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autumnshighlady · 2 months

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I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 22)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: the face off with Beron Vanserra is finally about to happen, but the new discover of eris and the reader being mates makes things challenging

warnings: violence, misogyny, beron sucks so rip to y'all who liked him in chapter 20

word count: 3.3k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: i know this chapter is super super short compared to the usual but i wanted to split this scene up and leave y'all on a major cliffhanger because i am evil

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 / part 20

read on ao3

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Eris is my mate

The phrase played in a loop in your head as once again chains found their way around your wrists. You barely felt the weight of them, nor did you feel the dampness of the dungeon floor against your knees, or the agonising pain in your body from where Malgorm beat you. You didn’t care that you were in a dungeon, something that typically would have sent you panicking.

All you could think about was how Eris knew he was your mate, and he kept this information from you.

You knew what excuses he’d make – that it wasn’t the right time, that it was too dangerous for you to know right now. But you didn’t care. There would never be a good time to find out that the male who your mate was mated to was also your mate. The concept of it all made your head spin. Never before have you heard of a mating bond existing between three people unanimously. Sure, there were people you knew of in polyamorous relationships, but never with a mating bond. According to legend, the mating bond was designed to bring together a male and female who would produce strong offspring. Nesta and Eris made sense, and with the newfound discovery of your unexplored abilities it was safe to assume that you and Eris being mates somewhat made sense too. But you and Nesta could not create a child together, nor did you have any desire to.

It was too convenient. Too easy to have a mating bond happening to exist between the three of you. And to complicate matters, you knew Nesta still felt linked to Cassian somehow, despite not being his mate.

A thousand questions swarmed your mind as Saeros and Ivar closed the door behind them, leaving you seemingly alone in the cell, waiting for Beron and Eris to arrive.

(Y/N), You heard Nesta’s voice in your head, so close by as if she were whispering softly into your ear. I’m here. Azriel is hiding us in the corner to your left.

You did not reply. All you could do was stare blankly at the floor beneath you, inspecting the various cracks and crevices. The blood of thousands had probably been spilled into this very floor. Perhaps Beron would see right through your plan, and simply smite you into the stone. And perhaps it’d be a blessing.

Nesta’s voice came again, more worried this time. Hey, are you okay? Something’s wrong, I can feel it.

You laughed hoarsely, a harsh sound that echoed eerily throughout the chamber. That’s something you should ask your other mate. Or should I say, our other mate.

Even the air seemed to still around you, surprise pulsing from Nesta’s end of the bond. I take it he didn’t tell you, either. You continued bitterly.

No. He did not. Did you just find this out?

Another cursed tear fell down your cheek, landing on the cold floor with a delicate plop. Yes, right after you and Azriel left, the bond snapped. He didn’t seem surprised, only… only remorseful. I can’t believe he kept this from me. I trusted him… and now…

You felt a gentle caress down the bond, a soft mist of silver soothing over the raging sea of emotions on your end. You could not see Nesta, or even sense her presence thanks to Azriel’s shadows, but you could feel her.

You could not feel Eris, having elected to put up an iron wall between you and him.

I know this is the last thing you want to deal with right now, but we need to focus on the plan. Nesta said sternly. Believe me, I know the emotional turmoil that comes with finding out Eris is your mate, yours made worse by the fact he lied to you. But none of this matters right now. None of us will be safe with Beron alive. Killing him is all that matters, for the next thirty minutes at least. Can you hold on, just a little longer? Please.

Your heart felt like it was being pulled in a hundred different directions. Deep down, you knew Nesta was right, that none of this mattered if Beron still held dominion over the Autumn Court. So you took a deep breath, forcing the stale air of the dungeon into your lungs. You closed your eyes. I am the rock against which the surf crashes, You told yourself. Nothing can break me.

You imagined Emerie’s hearty laugh, and Gwyn’s bright eyes as you repeated the Valkyrie mantra to yourself over and over again, willing your mind to still.

You had to get through this. Not just for yourself, or Nesta, but for Gwyn and Emerie. For every female who had suffered like all of you had. For the chance at giving them a better life.

For them, you would do this.

It only took ten minutes before you heard the angry voice of Beron Vanserra, his footsteps heavy against the stairs that winded down into the dungeon deep within the Autumn Court prison. The pounding fuzziness of your head kept you from making out his words, but his tone said enough.

“She’s down here, father. Nobody else knows, I swear by it.” The coming of Eris’s voice was like the crisp autumn breeze that cleared away the dewey morning haze, bringing life to the world around it. Even though you had tried to block him out, his close proximity was too much, and the feeling of his approaching presence sent a tingling warmth through your body, defrosting your bones.

“Make sure your guards know if they breathe a word about this to anyone, I’ll cut off the head of everyone they’ve ever loved.” The High Lord snarled.

Moments later, the heavy door swung open, revealing a shocked but furious looking Beron Vanserra. His hair was slightly dishevelled, and he was clothed in extravagant red and gold robes. Evidently, Beron did not like being woken up in the late hours. Eris strode in behind his father, that familiar cold mask adorning his features. His amber eyes settled on you, and you fought the urge to squirm as he stared at you as if you were nothing.

You knew it was an act, yet it was hard to keep yourself from tearing up. There was no warmth in those eyes that had stared into your very soul with vulnerability as the bond had snapped into place. His lips were pulled down in a scowl that made you cower. It was hard enough to remind yourself you were all playing roles in this situation, but the contrast of the deep-rooted mating bond with the angerEris was looking at you with made the room spin before you.

You forced yourself to look up at Beron. There was no trace of the loving father-in-law facade he had put on in front of Rhys. No, his eyes were black pits in his skull, dark voids of hatred that knew no bounds. You didn’t have to fake your tremor as the High Lord stared you down.

“Eris tells me that Malgorm has been slain by your hand,” Beron said, his voice a thin layer of ice holding back a raging sea. “Do you deny this?”

You had no idea how long Eris, Nesta, and Azriel had planned on letting Beron interrogate you before they made their move. As you scrambled to think of what to say, Nesta spoke urgently into your mind. Buy us time. Eris’s guards need to secure the area in the next few minutes. Talk.

“It was an accident, your Grace.” You sputtered, desperation seeping into your tone. “He came onto me in the middle of the night, and he brought a knife with him. I was just trying to get him off of me, I didn’t mean to–”

“Silence!” Beron hissed. “I ordered Malgorm to stay away from you. He is an obedient son, and would have listened to me. You must have snuck into his room during the night and tried to kill him to end this engagement.”

“Actually, that is not true.” Eris interjected carefully. “Several eyewitnesses confirm Malgorm was not in his room at that hour, and was seen headed towards the corridor where (Y/N)’s room resides. She is covered in wounds that only Malgorm would have inflicted. You know what kind of male he was, father. You cannot be surprised–”

“SILENCE!” Beron yelled sharply, spit flying from his lips as he shot a glare at Eris. “My son is dead, and you dare speak ill of him before a grave can even be dug for his body? You disgust me.”

Your breath hitched as the High Lord turned back towards you. “I offered you the greatest honour that a pathetic female like you could have hoped for,” He growled. “And you decide that is not good enough and murder my son. You will pay for this with your life, girl.”

“My Lord, may I suggest–” Eris couldn’t finish his sentence before his father cut him off again, unhinged anger coming off him in waves.

“You have no say in this, boy. Your mother made you too softhearted. You would never be able to rule this court successfully, and it is clear I have wasted my breath trying to make you my heir.”

Eris was utterly still, his eyes narrowing like a snake about to strike it’s target. “I will be a better High Lord than you or the bastards who came before you have ever been.” He said calmly.

And then the room exploded.

Tidal waves of silver fire exploded from the darkness, shadows peeling away like curtains to reveal Nesta. Her eyes blazed with silver, that otherworldly magic rippling off her as she used her flames to press the High Lord into the wall. The sound of his body hitting the stone was like thunder over the mountains, creating small cracks along the space behind him. Orange flames joined, entwining through the silver flames like a magical dance. Beron writhed underneath them, sending his own fire in an attempt to defend himself.

But it was no use against the fury of Eris’s fire, or the steel will of Nesta’s magic. Your jaw went slack as you stared at your mates, one bathed in orange and the other in silver. Red and dark gold hair flared around their necks, as if carried by an imaginary breeze. They looked like gods from another world, coming to unleash their power on the inhabitants of this world.

You heard the sound of keys jingling as Azriel’s familiar voice sounded in your ear. “Come on,” He said urgently. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The chains released your wrists, your arms falling to the ground with relief. You felt Azriel’s shadows curling around you, ready to winnow you away. “No.” You said firmly.

“This is not up for debate. I’ve been instructed to get you to safety the moment shit goes down, and I intend to do so.”

You turned around to glare at the shadowsinger, his hazel eyes glowing against the silver and orange light from the flames. He was still partially hidden, his shadows dancing around eagerly as if ready to join in on the action. “I am not leaving them until it’s done.” You insisted.

He grabbed your arm firmly. “I will not let you get hurt in the middle of this.”

“Then protect me. I cannot leave them behind. You cannot take me away… again.”

You saw the regret flicker across Azriel’s face as he evidently remembered the last time he stole you away at the Hewn City. It was a low blow, you knew. Especially after all Azriel was risking just by being here helping you. After a moment, the Illyrian sighed, muttering something about your stubbornness before saying, “Fine. Get behind me.”

A shimmering blue light formed around the two of you, shielding you from the angry flames. Azriel’s siphons glowed as he produced a wall of protection. You peeked out from beside his arm to witness the scene before you, heart racing.

“Your time as High Lord has ended, Beron Vanserra.” Eris said sternly, his eyes glowing, his voice an echo on the roaring wind of the flames. “Too long have you sat upon this throne and cast a shadow over this court. Nobody will mourn your death, father. Just as nobody will mourn Malgorm’s. When you see him in hell, what’s left of your souls can spend the rest of your miserable eternity there knowing there isn’t a single individual who wishes either of you were still here.”

You expected Beron to spew vile insults, to fight back angrily and wish a miserable death upon you all. But the male only laughed, a rasping sound like two stones rubbing together. “This is a truly pathetic show,” Beron said. “All of this planning and scheming, and for what? You can’t kill me. You needed the magic of your mate to help you while you strung your other mate up like bait. You’re weak, boy. Too weak to ever take me on properly. You’re a coward, and a fool.”

You felt pure shock coming from both ends of the bond. You couldn’t see Eris and Nesta’s faces from your angle, but their flames flickered for a split second, as if they too couldn’t believe what Beron said.

As if reading your mind, the High Lord snorted and continued. “Get that stupid surprised look off your face. Of course I knew this whole time. You forget, I’ve been in this world a long time and can sniff out mates before they even know it themselves. Of course I was aware of your disgusting threeway bond. It’s the only reason I didn’t slaughter you, boy, for getting engaged to the Archeron female without telling me. I thought marrying that Spring Court wench to Malgorm would take care of some of my problem, at least.”

Nesta spoke up, fury lacing her voice. “What?”

“You are a fool, Eris. Of course Malgorm obeyed my every command. Who do you think told him to attack the girl in her room tonight? I gave the order less than a minute after you left the table, you stupid boy. You handed me the opportunity on a silver platter.”

“Why?” Was all Eris said, his flames angrily licking at Beron’s fingers. A burnt smell began to fill the room as they burned the High Lord’s flesh.

But like the madman he was, Beron continued manically, seemingly blind to the pain his son was inflicting on him. “A mating bond between three people is unnatural, a crime against all that we hold dear. She needed to be eliminated in order for your marriage to Nesta to work. I didn’t care what Malgorm did to her. I told him he could do as he pleased, as long as it ended with her throat slit.” He turned his beady eyes towards you, making you freeze. “I would have let him carve you up into a thousand pieces. A pity he didn’t get the chance to do so before you murdered him. He was weak. No son of mine would let himself be murdered by a stupid female.”

You weren’t sure you were even breathing as reality sunk in. Beron knew the entire time that the three of you were mates, long before any of you had even figured it out fully. The truth of that sinister cunningness beneath his gaze that had unsettled you made your stomach churn. He had been one step ahead the entire time, counting on Malgorm killing you to ensure a marriage between Eris and Nesta without complication. It took a great amount of self control not to vomit all over Azriel, who was watching the scene unfold with a look of pure horror in his eyes.

A spear of orange fire wrapped around Beron’s throat, leaving red scorch marks on the male’s skin as he gasped for air. “You will not talk about my mate like that, you fucking asshole.” Eris snarled viciously as the flames grey brighter. “I will kill you for this. I will slaughter you for everything you put her through. For everything you put all of us through. Nobody will miss you, you absolute filth.”

Silver and orange flames danced higher, rolling back like a wave about to crash down on the sand. But before Eris and Nesta could strike down the High Lord, the door swung open and the Lady of Autumn ran in.

“Stop!” She cried desperately, her eyes frantic.

“Mother?” Shock laced Eris’s voice, and just for a split second, his flames flickered and dimmed.

That split second was all Beron needed to cast forth a wall of angry fire, pushing Nesta and Eris’s flames away. He roared definitely as your mates were thrown backwards, landing on the cell floor with a loud thump. You tried to pull away from Azriel, but his arms wrapped around you, holding you firm behind his shield. You thrashed and fought, but were no match for the Illyrian.

“Let me go!” You hissed, stomping on his foot as hard as you could. But he didn’t budge.

“What are you doing?” Eris gasped, making his way back onto his feet with unsteady legs. A thin trail of blood trickled down his nose, evidence of the toll that much power took on him. Nesta scrambled to her feet, silver flames already curling defensively around her hands. You couldn’t help but notice how they trembled.

“Please don’t do this, Eris.” Lirilla begged. “He is your father. I have already lost so many of your brothers, don’t take your father from me, too. Let him go.”

Eris looked utterly broken, confusion and sadness written plainly across his features. The arrogant confident mask he had donned moments ago was gone. “You know more than any of us what kind of male he is,” Eris insisted. “Let me free us of him. For good.”

“Please, no. Eris…” The Lady of Autumn sobbed.

Your heart shattered at the sight. Fresh bruises were visible on the frail female’s body, yet she stood here and begged her son to not kill the one who inflicted them. Eris’s mother had endured Beron’s abuse so long she seemingly didn’t know who she was without it or him. She could not dare hope that things would ever change, so she accepted her fate, finding comfort in the dark corner her husband forced her into.

You remembered how she offered you some sanctuary the other night, willing to endure more abuse to spare you from some of it. She had seemed so resourceful, so strong despite all she had faced.

Yet here she stood, regressed before her cruel husband as she begged for his life to be spared.

Rather than rushing towards Eris or Nesta, Beron’s dark red flames wound around Lirilla’s throat. Her eyes popped open as they suffocated her, and the High Lord stood himself up and came over to stand beside her, facing Eris and Nesta.

“Stand down, or your mother dies.” Beron growled sternly, a sick glee coming across his features.

Your heart was in your throat as you felt Eris being torn in too – closer to his goal than he had ever been before, but uncertain of what to do. “You’re bluffing.” Eris said, but his voice was weak as he watched his mother gasp for air.

“Am I?” Beron said, fixing a glare at Nesta, who was frozen in shock. “You too, girl. Stand down. Now.”

A heartbroken look passed between Eris and Nesta. You felt every turmoil of emotion through the bonds, ripping away at your heart as you watched Eris nod to Nesta. Silver and orange flames evaporated into thin air, leaving behind angry scorch marks.

Beron laughed harshly, psychotic dark eyes gleaming as he snarled at his son. “I told you, boy. Your mother made you too softhearted.”

Before any of you could react, a sick crunching sound echoed throughout the dungeon as Beron reached over with his own two hands and snapped the Lady of Autumn’s neck.

The light left Lirilla’s eyes as her body fell down onto the cold floor in a crumpled heap.

And Eris began screaming.

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slytherhys · 5 months

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12 Days of Christmas - ACOTAR Edition

In the spirit of the Holidays, I will be writing & posting short stories about the ACOTAR characters for the next 12 days. Please note that some will be shorter than others and that this is simply meant to be a fun time for everyone that loves these characters as much as I do!

PS. I'm open to requests.

AO3

1st day of Christmas - Christmas Decorating

New Traditions (Modern Elriel AU)

Living with Elain Archeron, Azriel had found, implied a great many things. For starters, there wasn’t a windowsill that wasn’t peppered with colourful vases, the leaves green and luscious all year around. The kitchen, now covered in all kinds of baking supplies he couldn’t even begin to name, was constantly in such a state of disarray that the simple task of getting a glass of water easily turned into a hefty task. He couldn’t complain – not when every day he was greeted by a different kind of pastry his girlfriend was eagerly trying for the first time.

