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abraxos-and-ataraxia · 1 year

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This Changes Nothing

Pairing: Nesta x Rhysand

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: smut of the cheating variety

Summary: Nesta has finally arranged marriages for her two younger sisters, at the expense of her own future. But when she finds herself in questionable company with a man she’s been at odds with from the start, Nesta’s control finally snaps, and damn the consequences.

Happy birthday to @isterofimias (though this is technically a day late) I am honored to present the nesrhys you’ve been asking for 💕

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Nesta crept down the stairs, taking care not to wake the entirety of the Night manor. She’d been awake for hours, gradually losing herself in an endless refrain of what now?

Ever since Mrs. Archeron died, Nesta had shouldered the burden of guiding her sisters. She’d pinned hair, wiped tears, and investigated worthy gentlemen. And her work had paid off. Elain was happily married to Lord Lucien, and Nesta had finally found a suitor worthy of Feyre, as well. But after so many years of ignoring her own needs, Nesta could not stop wondering what came next. She was practically an old maid, having spent too long focused on marrying her sisters rather than herself. Who would want her? Had she accidentally doomed herself to a lonely future? Selflessness had never served someone so poorly, she thought bitterly.

Her bare toes hit the main floor, but she was not greeted with impenetrable darkness, as she might have expected for the late hour. Instead, a thin strip of light greeted her, peeking out from under the door to the library. Someone was still awake? She couldn’t imagine who else would be struggling to sleep like she was.

Nesta did her best to maintain quiet steps as she made her way to the kitchen. She’d initially planned on reading a book, but had no interest in company. Whoever was awake could stay that way.

But her next step landed on a loud section of flooring, the resulting creak announcing her presence in the hall. Nesta froze at the sound of footsteps within the library. She managed to hide her grimace by the time the door opened, revealing the last person she wanted to see at such a late hour—Rhysand, the Duke of Night.

With the amber glow of the fire at his back, the Duke cut a dark and imposing figure in the doorway. Wreathed in shadows, his face was impossible to read, though Nesta had seen enough of his behavior in recent weeks to suspect a smirk upon his lips.

“Your Grace,” Nesta greeted him, back stiff as she bobbed the smallest of curtsies. Though her mother had thoroughly drilled Nesta in etiquette and manners, every show of deference to the Duke was a struggle. She detested the man. For her youngest sister, Nesta could remain polite in his company, but she was not required to enjoy it.

“Miss Archeron,” Rhysand drawled, tilting his head to inspect her. Nesta bristled at the arrogance dripping from his tone. An arrogance that permeated every interaction she had with the Duke. “You’re up late.”

“I could not sleep.”

“That much is evident,” he chuckled. Nesta’s fingers ached, curled into a too-tight fist at her side.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Nesta bit out, the formality tasting bitter on her tongue. She turned to continue down the hall, but a large hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her up short.

“Join me.” Rhysand’s whispered invitation curled around her as firmly as his fingers at her elbow. The challenge in his voice was as compelling as the warmth of his hold. “At the very least, come and retrieve the book you came here for.”

Nesta yanked out of his grasp, pinning the Duke with an icy glare. “I was going to the kitchen,” she corrected him.

“Only because a light was on in here, I am sure,” he said, teeth flashing when he grinned. “Don’t let me scare you off, Miss Archeron.”

That last jab was enough to have Nesta brushing past him into the library. She stalked over to the far wall of books, ignoring the nerves that sprung to life when the door clicked shut behind her. “It is your library,” she said coolly. “I did not wish to intrude.”

“You are an invited guest, and welcome anywhere in my home.”

Nesta simply hummed in acknowledgement, scanning the shelves for anything of interest. Rhysand had dull taste, she noted. Not that she’d expected him to own dozens of steamy romances, but she’d hoped for more than encyclopedias and historical accounts of his family.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Nesta startled, finding the Duke a mere step behind her, peering over her shoulder with obvious curiosity.

A husband, she thought wryly. And that was certainly the wrong answer for the man set to marry Feyre in a week’s time. But after working tirelessly to ensure her two sisters’ engagements, watching the happy couples had slowly but surely stoked her need for the same.

But sorting through dozens of suitors had also provided Nesta with ample opportunities to realize that she would never find that same happiness. Besides being too old for a good match, none of the men she encountered would suit her. They were all too timid, too arrogant, too stupid. Some were too free with their kisses, others too free with their money. No rational argument could convince her to marry any of them. And none of them inspired a spark of attraction.

All but one.

“I suppose any of these would serve to put me to sleep, but I have a marked disinterest in dusty financial records,” Nesta said absently, trailing her fingers along the leather spines. Her skin prickled with awareness, confirming that the Duke remained at her back.

“I’m afraid my late father had no appreciation for novels or poetry, and you’ll find little of either in his libraries.” Footsteps sounded, muffled by the thick carpet. Then Rhysand was beside her, long fingers reaching for a book above her head. He held it between them, an offering that finally forced Nesta to look at him.

His inky hair gleamed in the warm glow of the fire. The normally pristine locks were slightly tousled, curling over his forehead to frame his piercing violet eyes. Long lashes kissed his high cheekbones, the strong lines of his face in direct contrast with the softness of his mouth. He smiled, the corner of his lips tilting up. Her stomach fluttered in response.

Nesta viciously stomped down on her reaction before the Duke could take note of it. She bit back a snarl, hating the way her body reacted to Rhysand almost as much as she detested the man himself. “What’s this?” Her voice remained even, to her relief.

