.

Eyes closed, moan dragging sand along your throat, fingertips denting the hard slabs of muscle on his upper-back. Slice open again as you feel him grow harder, hotter inside you; gaze taking in the ridges of his spine, mountain-range shoulders, sun-browned nape — shadowy ghost in the corner still covered up on the chair. Scowl at it even so, dig your fingers into his nape, press your lips to his ear, cant your hips, pull him deeper — yes, Frankie, yes — deeper, deeper, till you’re lock, key, latch, screw, fucking metal-melt welded tight together.

Mumbles into your skin. Hook a hand in his hair, pull him back till he’s staring down at you, furrowed brow, flickers streaking his face as he groans, butts his forehead against your own, snatches at your lips.

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “Mmm, fuck… yes, Frankie, yes.”

Soldier marching to his orders. Hips smashing harder for a thrust or two, then stilling, stuttering; line of fire from his brain to his cock, singeing up his spine as you suck the goddamn soul right out of his chest. Crashes down onto you, fingers woven into your hair, heartbeat a steady drum against your breasts. Makes no move to lift up, back off, pull out. Still, you wrap your arms round his shoulders, grip him tight.

“Stay there,” breathe it, lips skating the rise of his cheekbone as he shifts his face to look at you. “Just… just stay there for a minute.” Meet his kiss. Water. Whiskey. Wine. Drown yourself in it, in him. “Stay.”

“Ain’t going nowhere, baby girl,” he rumbles. “Not now. Not ever.”

Taste the truth on his tongue.

Here, now — just us.

Ghost in the corner keeps quiet — even just for the night.

you can find this (and me!) on ao3 if you so desire. ✨

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #the punisher #the punisher x reader #smut #some sweetness too

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wildlyglittering · 6 years

Text

You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know

Some Nessian semi-fluff. Sort of but yes.

There had been a strange look on Cassian’s face for days now and it was a look which Nesta couldn’t place. It seemed only to appear when he looked at her and appeared most often when it was obvious Cassian thought she wasn’t looking back.

It had begun after her return from the Mortal Realm. They had not rushed to cling to each other. They weren’t Feyre and Rhys, for Cauldron’s sake. Unlike the High Lord and Lady both Nesta and Cassian could control themselves in public. Instead, Nesta had arrived back to the House of Wind where blue-grey eyes met hazel ones across the hall and where careful, measured strides were taken by both to meet in the middle.

They were within scenting distance when she saw it on his face. The look. That look. The one that would constantly end up making an appearance.

Nesta had been reminded of a horse that she once saw as a child. It had been a beautiful creature; sturdy muscle, deep brown smooth skin and a flowing black mane. She passed the field it was kept in every day and watched as it galloped at full speed to freedom, its hooves pounding on the ground. One day it came too close to a snake, curled and hidden in the grass and Nesta had watched as the horse reared back when the snake made itself known.

That was what Cassian had done. Reared back as though she was a viper in the long grass. His nostrils had flared and his eyes had widened, the pupils of his eyes growing fat until the hazel had all but disappeared. His head jerked back and he stopped mid-stride, nostrils twitching until Nesta rolled her eyes and met the distance.

“You’ll make me do it all then you arrogant bat,” she had said but the statement was murmured in a voice that only ever softened for him and Elain. Her arms had wrapped themselves as far as she could reach around his large body and she dipped her head into the crook of his neck. His scent was wild and earthy and she breathed it deep into her lungs.

Cassian had stood rigid. The rapid beat of his heart thrashed against her ribs. “Wh – what? I won’t make you do it all,” and the solid and imposing voice of the General Commander of the Night Court’s armies had croaked at his words.

Nesta lifted her head from his shoulder and peered up at him, “Well you didn’t exactly meet me half-way.”

It was the subtlest of shifts in his body but she felt it anyway. The slight relaxing of his muscles, the exhale of breath, the untwisting of a frown. “Of course,” he said, “that’s what you meant.”