These, however, were details Azriel had been expecting when he first asked Elain to move in with him. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the sight of the enormous garland covered in berries, orange slices and small pinecones, hanging on their front door. Nor did he expect the tiny, chubby snowman sitting on it, staring at him with unwarranted joy. Azriel scowled.

It was the first day of December.

He opened the door, briefly wondering if Bing Crosby’s voice was crooning from their neighbour’s living room and not theirs. If the sweet voice singing along wasn’t his girlfriend’s – who couldn’t possibly be decorating on the 1st day of December – and belonged to Mrs. Allis instead.

Such wishful thinking was short-lived.

The house, Azriel noticed, smelled distinctively of ginger and cinnamon, and the wooden table in the foyer, usually covered in random knickknacks and their house keys, now sported entirely too many candles and a knitted reindeer wearing a Christmas sweater, welcoming him home with an innocent smile. Azriel settled his keys next to it, feeling oddly disturbed.

Azriel eyed the kitchen with concern. He wouldn’t go in – not yet at least – but he could glimpse Elain’s baking supplies on the counter, as well as a plate filled with red velvet brownies. Azriel swallowed a groan, fighting the urge to eat one – Elain knew how much he loved red velvet, but this felt premeditated. It felt like a bribery.

He kept walking, following the sound of Elain’s voice as he pointedly ignored the gingerbread house kit on the kitchen table (and the fact it remained unopened). Apprehension coursed through his body as he eyed the mistletoe hanging in the archway leading to the living room. As it was, Azriel usually decorated on the week before Christmas, and that was if Cassian nagged him enough that he’d just give up and put up whatever crappy decorations he had gotten throughout the years (read an old, plastic Christmas tree and a few random Christmas ball that didn’t really look good together). Azriel rarely spent Christmas in his own house, so it had never made much sense to decorate in the first place.

Elain, however, clearly had different plans.

Sure, this was their first Christmas together, but he couldn’t say he had expected this much…dedication on her part.

Azriel stopped in his tracks just as he reached the living room, eyes widening as he took in every single detail. Their once cosy living room was no longer. Their couch, a beige, dull thing by default, was covered in a fuzzy, checkered blanket, white pillows dotting its cushions. The usually empty mantelpiece was now covered by a green garland, dotted with fairy lights. Hanging from it, two stockings – one with an A stitched into it, the other with an E (if he seemed to smile at the sight of it, it was purely a muscle spasm).

He fought the urge to groan, side-eyeing the checkered blanket with horror once again. At least, he thought, there were no knitted animals in the living room.

Needless to say, he wasn’t entirely convinced on the Christmas decorations.

His girlfriend, however, was a sight to behold. He crossed his arms, fighting to not let his amusement show as he watched her. Even in her pyjamas and frowning at the tangled Christmas lights in her hands, Elain was lovely. Her cheeks were slightly pink, lips pursed in concentration as she appeared to fight the knotted mess in front of her (it seemed to Azriel she was losing, but he refrained from commenting on it). There was an old Christmas hat on her head, one Azriel faintly recalled taking home from one of Cassian’s holiday parties. It was entirely too big on her head, but it only made her all the more charming.

She was sitting on the floor, right next to a very tall, very bare Christmas tree. More boxes littered the floor around her, but Elain remained humming, unconcerned and completely unaware of Azriel’s presence in front of her.

Azriel hated to ruin her peace, but the checkered blanket seemed to mock him from the couch. He cleared his throat, face stoic ever as Elain yelped and looked up, eyes widening as she blushed.

“You’re home!” She greeted, standing up as she unceremoniously dropped the Christmas lights on the floor. Azriel raised an eyebrow, watching her as she turned down the volume of the music.

“What are you doing?” He asked, briefly wondering if this was one of those times Nesta had accused him of taking himself too seriously. Whatever that meant.

Elain, however, wasn’t deterred by his seriousness. She smiled prettily. “Decorating.”

Azriel made a show of raising both eyebrows. “It’s the 1st of December.”

“Yes.” She simply said, as if that explained everything.

“It’s the first of December.” He said again, not sure she had heard him correctly the first time.

“I’m aware.” She said, pushing the beanie away from her eyes. She did look adorable. “I’m in a festive mood. I wanted to do some light decorating.”

“Light?” He was vaguely aware he sounded like a crabby old man. Elain was too if the twitch in her lips was any indication. “Isn’t this all too much?” He still asked, eyeing the blanket.

He truly didn’t like that thing.

Elain blinked. Then she blinked again, taking in their living room. The couch, the tree, the mantle garland. Then she frowned. “Are you messing with me?”

Azriel scoffed. “Why would I be messing with you?” He took a step in her direction and Elain eyed him suspiciously. “There’s a gingerbread house in our kitchen.”

“No, there’s a gingerbread house kit in our kitchen.” She explained very slowly. “We’re going to build it together.”

“No, we’re not.” He chuckled, but his smile quickly fell away at her raised eyebrows. “We are?” He asked, frowning even as she walked towards him, a pretty smile on her lips.

“We are.” Elain said, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down as she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “But I made you red velvet brownies as a reward.” She whispered.

Azriel groaned, pressing his head against her neck, making her squeal as his beard tickled her skin. “You can’t distract me with brownies.”

“Are you sure?”

Azriel chuckled, wrapping his arm around her waist as he pushed the Christmas hat away from her eyes. “I am.”

“Well, can I distract you with something else?” She asked, her fingers playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck. Azriel hummed, pressing his nose against her neck, taking her in for the first time in hours. He was almost distracted. Almost.

“Can we at least get rid of that blanket?”

Elain frowned, eyeing the couch. “What’s wrong with the blanket?”

Well, its very existence was wrong, in his opinion, and he opened his mouth to say just that.

“Nesta gave it to me.”

He promptly closed his mouth. The blanket was staying, then. Mother’s tits.

He cleared his throat. “And the tree?” He asked instead, trying to swiftly change the subject. Elain eyed with him a cheeky smirk, making it clear she was fully aware she had won the fight before it even begun.

Gods, he loved her.

“Were you going to start decorating it now?”

“Oh, well. No.” Elain turned shy, chuckling nervously. “I actually wanted to decorate it with you.”

“Right.” He nodded. “On the 1st of December?” He asked. Just to be sure. Elain chuckled, playfully pushing him away even as he tightened his hold around her.

She looked at the tree, avoiding his eyes. “I just wanted to give you a new tradition.” She shrugged. “Our own tradition.”

Oh. Oh.

He was an absolute fool.

Azriel looked at her, his heart beating wildly inside his chest. “You did, love?”

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “If you want to, that is.”

It was all he could do not to drop to his knees and show her exactly how much he did.

He kissed her instead, his tongue seeking hers, his hands roaming around her body. He groaned at the taste of her, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist. Elain smiled against his lips.

“Is that a yes?” She asked, gasping as his hands found her ass.

“How could I ever say no to you?” And little did she know how much he really meant it.

Which would explain why, merely hours later, Azriel could be found wearing a stupid Christmas hat, ignoring the stupid checkered blanket, and helping Elain put up the last of the ornaments on the too big Christmas tree. And if he had a smile on his face…

Well, that had everything to do with the girl in his arms.

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c-e-d-dreamer · 9 months

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But I'm Only Looking At You: Chapter Masterlist

Main Pairing: Nesta Archeron/Cassian

Summary:

Cassian has been in love with Nesta Archeron for years and hopes to one day ask for her hand. But when Cassian learns that Nesta is set to marry the Viscount Tomas Mandray, he's ready and willing to do anything to stop it, including doing something very very stupid.

Aka a Regency AU inspired by Taylor Swift's Speak Now

Read on AO3

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Epilogue

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #regency au #my fic #coming for Cassian Week 2023 #I cannot wait!#shout out to MB for giving me this prompt #and shout out to Elise for helping me with this title #also also pre shout out to Krem for doing a beautiful art for this fic that everyone will get to feast their eyes on next week

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velidewrites · 11 months

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

Pairing: Hades!Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 14k

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is a mortal fire. A human fire.

It is nothing like hers.

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

Death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The worst Goddess this world has to offer.

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

This is inconvenient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not Hades. Hades comes every year.

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

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

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

Soon, you will be mine.

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

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

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

A low snarl slips past her throat.

Someone entered one of her temples—and defiled it.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

There you are.

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

And he is already dying.

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

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

“Please…”

She halts, though she isn’t sure why.

“Please,” the man rasps again.

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

Hades turns.

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

His last resort appears to be her.

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that, she is gone forever.

***

Forever does not last long enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good. She will not need any more.

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

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

Kneeling.

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

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

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

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

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

The moment shatters like glass.

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

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

Cassian is none of those things.

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

Their gazes lock and hold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mother?”

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

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

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

“It is the will of the Fates, then.”

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

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

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

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

Hers.

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

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

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

So beautiful.

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

Hades considers.

Kill him, the raging fire inside her says.

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

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

***

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

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

Hades smirks to herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A useful one, too.

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

Hades stills at that.

The first time?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Hades…Hades no longer knows what to feel.

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

Of who she’s supposed to be .

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

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

So Hades finally turns.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Compose yourself, the fire within her hisses.

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

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

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

“In the mortal lands?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean—”

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

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

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

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

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

In a land of eternal dreams, Hades feels awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hades blinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every soul in the Underworld goes utterly still.

Hades smiles to herself.

That ought to keep him at bay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is power all that matters to you?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hades opens her eyes.

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

No, Hades thinks. He belongs to her.

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

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

***

The island is warm and filled with sunlight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aphrodite chuckles. “Of course you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intriguing.

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

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

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

“Always.”

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

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

Aphrodite only hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she feels it.

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

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

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

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

Then her flames erupt, and her fury is unleashed.

***

Divine blood has many forms.

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

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

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

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

Human.

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

It made Eris vulnerable. It made him killable.

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

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

Fortunately, her prey already waits in the Underworld.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I dare,” Thanatos says.

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

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

Unworthy.

Nesta rages again.

And then leaves to exact her revenge.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It angers her even more.

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

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

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

Of her.

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

Instead, she created a monster.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps that’s why she asks, “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if he only cares about her.

As if he only cares about Nesta.

“Tell me your name,” Cassian breathes.

The entire Underworld freezes.

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

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

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

Cassian’s eyes flash in surprise.

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

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

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

Cassian stills entirely.

Nesta smiles. “You are a beast.”

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

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

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

It’s working.

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

Nesta swallows. Hard.

What have you become?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have no idea,” she tells him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nesta sucks in a sharp breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Nesta has a plan—as she always does.

This time, she will not let him ruin it.

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

He makes a low, guttural sound.

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

The rock cracks beneath the strength of his claws.

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

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

And with that, Nesta kneels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if he ever could.

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

Then she opens her eyes and meets his gaze.

Cassian comes in a wave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassian takes another step.

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

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

As if he likes it.

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

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

Control.

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

Cassian pounces.

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

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

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

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

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

Nesta knows he’s begging for a taste.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, Nesta doesn’t mind.

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

No one except Cassian.

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

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

And what a beautiful sight it is.

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

Cassian pauses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her name is the last snap before he unleashes himself.

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

It’s everything Nesta needs to fall apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassian slides in, and all the worlds collide.

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

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

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

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

She does.

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

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

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

She likes them.

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

“Mate,” Cassian whispers.

And then, he starts moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mate.

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

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

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labellefleur-sauvage · 11 months

Text

I Need a Big Boy

Nesta had been a fan of her city’s rugby team, The Velaris Fighters, for years, all because of one man: Cassian Smith, the team’s captain.

Tonight, she was finally going to show Cassian why she was his biggest fan.

A very short and smutty Nessian fic. Inspired by a few influential tiktoks featuring some very handsome and big rugby men in short shorts and tight jerseys that instantly made me think that Cassian would be an excellent rugby player. No other plot, just sexy vibes.

Word Count: 2600

Rating: E

Read on AO3

XXX

“Yes! Just like that! Just a little bit more, just like that - yes!”

Nesta threw her arms in the air and cheered along with the thousands of other people in the crowd as the Velaris Fighters scored five final points before the sirens that signaled the end of the game blasted through the air. Besides her, her friend Gwyn threw her arms around her neck in a hug, while their other friend Emerie blew into a bright blue plastic stadium horn.

“What a game!” Gwyn exclaimed, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “I thought for sure they wouldn’t be able to come back!”

“That was the best scrum of the season. How Rhys managed to hook the ball after the other team nearly had it -“

“And then Azriel managing to grab the ball when Rhys got tackled -“

“But we all know who was really responsible for their comeback win,” Emerie said with a wiggle of her eyebrows, eyeing Nesta.

Nesta only hummed, too distracted by watching the man of the hour: Cassian Smith, front row prop and team captain of the Velaris Fighters. He had gone through two shirts over the course of the game to her delight, and had abandoned his latest shirt, choosing to go topless while he gave a media interview on the field.

She sighed wistfully, watching the overhead lights dance across his golden brown skin. This man was the only reason she got into rugby several years ago, when she saw an ad at a bus stop for the local rugby team with Cassian front and center.

Luckily she found rugby genuinely interesting, and enjoyed going to the games. Even better, she got to ogle the most handsome man she had ever seen.

Cassian was a tall brick house of a man, nearly 6’5” of pure muscle. His upper body - shoulders, arms, back, even his neck - was a mess of highly developed muscles. Each rippling ab was defined, and his thighs were thicker than tree trunks. Most of his glorious body was covered in dark, swirling tattoos that contrasted against his golden brown skin. His shoulder length wavy hair was tied back in a messy ponytail and Nesta watched, enraptured, as he slowly took the ponytail out of his hair and raked his fingers through his sweaty locks.

She licked her lips. It felt like a personal show, just for her. If all went according to plan, then she’d be putting on a show for him soon.

“Come on, let’s go.” Gwyn bumped Nesta out of her daydream. Shaking herself, she gathered her bag and followed her friends out of the stands, joining the throng of people waiting to exit the stadium.

“You still going to go to the player’s entrance and try to get an autograph?” asked Gwyn.

“She’s going to try to get a lot more than that,” quipped Emerie.

“Be safe!” Gwyn said. “Let us know if you need a ride home or anything! Keep us updated -“

“She’s not going to have time to give us play by play updates when she’s getting railed -“

“OK, bye!” Nesta called, turning away from her laughing friends to walk towards the side player entrance where the players entered and exited the stadium. A small crowd had already assembled outside the doors, people anxiously waiting for a chance to see their favorite players.

Nesta forced her way up to the front railing separating the crowd from the door. She didn’t have to wait long - soon, players from both teams began filling out, some stopping to sign autographs. Craning her neck and standing on her tiptoes, Nesta kept her eyes trained on the door, hoping she didn’t miss him.

Finally, the door swung open and Cassian emerged. He was even more beautiful up close: his hair was damp around his face, his form fitting t-shirt clung to his body and the fading sunlight highlighted his rugged face.

Nesta lost her breath as she watched Cassian briefly look around the crowd before his eyes met hers. He looked her up and down, head to toe, before sauntering over.

“That’s a great shirt you have on. Did it come pre-ripped like that?”

Nesta grinned. She was wearing a replica of one of his jerseys, with several rips along the shoulders and sides to mimic how his uniform often looked after a particularly rough game. She had also cut a deep V-neck into the shirt to show off her impressive cleavage.

“No, I had to cut it myself. Wanted it to look more like the real thing.”

Cassian gave her a one sided grin. “Like the rest of my jerseys, it would look better shredded on the ground.”

Nesta snorted, dragging her eyes down his toned chest and lingering on the junction on his thick jean covered thighs. She lazily brought her gaze back to Cassian’s face, noting the slight blush grazing his cheeks.

“This shirt has a lot of sentimental value to me, so I don’t think I’d be willing to risk having it destroyed. I think I’ll keep this one… unless you can give me something special in return.”

She could have sworn she saw him shudder. “I can think of a few things I could give you,” he said huskily. “How about you come back to the team locker room with me? I can give you a personalized jersey, a private tour of the facilities…”

“That’s so generous of you,” Nesta purred. “I think I’d be more interested in a private tour of you , though.”

Cassian cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure you can take that? Most people can’t quite handle… all of me, like that.”

Nesta stared up at him and licked her lips. “How about we go somewhere private and I can prove to you that I’m more than capable of handling a big boy like yourself?” she shot back.

He smiled. “That can be arranged. Come on.” He single-handedly moved the heavy metal barrier out of the way, letting Nesta slip through. “My friend and I are going to the locker rooms,” he told the security guard at the door. The man nodded lazily, letting them back inside the building.