“Bad poetry,” Rhysand said with a laugh. “At thirteen, I decided I would single-handedly correct the lack in our library. It wasn’t until page fifty that I finally realized I lacked any appreciable skill.”

Nesta raised a single brow, pinning him with a disbelieving look. “And why are you showing me this?”

“I hoped it would help convince you to stop glaring at me, Miss Archeron.”

“We’ll see,” she said. Privately, she resolved to improve her glare. She obviously wasn’t trying hard enough, if the Duke was still attempting to get in her good graces.

Rhysand was going to marry her sister in a matter of days. And as long as Nesta was struggling with her unwanted feelings, she knew it was best to keep her distance. And encourage the Duke to keep his, as well.

“Well?”

Nesta cleared her throat, stepping around the Duke. She gave him a wide berth on her way to the door. “I’ll read it in my room,” she said.

“No need to run away,” Rhysand said, his mocking tone bringing her to a halt with one hand on the knob. “I promise I don’t bite, Miss Archeron.”

Nesta inhaled sharply, annoyance flaring enough to overwhelm the interest pooling in her stomach. She whirled, a sneer already fixed on her lips. “In case you’ve forgotten, I am an unmarried lady, and you are not a male relative. I will not be spending more time than is absolutely necessary alone in your presence.” Her eyes narrowed further, “Especially at this hour.”

“Are you implying that I am capable of untoward behavior?” Rhysand’s lips curled into a familiar smirk.

Nesta fought a growl, wanting nothing more than to wipe the taunting expression from his face. “I could not possibly insult my family’s gracious host,” she said, maintaining her cold sneer. “Especially when his actions imply more than my words ever could.”

Dark brows winged upwards in surprise. Rhysand leaned back against the bookshelves, watching her with that infuriating grin of his. “Go on, then,” he waved at her. “I know you have an impassioned speech ready.”

She blew out an incredulous breath. “Good night,” Nesta said firmly, twisting the doorknob. But before she could wrench the door open, a hand slammed into the wood, keeping it shut. When she whirled to face the Duke, his other arm snaked over her shoulder, caging her in against the door. With his face mere inches from her own, Nesta found it suddenly difficult to breathe.

“Tell me,” Rhysand dared her, leaning in until his warm breath fanned across her cheeks. “All of the things you find lacking in me.”

“Your limitless arrogance, to start,” Nesta hissed, leaning her head against the door in an attempt to maintain some distance between them.

“I prefer confidence, but do go on.”

“Your tasteless disregard for boundaries and personal space,” Nesta snapped, jutting her chin out to indicate the present example.

But the Duke simply chuckled, the sound rumbling through her at such close proximity. “You don’t seem that opposed to it,” he said. And damn her traitorous body for shivering in response. The gleam in Rhysand’s eyes indicated that he noticed it.

Before he could pounce, Nesta continued her tirade. “Your penchant for cruelty.”

Those expressive eyebrows winged up again. “Ah, but that is merely a rumor, Miss Archeron,” he said. “Have you ever witnessed this so-called cruelty?”

Nesta pursed her lips. “I have no concrete proof of—”

“Then there you have it,” Rhysand interrupted. “Rumor, and therefore an ineligible argument. Continue.”

Nesta bared her teeth at him. “High-handed, brutish, impolite,” she said, wracking her brain for more adjectives to pile on the list. “A marked lack of appreciation for your staff, disdain for your tenants and family members—”

“Now you’re grasping at straws,” Rhysand commented.

“In addition to this flagrant disregard of your own engagement to my sister,” Nesta continued, ignoring his interruption. “As you are currently breaching social protocol around an unmarried woman who is—most notably—not your betrothed, and therefore putting my own honor at risk.”

Rhysand’s white teeth flashed, his grin growing wider by the second. “Tell me how you feel about me, Nesta,” he said, every word a searing brand against her skin.

She arched off the door, throat tight around the words that wished to escape. But no amount of propriety could keep them bottled up after the Duke had stoked her fury. “I despise you,” Nesta raged, the words leaving her lips like a hiss of steam.

Violet eyes gleamed as bright as stars, but before she could repeat her vicious sentiments, his mouth crashed against hers. Surprise held her immobile, frozen as Rhysand’s plush lips attacked her own. She was helpless against the onslaught, the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body surrounding her, caging her. For a moment, Nesta was just as much a captive to her body’s instinctive thrumming as she was to the Duke’s insistent kiss.

Reality dug cold fangs into her skin. Just as quickly, her palms found Rhysand’s chest, pushing forcefully. The Duke stumbled back, eyes dark as he blinked at her.

“No,” Nesta told him, forcing the wobble out of her voice.

“You want this as much as I do,” Rhysand said, arms reluctantly dropping to his sides.

“No,” she repeated. “I hate you.”

“And I hate you,” Rhysand said with a short laugh. “The cold and imperious sister, of course I can’t stand you.” The barb struck home, and Nesta’s spine stiffened to the brink of pain. She gritted her teeth against a retort—anything she said would sound foolish. “When do you leave?”

Nesta blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“When do you leave?” The Duke repeated his question, backing away from her abruptly to pace the length of the library.

“After the wedding. Why?”

“Because you vex me enough to ignore all of your rational little arguments,” he said, stalking across the room with lethal grace. Rhysand stopped, the tips of his shoes a scant inch from her bare toes. “Because you are alone with me wearing naught but a nightgown and a shawl that is perilously easy to rip from your body.”