“What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all.”

****

In the dining hall they sat opposite each other, as was usual. Nesta could see Cassian’s features relax into his usual lazy grin, his eyes flashing dangerously with mischief which only happened when he spoke to Mor, who sat to his left. When Elain asked him a question about training he turned to her on his other side, his eyes softening and his voice gentle. He looked at Elain as a protective older brother would look at a sister and some part of Nesta would always warm at the strength of affection she felt towards him at those moments.

Over time Nesta had noticed that he had an expression for all his friends; one for Rhys, one for Feyre, one for Azriel. Even one for Amren. These were never overt. There was a subtle shift of his mouth, a quirk of his eyebrow, a clench or unclenching of his jaw. It showed mainly in his eyes; affection, irritation. Love.

He wore so many for her. Many that she had never seen him display towards another person. Some were expressions that he would only show her in private, the ones where his eyes burned through her clothing to feast upon her body. Those were the ones that contained the heat. Cassian’s looks to Nesta always seemed designed to thaw and it was those genuine and revered glances that melted the shards around her chest.

Nesta pushed the food around her plate with her fork. She thought she had seen every look his face could make but she recalled earlier and tried to place what it was. When she glanced up she saw that Cassian had stopped talking to Elain and was watching her. No sooner had she looked at him head on, he turned his head away as though he hadn’t been staring at her with a strange intensity.

Not, she thought, subtle enough.

****

Nesta was used to Cassian staring but not like this. Not with this new, bizarre quality. Nesta had always felt that Cassian took in all of her, a skill from his role as Commander. Observe the opponent, he had once said and she had raised an eyebrow.

Am I your foe? She had questioned. Am I your opponent?

But he had silenced her with sarcastic barbs which had later turned into kisses and later still so much more.

So yes, the staring she was used to. The scrutiny of her features she was used to, but with this new expression? No. With the following around? No. That was new and extremely unwelcome.

She had been reading in the library and he had hovered around her with his wings expanded out to almost full width, blocking her light. Nesta had shifted, trying to see her page when Cassian was over her in an instant checking that her chair was comfortable.

In bed he became obsessed with checking that she was fine with the temperature in the room.

“Not too hot?” he had asked her. “Or too cold? Let me get another blanket. You look freezing.” Then a quilted cover or two would find their way wrapped over her shoulders or draped across her lap. And all the time he wore that look.

****

“He’s suddenly become completely insufferable,” she said to Elain. “I need him to go to the training camps or something.”

They were walking around Elain’s small garden, arm in arm, their skirts ruffling slightly in the breeze. Nesta needed air. And space. Everywhere she went, Cassian wasn’t too far behind. Something niggled in the back in her mind, a suspicion.

“I wonder,” she went on, “if he isn’t suffering from a guilty conscience.”

Elain had been trailing her free hand among the flowers, her long pale fingers brushing against the green stems as she listened and nodded along but at that statement she turned her head towards Nesta, her face pinched together with confusion.

“Oh!” she exclaimed and stopped, turning Nesta fully towards her. Elain’s gentle brown eyes searched Nesta’s face, the confusion melting into a smile. “Oh,” she said again, quietly this time, “I see.”

“See what?”

Elain’s lips pulled up into an even greater smile, one filled with strong affection.

“I love you,” Elain said and Nesta’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at such a random statement. Her sister hadn’t said it with any shyness, it was a statement, short but true. “Cassian is not suffering from a guilty conscience, that I can assure you.”

Nesta looked at her baby sister, the one that she would have set worlds on fire for and knew that she would never lie to her. “But why is he behaving like this?”

Elain let out a long sigh, and then turned, gently tugging Nesta with her as they carried on walking down the path. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

She opened her mouth, about to ask another question but when they made a turn on the path and passed the long-stalked sunflowers she saw Cassian immediately up ahead lingering amongst the hydrangeas, trying and quite obviously failing to look inconspicuous.

“Oh,” Elain sing-songed, “what an unusual looking flower.”