He quickly led them to the back of the stadium and into a large locker room. It was much nicer than Nesta expected - each player had their own personalized locker lined around the room, with a wide, wooden sitting bench in front of each cubby.

Cassian spun her out of her observations and took her face in his hands for a claiming kiss. Nesta sighed as his tongue swept inside her mouth. He broke away from her suddenly, a cocky grin on his face.

“How long were you waiting outside?” Cassian asked, sitting down in front of his locker and spreading his legs.

“Not long,” Nesta shrugged, her lips still tingling from his intense kiss. “I’m your biggest fan, so I was willing to wait a while for you.”

He smirked. “My biggest fan, huh? What else are you willing to do for me?”

Nesta hummed, then went to her knees between his spread thighs. “If you take your pants off I can show you.”

Cassian grinned, standing up to his full height so he towered above her. “I’ve already worked so hard today - how about you put in a little work and show me how much my biggest fan truly appreciates me.”

Grinning, Nesta reached up and undid the button of his jeans and slowly pulled the zipper down. A considerable bulge had already formed between his thighs, and it only grew larger as her deft hands dragged Cassian’s skin tight pants down his legs. She took her time undressing him, letting her hands wander over the hard muscles in his quads and hamstrings and calves. He kicked his pants away when they bunched around his ankles.

“My, my,” Nesta murmured appreciatively, staring at the outline of his cock straining against his underwear. “What a big cock you have. I can’t wait to see it dripping for me.” She pressed a series of delicate kisses along his clothed cock, kissing up his shaft. Cassian’s abs and legs tensed in anticipation as Nesta’s mouth drew nearer and nearer to his tip.

“I can’t wait to see it stuffed down your throat,” he gritted, tearing off his shirt and tossing it by his discarded jeans. “You’ll do that for me, right? Take my fat cock down your throat? Prove to me that you really are my biggest fan?”

“Anything,” Nesta said, lightly sucking the fat head of him through his underwear. She tasted a bit of his salty precome and had to close her eyes as her desire nearly toppled her, Cassian’s deep groan reverberating through her entire body. Her center throbbed and Nesta felt wetness gathering in her underwear.

She was tired of teasing him. Yanking down his underwear, Nesta lightly pushed Cassian back so he sat down heavily on the wooden bench in front of his locker and spread his legs. She groaned. His cock was long and thick and heavy, leaning towards his stomach. Nesta took him in her small hand and gave him a few pumps.

“You did such a good job today,” Nesta said. “Let me show you what you deserve.” She dragged the flat of her tongue up from the base of his cock to his tip, then took his head into her mouth and sucked.

Cassian groaned as Nesta bobbed her head over his dick. A thrill went through her. She was really doing this. She had flirted and teased the most handsome man she had ever seen, whom she’d been lusting over for ages, and now she was sucking his cock with more determination than anything she’d ever done in her life. Nesta had reduced one of the strongest men she’d ever seen to his knees with a few licks of her tongue, and she’d never felt stronger in her life.

Her hand stroked what she couldn’t fit in her mouth - his was the largest cock she’d ever sucked, and she briefly wondered if she would have to eat her earlier words of proving she could handle someone as large as him. Nesta took half of his length in her mouth and sucked hard.

“Fuck Nesta, you’re so fucking good at this.” A large hand pressed against the back of her head, forcing her down on his cock. “Just like that, I know you can take all of me.”

Eyes watering, Nesta relaxed her throat as much as she could as Cassian gently pressed her head down until her nose met the wiry curls between his legs. Breathing through her nose, she looked up at Cassian.

“You’re so fucking pretty right now,” he moaned, watching her struggle to keep his length within her throat. “Didn’t think seeing you cry while you take my cock would be so hot but fuck, it is.”

Nesta’s pussy throbbed at the praise. A few tears gathered in her eyelashes and she blinked up at Cassian, begging him for anything: to let her move her head, to continue praising her, to touch her, anything.

He seemed to understand how desperate she was. Guiding her off his length, Cassian pulled Nesta up and pressed his lips to hers. His tongue tangling with hers, Nesta relaxed in his arms and against his body. His big hands made quick work of her underwear and jean shorts before he trailed his fingers longingly over the rips and tears of her shirt.

“I really want to tear this off you - it’s already ripped, it’d take so little for me to destroy it.”

“Don’t you dare!” Nesta snapped. “I told you, this shirt is special to me!”

“I can get you a dozen just like it.”

“Are you going to argue with me about a shirt or are you going to fuck me?”

Cassian shrugged. “Have it your way.” Bending down, he grabbed Nesta under her ass and lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the wall so her back was against the surface.

Nesta gasped. It was hot, his casual display of strength. She felt the tip of his cock brush her soaking folds and she shifted her hips, trying to bring him even closer to her.

“You’re fucking soaked,” Cassian hissed. “Did sucking my cock make you this wet?”

“And watching you play,” Nesta admitted, a slight blush staining her cheeks.

“You poor thing,” he crooned, shifting his arms so Nesta’s legs settled in the crook of his elbows, “you’re been a desperate, wet mess for hours, haven’t you?”

“Yes!” Nesta gasped. “I’ve been so desperate for you! Please, fuck me!”

“So needy you’ll let me fuck your pussy raw, hm?” Cassian mumbled, leaning down to kiss her as he pushed his length into her tight cunt.

Nesta sighed, gripping Cassian’s huge biceps as he worked himself into her. She slumped down a bit against the wall, securely held by Cassian’s hands under her ass and his arms supporting her legs.

“How lucky I am, for my biggest fan to have the tightest pussy I’ve ever felt,” he said, withdrawing then pushing back into her. “Like you were made for me.”

She smirked at him. “Told you I could take it.”

Leaning her head against the wall, Nesta lost herself with the feel of Cassian’s big, strong body around her and his thick cock pistoning within her. He hit places she’d never felt before, and she knew she’d never be able to take anything except his glorious length.

The only sounds filling the locker room were their moans and the wet slap of his cock slamming into her pussy. Nesta felt herself getting even wetter the rougher he got. Reaching down, she furiously circled her clit.

“You feel so good,” Nesta gasped. “So perfect.”

“And you’re such a good girl, letting me fuck you like this,” Cassian groaned.

Nesta looked up at him with wide eyes. “Since I’m your biggest fan, I’ll let you come in me. Just for you.”

Cassian cursed. “You want me to come in you?”

“Yeah, want you to fill me up.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he moaned, thrusting so hard and deep inside her Nesta knew she’d be sore later. It was wonderful and everything she’d ever wanted.

“Cass, yes, right there!” She gave her clit one final brutal rub and she was coming, quaking in Cassian’s strong arms as he chased his own release.

“Fuck Nes,” Cassian groaned, emptying himself within her tight cunt. He gave her a few more weak thrusts before he stopped, resting his head in the hollow of her throat. Giving her a quick peck on the lips, he withdrew his cock from her body.

“I was worried you were actually going to destroy my shirt, you big oaf,” Nesta said as Cassian carefully set her down on shaky legs.

“I’d never destroy the first jersey I ever gave you,” he replied, gathering their clothes. “I know how much you love that thing.”

“Not as much as I love you,” Nesta said, leaning up to kiss him.

“I love you too. I don’t want to kink shame you, but when you asked me to roleplay with you as my biggest fan for some dirty locker room sex -“

“Oh, don’t say you weren’t into it right away!”

“I just thought it was a bit weird, considering my girlfriend should already be my biggest fan. Do you know the logistics I had to figure out to make sure we’d have the locker room to ourselves?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “This just means you have a pretty big leeway for what you want the next time we roleplay.”

“Oh I’ve already decided what I want. Maybe some sweaty post-workout sex, with leathers and chains, stuff like that.”

Nesta grinned. “I can’t wait.”

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #cassian acotar #acotar #my fics #my fic #rugby!cassian #rugby au #cassian is big and hot #and nesta is into it #who can blame her #a court of thorns and roses

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dawneternal · 1 month

Text

⊹ Gwyn x Azriel Modern college AU

⊹ Summary: Nesta has been trying to throw Azriel and Gwyn together for a while now. When a group project comes along, Nesta snags Az for their group so the pair are finally forced to interact.

To make matters more complicated, Gwyn accidentally sends the wrong document to the group, replacing the writing assignment with a smutty chapter of fanfiction.

Things only bloom from there, forcing Gwyn to either let down her walls or lose a friendship that has become important to her.

Prepare for fluff, angst, classic college tropes, and some cheesiness

⊹ Warnings: Gwyn struggles with social anxiety and PTSD. Talk of past hospitalizations due to mental health (no graphic details.) other characters have struggles with mental health. There will be talk of past trauma including assault. More warnings included before each chapter. <3

⊹ Word Count: 2.1k

⊹ AO3 Link

Gwyn was lost in her own world, silently tapping her foot to the song stuck in her head. She scribbled in the corner of her notebook with sweater sleeves pulled up over her chilly fingers. Nesta would let her know if she missed anything important.

So she let the classroom fade into nothing as she thought of lines for her next fanfiction chapter. Fanfiction for Vow of Roses, her favorite half-fantasy, half-romance book series. Writing the next chapter would be her reward for surviving another week of school. Now she was just biding time until she could get back to her room and dissolve into a word document.

Nesta gave Gwyn a gentle nudge just as the professor announced, “You’ll complete this next assignment in groups of four. If you really can’t manage to get into groups yourself, I’ll mediate. But at least try, first.”

The moment the sentence had ended, Nesta turned and waved her hand.

“Az!” She shouted, ignoring the disappointed sigh of a girl seated behind them. Azriel flashed Nesta a smile.

Gwyn’s stomach sank as her mind struggled to return to reality. This was the boy Nesta was determined to set her up with. The boy that every other girl in the class seemed to be competing for. When Nesta straightened in her seat and caught Gwyn’s incredulous look, she only raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

“What?” Nesta tossed her braid over her shoulder, “We don’t know anyone else in this class.”

The room was full of murmurs and shuffling as the class split up into groups. Azriel took the seat across from Nesta, gently setting his stack of books on the table. Gwyn dared to take a peak at him as he was busy searching his backpack for something or other.

He was gorgeous, as always, only adding to her churning anxiety.

His inky black hair was messy, forming perfect curls by his ears and neck. He had a variety of tattoos scattered over his tan skin, interspersed with freckles. And his eyes were, of course, beautiful. Glowing amber even in the gross classroom lighting, framed with long dark lashes. The earrings he wore caught the light and glittered, almost matching the flecks of gold that ringed his pupils.

Gwyn turned her gaze away before he could catch her looking.

He finally gave up his search, leaning forward to ask Nesta something, but he was interrupted by textbooks slamming down on the empty corner of the table.

“No one else wants me,” A boy named Connor announced with a grin, slumping down in the last empty chair.

Gwyn did not know him well, only enough to guess that she’d prefer just about anyone else to join this project. Including one of the girls who was constantly vying for Azriel's favor. Azriel didn’t look too happy about the prospect of Connor either, mouth spreading into a thin line. Nesta scowled, her eyes gleaming with a promise of cruelty.

“No strays? Perfect,” The Professor proclaimed, and launched into the details of the group project. Solidifying their fate.

Gwyn only half-listened, distracted this time by anxiety and not daydreams. She did not know Azriel very well, either. He was Nesta’s friend, chosen-brother to her boytoy Cassian.

He seemed nice enough, but social anxiety does not often seem to care about the niceness of people. He was still a stranger, and now he was in her space with his dizzying smell without proper time for her to adjust.

And as for Connor, he was a wildcard. He was the sort of unpredictable that was a nightmare for her anxiety. He could be decent one minute and make a disgusting misogynistic joke the next. Or decide to throw something at you as a “prank.” He also seemed desperate for any scrap of attention from any girl in the class and determined to get it in the most obnoxious ways possible.

This was a lot to handle in a short amount of time. Gwyn had her books shoved into her backpack before the class was dismissed, ready to bolt the second the big hand hit 3:30. As the professor recapped important information, Gwyn breezed out the door. She was out of the classroom before Nesta could stop her and tucked into the alcove by the water fountain before the stream of students could overtake her. Luckily, Connor did not pursue her.

The hallway had mostly cleared by the time Nesta made her way to Gwyn, Azriel following behind her. Gwyn had not realized how tall he was. Nesta was on the shorter side, but Azriel towered over her.

“You good?” Nesta asked, eyebrows raised high. She recognized the signs of panic, but she would not say so in front of Azriel.

Gwyn nodded, wondering how silly she looked just then, hood up and knees to her chest. It had been a while since her anxiety had been triggered like that, but it was her own fault for letting her mind drift so far. If she’d looked at the syllabus and not her doodles, she would’ve been prepared. Maybe they could've scoped their fourth group member ahead of time.

“Good,” Nesta declared, “Because we’re getting ice cream. Come with us? Group project bonding time.”

Gwyn’s gaze shifted to Azriel and she found that he was watching her, waiting for an answer. He gave her a soft smile that soothed her nerves just a touch.

“I can’t,” She said, though she returned Azriel’s smile, “I have a couple of things to finish up before dinner. Text me the project details?”

“Fine,” Nesta sighed, “But you’re coming next time.”

Gwyn watched them go, chest tightening with the feeling of missing out. But she wasn’t up to it, today. She shook the self-deprecating thoughts from her head and hauled herself up from the ground. She went back to that song that had been stuck in her head, humming it aloud to block out the torrent of ‘just try harder’ as she began the trudge back to her dorm room.

This was better than ice cream. Layered under fuzzy blankets, lights dimmed and some angry rock song blaring in her headphones. Gwyn shifted her focus back and forth between her latest fanfiction chapter and the assignment for the group project. On one tab of her computer she had pulled up moodboards and fan art for writing inspiration. A volume of Vow of Roses lay on her desk, pages full of underlines and sticky notes open for reference.

As for the project, she still did not like the group aspect but the writing was easy. She’d have it finished up and sent off in a little while and then she didn’t have to think about it for the rest of the weekend. The fanfiction flowed even easier, scenes and similes appearing on the page and erasing every qualm from the day.

Emerie, her roommate, lay in her own bed across the room, singing to the theme-song of her show in increasingly goofy voices.

“Hey!” She shouted, loud enough to be sure Gwyn could hear it through her music.

“What?” Gwyn lifted one ear of her headphones.

“Hurry up with that chapter, I want to read it before my shower,” She grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

“You’re gross,” Gwyn laughed, swooping to pick up a dirty sock from the floor and toss it at her roommate's bed.

“You’re the one who writes it,” Emerie scoffed, flicking the sock off her bed. She pressed play on her laptop and continued singing along.

Gwyn returned to her document, putting the finishing touches on the ending paragraph. Emerie was also a huge Vow of Roses fan, as was Nesta. But neither had managed to uncover Gwyn's secret blog yet, so they impatiently waited for updates via email.

Pleased with herself, Gwyn attached the file to the waiting email draft and pressed send.

“Just sent it,” Gwyn called. Emerie squealed and jumped from the bed, grabbing her phone and shower caddy.

“See you later,” She sang, throwing a towel over her shoulder and heading for the showers.

Not too long later, Gwyn was half-asleep watching a period drama on her computer, box of goldfish in her lap. She was done being productive for the day and ready to let her brain turn into mush. Maybe she'd even skip dinner and just eat snacks here in bed.

Then her phone rang, pulling her from her stupor. Nesta's contact photo popped up on the screen.

“Hello?” She sang into the phone, reaching into the box for another handful of crackers.

“Hey babe, you sent the group the wrong file,” Nesta said the words in a rush.

“What?” Goldfish crackers scattered to the floor.

“Yeah, you sent us the smut you wrote,” Nesta sighed, like it pained her to say it. Like she knew what it would mean to Gwyn.

Shit. Fuck.

“No,” Gwyn whined, rushing to open her email and pull up her recently sent messages.

Sure enough, Emerie had received the writing assignment, and the group had received her newly finished chapter. Complete with the subject line ‘here you go, pervert.’

“I’m going to die,” Gwyn whispered into the phone.

“You can unsend it, right? That’s a feature they have now?”

“In like, the first 30 seconds after you sent it,” Gwyn wailed, “I have to say something and apologize. This is so embarrassing.”

“I'm sorry sweetheart. Connor may be a dick, but I know Azriel would never use it to tease you.”

“You're sure?” Gwyn chewed her lip and pressed her hand to her warm face. She already struggled to act normal in front of Azriel, between Nesta's schemes and his unearthly beauty. He did not need another reason to think she was strange.

“I'm sure. And if he does I'll kick his ass and so will his brothers.”

Then, Gwyn heard a stifled giggle through the phone.

“Nesta, don't laugh!” She cried.

“I mean, it was really good smut at least,” Nesta soothed.