Nesta gulped down air, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her body. She refused to appear vulnerable before the Duke, especially when his gaze was fixed on hers, watching for any sign of weakness.

“Because,” Rhysand continued, voice dropping to a sensuous whisper. “I am a gentleman. And I am going to marry your sister.”

“You are going to marry my sister,” Nesta repeated firmly.

“And yet.” Rhysand stood still, inhaling deeply. His chest heaved, nearly brushing her own.

Nesta was struck with the sudden urge to close her eyes, to lean into his addictive warmth. When the Duke managed to shut his mouth, she forgot his irritating nature. In the dim light of the library, with nothing but the sound of their harsh breathing and her heartbeat in her ears, Nesta found it damningly hard to remember the upcoming wedding.

Her stomach shivered again, languid heat spreading through her limbs until every inch of her was warm, throbbing, needy. She swayed forward, then back, pressing her shoulders into the door.

Rhysand followed her, leaning in until his nose brushed against her ear, breath tickling the hair escaping from her braid. “Tell me,” he murmured, the words shivering over the skin of her neck. “You do not care for me.”

Nesta lifted her chin, not realizing the movement gave him greater access until lips ghosted across the exposed flesh. She shuddered. “I do not,” she began shakily. Nesta swallowed hard when Rhysand pressed a firmer kiss to her pulse. “Care for you.”

“Try again.” Rhysand traced her jawline with his nose, lips finding the sensitive space beneath her other ear. “And make me believe it.”

Nesta gritted her teeth, willing her heart to stop pounding so hard, so that she might think clearly once more. “I do not care for you,” she said, injecting steel into the words.

Fingers teased at her waist, making Nesta jump in his hold. She could feel Rhysand smile against her neck. “Liar.”

Suddenly the pounding of her heart was too much and not enough. Suddenly Nesta was tired of the role she’d taken up, caring for everyone but herself. Suddenly Nesta didn’t care anymore. Or at least, she did not care for anything but the desire unspooling within her like she’d never experienced before. Like she feared she would never feel again.

Her fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, and then Nesta was pulling him to meet her lips, her need outweighing all of her previous arguments. How could kissing the Duke of Night be wrong when it felt so deliciously right?

For one weightless moment, Nesta felt her awareness of the world shrink to the brush of her mouth on his. She sighed into the kiss, every muscle turned liquid from the relief of it. The sudden lack of pressure, of worry, was just as heady as the longing in her core.

Just as quickly, the Duke turned the gentle moment into something more, something almost vicious. He nipped at her mouth, demanding entry. His tongue swept into her mouth, taking advantage of Nesta’s surprised gasp. Pleasure unfurled in her belly as Rhysand tasted her, devoured her. And when he pulled back, he wore a conqueror’s smile.

So Nesta attacked, lips and teeth and tongue initiating a battle of wills. Her fingers sank into his hair, holding him where she wanted. Nesta took what she wanted from him. She fed the hunger, the beast that dwelled within her skin, not knowing how else to satisfy it. But as she and Rhysand panted, groaned softly into each other’s mouths, her need only deepened.

The Duke’s hands slid down her body in a sensuous caress, heat following in his path. Nesta broke away from his mouth, sucking down precious air. “More,” she demanded.

A flash of teeth. “Such fine manners.”

Nesta snarled, tightening her fist in his hair. She wrenched his head back, exposing his neck to her greedy mouth. Nesta bit down on sensitive flesh, a wordless command. One that Rhysand obeyed.

One hand gripped her thigh, pulling it up and around his waist. The skirt of her nightgown rose, exposing her leg to the knee. Rhysand pressed his hips forward, nestling in the cradle of her thighs. She felt the hot, hard length of him against her core. Even with the layers of his clothes and hers, she felt him. Nesta muffled her moan against his throat.

“You want this,” Rhysand murmured, his voice a dark caress. He rocked forward, the resulting pressure sending sparks through her veins, all the way to her fingertips. “You want me.”

Nesta dug her teeth into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, making him groan. Hazy thoughts surfaced, giving her pleasure an edge of bitterness. “You’re marrying my sister in a week,” she said through numb lips.

She made to pull away, but Rhysand’s other hand found her breast, gripping possessively. “And yet,” he said, smirking down at her. “Here you are.”

Disgusted—with herself as much as him—Nesta sneered right back at him. “You’re an animal.”

Warm fingers tickled the skin at her knee, making Nesta suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her position. She was all but splayed open for Rhysand, utterly defenseless where he had her pinned against the door. And with no one to witness them, he could do anything he wanted to her.

No amount of guilt managed to slow her racing pulse.

Nesta’s breath shuddered when those devious fingers reached her inner thigh, pausing a scant inch away from where she needed him most. Rhysand grinned, eyes glimmering with sensual awareness. He knew exactly what he would find at her core. And his smirk told her all she needed to know—he wouldn’t touch her until he got what he wanted. “Tell me you want this,” Rhysand said, staring her down. The violet starlight was nearly swallowed by his dark pupils.

Nesta gritted her teeth. Resistance was ingrained in her, as was the need to fight. She was not accustomed to giving into anyone’s demands, let alone those of a haughty Duke soon to marry her youngest sister. Yet with her heart pounding hard and fast, her thighs quivering with anticipation, Nesta found it harder to maintain her resolve. She had no defense against the lust flaming in her blood. “I want this,” Nesta finally said, the words a low hiss of rage and need and guilt. But she did.