Nesta’s face fixed into a scowl. “Go away,” she scolded, “I’m trying to spend time with my sister.”

Cassian eventually skulked off but not before depositing a shawl around her shoulder. “Just in case you get cold,” he had murmured.

The sisters watched him march off, his red syphons glowing amongst the pastel petals that surrounded them. Nesta turned to Elain, gesturing with her hand at the Illyrian’s retreating back. Elain bent down and picked a fallen blossom from the ground, pressing it to her nose. It looked to Nesta that Elain was trying to suppress a giggle.

“Oh, Nesta,” Elain breathed and then she reached out and tucked the blossom, a light shade of yellow and cream, behind Nesta’s ear. “It’s not just flowers that bloom.”

With a peck on her cheek and another smile, Elain tugged Nesta up the path once more.

****

When Nesta awoke from her nap, a quilted monstrosity that hadn’t been there before had been tucked around her. With a curse of frustration, she kicked at it, legs and arms flailing. “Ridiculous,” she hissed but there was no one in their room to hear her.

By the time she had reached the dining hall she was the last one there. At the moment it was just the four of them but they all took their usual places anyway. Cassian sat opposite her with watchful eyes as she lowered herself into her chair. Nesta ground her teeth. If she could make it through dinner without stabbing him with her fork, she would view it as a successful meal.

Mor was, as always, sat on Cassian’s left and her golden head was bowed as she told him some story. Nesta watched as that lazy, happy grin made an appearance and Cassian’s eyes gleamed. It had been years. So many years that Nesta couldn’t even count them anymore and whatever sting she had once felt when she had learnt about the history between Mor and Cassian, whatever bitter jealousy that tried to take root at their easy friendship had faded over time. Still, an occasional twinge made itself known to her and often at the moments Nesta would least expect. Like now.

Cassian threw his head back and roared with laughter, Mor matching him with equal vigour, her throat a long pale column of white. Nesta suddenly and inexplicably felt her fingers twitch around the fork she was gripping.

It was as though he could sense it which was a stupid thing to think as she knew he could. Cassian’s hazel eyes slid from Mor’s face over to Nesta’s and the mirth dimmed from his eyes as the smile disappeared. There was something heavy resting in her stomach and she couldn’t bring herself to eat so she pushed the food around on her plate like she had done a few days ago when she first learnt there was a new expression Cassian could wear.

His throat cleared. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Nesta looked up to meet his eyes. “No.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned down. Disappointment, maybe. Concern, possibly. She couldn’t place it. His eyes scanned her face.

“I have a stomach ache,” she told him by way of reassurance and also as a way to allow her to vacate the table as soon as possible. The image of his head rearing in fear when he had looked at her days ago compared to the comfortable lean of his head towards Mor now, danced in her mind.

Her words had meant to reassure but clearly, she had said the wrong thing. Cassian’s previously relaxed expression snapped taut. His eyes, hard as flint, quickly glanced down to her stomach and he stood, the abruptness of the action causing his body to collide slightly with the table and Elain reached out to steady a toppling glass.

“I’ll get you something.” He said it with his Commander’s voice, the voice that was deep and low and held a not-so-thinly contained threat against anyone that would argue with him.

Despite having woken from a nap before dinner, Nesta didn’t have any energy in her to argue and instead found herself speaking in a quiet voice, “I think I need to go to bed.” She thought that Cassian would argue with her but she was wrong. Frowning, he nodded and then Nesta watched as he schooled his features into a detached neutrality.

“I’ll walk you,” he said and Nesta felt her irritation bubble.

“No need,” she said as she stood. “I can go five minutes without being stalked.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow and she saw his jaw clench. She recognised that look, the one that said ‘fight me’ but she raised an eyebrow in reply.

A calming voice from Cassian’s right drifted up to them both. “I think Nesta can walk to your bedroom unaided Cassian, but she’ll take some cordial with her to ease her stomach ache. Isn’t that right Nesta?”