“Goodbye,” Gwyn growled and hung up. Which was maybe too harsh, but she’d worry about it later. Nesta was not easily perturbed, anyways. Or she'd be too busy laughing to care.

“This sucks this sucks this sucks,” Gwyn muttered, burying her head in the pile of fuzzy blankets.

In her experience, there weren’t many people out there who understood what writing meant to her. In the past few years, it had become more than a pastime. It was a tool she utilized to ease her brain through a very painful healing process. It was catharsis. Even the smut was a part of that.

And she had just sent that chapter to two people who were among the least likely to get it. Or the least likely for her to ever share those vulnerable thoughts with.

They would just tease her, probably. That would be all. But she was not ready to be teased. It was still too painful, like salt in fresh wounds. Not to mention that teasing was the enemy of her social anxiety. It never failed to rid her brain of all common sense. And when embarrassment guided her actions, she always did something stupid.

“Hey,” Emerie laughed as she entered their shared room, hair damp from the shower, “That was definitely not spicy. What happened?”

She took in Gwyn’s miserable face and teary eyes and dropped her things to rush forward. “Oh no, honey, what’s wrong?”

Gwyn explained her mistake, and Emerie listened intently. She held Gwyn’s head in her lap and fed her goldfish crackers as she cried. Emerie knew the depth of her struggles, some of which they had in common. She brushed strands of copper hair from her face and diligently watched episodes of the favored period drama until her friend felt a little better.

“Azriel is the boy that Nesta’s been throwing at you?” Emerie asked, after a long silence. Gwyn hummed an affirmation.

“He’s pretty,” Emerie said. Cautiously.

“Suspiciously pretty,” Gwyn answered. Her opposition to Nesta’s set up was not so much about his looks, but her own apprehension towards strangers. And the burden of her mental health, bound to ruin any relationship. There were already too many burned bridges in her past.

But also, Azriel was ethereally beautiful. There had to be a secret underneath it.

“He could be the exception,” Emerie said, her voice soft. But Gwyn ignored it.

“I think I'd rather have sent that email to my parents by accident,” She grumbled. Emerie chuckled and shook her head, wisely saying nothing more about the beautiful hazel-eyed boy.

Before they went to sleep, Emerie typed a message to the group on Gwyn's behalf, apologizing and imploring them not to open the document if they hadn't already. The sting had eased up some, but Gwyn was still not looking forward to the consequences of this mistake. The thought of Azriel reading any number of the salacious lines she'd written had her blushing all over again.

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talkfantasytome · 1 year

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Small Steps

Cassian has a rough day that really shakes him. Nesta meets him where he is, using physical touch to try help him.

Warnings: Mild Angst | Word Count: 2,717 | Read on AO3

Nessian Masterlist

a/n: Based on this ask. I took to heart the "change anything". 🙈 So no smut, friends, I'm just still not there, and I wanted to get more to the heart of the love language.

Written for Day 2 of @sjmromanceweek: Love Languages.

The massive sigh that escaped Nesta's lips practically echoed through the sitting room.

She rarely read in that room. Then again, despite the book in front of her, she really couldn't say she was currently reading, either. Not as her eyes flicked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass door every other second. Checking on the balcony, making sure she didn't miss it when he got back.

As if she could. Who could miss someone of that size?

Thump.

Her eyes snapped back to the balcony, but nothing was there. It took her a minute before she realized the sound had come from the book that slipped from her lap.

She must be getting tired. It was rather late. And with how dark it was, she could actually miss it. Perhaps she should just go to bed, wait for Cassian there. Nesta would likely wake up when he got in…he was never particularly quiet getting ready for bed.

With a yawn, Nesta closed her book and stood from her seat, jumping as she heard the door open behind her.

"Finally!" she sighed, placing her book on the table and turning to see Cassian standing in the threshold, his hair wet and clinging to a forlorn face. It must be raining outside. "Where have you been?"

Nesta padded over to Cassian, pulling him further into the House and shutting the door behind them. The wind was harsh, blowing against her efforts, but she got it closed and locked before too much water came in. And what did was magically dried away by the time she heard the lock click.

Cassian didn't answer her. He just stood there, a few feet away, eyes distant and unresponsive.

"Cassian?" she questioned. Nesta kept her voice soft, tilting her head to try and meet his gaze. But even when she made contact with his hazel irises, that's all she was doing. There was no recognition that he was seeing her, meeting her eyes. She brushed a hand up his arm and asked, "Is everything all right."

He turned his head away, as if he couldn't look at her, and then pulled his arm back. It wasn't the response she wanted, and she couldn't pretend it didn't cut like a knife, but at least it was some type of reaction. "Cassian," she tried again, taking his hand. "What happened?"

Still no answer.

A pit began to emerge in Nesta's stomach as she watched her husband and mate remain still and cold. It wasn't like him. Cassian was all warmth and openness, jokes and laughter. He didn't fluster. Nothing ever shook him. Not like this. The worst Nesta had ever seen him before was in times when she was in danger, and even then there was something more than this.

She didn't know what to do. How could she? Five years together, and this was a first. She should know how to comfort him - she did know, typically. But this wasn't the same as sad Cassian or worried Cassian or pissed-off Cassian. And she doubted some sarcastic insults or gentle kisses would pull him out of the stupor he was in.

But Nesta had to do something. Cassian was always the strong one. For her…for everyone, really. It's what he did, constantly. And now she had to do it for him.

Holding back the tears that were begging to be set free, Nesta quickly requested a meal for Cassian from the House as she led him to the table. A plate full of steak, fried potatoes, and broccoli appeared just as she got him into a seat - his favorite meal. She sent a silent thank you to the House for that. The House didn't always seem to like Cassian, but clearly it could tell that now wasn't a time for whatever grudge it held.

Cassian sat there, hands at his side, staring off into the distance. She wasn't sure he even realized the food was there, but that was fine. He'd eat it, anyway. She'd make sure of that.

Nesta picked up the silverware and cut a piece of steak, cooked perfectly between rare and medium-rare, exactly how Cassian liked it. She then brushed some of his hair behind his ear and lifted his face to meet her gaze again.

This time, something registered in his eyes. The faintest twinkle that said he did see her. And for a moment she let the relief flood her, but only a moment. Because as quick as the twinkle came it faded again.

"Please, Cass," she breathed, holding the bite of steak up. "Eat for me?"

He lifted a hand and placed it over hers, guiding the steak into his open mouth. After that first bite, he took the fork in his own hand and began to work on the meal.

Nesta let out the breath she'd been holding and then sat beside him, keeping one hand on him at all times, her fingers curved around his broad shoulder. She stayed clear of his wings for the moment, unsure how he'd react in his current state to even an accidental brush against them.

It was quiet as he ate, only the sounds of his bites and chewing filling the room. And the inconsistent clicking of his jaw. The sound usually grated on Nesta a bit. Tonight, however, it was music to her ears.

His hair began to fall into his face, and Nesta pushed it back behind his ears, stroking him for a second with her thumb. Once again, no reaction from Cassian, but Nesta was too busy noting how cold his cheeks felt to worry about that. It felt as if he'd been out in freezing temperatures long enough for it to chill his very bones.

Turning her face toward the ceiling, Nesta asked, "Could you start a hot bath, please?" A gentle breeze caressed her face in response, and she added a whispered, "Thank you."

Cassian set his fork down a couple minutes later. He didn't move beyond turning to look at Nesta. He seemed to be asking 'what next', and it broke Nesta's heart and healed it at the same time. One step at a time, that's all she needed from him. She took his hands and stood up, pulling him up with her, and thanking the Mother that he registered it enough to help. She wasn't actually strong enough to move him without his help.

Keeping one of his hands in hers, she led him down to their suite. The bathroom was warm with the steam from the bath. Cassian followed Nesta into the room and stood in the center of it as directed by Nesta. She didn't bother waiting to see if he'd start to ready himself for the bath.

Nesta started on his jacket. She had to walk around him as she slid it off his arms and wings. And then she was on her tiptoes, peeling his shirt off of him, grateful he was present enough to lift his arms and duck down a bit to help her. Once the shirt was on the floor, Cassian straightened. It gave Nesta the chance to look over his torso. Not in admiration, as was so often in the case, but instead Nesta found herself scanning his body for injuries.

She couldn't imagine that was what was getting to Cassian. He typically played off injuries as if they were nothing, only resting to get Nesta to shut up. But that didn't mean he couldn't also be physically injured, along with whatever had happened to affect him emotionally.

There wasn't much, however. Just her husband's extremely toned chest and those entrancing tattoos that never ceased to astound her. She trailed her hands up and down his arms, hoping the touch would offer him a bit of comfort, or at least some warmth. He slanted toward her a bit, as if he were leaning in to the touch, but when Nesta looked up his face was still vacuous, even as his eyes followed her.

Nesta gave him a small smile anyway, giving his chest a quick kiss before she moved on to his legs. She knelt down to get off his shoes and socks. They were dirtier than she'd realized. He must've been tracking mud through the entire House. And the socks, too, were damp. But the worst part was the pinkness of his toes. How long had he been in his wet clothes? Nesta hadn't realized how wet they were. She was pretty sure Az had gone with him that day, so he shouldn't have needed to fly home. Just the quick flight from beyond the wards to the balcony of the House. They should've been lightly damp.

Based on the feel of his socks, they'd likely been drenched hours before. Dried enough they wouldn't drip, but not so much that they weren't still wet and cold. She should've had him bathe first.

With this new realization, Nesta was quick to remove his pants and lead him toward the tub. Whorls of steam danced across the calm water. She tested the water quickly and it was perfect. Hot, definitely, but not so much it would burn his skin.

She looked back up at him, meeting his blank stare. "Cassian, can you get in the tub for me?"

His eyes shifted to look at the tub and he gave her a solitary nod of his head. He was slow to move, but he climbed into the large bath. He always commented on how it was too big for him alone when Nesta didn't bathe with him. Seeing him in it without her, Nesta actually believed him.

Cassian sat down in the water, everything but his shoulders and head submerged. Nesta knelt beside the tub once he was situated, surprised to find a pillow on the floor waiting for her. She didn't reflect on it too much. Just accepted the plush object and reached to grab the soap and a loofah.

She didn't scrub too hard. He wasn't noticeably dirty, nor did Nesta want to hurt him. But still she made sure to wipe down his arms and torso, and did her best to get to his legs as well. And then she worked on his hair. She poured a large dollop of the hair cleansing concoction they kept into her hands and then lathered it into his hair.

Letting off a soft groan as she massaged his head, Cassian leaned into the touch and something lightened in Nesta. She let out a sigh of relief and smiled to herself as she continued to rub the soap in. Nesta took her sweet time with it, making sure she got every inch of his head, hoping to prolong his enjoyment. She then began to scoop water up to rinse the mixture out of his hair. It was slow work, but it was better than asking him to dip his head.

Once all the soap was off him, Nesta reached into the water and grabbed Cassian's hands, standing up and leading him to do the same. He followed, a waterfall cascading off his body as he did. Nesta grabbed a towel and wrapped it around him before she carefully helped him out of the tub. He held the towel around himself as Nesta patted it against his body, attempting to soak up as much water from his skin as possible.

Cassian watched her as she did. Something in his features scrunched, his eyes focusing on her chest.

Nesta couldn't hide her shock. She doubted Cassian was actually interested in doing anything that night. And she wasn't sure he was in a place for it anyway. Following his gaze and looking down, Nesta realized it wasn't actually her chest that was drawing his attention, but the fact that her dress was entirely soaked. She hadn't even noticed. "It's fine. I'll be out of this soon enough."

He didn't respond, but Nesta didn't care. It was a tiny step, and that was all she needed.

They walked into the bedroom and Nesta began to turn down the bed before going to the closet and pulling out Cassian's favorite pair of lounge pants.

"Do you want to wear these tonight?" she asked, holding them up for him. He looked them over, taking a minute before finally nodding. Nesta held them open and helped him into the pants.

Her hands met his waist as she let the pants go around him, and then they were trailing up his stomach and landing on his chest. It was a soft touch, not the kind that was meant to lead to something else. Just to comfort.

Cassian watched her. And when she looked up into his face, she found his hazel eyes staring back at her. They weren't as distant as they had been earlier. There was still something vacant about his face, but it wasn't entirely blank anymore. She smiled and lifted one hand to caress his cheek.

"I love you, Cassian," she breathed. Cassian tilted his head against her hand. All the response she needed. "Do you want to get into bed? I'm going to get into my nightgown, and then I'll join you."

Despite her words, Nesta didn't move her hands until Cassian had moved far enough away that she wasn't touching him anymore. He climbed into their bed as Nesta got on one of her nightdresses, and then she was joining him.

He stayed on his side, his back to her, and it took all the strength Nesta could muster to not finally break down. As much as she wanted to, Cassian still needed her. Even if he wasn't turned toward her with his arms open like he was most nights.

So Nesta scooted toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist and nestling her face between his wings. She left a soft kiss on the center of his back and made sure her entire body was up against his, mimicking his position.

Lifting one arm, Cassian rested it on top of Nesta's. His hand curled around hers and she nearly burst into tears. He was there, somewhere. Tomorrow would be for talking. Or the next day. Or whatever day he was ready. Tonight, she would hold him and stay close. And his hand grasping hers was enough to know that's all he needed.

She nuzzled as close as possible and held him tight. It wasn't long until his breathing evened out, his body relaxing in sleep. Nesta was able to drift off soon after that.

Nesta awoke to a room so bright, even with her eyes closed it was blinding. She groaned slightly to herself, squeezing her eyes shut and curling into the body that was holding her.

A deep, soft chuckle sounded beside her and Nesta's eyes shot open.

Cassian was there, smiling down at her, his arms tight around her waist.

"Cassian?" she whispered.

He lifted one hand, bringing it up to cup her cheek. "'Morning Nes," he breathed before leaning in and kissing her on the forehead.

"Is everything-are…are you okay?" she asked gently.

He nodded, pulling her closer to him and resting his head on top of hers. "It was a bad day, yesterday."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She could feel him shake his head as he replied, "Not yet. I just want to stay here a bit longer."

Nesta nodded and tightened her arms around him. "We can stay as long as you like. And we can talk when you're ready."

"Thank you. For that and…for last night."

Nesta brushed her nose against his chest in response and said, "I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

"No," he stated quickly. "It was exactly what I needed. You were perfect." Nesta buried her face into his chest, hoping to hide the tears that were finally breaking free. "You are perfect."

They stayed like that for most of the day, neither wanting to move or be far from each other. There wasn't much talking, but Nesta knew Cassian would share when he was ready. For now, she took joy in the small steps. The conversations they did have, the touches Cassian initiated, the way his eyes finally sparkled again as he looked at and laughed with her.

It was more than enough.

a/n:I hate that last line but I literally couldn't think of anything better, so...😬

@live-the-fangirl-life @generalnesta @secretlovelybeauty @julemmaes @boredserpent @autumnbabylon @moodymelanist @sv0430 @nesquik-arccheron @gwynrielsupremacy @katekatpattywack @moonstoneriver77 @deedz-thrillerkilller16 @swankii-art-teacher @lemonade-coolattas @emily-gsh @my-fan-side @champanheandluxxury @sayosdreams @simpingfornestaarcheron @perseusannabeth @clemidansleschoux @meher-sumedha @labetenoir @vinylcryes @shinya-hiiragi @starryblueskies7 @a-court-of-milkandhoney @pintas3107 @embersofwildfire @superspiritfestival @aks18 @thewayshedreamed @lunabean @xstarlightsupremex @mis-lil-red @wannawriteyouabook @dealfea

#nessian #nesta x cassian #sjmromanceweek2023 #cassian x nesta #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #acosf #acosf fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #modern au #mild angst #fluff #love languages #physical touch #the emotional kind #a side of words of affirmation for nesta

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vulpes-fennec · 1 year

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Why Did It Have To Be Me?

Summary: 19-year old Nesta is stuck working with 21-year old Cassian as camp counselors for Windhaven Wilderness Explorers, a summer program that immerses tweens into the Illyrian forests. Will she find a way to address the sizzling tension between them before summer ends?

My first contribution for ACOTAR Writing Circle! Stay tuned with @azrielshadowssing to see who writes part 2 and 3! Also, that is an ABBA song reference in the title :)

Read: AO3 | 2.7k words | Mature | Modern AU

Being a Windhaven Wilderness Explorer counselor for the summer had been a way to make money. Nesta didn’t mind working with tweens; they had a wicked sense of humor, were old enough to take care of themselves to some extent, and were generally excited to be away from home. She liked being outdoors, liked exhausting her body so that sleep came deeply in the hot summer night.