Her back bowed against the door when Rhysand’s hand found her core, slick with wanting. His thick fingers explored the length of her slit, finding the spot at her apex that made her thighs tighten around his hips. “There you are,” Rhysand murmured, tracing her jaw with his lips. He found her earlobe, nipped lightly. Then plunged a finger into her channel.

Nesta’s lungs emptied, her inner muscles rippling around the sudden intrusion. A bright flicker of pain followed by a pleasant pressure. And when Rhysand curled his finger, flicking against her walls, pleasure licked up her spine, curling her toes. “Oh,” she breathed.

Rhysand nipped at her ear, drawing her attention. “Tell me you want me, Nesta.”

Her back stiffened, but Rhysand’s fingers worked faster, distracting her from whatever retort rose to the surface. For a few moments, Nesta forgot everything but the slow plunge and retreat at her core, the rapidly building heat. She panted softly, hands curling into the loose fabric of his shirt. “Faster,” Nesta finally managed.

“Not yet,” Rhysand purred. And his fingers slowed to a halt inside her, thumb brushing featherlight against her sensitive nub. The teasing ratcheted up her need until Nesta felt like tearing at her own skin. “Tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll continue.”

“Slimy bastard,” she hissed, digging her nails into the firm wall of his chest. When he winced, she dug deeper. “Pompous ass.”

His fingers slid out of her, leaving her empty and wanting. Nesta’s hips rocked forward of their own accord, seeking relief. Rhysand’s smirk said it all. “You know the words, Miss Archeron.”

She bared her teeth. Rather than give in without a fight, she slid both hands down, deftly unhooking his trousers. Shock blossomed in his piercing violet gaze, but before he could stop her, Nesta wrapped her fingers firmly around his throbbing member. Then it was Rhysand’s turn to growl, shuddering at her demanding touch.

Nesta ran her fingers up the long, hard length of him. The skin was soft, but the muscle beneath was hard as iron. Perhaps harder, she marveled, finally pulling him free of the trousers. Impossibly large, she thought. But she was nothing if not determined. And with the firelight edging him in gold, she thought he was beautiful, as well. Light glimmered on the head, where a bead of liquid had formed. Nesta ran her thumb over it, collecting the single drop and bringing it to her lips. Rhysand watched her with hungry eyes as she tasted him. “God, but I want you,” he said hoarsely. “I want you so badly, it hurts.”

Nesta’s lips curled, all sharp edges. “Show me.”

Then Rhysand was devouring her, licking into her mouth like he might swallow her whole. His hands slid up her legs and under her nightgown. His palms found the globes of her ass, squeezed, lifted. And then her feet were off the ground, her thighs locked around his waist. Rhysand pressed forward until there was no space left between them, his chest crushed against hers, his member nestled between them. He slotted into place at her core as though he belonged there.

“Nesta,” Rhysand said. Somehow, he made her name sound as much like a curse as a prayer. Answer and demand. He rocked his hips, his steely length sliding along her core. Pleasure burst behind her lashes as he rubbed against her most sensitive flesh.

Vulnerable, vulnerable, Nesta reminded herself. And yet he still sought her permission. So she arched her back, pressing her chest firmer against his, and reached until her lips caressed his chin. “Yes.”

That was all it took.

Rhysand seated himself within her with one sharp thrust. Pain made her cry out, but he muffled it with a languid kiss, swallowing the sound. Sheathed to the hilt, Nesta explored the sensations bombarding her. The fullness at her core. The scalding heat of Rhysand’s hips pressed against her own. The golden warmth in her lower belly, like she’d been drinking too much brandy. Nesta hoped it never stopped, this feeling. She wished she could languish in Rhysand’s arms for eternity.

When Rhysand retreated, she snarled softly, demanding his immediate return. And so he did, sinking deep into her once more. He chuckled, “Satisfied?”

“I hate you,” Nesta growled, wanting more than the infuriatingly slow thrusts he’d offered her. She wanted more, needed more. She decided to take it for herself, moving her hips in a circle, chasing that sensation of fullness. His soft grunt was as much a victory as the stiff cock seated within her.

“Tell me again,” Rhysand demanded, his voice a harsh rasp.

Nesta panted, eyes rolling back at the feeling of him. Hard muscle flexed beneath her fingers as he rolled his hips, the delicious pressure at her core both torment and reward. “I hate you,” she said, breathless.

“Again,” Rhysand demanded with another pump of his hips.

“I loathe you.”

His next thrust was harder, deeper. Nesta moaned, clenching around his throbbing length. “Again,” he hissed.

“I despise you,” Nesta moaned, unable to keep her eyes open. Sensation battered her from all sides, overwhelming her. Finally. Finally. A distant wave crested, edging closer with every plunge. She reached for it with desperate fingers.

“And I. Don’t. Care,” Rhysand said, punctuating each word with his hips, driving so deep within her, Nesta wondered if he’d ever leave. She didn’t want him to. With Rhysand battering her insides, reality seemed so far away. Nesta didn’t miss it.

The door shuddered behind her, a victim of Rhysand's powerful thrusts. Nesta distantly wondered if they would wake the whole house. Just as quickly, pleasure hazed over the thought. She moaned, burying her face in Rhysand’s neck, dragging down deep inhales of sweat and musk and man. And just when she thought she’d hit her limit of pleasure, Rhysand’s hand slid down her belly, fingers searching out that nub at her core. Lightning struck, sending her over the edge with a sharp cry.