She looked down at Elain’s sweet face and forced a smile upon her own when she met the eyes of the extremely exasperated looking Illyrian. “Yes,” she said, as calmly as she could muster, “of course.”

This seemed to appease Cassian a little and Nesta turned, stepping closer to where Mor was sat, who had been watching the exchange with a bored detachment. There was a sudden squeak and Nesta looked down to Mor who had sat up with interest, her eyes darting between where Nesta and Cassian stood.

Nesta watched with confusion as Mor’s eyes glistened as she pressed her hand over her open mouth. “Oh! Oh!” Then a strange, unspoken conversation seemed to happen between Mor and Cassian which seemed to dampen Mor’s enthusiasm, her shoulders slumping slightly as she pouted.

Nesta had had enough. With what could only be pure jealously rearing its head, she kicked her chair backwards and stormed off, ignoring the call of her name that followed her from the room.

****

In the days and nights that followed her small tantrum, Cassian had seemed to tread with delicate steps. Each act that he performed appeared to be a calculated balance between cautious observation, passive stalking and fretting.

Nesta wanted to sob. For the first time in her life she couldn’t believe that she was looking forward to Feyre, Rhys and Azriel returning from the Summer Court where they had been negotiating some trade deal.

Her wanting to cry was also due to the fact that Mor had decided to join Cassian in becoming insufferable. Although the women had reached a solid and calm level of companionship over the years it was nothing like Mor’s relationship with Feyre and certainly nothing like Mor’s relationship with Cassian. Except it seemed like Mor was now putting excessive and unwanted levels of effort into bonding with Nesta.

She had been invited to afternoon strolls around Velaris, to dine with Mor for lunch at secluded lunchtime spots, to read in companionable silence in the library. Nesta had been trying to avoid them all. Especially as it seemed that Mor was carrying on with Cassian’s mild obsession with quilts.

“I’m not cold,” she had gritted out for the fifth time as she sat in the library.

“Let me just tuck the corners in anyway.”

There had been a crash from the book stacks as Cassian, never too far away, tried to navigate those stupidly large wings around the small space. Nesta put her head in her hands and shook her head in despair. There were only two things it could be. She was either dying or they were both suffering from extremely guilty consciences.

The worst thing about it all was that Cassian had stopped looking at her the way he used to. The frightened horse look had never quite left his face but it was joined by something new. There were so many moments that she caught him watching her and so many times when he had started to say something to her but then stopped and shook his head.

The lingering glances were plentiful but didn’t speak of mischief. His eyes would glance down to her breasts and hips but the desperate heat behind them had been replaced by something else. His fingers were delicate in their caresses and he danced feather light touches against her neck and cheek. Cassian would press his lips on her nape, his breath hot against her skin and Nesta would lean back into it craving his warmth.

It seemed that his fingers were aching to touch her just as much as she ached to be touched. But when Nesta turned to face him, her lips pressed fiercely against his, her hands drawing his towards her breasts he would murmur against her mouth and pull away. Cassian would cup her face in his large hands and kiss her nose. The affection was clear but Nesta remained confused.

To say she wanted to sob was an understatement. There had been days where she felt that’s all she did. Nesta hid the tears well, letting them flow when she was alone in the bathroom and then soaking cloth in cold water to dab at her eyes. She felt that her sturdiness was leaving her somehow and that all of what was happening was causing her to lose herself. Tired, tearful and temperamental. That’s what she was.

Her feelings had overflowed from her one day as she walked with Elain in the garden, crying among the peaches and pinks of the flowers. Elain’s eyes were round and horrified as Nesta confessed all she had been feeling, all the strangeness that was making her believe she was losing her mind. They had taken another corner and there, hovering under a rose trellis, was a hulking body complete with leathers, red glaring syphons and a permanently worried look.

Nesta had wailed.

It was that afternoon that Nesta decided to visit Elain, to apologise for her out of character outburst. When she got there, she could hear the argument through the wall, the two people completely caught up in it that they didn’t even pick up on her footsteps.