What Nesta didn’t like was having to deal with her coworkers. Well, only one coworker in particular. Camp director Devlon had paired them up as counselor partners. The first week had just wrapped up, but Nesta didn’t know how she’d make it through the next three.

21-year old Cassian grated on her nerves from the moment she laid eyes on him in ways Nesta could not quite describe. Maybe it was because he was mind-bogglingly good at everything.

Foraging for wild herbs? Cassian knew the trails like the back of his hand. “You’re going the wrong way, Nes!” he had called out yesterday. Nes. That awfully grating nickname he’d given her the day they’d met.

Catching fish? The stupid fish seemed to flock to Cassian’s fish hook, while Nesta was left standing knee deep in the stream for half an hour without a single tug on the line. “Come over here!” Cassian had beckoned her over. And when she still failed to snag anything, he teased her, saying, “maybe they’re scared of your feet.”

“Says the one with hairy toes,” Nesta had bit back.

Starting fires? Nesta was still trying to strike a flint by the time Cassian had a toasty blaze going, rubbing it in her face by toasting marshmallows on a stick. “Ladies first,” he had said with a grin, offering her the first s’more.

Maybe it was because he was infuriatingly endearing with the kids.

They clamored for his campfire stories, always sought him out for wilderness advice, and wanted to be his buddy for the day. It made sense, given the number of jokes Cassian cracked and the broad smile he wore on his face 24/7.

Maybe it was because he was attractive, and Nesta knew she couldn’t have him.

With his roughly chiseled features, piercing hazel eyes, chestnut-browned skin, tall and muscled build, Cassian looked every bit the rugged wilderness ranger. Nesta preferred guys with shorter hair, but there was something about Cassian’s shoulder length black waves that had her imagining what it would feel like to run her hands through it.

Of course Nesta couldn’t have him. First off, hooking up with a colleague would be a HR dumpster fire and drama waiting to happen. Second off, as the ambitious and career-driven first-born of the Archeron family, Nesta didn’t need the tattered remnants of a summer fling weighing her down during the school year.

Whatever it was, being around Cassian put Nesta on edge, as if she was a vibrating violin string that had been stretched taut and plucked. His teasing eye contact often lingered a second too long, electrifying the air with newfound tension. Their scathing repartee had the kids giggling and whispering. And his winning smiles and smirks stripped her bare at every interaction, which was why Nesta preferred to keep her distance.

Nature hikes were an easy way to avoid Cassian, since he took the lead while Nesta was positioned at the rear. Their troop had stopped for lunch in a small clearing. Dappled sunlight filtered past the tree canopy, and a small stream gurgled nearby. Nesta bit into her slightly squished sandwich and munched on a crisp apple.

Cassian sat across from her, smiling and chatting with the kids. She had to admit, the way he listened attentively to their stories and chatter softened her stubborn heart.

After some time, a kid asked, “who’s your favorite person in this group, Cassian? Can I be your favorite?”

“Aw, I don’t pick favorites,” Cassian said, but he gave Nesta a crooked grin that made her stomach flip-flop.

“Do you go to school, Cassian?” one of the kids asked.

“I do go to school,” he smiled, and it was begrudgingly endearing. “Just like you.”

“Where?”

“Velaris University, with Nes.” Cassian jerked his chin in her direction. Nesta blinked. Cassian didn’t have social media (she’d checked the first day) so she didn’t know much about his personal life. But how could she have missed his swaggering persona on campus?

“You do?” she asked, surprised. “What do you study?”

“Environmental science,” Cassian replied, hazel eyes level with her blue-gray ones. As if he was conveying they’d met before. Environmental science, environmental science. Nesta wracked her brains for any possibility of class overlap with political science, but found none.

She realized she was staring at him a tad too intensely when their group of kids began giggling. “What’s so funny?” Nesta asked.

“Nessian,” a girl supplied. The kids’ eyes gleamed with mischief as they made little hearts with their hands. “It’s what we’ve been calling you two.”

“Nessian, huh?” Cassian smirked at her. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

***

The next day, Nesta sought out Emerie for a post-lunch walk because she was feeling especially vexed. The mosquitos would be having a field day with her nylon shorts and t-shirt, but she was too hot to care. Nesta hurled an acorn as hard as she could against a tree.

“Well, what did the tree ever do to you?” Emerie sighed audibly. “Or is it Cassian again?”

“Did you hear how he annoyingly picked out which birds were singing during the dawn chorus this morning?” Nesta demanded, throwing another acorn. Bird watching was—yet another—one of Cassian’s specialties. The man could identify the species, whether it was male or female, adult or juvenile, with a simple glance. No binoculars needed.

“Um, Nesta…I think he was just being helpful and answering questions,” Emerie gently suggested. “The kids were asking him, after all.”

Nesta gritted her teeth, not wanting to admit that fine, maybe she was a bit biased. “I’m trying to listen to the birds, not his loud ass voice,” she ranted. “I swear, if Devlon pairs us together for the second camp session in July I’m going to pitch a fit.”

Emerie was silent.

“And have you heard what the kids are calling us? Nessian. Nessian?”

“I mean…they do ship the two of you,” Emerie pointed out. “Let’s be honest, Nesta. You and Cassian would make a great pair.”

“Insanity. Can you imagine me with someone who is so damn cheerful all the time?” Nesta protested. “Like what is there to smile about at five in the morning? If I have to see his stupidly perfect mouth again—”

Emerie grabbed Nesta’s arm, squeezing it forcefully. In the midst of her complaining, Nesta failed to hear Cassian come up behind them.

She recognized him by his rounded muscles and toned abdomen, shown off by his blank tank top tucked into tan cargo pants. His standard backwards baseball hat, that kept his wild black hair in place. But the devastation in his expression—that was something new. Nesta’s stomach plummeted. Oh fuck, he definitely heard her shit-talking him.

“You left this in the mess hall,” Cassian said, his words sounding far away, as if Nesta was underwater. He held up her crimson fanny pack. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but stare at how his trademark openness faded by the second.

“Oh, thank you Cassian!” Emerie chirped with forced levity. She quickly bounded over to take the pack from Cassian.

Cassian’s hazel eyes were still fixed on Nesta, though his mouth even tightened with a forced, awkward smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you both later.” Nesta could only watch in silence as he turned and walked away, unable to stop him.

***

Out of all the social faux-pas…Nesta may have committed the worst one yet. Well, technically there were worse things out there. Like maybe talking smack about a manager in an email sent to everybody in the company. Or accidentally having a NSFW tab open on her phone browser. Still, Nesta felt like sinking into the ground and disappearing forever whenever she replayed Cassian’s hurt expression.

It was the weekend, so they didn’t have any scheduled activities with the kids. Still the camp was small enough that Cassian had to have been purposefully avoiding her for the rest of the day. She hadn’t seen him at all. Nesta tossed and turned in her bed, fretting. If he continued to avoid her, how would she find the dignity to face him on Monday?

“Where are you going?” Emerie asked when Nesta got up. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I need to make things right with Cassian,” Nesta grumbled. “I can’t sleep. Where is his cabin?”

“Cabin 23,” Emerie replied, engrossed with the videos she was watching on her phone. “He shares it with Tarquin.”

Fireflies drifted lazily along the edge of the forest, crickets chirped into the hot night air. The summer constellations glimmered up above, keeping watch over all the earth’s inhabitants. But Nesta barely noticed the beauty of the night as she stalked across camp, trying to think of what to say.

She found Cassian’s cabin rather easily and regretted wearing a thin white tank top and sleep shorts. Not because she was self-conscious of her full curves. If any mischievous kids were sneaking out, they would assume she was there to hook up with Cassian.

The prospect of hooking up with him still made Nesta zone out for a good five seconds. She did describe his mouth as “stupidly perfect” earlier. Hopefully Cassian was too caught up with her calling him annoying to remember her saying such things about his mouth.

She hesitated. What if Cassian was hooking up with someone else? The thought of him tangling with some amorphous other counselor added a shot of unreasonable jealousy to the mixture of nerves bubbling in her stomach.

“Nes.”

She jumped. “Fucking hell, Cassian, you scared me.” Cassian stepped out of the shadow, his arms crossed.

“What are you doing here? Coming to sing praises about me, or see what my stupidly perfect mouth can do?” His voice was bland, almost cold. Ah, shit. So he did hear every single word she said.

“Don’t be crude,” Nesta snapped, then softened her face. Not a good start to their conversation. “I came here to talk.”

Cassian glanced at the door. “Tarquin’s asleep,” he replied. “If you want to talk, follow me.”

Nesta jogged to catch up to him as he stalked towards the edge of the forest. “Emerie knows I went to find you, you know. So if you plan on murdering me, you won’t get away so easily,” she reminded him.

Cassian chuckled darkly. “Believe me, I wouldn’t try to mess with you, Nes. Those elbows of yours look pretty lethal to me.” He walked several yards into the woods and stopped. It was now or never, and Nesta could only pray to the Mother that she didn’t butcher her delivery.

Nesta folded her arms across her chest and leaned against a tree, trying to decipher Cassian’s neutral expression. He stood roughly three feet away from her, holding himself with a tense stillness as moonlight shimmered on his dark, wavy hair. “About what happened this afternoon. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Cassian tilted his head to the side. Assessing her in a closed off manner. “I’d rather you just tell me what you really think of me, than hearing you apologize and keep your feelings bottled up.”

“I don’t need a therapist, thank you very much,” Nesta said dismissively.

“Let’s see…you don’t like it when I ID the birds,” Cassian held up his hand, counting off on his fingers. “You think I smile too much. If you needed me to be grumpier in the morning, all you had to do was ask. What else?”

“Gods, why do you care so much about what I think?” Nesta sniped back. She took a step forward, close enough to touch his chiseled body if she wanted to. “You have enough swaggering confidence for the whole camp and then some.”

“Because I like you,” Cassian replied with a simple shrug, not missing a beat.

Nesta was taken aback. Impossible, she wanted to say. But looking back, Cassian had always gone out of his way to greet her, to be around her, to help her out. And she’d interpreted it as him being annoying and patronizing. Because she didn’t want to deal with a summer romance, and feared humiliation if Cassian didn’t like her back.

Cassian’s shoulders and arms were now relaxed, but Nesta noticed the still-guarded look in his eyes. And the faint glimmer of hope, as if her sharp words and baleful stares could not squash out that small spark. This was a man who wouldn’t be cowed by her prickly exterior, who held her in high regard for some unfathomable reason, she realized.

“Why?” Cassian leaned closer, his eyes distractedly focused on her lips. Nesta self-consciously licked them.

“Why would I tell you that, when you don’t even like me?” He smirked, scanning her moon-washed face.

Heat seemed to bloom on Nesta’s cheeks and in the space between their bodies. Seemingly realizing just how close he was to her, Cassian took a step back, the desire in his eyes cooling away. But Nesta wouldn’t have it. Not when he was so close, touching her already.

She grasped his stubbled jaw in her hands and brought him down for a kiss.

Why didn’t I do this earlier, was the first realization that came to mind. The second realization was of how warm and surprisingly gentle his mouth was as it pressed against hers. Fire stirred in Nesta’s heart, flooding her body with burning desire.

Cassian pulled away, his face dumbstruck, his chest heaving hard. Nesta felt like a ball had gotten stuck in her throat, for she was equally speechless, unsure of what to say and how to proceed.

I kissed Cassian, she thought. Holy shit, I kissed Cassian.

“Interpret that as you wish,” she forced out, lips still tingling with the phantom imprint of his full mouth.

To Nesta’s surprise, Cassian placed a hand at the curve of her hip, pulling her closer. “I’ve never seen your hair down like this,” he murmured distractedly, tucking a strand of honey-brown hair behind her ear. His hazel eyes darkened as Nesta placed a hand on his chest, not to push him away, but to rove over his chiseled body. She raised her head in silent affirmation.

Half a second later, Cassian had his mouth on hers again, pushing her up against the tree. His lips fit hers perfectly, and his breath tasted like minty toothpaste when her tongue ran along his teeth. Rough bark scraped along Nesta’s back, but she could hardly care about the risk of a splinter when Cassian’s entire body was slanted against hers.

“Nesta,” he groaned, and she relished the shape of her full name falling from his lips. “Nesta, you’re perfect.”

His rough hands traced the hem of her tank top, sparking electricity under Nesta’s skin. She moaned in encouragement when his fingers slipped under the fabric, then higher, and higher. Nesta arched her back as they broke apart. Her hands fisted in his hair, and it was soft and silky like she’d imagined. Cassian dipped his head down, peppering kisses along her collarbone, his stubble sending the most delicious sensations down her spine.

Gods, maybe she shouldn’t have worn a bra under her tank top. Not when she wanted Cassian to knead her full breasts, assuaging the sensitive ache that grew with each kiss he pressed against her neck.

Nesta needed more. The fire within her didn’t have to be quelled, as she had been trying to do for the past two weeks, it needed to be embraced. And Cassian’s attention was kindling. She was incandescent. She was weightless. She was—

“Shit,” Nesta gasped, pulling away. What the hell was she doing? “We can’t be doing this.”

Cassian loosened his grip on her, but his eyes still simmered with desire. “Why?” he rasped.

“Because! We’re coworkers. And someone could see us.”

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian acotar #nesta x cassian #summer camp au #modern au #nessian fic #acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar writing circle

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duskandstarlight · 10 months

Text

The Girl (Part Three)

Summary: Nesta and Cassian start meeting at the coffee shop, but on a Friday night at Rita's, Nesta is someone else. After all, old habits die hard.

Notes: Hi! I loveddddd writing this chapter and I hope you guys enjoy it too. I know you've all been keen for more Nesta and Cassian interaction and you absolutely get it in this one… The pain is still there, though, sorry not sorry (but also it's me, what do you really expect?) Let me know what you guys think! I really hope you enjoy it :)

Part Three: Cassian

Cassian doesn’t forget his phone charger next time.

He materialises in front of her early one afternoon, all broad shoulders and windswept hair, half of which brushes his shoulders, the other half tangled into a top knot. He waves a hand in front of her face in a way that’s only mildly irritating.

Nesta yanks off her headphones, stifling a frown as the noise of the coffee shop slams back into her. “What?”

It comes across with a little too much bite and Nesta wishes she could turn back time, force the hands of the clock back a few seconds and try again. But like always, Cassian just sends her that characteristic crooked smile.“What are you drinking?”

Nesta frowns down at her empty cup, the grains of tea leaf at the bottom. “Earl grey and oat.”

Cassian simply nods. Nesta tracks him as he head to the counter. Watches him pay with his phone.

When he comes back over, he simply pushes her tea and a mass of sugar packets across the table. She nods, headphones still on, and he doesn’t bother her. Merely settles down opposite, takes out his own laptop, his own headphones, and starts tapping away.

Together, they work in silence. And when the hours have passed and Nesta closes her laptop screen with a sigh that she wishes hadn’t been so audible, Cassian follows her lead.

This time it’s not raining. The sky has darkened to an indigo clotted with sooty clouds that Nesta thinks is kind of beautiful, kind of moody. It’s the sort of sky she’d write about. The sort of sky that, if she was alone, she’d snap a photo of so she can describe it in vivid detail in the next appropriate book scene.

But she’s with Cassian, so she doesn’t do any of that.

“Do you want me to walk you back?”

She does, desperately. Not for his company, but for the safety he brings.

“If you like.”

“I haven’t seen you here in a while.”

Nesta shrugs her laptop bag higher up onto her shoulder and then loops it over her head so it crosses over her chest. The scabs on her back from her midnight tryst have long since healed. “I don’t come here every day.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Cassian hunches over at the cold. Even so, he still seems larger than life when he glances sideways at her. “You write at home?”

Nesta shrugs noncommittally, not wanting to explain that she doesn’t truly write anymore, and Cassian clearly has enough sense not to pursue the conversation.

“I finished Epiphany last week.”

Because Nesta doesn’t know what to say, what to do when anyone confesses they’ve read one of her books - not least Cassian - she just dips her chin. Stares straight ahead at the lamplight pooling on the street.

“It’s my favourite.”

Now, Nesta does turn her head. Examines him, head cocked. Epiphany is notoriously known as her ‘second book’. The book that’s not as good as the first, not as sharp. “Why?”

Again, it comes across too blunt, but Cassian just lifts a shoulder as if he’s searching for the words.“I don’t know. Elodie’s tussle with identity resonated with me, I guess. I’ve spent so much of my life just existing without knowing who I am and I only realised it a few years ago.”

Nesta’s staring at him now, unabashed, unflinching. She can’t stop, even as Cassian keeps his gaze locked on his feet as they track their way across the pavement. “I can’t remember the exact quote. But Purdi says something like…” Cassian searches for a minute, a frown pinching at his brow, but he plunders on anyway, ‘Isn’t it weird that we’re born strangers to our own mind—“

“— People get to know us, understand us, before we even know who we are. Before we even think about it.”