Bucking desperately against her, Rhysand’s thrusts turned erratic. Within a matter of moments, he was groaning into her ear, shuddering between her thighs. Wet warmth announced his completion inside her. And it was just as heady a sensation as all the rest. Nesta sighed, satisfaction loosening her limbs until her legs uncurled from around Rhysand’s waist. He let her drop to the floor, bare toes curling against the hard wood.

Cold emotions loomed on the other side of the door. But for a moment, Nesta looked up at the Duke. Her throat tightened with something unnamable. “This changes nothing,” she finally said. “Does it?”

Proving himself just as canny as she, Rhysand simply nodded. “The wedding will continue as planned.”

She refused to acknowledge the claws tearing her stomach into ribbons. It wasn’t until she was safely tucked beneath her sheets that she realized how much she’d wished for his answer to be different.

#nesta x rhysand #nesta x rhys #nesta x rhysand smut #acotar fic #nesrhys

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thesistersarcheron · 2 years

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Pairing: Elucien Rating: E Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Temper Tantrums, Oral Sex, Face-Fucking, Little Black Dress, Lucien finally learns why he bothers Elain so much and lets her hatefuck his face to apologize --- Find more on my masterlist or read this fic on AO3!

"Above all, manners are a sensitive awareness of the needs of others—sincerity and good intentions always matter more than knowing which fork to use." - Emily Post's Etiquette, 19th Edition: Manners for Today

Feyre said Lucien Vanserra was the finest emissary she knew. That he was raised a prince. But all Elain could see was the awkward small talk and the graceless manners.

Feral, frantic rage had overcome Lucien at the news that Elain had met one of his brothers. The worst had flashed before his eyes before he could stop it—iron chains branding soft flesh and white-hot blades and heads rolling at his feet—and he had crossed off their names in his mind. He had committed fratricide once; he could do it again, if that’s what it came to. If Elain was what it came to.

And this time, reluctant as he might be to fall back on such an antiquated law, it would be his right as her mate to do so.

“Fuck,” he murmured, clutching the hem of Elain’s gown as the rush of adrenaline slowly dripped out of his veins. This time, he felt no remorse for cursing in front of a lady, not with what he planned to do with her next.

He had calmed after learning it was Eris, but that was still little consolation. At the very least, Eris had never been as bloodthirsty as their overlooked middle brothers. Had never felt the need to torment Lucien for the unfortunate fact of his existence or establish dominance over him when his place in the hierarchy of their family had been secured centuries before Lucien was born.

He still wasn’t good, but his own scheming would stay his hand. The information Lucien had been able to gather on him, to infer about his sudden, strange connection to the Night Court, would mean his head if anyone were to tell Beron. And, besides, centuries of dealing with him, Spring’s emissary to Autumn’s heir apparent, had cooled the tension between them enough that Lucien trusted Eris wouldn’t lift a hand to harm Elain, though he might taunt and maneuver to get closer to her if only to get under Lucien’s skin.

Lucien would need to learn more about what happened later, but now that his head was cooling…

He wanted, needed the reassurance of his mate, needed to calm her down… It had been a beastly thing to do, grabbing her wrists like that, but he had needed to touch her, to distract her from whatever nonexistent sound had been driving her to send such foreboding flurries of panic down the bond.

And then she had sent him to his knees before her, like every gods-damned Archeron sister seemed destined to do at one point or another, and his brain had been rendered utterly fucking useless after his hands sank into the soft flesh of her thighs, felt the gentle swell of her ass against his fingers.

”What are you doing?” she hissed, her voice near-frantic again.

Maybe resorting to sex wasn’t the best way to apologize to a female so strung up on convention and etiquette—even if she was rude as hell right back to him, the delightful little monster—but it was all he could think of when he was at eye level with her cunt and could feel damn near everything she felt.

“You know what I’m doing,” he said roughly, trailing his fingertips over her bare ankles. Cauldron boil him, not a fucking stocking in sight; if there was one thing to be said about the Night Court, it was that their fashion was designed for easy access. “Say the word and I’ll stop.”

Blinking heavily, as if she couldn’t believe what she was watching him do, Elain shook her head.

“Stop?” he asked.

Her teeth sank into her lip, that beautiful, explosive anger gone as the addictive, sweet scent of her arousal multiplied, and murmured, “No.”

She was wide-eyed like a maiden, but Graysen hadn’t been subtle. He had bitched and bragged in turn about taking her, the few times he’d visited Jurian and Vassa’s estate. Lucien still wanted to tear out his throat, but he’d stayed his hand. Just in case.

But now, seeing her blush down at him, feeling her entangled embarrassment and desire… Well, he was glad that her former fiancé didn’t seem to possess as much prowess as he believed he did. As much as Lucien knew he did.

He made short work of lifting her skirts, pausing at the backs of her knees to test if she was ticklish. She was, and he bit back a triumphant grin at learning that tiny fact about her, brushed his fingers over that spot until she couldn’t contain her pissed admonishment or her giggling and buried her hands in his hair to steady herself.

She was wearing a fascinating scrap of lace around her hips, and he dragged it down with his thumbs, letting it fall the rest of the way, and tossed it across the room when she stepped out of it. Later, he told himself, later.

“You’re as pretty here as everywhere else,” he told her as he swiped a thumb through the wetness already shining on her thighs. And she was, all pale skin and golden curls and a glistening pussy. He laid a kiss right at the top of her, scant millimeters above where he knew she would want it most.