“.... completely ridiculous now...” she heard Elain say.

“I know!” The frustration in Cassian’s voice was palpable but he softened it quickly. “I know, but she doesn’t know and I don’t know how to tell her.”

“Well she’s obviously not working it out on her own. You need to tell her.” Elain’s voice was uncharacteristically stern and left no room for argument. There was a pause before she also softened her voice back into its usual tone. “You can’t let this carry on for much longer, Cassian. Think of how upset she’ll be when she works it out and knows that we knew before she did.”

There was a long drawn out sigh and another murmuring of ‘I know.’

Nesta swallowed down the lump in her throat and ignored the squirming in her gut, the one that told her something was happening. She tiptoed back to her and Cassian’s room wondering how it had all gone wrong.

****

During the night, she had done everything to sleep but couldn’t. Cassian lay next to her, snoring blissfully in his sleep, his warm arm slung over her middle and his hand gently pressing into her stomach. Nesta let out a shuddering sigh. His body was too hot and it was making her sweat. Beads of moisture had begun to trickle down her back where his naked skin pressed against her nightgown.

She shifted and managed to manoeuvre herself out of his grip. Cassian frowned and stretched out, reaching for her even as he dreamed. The silk of the nightgown clung to her damp skin and Nesta pulled it away from her body, wrinkling her nose.

If she was so inclined she would creep back onto the bed and press her lips against his forehead and kiss off the look of worry that he seemed to constantly wear these days. But she wasn’t so inclined even with his form, tanned and naked and delicious, stretched out on top of the sheets.

Normally, when she felt like she wanted nothing more to press herself against him and invite him into her body, she wouldn’t hesitate. But this wall growing between them, this pit of something in her stomach wiped the urge away. Part of her, the old, mistrustful part of her that she thought had been buried long ago was wondering if it was because he was pressing that body against someone else.

Instead she opened a window to let the breeze in and sat in the chair away from the bed.

****

The thoughts whirling through her mind and the lack of sleep was making her feel sick. Nesta had dozed off in the chair and woke to the soft pink streaks of the sunrise reaching into the room. Not for the first time she felt nausea creep into her mouth and she felt her stomach churn.

Her appetite hadn’t been what it was and either she was not hungry at all, or like now, she was desperate to fill the void. Opposite her, Cassian was still sound asleep, the light dancing off his features making them appear softer.

Nesta’s heart fluttered. Despite it all she had never loved anyone the way she loved him. Part of her knew that she would never love anyone the way she loved him. She felt soft and so utterly breakable and Nesta wanted nothing more than for Cassian to wrap his arms around her and tell her how much he loved her.

With the expression on his face one of peace, Nesta decided to leave him in bed and she slung an ice blue robe around her nightgown before wandering down to the kitchen to get breakfast.

The light was golden when she reached the kitchen and when Nesta walked through the door she was surprised to see two quiet figures sat opposite each other at the table.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you were back.”

Rhys and Azriel turned, violet and hazel eyes looking at her with interest. Nesta supposed it was unusual to see her in the kitchen so early and without Cassian in tow.

“We finished ahead of schedule,” Rhys explained, “so we come back late last night.”

“Where’s Feyre?”

“In bed.”

The way Rhys said it and the way his lips moved into a smirk told Nesta more than she wanted to know. She rolled her eyes and stepped closer to the table. “Well, I’m glad you’re all back,” she said and shocked herself for having meant it.

It seemed she didn’t only take herself by surprise from the way Rhys’ eyebrows shot up into his hair. She rolled her eyes again and opened her mouth but before she could speak she noticed the way the shadows had begun circling her body.

Azriel’s presence always unnerved her, even after all this time. Even though he was always a physically solid mass in the corner there was something about him that seemed to melt into the air. It always caught Nesta off guard when she remembered that he was there, speaking to the shadows and having them speak to him.