Cassian looks up as she finishes the quote. And as their eyes lock, it strikes Nesta that here - this moment - is the most connected Nesta has felt to someone in a very long time, her late night rendezvous included.

“Right,” Cassian says, the knot in his throat bobbing. And Nesta knows that he’s giving away a piece of himself, something secret that he won’t get back again, a self-revelation that’s been undisclosed until now. “I don’t think it was until I got into my thirties that I realised I had no idea who I truly was, deep down, without any walls. I was just this… alien to myself.And I think you put it so poignantly. It felt like something just clicked inside of me and I was like oh shit, that’s me.”

There’s so much Nesta wants to say - so much she can’t say anything at all for a while. Until finally, “Do you know yourself now?”

“Does anyone?”

Nesta lets out a huff of a breath that says it’s a fair question. Then, “That thought came to me on a walk.”

Now, Cassian glances at her. In the fading light, his eyes are so dark yet so open. Bottomless and vast. “Oh yeh?”

Nesta nods, swallowing down the instinct to stop talking, to push down the imminent confession that wants to pour out of her. But Cassian has been so open with her and for once Nesta doesn’t want to keep things locked up, not in this moment, not during this rare moment of shared understanding. Not when Nesta feels seen for the first time in a long time.

“I’d run away to the mountains one week,” she confesses. “It rained the entire time. It was completely miserable but I didn’t care. It matched my mood - felt good even. One day I dragged myself out of the house and went for a hike. I went ambitious, too ambitious really, but I refused to admit defeat and made it up Ramiel limping and covered in blisters.”

When Nesta looks up from the pavement, Cassian is wholly focussed on her, his eyebrows raised in appreciation. “That’s quite the feat.”

Nesta snort is a dismissal. “I’m stubborn.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Cassian comments and it’s with such deadpan that a laugh escapes Nesta without her trying to quash it down.

Cassian grin is brief and brilliant, before it falls back into something serious. “Why’d you run away, Nesta?”

“Why do you think?”

“Right.”

For a few beats, they walk in silence. But it’s not scary. It’s not tense or something that would mean to speak would be to break it. It just is; existing, quiet. So, Nesta carries on in her own time. “At the top of this mountain, I was looking out at this view and it just… it stretched out for miles and miles. And I realised how small I was, how insignificant. That I was just here in this world for a minute amount of time and I had no idea who I was - but this view made sense to me. It was so crystal clear. So profound.”

“What did you do next?”

“I had this certainty that I’d never had before and I’ve never had since. I just knew what the road ahead needed to be and I made it happen. I went back to the cabin, began the first draft of Epiphany. And then I travelled home, packed all my belongings and moved my life back to Velaris two years ago. I’m a writer, I’m not tied anywhere.”

It’s not entirely true. Nesta had been tied to Tomas. To a house, but Nesta doesn’t want to mention any of that.

“Back to your roots?”

“Back to the only roots I have - my sisters.”

Cassian’s head tilts slightly and Nesta knows what’s he’s going to say next, what he’s trying to puzzle out. “I’ve only known you for a year.”

They’ve reached Nesta’s apartment building. Nesta presses her fob against the gate pad. “It turns out finding myself wasn’t as easy as realising I had no idea who I was.”

“A couple of steps through the darkness is better than staying put.”

Nesta turns, stares at Cassian. He’s quoted directly from her book again. But all she says is, “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Nesta,” Cassian calls when the gate closes with a clang. “You’ll be at Feyre’s on Saturday?”

Again, the iron bars separate them and Nesta feels safe enough to forego the iciness, the hard-to-get brutal attitude. Instead, she’s just honest. “I don’t know.”

Again, that lopsided smile, as if Cassian knows what she’s just granted him. “I’ll bring my book for you to sign then.”

***

Together, they fall into a haphazard method of meeting one another at the coffee shop. It’s never planned. Nesta doesn’t even have Cassian’s number. But sometimes, on the days she makes herself pretend she is still a writer, when her agent is on her back again for the first draft of a manuscript she absolutely has not written, Cassian slides into the seat opposite her. Removes the bag she’s definitely not placed on the seat to save it for him just in case and places a pot of tea on the table alongside his espresso.

Together, they stare at their own screens. Tap away. Frown. Sigh. Sometimes, Cassian has meetings about complexities Nesta had no idea existed when it comes to running a gym, but it doesn’t bother her. She finds the deep timbre of his voice compliments the scores she listens to. And whilst they rarely converse, they do get up intermittently to replenish each other’s drinks.

At the end - which is only when Nesta closes her laptop with an internal sigh heavy enough to make her stomach lurch with dread - Cassian walks her home and leaves her at the gate, watching her through the bars as she makes her way safely to her apartment.

When they are at the coffee shop, they quietly exist like the silence from the other night. It’s unassuming and unrestrictive. Freeing.

But when they’re at Rita’s, they’re something else.

Nesta’s something else.

After all, old habits die hard.

When it’s Friday night and Nesta heads to the bar, she slips into a different version of herself. Someone who is starting to feel askew but so familiar and habitual after months of practice that she can’t seem to shrug them off. Nesta polishes off a bottle of wine before she gets there and doesn’t stop. Sometimes, things are so hazy the next morning, there are punctured holes in Nesta’s memory. The night before becomes flashes of bright lights and dancing bodies before they fade into writhing shadows only to do it all over again. There’s booming music that makes the floor shake, the smell of tequila that makes her stomach roil. Heavy hands on her shaking hips. A hungry mouth but no face. Panting, hot and sticky on her neck and face. Rolling hips.

Nesta always chooses a man out of the crowd and leaves with him out of principle.

After all, she doesn’t sleep with the same man twice.

Most of the time, she doesn’t remember the face of whoever she goes home with. Too often, she has no idea what she’s done until she wakes in the morning in her own bed - always in her own bed - sore and tender. Often covered in bruises the shape of fingerprints.

Rarely on those nights does she speak to Cassian beyond the necessary hello. She makes a point of not looking his way. Because at Rita’s, when Nesta is this different version of herself, she can’t deny that being around him is dangerous. At Rita’s, everything has the capability of becoming electrically charged, back to the roots of their first meeting, the ghost of their encounter. Nesta never has to search for the memory of that night. Too acutely, Nesta remembers the scratch of Cassian’s stubble against her face and neck, the coaxing demand of his mouth, his calloused palm running up the column of her throat before it twists to slide up the back of her neck and into her hair. She remembers how he tastes and the exact scent of him.

So, Nesta ignores him as best she can.

It’s the easiest thing to do. She doesn’t know how to consolidate the version of the Cassian she slept with on that Friday night to the softer version of him in the coffee shop. She knows he’s both, but she doesn’t want to unite the two. Can’t trust her gut, because when she finally let someone in before, he tore her down, brick by brick until she was nothing but rubble.

So, the drinking becomes worse. The men she sleeps with become worse. The quality of her decisions suffer in the face of temptation and Nesta knows it’s a downward spiral but also doesn’t know how to stop.

Until, finally, one night it goes too far.

Already her memory is patchy. Already, the night is like the flashing lights in the club. One moment it’s dark, the next it’s twisting bodies in blue and yellow and green. One moment she’s sitting on a jean-clad lap, a claiming sweaty palm on her inner thigh. Even in her drunk state, she recognises the gleam in the man’s blue eyes that would have anyone running the other way. Yet she leads him out the club anyway, ignoring the warning signs, too drunk to act on that niggling thought on the fuzzy edges of her mind.

But Cassian isn’t.

Nesta is so far gone that she can barely remember her own name, but the sound of his voice is enough. It has her turning and then he’s there. For the most part, he’s a blur in front of her yet there are fragments of time when he’s so sharp he’s all she can see.

“Nesta.”

Cassian doesn’t touch her but his voice in her ear is startling enough that it shocks through the alcohol in her veins, that fuzzy buzz.

The room spins, straightens. And there he is, leaning down. Cassian’s hand slips into hers so slowly, so cautiously, that Nesta doesn’t want to yank away from him. Instead, she lets herself become tethered and looks up at him to find his hazel eyes simmering.

“Let me take you home.”

It takes too long for her brain to register his words. She wants to yank her hand out of his, but she’s suddenly too unsteady on her feet. If she lets go of him, she’ll fall.

Instead, she digs her fingers deep into his jacket. Leans her head into the coolness of the dark leather. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re too drunk.”

Nesta steps back from him, wanting that distance from his accusation. But she stumbles and then Cassian’s catching her, his hands closing tightly around her as if he’s scared she might slip away.

“This isn’t part of the deal.”

It comes out slurred, pushed together, some letters out of line.

Cassian’s brow furrows. “Deal?”

“We’re not in the coffee shop. Leave me alone.”

She remembers staggering away. Remembers leaving with the guy she’s chosen for the night, whose just observing them darkly as he stubs out a cigarette with his boot.

It’s only when she’s in the alleyway pressed too hard against the wall that Nesta realises what she’s doing. That she doesn’t want this.

She tries to push the man away, but he just grunts, thinking that she’s egging him on. He smells grimy, like old sweat and grease and all Nesta can think about is that he has two fingers inside of her and his nails must be crusted with dirt.

It’s then that she starts to panic. One moment she was sure she wanted it and now she doesn’t so fiercely that terror sets in. It fills her so quickly, so fast, that she doesn’t realise she’s screaming until she’s screaming. Her lungs ragged, her voice hoarse at the same time that her chest feels like she can’t breathe. Like she can’t get enough oxygen into her lungs, as if they can’t expand properly. As if they’re not working.

Nesta doesn’t know what happens next. She thinks she pushes the man away from her with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, because she ends up falling hard. A sharp pain steals the breath from her, cutting through the alcohol and the panic, robbing her vision.

When she finally opens her eyes, the man is gone and Cassian is in front of her in a waft of leather and musk.

“Nesta,” he says. But Nesta’s vision is swimming again and whilst his mouth is moving to indicate that he’s speaking, her name comes out muffled, as if Nesta’s head is submerged under water. He’s gripping her shoulders hard, his fingers biting into her skin, his expression full of thunderous concern. And that should ground her, his worry should, but Nesta can’t think of anything but the pain and her desperation to breathe.

It’s only when Cassian’s hands move to cup her face and his thumb strokes at her cheek does Nesta realises that her vision isn’t blurry because she’s intoxicated, but because she’s crying.

“My ankle,” she manages to slur through her heaving chest. She tries to indicate where it hurts with her hands, but that only makes her realise that her panties are what caused her to fall. They’re still around her ankles from where they’d been yanked down from underneath her skin-tight dress, before she all wanted it to stop.

And that makes the breathing even harder. The reality of her circumstances even more humiliating. The understanding that she is a mess, an utter wreck, askew on the floor of a dirty alleyway, garbage on the stained concrete around her, questionable puddles and cigarette butts stuck to her soiled heels.

“It’s ok,” Cassian tells her, his voice suddenly stark and clear, but the frown on his face says otherwise. He’s still cupping her face and Nesta wants to lean into his touch because she’s so tired and he’s being so kind even though she can tell he’s furious beyond measure. “Deep breaths, Nesta. It’s going to be ok.”

“I want to go home.”

“We need someone to look at your ankle, sweetheart.”

That is absolutely not what Nesta wants. She pushes away from him with a strength that catches him off guard. But when she tries to stand, when she tries to put weight on her ankle, the sound that draws out of her comes from somewhere deep, halfway between a gasp and a cry.

The way Cassian grabs for her as she falls is not gentle. His fingers clasp her so hard she feels her skin bruise. But she’s reeling from the pain and then it’s all too much - the excessive alcohol, the agony, the panic.

With her panties still around her ankles, Nesta throws up all over Cassian’s shoes.

After that, her memory comes back in snatches. She remembers Cassian bribing a cab and him carrying her in. She remembers the only thing she keeps repeating is that she needs her laptop which she’d checked into Rita’s cloakroom when she’d arrived and Cassian trying to calm her down. She remembers the sound of a key in a lock. She remembers how cold the bathroom tiles are as she retches into an unfamiliar toilet.

She remembers large hands holding her hair back.

She remembers lying down in a bed, the pillows soft beneath her head, the duvet crisp.

She remembers Cassian talking to her, but she’s too drunk to comprehend what he’s saying.

When she wakes, it’s because light has sliced through the gap in the curtains and her mouth and throat is so dry it’s as if someone has stuffed them with cotton wall.

Head pounding and ankle throbbing, Nesta cracks an eye open to the blurry outline of the bedroom Cassian put her in the night before. It takes a while for her eyesight to correct itself but when it does, what she see’s is not what she’s expecting.

In truth, Nesta expects a bachelor’s pad. Not that she has any evidence of the sort besides the assumption of the “night-version” of Cassian she has in her head - still single in his mid-thirties and taking women home from Rita’s rather than a serial dater.

When Nesta had come home with Cassian that fateful night, Nesta had been too preoccupied to glance around. She’d remembered his apartment in Illyria, the borough of Velaris that sits on the northern outskirts closest to the mountains, because it had cost her an arm and a leg to get back to her place. But beyond that, Nesta had only remembered the burn of the fabric couch against her bare knees as she’d straddled his waist, the scrape of his teeth against her neck and his hands sliding from her exposed waist to cup her ass.

Now, what she see’s has her propping herself up onto an elbow. There’s exposed brickwork and old wooden beams that run in lines across the ceiling. There are rustic wooden shelves stacked with what appear to be mainly business books and old diaries. Leafy tall plants that stand in rattan pots and others that sit on the bookshelves, their leaves trailing down in different shades of purple.

And to her right, a deep oak desk that runs across the entire length of the floor-to-ceiling arched window. The sun is still slicing through the slight partition in the oatmeal curtains and Nesta finds herself sitting up properly now, even though the mere movement of her ankle against the sheets has her stomach turning, the nausea rising as the pain hits her, deep and wrong.

But Nesta’s fuelled by curiosity and nothing is going to stop her. That gap in the curtains is calling to her, the dust motes dancing in the stream of light that spans from the window to the bed now an irresistible path. Nesta doesn’t know how she makes it to the desk, but when she draws the string curtains back swaying precariously on one foot, her breath is snatched in an entirely different way.

Forest green. Rolling pine forests immersed in a mist that makes them even more breathtaking. And above those, the Illyrian mountains, their snowy peaks barely visible through the wispy low-lying clouds.

It’s one of those rare moments, the stillness the view brings. The all-encompassing clarity. The window is cracked open and Nesta smells the air, fresh and clean. She feels and with it she can push the embarrassment of last night even farther back, burying it deep, that humiliation she can’t bring herself to face for fear of the self loathing that will kick in.

Here, she thinks, focussing on the here and now rather than the wreck she was yesterday - the wreck she still is now. The mountains. The forest. This is it, finally.

She sits down at the desk. Her laptop bag is lying atop it and she takes it out, fires it up. And with the view before her, stretching out for miles and miles - magnificent in its splendour, its natural beauty - Nesta begins to write.

***

Nesta doesn’t notice the knock on the door an hour later, but she hears the door handle, the creak of the hinges.

A tray is held between the same hands that held back her hair last night, strapped up her throbbing ankle. Nesta spies a cup of tea with notes of bergamot and oat milk, toast and what she presumes is a bag of ice wrapped in a charcoal tea towel.

Her chest hurts at the sight of it, as if her ribs are creaking under some sort of invisible, mounting pressure. The horror of last night threatens to consume her, but Nesta battles it back, struggles with all her might.

Instead, she focusses on how Cassian stops in his tracks in surprise. One swift evaluation of his expression tells Nesta that he expected to find her gone, the bed made and empty. No trace of her left. Certainly, he hadn’t expected to find her sitting at the arched window, headphones jammed firmly over her ears, her fingers hovering over the keyboard of the laptop he’d saved the night before.

He’d prepared a tray, anyway.

“Morning.” His eyes fly to her laptop and then respectfully flit away just as quickly, settling back onto her face. Suddenly, with their eyes connected, Nesta wants to die of a shame so visceral she wishes she could turn invisible. But Cassian doesn’t mention last night, doesn’t berate her for the excessive drinking and her bad life decisions. The relief hits her so swiftly, so fast, that she’s almost bowled over by it. “How’s the ankle?”

Nesta cuts off the score she’s been listening to and lowers her headphones. “Swollen.”

She thinks it might be worse than that and she’s certain Cassian thinks the same. There’s worry etched between his eyebrows as he tries to catch a glimpse of her ankle hidden beneath the deep desk.