“Lucien,” she whined impatiently, and he smiled to hear his name on her lips.

“I’m sorry, lady,” he murmured against her, and she shuddered as he blew his breath over her. He paused just a moment, watching that furrow between her brows deepen and her eyes open to glare down at him for keeping her waiting—

“I hope you’ll accept this humblest of apologies,” he said, bowing his head and laughing, and then he spread her with his tongue.

Her cunt was mind-bogglingly perfect. Warm and wet and soft and sweet with just a hint of salt—he could spent the rest of his immortal life between her thighs. Was it the fact that they were mates that transformed her into ambrosia, or was a pussy to rival the Mother’s simply some other absurd boon she had been granted by the Cauldron?

He didn’t know how long he ate her before her legs started trembling harder than before, and he grasped her by the waist, holding her up. All rational thought was gone—all he needed was to keep her upright, keep her on his tongue.

“Wait,” she said, one of her hands falling from his hair to balance herself with his shoulder. He could feel her though, vibrating across the bond with desperate, hazy desire for more, and when he slowed his pace, the vibrations increased and she pulled his hair so hard he knew he would feel it for days.

She bent over him instead, seeking her center of gravity, and the vast expanse of her skirts blinded him. He nearly growled when he lost sight of her pretty, blushing face and the full, parted lips he wanted to taste next.

But the sweetness deepened the longer he tasted her, and he gave into the temptation to stop lapping her up and instead take her clit into his mouth and—

“Oh!”

Elain’s knees gave out, and he just barely caught her as she fell straight into his lap. Her skirts billowed up around them, the lightweight material catching on the slight wind her movement kicked up. The purple silk and black mesh and lace laid atop it—a remarkably Spring style rendered in Night’s colors—contrasted prettily with her creamy skin in the moonlight streaming in through the window, and Lucien couldn’t contain his grin, his laugh, as he decided that debauching a Night Court princess in full view of anyone who dared glance into the wide-open windows lining every wall of her palace was certainly worth skipping the summit he had spent years organizing.

Her blush deepened, and she scowled, pushing at him at mortified heat tugged at their bond. “Let me up—”

“No, no.” Lucien couldn’t find the words, couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward and kissed her, licking at the seam of her lips. When she opened to his advances, pressing closer, he pulled back.

“You’re insufferable,” she gasped, but he watched as she licked her lips, tasting him, tasting her own sex, and grinned again when her eyes darkened.

“Insufferable I may be,” he said, squeezing her waist. Her hips rocked instinctually against his, and, oh, he would have to come back to that later, too. Later, when he wasn’t leaning back, laying down, and trying to tug her upward. He made sure he was laid back against the plush rug between the couches, made sure her knees wouldn’t bruise before he was done with her. “But never let it be said that I am not a generous lover.”

Her hands shifted to brace herself against his chest, but as he lifted her away from his cock, her eyes widened and she all but shrieked, “What are you doing?!”

“Finishing what I started,” he said, lifting a brow. Challenging her not to seek out more of the pleasure he had just given her. When he felt dark, curious desire peek out from her beneath the lightning-shock of hesitation, he hooked his arms under her thighs and dragged her upward.

“Elain,” he groaned when he had her where he wanted her, intoxicated by the scent of her. All honey and flowers and deep, heady female arousal. “I want you to think of every poorly thought out Solstice gift I have given you, every awkward tea we have ever sat through together, and every single one of Feyre’s stupid attempts to make you talk to me, including this one, and I want you to ride my face.”

“You planned this?”

“Oh, not this…” Lucien squeezed her just once. “But the temper tantrum? Absolutely.”

On either side of his face, her thighs trembled with something between rage and lust, and she said, “Oh my gods.”

“Just Lucien, princess,” he said, and then he pulled her down to his mouth.

Her dress blinded him again, but he didn’t mind it this time, trapped as he was with her scent. Beneath the cover of her skirts, every breath was Elain. Every shared beat of their hearts pulsed against his mouth.

And then—

Elain ground down onto his face, rocking her hips until he was no longer at her entrance, but once again at the top of her, tracing circles around her clit with his tongue. She kept him there by anchoring one hand in his hair again, and he felt one of her fingers working back and forth, stroking the strands she fisted.

“I fucking hate those pearl earrings,” she gasped. “I hate pearls. They wash me out and look bad against my hair.”

Lucien growled low in his throat, but didn’t dare to remove himself from her hot cunt. Good. Keep going.

“And when you aren’t tiptoeing around the point with me, you ask someone else how I am,” she said next, letting more of her weight fall onto him. “Always. Never me.”

He wrapped his lips around her, I’m sorry , and pulled at her hips to encourage her to rest and let him do the work, let him support her.

“You needed told Feyre you needed to see if I was worth it—“ she snarled, and Lucien froze.

Had she Seen that, too? Even when she had been lost to the depths of her power before the war?

“Don’t stop!” she begged—no, ordered— and he stroked the hip he was holding as he sucked at her again. Her legs were tight around his face. “And then you disappeared before I even—“

She made a noise somewhere between a sob and a scream, and then she was shaking apart above him. Sweetness coated his tongue, and Lucien’s hips bucked involuntarily, his cock aching. He could just imagine how it felt to be buried in her while she came, tight and wet and, fuck, she was cursing like a gods-damned sailor above him, pulling his hair.