“Call them off,” she said, waving her hand through the swirls as they picked up in energy. One drifted around her stomach and if Nesta could have attributed an emotion to them she would say that they seemed excited.

“Of course,” and no sooner had he said it then the shadows parted and drifted back towards him to whisper in his ear.

Nesta clutched her robe tighter around her and slid into the chair next to his noticing how his eyes quickly glanced down her body before returning to his plate. From the corner of her eye she could see Azriel smiling a small cautious smile but one that seemed strangely warm.

Opposite her, Rhys chewed on a piece of bread and though he also wore a smile it was significantly less cautious. Nesta reached forward and grabbed a slice from the basket. “What?” she asked him. “Something in my hair?”

Rhys swallowed his mouthful and flashed her a wide grin that showed all his perfect, white teeth. Nesta supressed the urge to roll her eyes for a second time but shoved the bread into her mouth before she could say something sharp.

“How long?”

Nesta frowned. Rhys was leaning forward, still grinning like a clown, staring at her face intently. She shook her head not understanding but Rhys didn’t pick up on her confusion.

“Why didn’t you and Cassian say something before we went to the Summer Court? One of us would have stayed behind to take care of you.”

Nesta’s frown deepened and the bread in her mouth turned into a thick, chewy mass. Her mouth had dried up completely. Callous bastard, she thought.

Nesta knew that Rhys had the capacity to be unkind but this, this mockery of a smile he was throwing her way seemed to cut into her chest deeper than any knife. He knew. Whatever was going on in Cassian’s life, whatever secrets Cassian was keeping, Rhys knew. Of course, Rhys knew. And he was practically vibrating in his chair with delight.

Unlike with the others the ice between Nesta and Rhys had taken especially longer to thaw. It was primarily because of Nesta and Feyre’s history and because Rhys and Feyre were bonded it meant Rhys would destroy anything that could harm his mate. That had been Nesta once. But not now.

That’s why she felt the sting move deeper. She thought they were all past this, had thought that her and Rhys could live in peace just like the others. But he knew what Cassian was keeping from her and he wasn’t just pleased, he was exhilarated.

Tears pricked at her eyes and Nesta managed to swallow the lump of bread down. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” and her voice was cold and brittle.

It was the subtlest of changes but she could see Rhys smile twitch downwards and the glint leave his eyes. When he spoke, he was slow and cautious as though he were talking a snake down from striking. “Of course, you don’t. But all things considered it’s best that we don’t leave you and Cassian alone. I’m pretty sure I can guess how he has been.”

“Maybe, considering how ‘he has been’ it would just be best if I moved out,” and her voice sounded faint as though it was travelling at some distance to get to her mouth.

Rhys’ mouth dropped open, “No! That’s the opposite of what we want! Feyre would kill me if you both moved out now!”

“I don’t understand,” Nesta continued. “I just don’t understand...” and then it happened without warning. The sob; the wretched, pathetic sob that tore its way out of her mouth followed by hot, flowing tears.

She didn’t know what was worse, the fact that she was crying so openly or the fact that it was happening in the kitchen. In front of Azriel and Rhys.

“You don’t...” Rhys trailed off, seemingly more confused than before.

A hand, solid and scarred but gentle cupped round hers and gave it a squeeze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Azriel shake his head at Rhys. It was barely a movement but she caught it and saw Rhys’ eyes widen in response.

“Oh shit,” he breathed. “You don’t actually know. How do you not even know?”

Before she could open her mouth to ask what it was she was supposed to know there was a rapid shift to the air. Nesta knew what a tense body felt like with its muscles rigid and locked in place. She had never known until now that the air could copy that feeling.

“Get. Your. Hand. Off. My. Mate.”

They all turned to the source of the sound. It was like thunder, low and rumbling and it made the hair on Nesta’s arms stand up. If she didn’t intrinsically know that she would never be harmed by him, she would be terrified out of her skin of the towering shape that dominated the doorway.