Eventually, he just nods to the tray in his hands. “I brought you some ice. You should really be elevating it.”

Nesta knows by the tone in which he speaks that he’s not quite sure how she’s managed to get herself to the desk, that she should under no circumstances be walking on it. But Nesta doesn’t know how to explain how the inspiration has hit her, that hum in her blood urging her fingers to write. That she needed to sit at this desk, look at this view, shut out the world and write the words that have dogged her for the past eight months.

Nesta’s not felt like this since Epiphany. And although she’s experiencing a hangover from hell, it’s fuelling her, somehow. The pounding in her head an insistent, driving beat, the nausea compelling her. And the shame trying to push its way to the forefront drives her to keep typing, because if she keeps going she might just out-write it. Might never have to face what she’s done.

Cassian sets the tray down on the desk beside her with a soft thunk and Nesta wonders how he can be so gentle when he’s so large. “Ok to take a break?”

Nesta wants to tell him that; No, it’s not ok. I can finally write, it’s back, the inspiration is finally here and I can’t let it go. I have to sit here and chase it and hope I never run out of steam if I ever want to be paid again. But then the night before is flashing in front of Nesta’s eyes, and suddenly, Nesta’s reliving it all: the mortification of her panties twisted around her ankles, the humiliation of her throwing up over his shoes, the relief of Cassian’s rough hands as they cupped her face, his thumbs catching the tears as they slipped down her cheeks.

“We probably shouldn’t move you,” Cassian remarks through her silence. “You’re fine to sit here? Or I can carry you into the living room—”

“No.” Nesta’s voice is sharp, cutting him off mid-sentence. It’s so rude, so awfully abrupt and Nesta wishes she could take it back, both the panic in her voice and her desperate interruption. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “The desk is fine.”

“Alright.”

Cassian brings over a footstool that accompanies an armchair by the bookshelves and pushes it beneath the desk. Together they help to manoeuvre Nesta’s ankle up onto it and Nesta does her best not to make a sound, panting through her nose, grinding her teeth so hard that tears burn her eyelids.

“Ok?” Cassian asks, as he carefully rolls up the leg of the black sweatpants she woke up in this morning. Nesta’s not wearing her vomit-covered panties, only these sweatpants that are so large they barely hold up at the waist and a large t-shirt that comes down to her knees.

“Mmhm,” Nesta hums, breathing desperately through her nose and trying not to think about the fact that he must have dressed her.

But, again, Cassian doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he jerks his head towards his laptop screen as he continues to examine her foot. “Productive morning?”

For a moment, Nesta just stares at the man before her and is struck with how kind he is, how well he seems to know her despite the fact that they barely know one another at all. In the stark light that floods in from the window, Nesta sees Cassian plainly for the first time. The two versions of him melded together - not the version of him at Rita’s or the version of him at the coffee shop, but both of them, just Cassian - and realises that she was right: together they make him so attractive it’s dangerous.

Yet, she keeps staring at him, even when he presses his calloused fingertips to the swollen skin and she hisses. She clocks the scar that cuts through his right eyebrow. Follows the dark curl of a tattoo that finishes just behind his ear. Watches the way his wild ebony hair glints in the morning sunlight.

He smells of sleep, musk and ground coffee.

When Cassian glances up at her, Nesta realises that she hasn’t replied. That amidst his hazel eyes, there are shards of gold. “The view is good here,” is all she finds she’s able to say, but recognition flares in Cassian’s eyes as he sits back on his heels.

“It makes sense to you.”

“It does,” Nesta agrees.

“It’s why I bought the place,” Cassian confesses after a moment. Gently, he presses ice to her foot, holding her firm as she jerks and hisses on instinct. “I like being by the mountains.”

They’re still skirting over last night but it hangs in the air above them like a raincloud. All of those unspoken words, the anger she’d seen clear in his expression when he’d found her in the alleyway, the man with his fingers inside of her, his breath sticky on her neck.

Nesta presumes the man ran off when she’d started to scream.

And all of that suspends above them. Nesta knows its only a matter of time before the cloud spills open and everything rains down on them.

But to Nesta’s surprise, Cassian abruptly stands.

“You can keep writing, if you like,” he tells her. “I’ve got a call to make."

***

Cassian is gone for over an hour and in that time Nesta writes better than she’s written in eight months. It’s not all fully formed. In fact, it’s a bit all over the place. Snippets upon snippets of inspiration driven by the emotions and seeds of thought roiling about in her chest. Here, with the pine trees, the snow-capped mountains and the different blues of the silhouettes of the mountains behind them, Nesta can finally unwind.

Her hangover is still raging with a vengeance, the nausea a roiling sea inside of her stomach, the back of her throat, but she uses it as a driver rather than an excuse. If last night happened, it has to mean something.

But then she knocks her foot.

It happens within seconds. Nesta only has time to grab for the waste paper basket before she’s emptying her stomach. In the back of her mind, she hears the door open and Cassian come back in, but she’s retching and for once she doesn’t hate throwing up because all she can focus on is the pain that is so sharp it steals her breath.

When she’s done, she spits into the bin. Drags one hand through the hair that became an unfortunate victim of her sick and pushes it back.

“Perfect timing.”

Nesta gives Cassian a half-hearted hiss and tries to breathe, tries to gather herself again but the pain radiating from her swollen ankle too much. She bends over again, empties her stomach into the bin.

There’s a brief pause as Nesta coughs and gags. Then, “Hold on, sweetheart,” and Cassian is carrying her into the bathroom, his grip firm yet gentle.

Nesta manages to hold on until he’s deposited her in front of the toilet. Then she’s throwing up again until she can’t throw up anymore.

“Tea and toast didn’t settle the stomach then.”

Nesta is too busy gasping to snap at him - or to care. Cautious of her ankle, she twists herself around until she can slump against the bathroom wall, her leg stretched out in front of her. She’s covered in sweat, Cassian’s t-shirt damp and sticking to her chest and there’s vomit burning the back of her throat and nose. But whilst her skin feels like it’s on fire, her ankle feels like lava. She swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. “I knocked my foot.”

Cassian flushes the toilet, closes the lid, sits on top of it.

And Nesta knows from the intentioned way in which he moves that he’s about to bring up last night. Panic should be a wild, living thing in Nesta’s chest but she’s too poorly to feel it. Instead, she tilts her head back onto the cool tiles and announces hoarsely to the ceiling, “I have a proposition.”

Her words have Cassian taking stock. For a few seconds, all he does is study her. Nesta knows, because his eyes are burning into her, marking her like a tattoo needle inking her skin.

In the periphery of her vision, Nesta see’s Cassian lean forward until his elbows are resting on his knees.

Nesta rolls her head until she’s looking directly at him, right into those hazel eyes. “It’s not sex.”

“Disappointing,” Cassian drawls. A light glints in his eyes but quickly dies and Nesta knows that he’s still concerned. Knows that he’s just acting the part with her, unsure of his next move in the game they’re always playing.

“I want to pay for your spare bedroom.”

This time, Cassian can’t hide how thoroughly taken aback he is. But he doesn’t straighten although Nesta can tell that he wants to. “You want to pay for my spare bedroom?”

Nesta claws her hands through her knotted hair and tries to concentrate on taking deep breaths. “That’s what I said. I want it.”

Cassian continues to watch her as he tries to read her, tries to understand. His words are slow as if he can’t quite comprehend them. Knows they can’t be right. “You want to live here?”

A soft snort. “Absolutely not. I want to write here. With that view, specifically.”

Nesta lowers the hand she’s waved in the direction of the bedroom. Even that movement is too exhausting for her. She feels spent. Bled dry.

Cassian stares at her a fraction too long in the subsequent silence.

“And I’ve made him speechless.” Nesta rolls her eyes. “Am I computing?”

Rolling his eyes to mirror her, Cassian snickers. “Very good, sweetheart.”

Nesta looks back at the ceiling. The nausea is rising again and she focusses on breathing for a moment. Says finally, “You don’t have a roommate. I need somewhere to write my book. It’s a good fit.”

“The coffee shop not working out for you?”

Nesta cuts her gaze back to his, serious now. “Would I be asking you if it was?”

For a few heartbeats, two ticks of a clock, they stare at one another. Then, Cassian says, “How about this. You don’t have to pay for the room at all, but on two conditions.”

Nesta cocks her head at him, pushing down the fresh wave of nausea that rolls through her. “Out with it.”

“We go to the hospital and have someone look at your ankle.”

It’s the last thing that Nesta wants to do, but she can no longer deny that it’s just a small sprain. Even with it stretched out in front of her, without her moving an inch, the pain is unparalleled.

“Fine. What’s the second?”

That muscle flecks in Cassian’s jaw again. Then, even though he’s looking directly at her, something shifts in his eyes, hardens, and Nesta almost wants to shrink away at the scrutiny of it. If Nesta wants to, she could read that expression, could admit what it means.

“Stop taking men home who I want to punch in the face.”

Her insides immediately scald with a mixture of shame and fury. But then Nesta thinks of the man’s damp breath on her neck, of his sour-smelling body pinning her to the wall. Nesta thinks of the bedroom she woke up in this morning. Of the laptop full of words that aren’t off kilter but right.

It takes her a moment to collect herself. To be able to scoff and go bold. To pretend his request hasn’t touched her at all. “Isn’t that everyone?”

Cassian’s concrete expression doesn’t so much as crack. “When you drink you make bad choices. Or do you drink to make bad choices? Whatever it is had you in quite the predicament yesterday.”

They’re going there, then. There’s no outrunning it now. And Nesta wants to open her mouth, to vocalise how if he hadn’t been there she’s not sure what would have happened to her. That she thinks he might have saved her from something she couldn’t go back from. But she can’t get the words out.

Cassian reaches towards her as if he’s going to touch her, but he stops himself at the last minute. He’s no doubt thinking of the times she’s recoiled from him and he’s no way of knowing that Nesta wouldn’t have leant away from him this time. That she would have welcomed his hands on her face again.

“Did he hurt you, Nesta?”

His voice is quiet, soft but there’s no denying the intensity he’s trapping beneath it.

“No,” Nesta replies honestly, but she can’t look at him when she says it so she fixes her eyes on the wall opposite. On the sharp corner of a photo frame that’s hung on the wall — a lethal, arrowed point — so fiercely that it hurts. She thinks of the way her throat had closed up in that alleyway, how she couldn’t breathe. How the panic that Nesta tries so desperately to run from every day had consumed her once again but when she’d been drinking this time. That had never happened before. Normally, when Nesta was out at Rita’s she purposefully drank so she felt nothing at all, so she could finally breathe without fear.

“I just…” she continues when Cassian keeps watching her, searching for the words to try and explain whilst not really explaining at all, “didn’t want it anymore.”

Her words fall into silence. Cassian’s jaw clenches, the muscles straining and Nesta can’t bear to see that look on him, so she adds, “I couldn’t breathe.”

There’s a rustle of fabric as Cassian sits back. “Ah.”

“It doesn’t usually happen at Rita’s.”

Time passes as Cassian studies her. And Nesta can almost hear him putting the pieces of her life together, the shameful way in which she tries to control the uncontrollable. “That’s why you drink so much.”

“No.” She snaps the lie and grows furious when Cassian merely raises an eyebrow at her. He doesn’t believe her and she hates that he can see through her, can dissect her so easily when no-one else has managed before.

He leans forward again, his elbows resting back on his knees. And Nesta has the uncanny feeling that the balance has shifted in his favour, that’s he’s calling the shots. “Do we have a deal, Nesta?”

No, Nesta thinks bitterly, out of instinct. Fury is still heating her insides at the audacity that Cassian not only thinks he can control this situation but understand her motivations. But… Nesta can’t afford to say no. If Nesta fails to hand in her first draft, she doesn’t get paid. She might lose her publisher. She’ll have to move out of her apartment and get a job that she hates.

And… there’s something at the back of Nesta’s head, a voice that tells her that this could be the out she’s after. The hand reaching out, guiding her back to something better.

But she doesn’t want to think about that now, not really, when she’s covered in vomit and her ankle is bleating agony.

So, Nesta stretches out her clammy hand between them despite the anger hot and roiling in her stomach. Watches Cassian’s eyes widen ever so slightly, the only hint of his surprise.

Callouses scratch at her palms, but Cassian’s grip is strong, his skin warm.

And with that one clasp of their hands, the deal is struck.

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @lovelynesta @melphss @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @fanboy7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @valkyriesupremacy @vidalinav @onceupona-chaos @inardour @thesunremembersyourface @teagoddess99 @nessiantrashh @miamorganvel18 @kawaiteacup @nestaa-stan

#nessian #acotar #cassian #acosf #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #duskandstarlightwrites #nessianfic #acotar fanfic #nessian fic #nessian modern au

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pinkrasberryfish · 8 months

Text

That's a damn WRAP on "The Pointe of Love!" 🩰🫀🦢🌹🌙

Chapter 16 - "I'm In Love With You Too" now up.

#should have finished ages ago #i'm sorry but i love this fic #elriel au #elriel alternative universe #au fic #elriel #elriel acotar #elriel fanfic #elriel fanfiction #elriel endgame #pro elriel #elain x azriel #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #acotar au nessian #nessian fanfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #elriel nessian fic

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autumnshighlady · 2 months

Text

I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 19)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: Eris helps Nesta conquer her fear of fire

warnings: inner circle slander, MAJOR angst, Cassian hate

word count: 4.2k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: sorry for the short chapter (i mean it's still 4000+ words but its short for me lmao) but I'm already working on the next one but here's a Neris chapter! haven't updated this fic in too long, so I apologize. Enjoy and as always, tell me your thoughts and reactions!

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18

read on ao3

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NESTA POV

Nesta gently stroked Athariel’s silver scales as the dragon snaked its head around her, vying for attention. The beast made a low cooing noise at her touch, and Nesta chuckled to herself. She remembered the mix of awe and fear she had felt upon seeing the dragons for the first time. Ancient and mythical beasts beyond her wildest imagination, in the flesh before her very eyes. And yet at this moment, Athariel was acting more like a puppy than a dragon.

“Some fearsome beast you are.” Nesta murmured as Athariel continued to purr lowly. She reached forward to scratch behind the dragon’s right horn, and Athariel responded by closing her eyes and pushing her head further into Nesta’s hand. “Spoiled creature.”

The sweet autumn breeze funnelled into the cave and stroked Nesta’s cheek. It was an unusually cold day. Even the thick wool layers did little to keep out the biting chill that seeped into Nesta’s bones. She shivered slightly, pressing closer to the dragon for warmth.

Eris had left about ten minutes ago to fetch something for today’s training session. As usual, he refused to elaborate, only giving Nesta a playful wink that he knew would send her blood steaming when she asked what he was going to fetch. Every few days, Eris dragged her to the dragon cave to train her magic. Even after her demonstration to Beron, Eris insisted they continue the practice. “Killing my father is going to take a lot more finesse than your display, my dear.” He had explained. “My father is not an idiot. He knows how to defend himself, you do not.”

As much as she hated admitting that she liked spending time with Eris, it pained Nesta to be away from you. Since the announcement of your engagement, you had been constantly pulled away by servants, planners, dress fitters, and courtiers in preparation. It broke her heart, seeing the life slowly drain out of your eyes with each passing day. She saw how you snuck desperate glances at her as you were shuffled off for wedding business, pleading for help through the bond. There was nothing that could compare to the pain of the helplessness she felt. Eris had sternly told her to keep it together, that she had a part to play and couldn’t interfere with your engagement yet. His father would be watching your every move, and if Nesta became too involved then everything would go to hell.

The thought of the two upcoming weddings made Nesta’s stomach churn. While she definitely got the better of Beron’s sons, there were still so many things about Eris that she couldn’t figure out. The Prince always had an angle to play, never revealing his next move until he was certain things would work out in his favour. Nesta could understand why he was helping her. Objectively, their marriage was a strong match. She had been raised by her mother for this exact role – a doting wife who appeased the males of the court, but one with a viper’s tongue who was able to hold her own and get exactly what she wanted. Eris would benefit from it too, having a Cauldron-made female at his side whose powers dwarfed any of those in his court.

But his angle with you was something Nesta couldn’t figure out. Helping you was a huge risk for him, one that placed both you and the Prince in danger. Throwing you out of the Autumn Court and delivering you back to Rhysand would have been the smart move for Eris, as it would have eased the tension between Autumn and Night after Nesta had slipped through Rhysand’s grasp. Helping you was a risk that Nesta couldn’t understand why Eris was so willing to take. She had tried probing him about it a few times, but he had always brushed her off.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Eris strode back into the cave, a bundle of sticks and wood in his arms. He dumped them on the floor, the clattering noise echoing throughout the dragon’s den. Morgoth’s massive dark head appeared from the shadows, emitting a low rumbling noise that shook Nesta’s bones as he sniffed his master. Eris chuckled, saying something to the dragon in a language Nesta did not understand as he stroked its nose.