She held him in place for a long moment in the aftermath, and he laid soft kisses on her thighs and the soft, wet curls surrounding her pussy, avoiding the oversensitive bud that made her shiver every time his breath gusted over it.

When she finally made to stand up on those trembling legs, he kept her arms locked around her.

“I hate you,” she said as he guided her to the carpet, cushioning her head with his hand and righting her skirts.

“I know you do,” he told her, meeting her where she was sneaking down the bond, all sated desire and reluctant warmth.

“I really hate you,” she said again, and this time it was a weak, whimpering whisper, her lower lip trembling. Lucien nodded, and curled an arm around her.

He brushed a fingertip along the rosy hue staining her cheek and kissed her. “I know.”

She reached up, pulling the strand of hair she’d fisted earlier through her fingers, and used the end of it to drag him down to her lips for another kiss.

When she broke the kiss, she wouldn’t meet his eyes. One small, horrified hand covered her mouth. “I’ve been so rude.”

Lucien hummed his agreement.

She leveled a glare at him that far outstripped any look that Feyre had ever given him.

He tapped her lips with his finger.

“Don’t fret, princess. I know a few ways you can apologize.”

#elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #a court of thorns and roses fic #acotar #acotar smut #my fics #elain archeron's guide to etiquette #here you've all been good today so have some smut #i might write another chapter one day so lucien can prove he's the better mannered of the two but like.............. not soon #for now this fic is complete.

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thesistersarcheron · 2 years

Text

Feyre said Lucien Vanserra was the finest emissary she knew. That he was raised a prince. But all Elain could see was the awkward small talk and the graceless manners.

When she finished screaming and all her breath had evacuated her lungs until she could feel nothing but the burning, empty pain of them, Elain reached for the invisible string tying her to Lucien for the first time and pulled. She pulled with all the force she wanted to use on the tulle frills scratching her arms to bits.

And Lucien doubled over, that infuriating cockiness vanishing as his teacup smashed apart on the marble floor with a satisfying clamor.

“Fuck!”

He froze a half-second after he barked out the curse, as if he remembered the lady seated beside him a moment too late. A bit of perfunctory shame, but not very much, traveled down the bond.

Elain only seethed. “That’s what it feels like, you— you—!”

She let out another scream, this time borne of the words she couldn’t bring herself to say.

With such force she nearly toppled, she pushed herself out of her seat, her Fae strength coming as a surprise even after a couple of years. The heel of her shoe cracked dangerously beneath her, but she caught herself before she could shatter her face on the floor.

Lucien’s stare burned itself into her bare shoulders as she crossed the room, like the magical fire Feyre told her he was capable of wielding. She saved him the decision of whether or not to follow her into the library by pausing at the door and making another furious lap of the sitting room instead.

He probably would have used the anger flowing freely down the damned bridge between their souls to decide that he shouldn’t follow her anyway. Then she would have been trapped in the library alone and left to agonize over every endless, embarrassing second that passed while she raged. Or, worse, she would have agonized, and then returned, and he would be gone without a trace.

Eventually, one way or another, she would have to face the music and gather herself enough to face him again, if she left. She wasn’t quite sure how to make a demure show of slipping back into the sitting room and apologizing for a hysterical, screaming outburst, either.

And Elain didn’t want to apologize to him, and she had spent far too long agonizing.

For once in her life, she didn’t want to be kind, quiet, manageable Elain.

No. Elain wanted to shout.

It was mortifying, this loss of control, but it felt so good, like a sickening knot tied around her stomach was finally being picked apart. She could see why Nesta and Feyre had always looked so light and so free after their vicious screaming matches in the cottage.

Still, she kept her teeth together as she stalked back and forth in front of the tall windows, her tongue still. She imagined sewing her lips shut with the long, dull darning needle she’d used to stitch up their threadbare clothes all those years. Anything to stop the outrage burning its way up her throat.

It didn’t work.

“You always creep down the bond like you think I can't feel you, and then you pull like you're trying to snap my ribs!”

“My lady,” Lucien started.

Elain held up a furious hand to silence him. She couldn’t look at him without risking a greater reaction.

Ladies, she told herself desperately at his reminder, do not give into their tempers. Raising your voice is an ugly, hateful thing to do.

But when was the last time anyone had listened to her? Six months ago, before Nuala and Cerridwen were reassigned to some shadowy corner of the continent, perhaps. Maybe nine, when Feyre was still heavily pregnant and on leave from her duties as High Lady, and all she wanted to do was sip tea and sit with Elain while she prepared the garden for spring.

But had she listened while Elain rambled about the patch of cabbages she was hoping to try planting, or had she been daydreaming about her babe? Was the last time someone really heard what Elain was saying nearly a full year ago, before Azriel disappeared from her life entirely?

Rhys still seemed interested in getting to know her, but Elain got the sense that he was trying to pick apart what was happening inside of her head all too often. Nesta visited occasionally, but she was preoccupied with planning a mating ceremony, so the conversation always circled back around to flower arrangements and centerpieces whenever she was with Elain.

No, she realized with a pang. Elain had no one who would truly listen. No one to sit and talk with her. No one, except for little Nyx and—

And—

Elain whirled, pointing a finger at Lucien.

“You talk to me.”

He straightened, still clutching his ribs. “You didn’t seem inclined to—”

“No, you talk to me. You never talk with me.” Distantly, Elain was aware of how petulant she sounded. How sad. “Every time I See you, you’re talking to me.”