Cassian’s knuckles were stark white from where he was clenching his fists. Nesta wondered if there was a part of him that was warring with himself. A rational, jovial Cassian that looked at Azriel with the love of a brother must have been locked in there somehow with this beast. His body shook as though he was fighting every last bit of himself to not rush into the kitchen and tear out Azriel’s throat.

“Cassian,” Nesta murmured and his eyes snapped to her face. There was a softening in his eyes for a second but then he saw the watery look of hers and the tear stains on her face. Whatever force was compelling him to stay in the door collapsed and with a roar that shook the walls he launched himself towards Azriel beside her.

It happened too fast to register all the details. Nesta could feel more than see the blur of movement around her and she somehow felt like she had been caught up in a maelstrom. One with wings and tempers and gusts of pheromones.

A breeze fluttered her robe and her hair, the golden-brown strands flying about her face. She blinked and the males were gone, Rhys must have reached Cassian before he could reach Azriel but not before several plates and a sideboard had been broken in half. Azriel stood beside her panting.

“Excuse me,” he said before disappearing into the murky darkness of the kitchen corner.

Nesta stood up, her mouth hanging open. Bending down she picked up her plate from the floor and touched the two halves together with a little chink. A slice of ceramic was missing from the middle. She dumbly stared at it until she heard a gasp from behind her.

“What in the name of the Mother?”

Turning, Nesta saw Feyre surveying the damage with same open mouth expression she was sure was on her face.

“Cassian,” Nesta offered. “And Rhys. And Azriel. For some reason.”

Feyre’s blue-grey eyes scrutinised the kitchen and she muttered something about idiot males before looking over at Nesta. Nesta saw Feyre’s expression change in an instant, her sister’s eyes widening as she covered her mouth with her hands.

“Nesta,” Feyre whispered and Nesta could see Feyre’s eyes begin to water. But when she lowered her hands, Nesta could see that Feyre was smiling that same ridiculously exuberant smile that Rhys had worn.

Nesta braced herself.

“Oh, Nesta!” Feyre launched herself over broken fragments of crockery and leapt over a chunk of wood that used to be furniture. Feyre’s arms wrapped around Nesta’s shoulders and Nesta was surprised to find herself leaning in, needing the comfort.

“Oh, Nesta!” Feyre exclaimed again but before Nesta could ask what was going on she received her answer. “I can’t believe you’re pregnant!”

****

She found them on the roof of the House of Wind. Feyre winnowed her up there as soon as she could. The two women watched them brawl for a while, Cassian versus Azriel and Rhys, fighting like a man possessed.

Nesta ground her teeth and clenched her fists. She was going to murder him.

“You,” she hissed and she felt fury swirl around her like a mist. “You did this.”

Some still-functioning part of his brain must have clicked in and Cassian stopped, mid punch to Rhys’ face and turned to her. Rhys was lying on his back on the floor but managed a wave to Feyre while Azriel took the moment’s pause to wipe some blood from his mouth.

Some stupid part of his brain must also have clicked in at her words as instead of looking scared or anxious, Cassian’s mouth stretched into a wide, open mouthed grin, the first she had seen from him in a while. Yes, it seemed to say. I did.

The grin passed almost as soon as it arrived as he took in Nesta’s face. A noise of pure vexation screeched from her mouth and she turned and stormed down the stairs, not caring if he even tried to follow.

****

He followed. Of course, he did.

The breeze that came in through the window of their room was both gentle and cool and Nesta welcomed the feel of it against her neck, the slight chill bringing her temperature down. When they first entered the room, Cassian made to close the window but after she shot him a sharp glare he quickly retreated to the armchair next to the bed.

That’s where he sat now. Nesta opposite him on the bed itself. A long and terrible silence between them.

With a deep sigh Nesta met his eyes. If she had trouble reading him before then she definitely didn’t now. Nothing but pure panic was visible on his face but she didn’t know if it was because Cassian didn’t know how she was going to react or if that was just how he’d been feeling about the situation this whole time.

“How long have you known?” Her voice was quiet.

There was a pause and then Cassian let out a sigh of his own, his body releasing its tension as it seemed he was finally glad to be rid of the secret. “Since you came back from the Mortal Realms. I scented it on you.”

“And everyone knows?”

He hesitated, “Yes.”

“I can’t believe you told everyone.” There was a tremble to her voice and it dipped to a whisper, “I can’t believe I didn’t know.” Nesta looked away not bearing to see Cassian’s expression.

“No,” his voice was soft and low and his hands, so large and strong reached out and clasped hers. “I promise I didn’t tell anyone, they worked it out themselves.”

Cassian’s long, tanned fingers weaved into her pale ones. There was a tremor to both sets of hands which she tried to ignore. Cassian’s thumbs began to lightly trace against her skin and she felt tears prick at her eyes again. Well, she thought, at least I know what’s behind all the crying. Stupid hormones.

“But how did they know? How did I not know?”

“Nes...” Cassian said gently and something in his tone made her look up. His eyes were warm and open, his face as tender as she had ever seen it. Something about his face was calm and relaxed and kind. If she could choose a face that he was wearing now she would say he was happy. He smiled at her. “I don’t know how you didn’t know, at first I thought you did.” He took a deep breath. “It’s obvious to me how the others knew. Nesta, you are radiant.”

A small sob came from her mouth and she extracted her hands from Cassian’s just so she could wipe her eyes. “When you realised I didn’t know, why didn’t you tell me?”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair and became fascinated at something in the corner.

Her next question was small as though part of her didn’t want to know the answer. “Is it because you don’t want it?”

He turned back in horror, his eyes wide and mouth wider. “What? No! I want it!”

He grabbed for her hands again and clutched them tighter this time, his frantic eyes searching her face. “Fae children are rare and you were cauldron made so I never thought... I didn’t even consider... Nesta, I want this to terrifying levels of want but it’s also terrifying. I thought you were hiding it from me from because you didn’t want it and I was so scared of that, that I needed some time. Then I realised you didn’t know and then I was trying to find ways to tell you and it got out of hand.”

“Yes, it did,” she snivelled. “I thought you were falling out of love with me.”

“Never,” he said emphatically. “Never.”

Cassian dropped her hands and moved to sit next to her on the bed, one arm wrapped around her body. Nesta sniffed and rested her head on his shoulder, her nose pressing against the skin of his throat. He felt just as he always had, smelt just as he always had but amongst the perfume of their bodies she could detect a new note, something that she hadn’t noticed before.

Hello there, she thought.

“Do you want it?” Cassian’s voice was a murmur, so low and quiet that she wouldn’t have heard it if her ears weren’t so close to his mouth. She heard the fear and panic. The fear and panic that had been on his face all this time and that he was now able to vocalise.

It was natural to be anxious, this was a new life after all but Nesta realised that Cassian had been holding onto the fear of Nesta rejecting this new life. The scent of his fear was telling her that he didn’t know what to do if her answer was no.

She sighed and pressed her nose deeper against his neck and inhaled. Hormones were now telling her to press her tongue against his flesh and taste him. Hormones were telling her to slip her hand into his and draw it to her breast, to kiss him until he made her breathless.

Nesta sighed again. Hormones. She pulled away and looked straight at him, at the crease of his forehead and the bob of his throat as he swallowed. Once more the look in Cassian’s eyes reminded her of that frightened horse she had seen long ago back when she was a human woman. But what the horse never realised was that the snake was just a frightened thing in the grass ready to glide away. The horse never knew it was never going to bite.

Reaching out she took Cassian’s hand in hers but instead of bringing it to her breast like her hormones demanded she bought it down onto her stomach and pressed her hand over his. His fingers twitched with restrained joy.

“Yes,” she said and when she looked at him again she knew both their faces wore something new.

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #drabble #a court of thorns and roses #ACOTAR #ACOMAF #ACOWAR #ACOFAS

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