“This is the first time I have visited since the Summer Sols—”

“Shut up!” Elain shouted, a fresh burst of anger overriding her loneliness. Her cheeks felt hot just saying the words—they would have earned her a rap on the knuckles if her childhood tutors had ever heard her say something so crass and so demanding—but she felt good. “Every time I See you,” she clarified, a vicious bite in her voice. She waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Every time I See. You.”

The scar bisecting his face pulled at his cheek as he blinked at her.

“You talk and talk and talk without ever saying anything of substance, and then it doesn’t even matter because you never come! And then when you do come, you never say a word to me.”

“You See all of that?” he asked quietly. Elain rolled her eyes.

“The only time you have ever talked with me was after that battle, and even then all you could do was touch Feyre, hold Feyre—” Her voice broke, and Elain swallowed hard, remembering the envy that had burned her and the lump that had lodged in her throat watching Lucien squeeze Feyre and escort her away from the site of their father’s death.

There were a dozen smaller slights, too, a dozen minor heartbreaks. Sneaking into the library with her in the House of Wind when she could hardly stand Nesta’s presence, let alone a strange man; leaving her in that overcrowded, noisy townhouse before and after the war; buying her those awful gloves like he hadn’t spied on her gardening for months and knew she preferred using her bare hands.

She didn’t bother to bring up the largest betrayal: whatever part Lucien played in encouraging Tamlin to continue his ill-advised attempt to rescue Feyre until it culminated in Hybern, in the Cauldron, in declaring to everyone present during the worse moment of her life that they were mates. Mates, as if whatever monstrous, beastly thing that had come out of the Cauldron instead of the human woman she had been wasn’t terrifying enough.

It wouldn’t be worth the breath to bring up Graysen and her ruined wedding, either. There was no point in beating a dead horse, particularly when she wasn’t even inclined to like that particular horse very much anymore.

No, she chose the hurt that still throbbed whenever she heard that Cassian flew into the human lands or Nesta took a day-trip to the Spring Court or Rhys had spent a week attending meeting after meeting with his emissary.

“You never come to Velaris anymore, and when you do, you avoid me,” she whispered.

“I avoid you?” Lucien asked, incredulous. He stood as if he also couldn’t contain the energy flowing between them, couldn’t bear to sit idly while the blaze raged. Elain hated the stunned, wide-eyed look on his handsome face. “I spent months in Velaris after the war—”

“Talking to Feyre! Discussing me with Feyre!” She scoffed. “Gods, even your brother is more well-mannered than you, and all anyone can talk about is what a snake he is!”

The ever-present heartbeat in her head stuttered and then picked up, faster and louder than before. Impossible to ignore.

“You’ve met one of my brothers?” That smooth-velvet voice had gone rough.

“Shut up!” Elain shouted again, raising her hands to cover her ears. As if that could truly block out the pounding.

“Which brother, Elain?” The words were muffled but urgent, growling, but she could feel him drawing nearer, the cord between them shortening. She closed her eyes.

“Be quiet,” Elain pleaded, the beating and the heat and the warm, tea-scented breath on her face overwhelming.

Lucien wasn’t quiet; his voice was wild. “Which brother?!”

Her eyes snapped open just as Lucien grasped her wrists. His hands were large enough to wrap around them and hot enough that she nearly cringed away.

In his face, she could see all the words he wanted to say, all of the pent up frustration they were both feeling. If the undiluted terror shoving at her chest wasn’t enough to frighten her, then the force of that stare, russet and gold and quietly whirring behind the overwhelming roar in her ears, was.

He had to let her go. He needed to let her go. With all the strength and anger she possessed, Elain pulled the bond again.

And with a pained gasp, eyes shuttering, Lucien fell to his knees.

Still, the bond thrummed with his horror, and he asked, breathless, “Which brother, Elain?”

“It was Eris,” she whispered, as much a peace offering as she could muster.

Lucien’s head fell forward, resting on her stomach, and Elain listened very carefully to the way his heartbeat slowed rather than focus on what that gentle weight felt like. His auburn hair glinted in the warm faelight, and she nearly tripped backward as he curled his hands around the backs of her thighs.

He held her tight, refusing to let her go.

“I apologize.”

His hands flexed as he looked up, eyes skimming her figure, and Elain…

Elain felt warm in a way that had to do nothing to do with her anger and everything to do with the broad, hot expanse of his hands searing through her skirts.

Lucien’s nostrils flared, and his pupil dilated while his mechanical eye whirred, the subtle gears that made up its surface spinning. She tried again to take a step away, but Lucien grasped at her.

“I’m sorry.”

She felt him venturing back down the length of the bond, feeling for… For what? Hesitation? Fear?

He didn’t find it. Anger, yes. Intrigue, yes. But no fear.

His hands traced the line of her legs, and he hooked his fingers—those long, elegant fingers—in the hem of her dress where it brushed her ankles. Elain’s own heartbeat caught, her breathing uneven, and she was unable to stop herself from fisting a hand in Lucien’s hair to steady herself as her legs nearly gave way.

“Let me show you how sorry I am, my lady.”

———

Thanks again to everyone who voted in my Feysand daddy kink vs. Elucien face-fucking poll on Sunday! I plan to have the next chapter up very soon. 💕

#elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #lucien vanserra x elain archeron #acotar #a court of thorns and roses fic #a court of thorns and roses #my fics #elain archeron’s guide to etiquette

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