She frowned at the pile of wood on the floor. “You went out to collect sticks?”

Eris smirked. “Brilliant observation, Nesta Archeron. You never cease to amaze me.”

She shot him a withering glare. “Prick. What do sticks have to do with training my magic?”

“Because it’s hard to train fire-related magic when you’re utterly terrified of fire itself.”

Nesta froze, panic rising in her chest. Athariel nudged her now-still hand, as if sensing her anxiety. But she kept a straight face and said evenly, “I do not know what you mean.”

Eris scoffed, bending down and arranging the sticks. “Oh, please. You flinch every time the hearth is lit. You look like you’ve seen a ghost whenever I use my magic around you. Deny it all you want, but I see right through you, my dear.”

She blanched at his words. His tone was not accusing nor angry, but casual and nonchalant. He wasn’t trying to put her down, but simply pointed out an observation. Nesta’s throat closed up as she realised just how much Eris truly picked up on. Not once did Cassian ever seem to notice how she flinched from every fire he lit, or how her room was always freezing and damp because she refused to use the fireplace. He had been too focused on fucking her to ever truly see through the front she put up.

“You do not have to tell me why,” Eris said, a bit softer this time. “But fear will distract you, and we cannot afford to have you distracted at this time. I will not force you to face this fear if you truly feel that you cannot, but I believe you are able to. You have already overcome so much, Archeron. Let this be just another obstacle.”

His gentle encouragement surprised Nesta, despite having experienced it before. She always found herself comparing his words to Cassian and the Inner Circle’s. The Inner Circle always gave her the illusion of a choice, two bad options with one worse than the other, forcing her to choose the lesser of two evils and end up going with what worked best for their agenda. There was no choice in training with Cassian, it was presented as something she simply had to do.

Eris, on the other hand, always offered her a way out – another option even if it was one that made his life more difficult. He would explain the upsides and downsides to each path with logic, not manipulation. It was something Nesta grew to appreciate. He never backed her into a corner, or wanted her to submit.

She hated how the way she was treated in the Night Court followed her around like a ghost, haunting her every move. Guilt churned in her gut every time she instinctively snapped at Eris, anticipating that she would be forced into something. To his credit, he did not appear phased by her reactions and would wave off any apologies. It was something the Inner Circle had never understood about her. Nesta’s life had been taken out of her hands when she was snatched in the middle of the night and forced into the Cauldron. She did not choose to become fae, and now suddenly she had an immortal life ahead of her and no idea what to do with it. Yet her choices in the Night Court were never her own. Someone always decided what was best for her, rather than letting her figure out this transition at her own pace.

But Eris always gave her a choice. Nesta knew Eris wanted her to overcome her fear of fire for everyone’s sake, and she trusted him enough by now that she knew if she said no, he would drop the subject rather than push her buttons. So she took a breath, staring at the pile of sticks the Prince had assembled. “Ok,” She said. “I’ll do it.”

*********************

Half an hour later, Nesta’s breath was slightly less shaky. Her back was pressed against Athariel’s silver neck, the heated scales of the dragon adding extra warmth against the damp autumn chill. A small orange fire blazed a few feet in front of her, that haunting snapping noise echoing throughout the cave. It took every ounce of self control Nesta had to not panic, taking deep breaths to try and push down the bile in her throat.

Eris sat beside her, his arm ever so slightly grazing hers. He had spent the past thirty minutes monologuing about anything and everything, a welcome distraction to help Nesta focus on something else other than the crackling of the fire. He told all types of stories, ranging from tales of the ancient beings in Prythian to recounting the time Lucien accidentally killed Eris’s favourite fish by taking it out of the water to get fresh air. Nesta had not chimed in, but let out a snort at the latter story. She had seen Eris smile out of the corner of her eye. A true smile, not his usual arrogant smirk. It made her heart flutter, seeing the autumn Prince so relaxed.

As time passed, the less Nesta flinched at the noises from the fire. Her body began to relax, and she saw less of her father’s face across her mind and began to appreciate the beauty of the orange flames. They still unsettled her and if she could smite them out this second she would. But she no longer felt the urge to crawl out of her own skin.

“... And I ate every last bit of that so-called ‘birthday cake’ Lucien made,” Eris rambled on, following another story about him and his youngest brother. “It was ghastly. Every bite made me want to hurl my guts up, but my brother looked so young and proud of his creation that I couldn’t hurt his feelings. Although he has always been a slippery little bastard, so part of me wondered if he was just playing innocent and deliberately made me a disgusting cake on purpose to see if I loved him enough to pretend it was good.”

Nesta laughed, truly laughed at that. She turned her head to meet Eris’s gaze. He made no jibing remark about how rare a laugh like that was for her, like Cassian would have done. He simply smiled, the orange light of the fire casting artful shadows across his pale skin.

“Eris,” Nesta began hesitantly, the noise of the fire fading into the background. “Can I ask you something?”

The heir shrugged. “I am an open book, Nesta Archeron. Ask away.”

She snorted. “Ok, well we both know that’s not true.”

“If you want to know my deepest darkest secrets, my dear, all you have to do is ask.” Eris purred. Nesta’s blood heated at his velvety voice, and she pushed herself to focus.

“What happened to Lucien?” She asked. “I was never told much about him, even by (Y/N). All I know is that he was in the Spring Court with Feyre when she was there, and he was in that room in Hybern with the Cauldron. And that he’s Elain’s mate and is now bouncing between the mortal lands and the Night Court.”

Eris sighed. “It’s complicated, Nesta.”

“I’m just trying to understand his role in all of this.”

“Including if he would be a good mate to your sister, am I correct?”

Nesta swallowed her sadness. She had tried not to think about Elain these past few weeks. The memory of finding out Elain had been the one to pack up what little belongings she had in her apartment stung like a fresh wound. “No,” She corrected Eris. “Because I appear to be the only one from the Night Court who likes to think of him as his own person, not just Elain’s mate. Who Elain chooses to be with is no longer my concern.”

Eris nodded. “Very well. Lucien is the youngest of my brothers, and my father was especially cruel to him. What I am about to tell you cannot leave this cave, understood?”

Nesta nodded, curious.

“Lucien is not my father’s son. My mother had an affair with Helion, the High Lord of the Day Court. I figured it out quickly, but my mother always denied it. My father had suspicions but no proof, so he took every opportunity he could to punish Lucien. He hated that Lucien never cared about his royal status, and that he frequently made friends with individuals that my father deemed unworthy – (Y/N) included. One day, he met a lesser faerie named Jesminda. When my father found out about it, he had two of my brothers hold Lucien back as he executed Jesminda right in front of him.”

Nesta chose her words carefully. “Were you… were you there?”

Eris looked at her sharply. “Yes, I was. But I refused my fathers request to kill Jesminda, so he did it himself. It is the only thing I have ever refused him, even to this day. And I paid the price for it.”

“What did he do to you?”

“That matters not. Once I was released from the dungeons, my spies informed me that my father was planning on killing Lucien. I knew my brother was smart and would flee to the Spring Court, so I alerted Tamlin to the situation. Tamlin found Lucien at the border and killed two of my three brothers that had been sent after him to slaughter Lucien on our father’s orders.”

Nesta picked at a thread on her sleeve and asked dryly, “Let me guess, Malgorm was the one who escaped Tamlin’s claws?”

Eris snorted humourlessly. “Yes. Somehow, Malgorm always finds a way to escape death. It’s incredibly annoying.”

“Does Lucien know what you did for him?”

“No. He does not. And it does not matter if he did know, it would not change his hatred for me.”

A sadness overtook Eris’s eyes that pained Nesta. With a sick feeling in her gut, she knew looking at Eris was like looking in a mirror. Two eldest children with a cruel parent, twisted and moulded into their parent’s perfect creation. Nesta knew that Feyre would always see her as their mother’s favourite, but never knew just how much Nesta suffered underneath her. How Nesta would plead to the universe every night that their mother would turn her attention elsewhere because neglect was better than cruelty to her. Feyre did not know that her grandmother had beaten her, or that her mother had pulled Nesta’s hair until she cried and deprived her of meals to keep her thin. Nesta had never told her, not only for fear of showing weakness, but because she knew that Feyre had been so neglected she wouldn’t truly be able to understand that their mother’s attention was not something to be desired.

And Eris was the same. All the tales Nesta had heard of him portrayed the male as a worse version of Beron, a perfect eldest son and soldier for the High Lord to wield like a sword. But he had done so much to protect his younger brother, and just like Nesta, had never told him because he knew he wouldn’t be able to fully understand it. They were both disliked by their youngest sibling for being their parent’s prized pupils, oblivious to the whole story. Even though Eris had not answered her question, Nesta knew that what Beron had put him through was a thousand times worse than anything her mother had done. Deep down, she knew that Eris was just as broken as she was. Their main difference was Eris had centuries of practice in masking it, whereas Nesta did not.

“You’re not a bad male, Eris.” Nesta said softly, her gaze lost in the warm amber of his eyes.

“You hardly know me.” His voice was bitter, the aloof arrogant mask he wore threatening to slide up and hide the vulnerability Nesta had seen in his face moments ago. “I’ve done horrible things in the name of my father, Nesta. Things that would make you run back to the Night Court if you knew.”

“I don’t judge people for what they had to do to survive.” Nesta insisted, her voice even. “You may have your own secret agenda, Eris, but you’ve treated me better than most people have in a long, long time. Do not think I don’t appreciate that.”

Eris laughed, and the haunted look was shoved from his face. “My dear, how you have been treated is appalling, even to me. Let’s not have that be the standard, I beg you.”

“How do you know I didn’t deserve it?” Nesta said before she could stop herself. It simply slipped out, the guilt that had been shoved down her throat by the Inner Circle ever since she became fae entrapping her words once again. It was an exhausting uphill battle. Every day, she told herself that she was right to flee the Night Court, to try and make a life for herself outside Velaris. But every day those seeds of doubt wriggled their way into her thoughts, trapping her inside a web of self hatred that she had fought so hard to get out of.

“Seriously?” Eris said incredulously, eyebrows raised. He shifted so he was facing Nesta, and he took her still trembling hands in his own. “Tell me, what criminal, abhorrent offence have you committed to warrant being treated like shit and locked up?”

Nesta’s throat was dry. “I didn’t try and help my family like Feyre did when we were in poverty.”

Eris shook his head. “You are the eldest daughter, not the parent. It was not your responsibility to provide for your family.”

“I was mean to Feyre on several occasions.”

“You’re sisters, that’s supposed to happen. You should hear the vicious things my brothers and I say to each other.”

“I spent a ton of Rhys’s money on alcohol, drinking myself stupid every night.”

“Please, that male has more money than anyone I know, my dear. I assure you his bank account was not dented in the slightest.”

“I slept my way through the city after the war.”

“Everyone in that little Inner Circle has fucked more fae than anyone I know. Your number is nothing compared to theirs.” Eris said calmly. “All I’m hearing is that a newly turned fae female was traumatised after being dragged into a brutal war she did not ask for, and found unhealthy yet very normal ways of coping. So tell me again, what actual horrid thing have you done to deserve any of this?”

Tears filled Nesta’s eyes as she listed her sins, the crackling of the fire fading into the background. She knew Eris was right, his logical mind soothing her anxious one. Talking about it with Eris was different than talking about it with you. You had been just as angry as Nesta had, forced into the same situation as her and kept in the House of Wind against your will, the Inner Circle using the fact that they had saved both your lives as leverage to make you do what they wanted. You were someone who Nesta could rant to about it and get angry, letting that hatred she felt out to someone who knew exactly what she meant. But Eris was different. He rationalised her thoughts, providing a different kind of reassurance.

She couldn’t stop the tears that fell down her cheeks. Nesta bit her wobbling lip, trying to keep more from spilling out. Eris released one of her hands, bringing it up to her face and gently brushing the tears away. “They’ve done a number on you, haven’t they?” He murmured softly, cupping her cheek. “What are you thinking right now, Nesta Archeron?”

Nesta inhaled deeply, pressing her face slightly harder into Eris’s warm hand. The smell of smoke and forest engulfing her senses. “That I am scared,” She admitted. “For so many reasons. I am scared that Cassian will find me and steal me back to Velaris. That everything we’ve done has all been for nothing. I’m scared that your father will find us out somehow and kill us all. I’m scared for (Y/N) and her engagement to your awful brother. And I hate myself, Eris. I hate myself for who I’ve become not just because I am now fae, but because the person I was before the Cauldron would not have given in and trained with Cassian. I… I am afraid that with this new immortality ahead of me I will not recognize the girl I used to be, and not in a good way. I hate that I have let the words of people who barely know me cut this deeply, and I am ashamed of it.”

Eris continued to use his thumb to brush away the fresh tears on her cheeks. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “You have had a difficult hand dealt to you, Nesta.” Eris said softly. “And they should have known better. Do not be ashamed. For anything. Just know you have (Y/N), just as you have me. We will not let the Night Court take you, I swear on my mother’s life. Your mate cares for you, and I… I care for you, too.”

Nesta opened her mouth to respond, but a strange sensation in her chest stopped her. It suddenly felt like she was falling through space, the stars overhead spinning around her as she plummeted towards a strange light. She gasped, and felt Eris tense up as well. In her mind, she saw her silver flames dancing towards orange ones. They intertwined, braiding together and forming a magical rope-like appearance. Nesta reached down in her mind, her heartbeat racing as she grabbed a hold of it. She peered down to where the flames had extended to, seeing a flaming silhouette on the other end, her silver flames surrounding it affectionately.

And so she reached forward, extending a mental hand into that flaming silhouette.

And Eris gasped.

Nesta’s eyes shot open, and she lurched back from the Autumn Prince’s touch. Eris’s face was ghostly pale, and he was panting as if he had just fought off a hundred soldiers at once. Athariel hissed behind her, not happy to be awoken by the sudden movement. Her mouth was dry. She had felt this feeling before, but with you. That flaming rope she had followed felt the same as the pull of the tattoo on her sternum.

The mating bond.

The flaming silhouette at the other end of the magical rope was Eris Vanserra. Nesta’s mind reeled, her body threatening to combust with the feeling inside her chest. She could only stare at the male before her in shock.

Estelle said fae can have more than one mate, but Cassian is not one of yours. Your words rang in Nesta’s head like a bell, making her feel dizzy. No, she thought. This isn’t possible. You were her mate, how could this happen? There was still that strange feeling in her chest from Cassian, which confused her even more. The feeling of one mating bond within her was overwhelming enough, but two? Nesta didn’t know if she could survive it.

“Eris…” His voice was like a prayer on her lips, sounding completely different than the previous hundred times she had said it. It was like a song, carrying over to the shaken autumn prince and snapping him out of his trance.

“Nesta.” Her blood sang at the sound of her name, silver flames sparking from her fingertips in response.

“Like calls to like…” She muttered, recalling Eris’s repetition of the phrase. And then it dawned on her. Eris had consistently told her that like calls to like, and she had thought he was talking about their similarities in magic.

Fury rose within her, drowning out everything else. “Did you know?” She hissed at Eris.

The male’s eyes were wide, and he stuttered. “I–”

“Did you fucking know?” Nesta growled. “Is this the only reason you agreed to help us? So you could use the bond to trap me. Is that what you wanted? To keep me prisoner here, just like your father did to your mother?”

Eris blanched, flinching like he had been struck. Nesta felt it, the blow of her words, as if she had been punched in the chest. “I swear, I did not know.” Eris pleaded. “Nesta, please, you have to trust me. I had no idea about this.”

Nesta rose to her feet, her entire body shaking. She climbed onto Athariel’s back, nudging the dragon forward with her heels. Athariel grumbled, but got to her feet and began to crawl out of the cave. Her hands shook as she held onto the dragon’s horns. She stared down at Eris, who appeared paralyzed in shock as he looked up at her. Nesta’s voice was cold as ice as she said, “I don’t believe you.”

And as Athariel spread her wings and took to the sky, Nesta had not noticed the fire had gone out completely.

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year

Text

Semper Eadem (i) (ao3)

Presenting, for @nestaarcheronweek free day, the single most self indulgent fic I have literally ever written: an Elizabethan Nessian AU! This began as a one-shot but I got carried away and now there's going to be four chapters. My historian's heart is really, really, really excited about this one and I really hope you'll all enjoy it as much as I do. It’s 1575, and Nesta Archeron, lady-in-waiting and favourite of Queen Elizabeth I is trying incredibly hard to forget about the bastard nobleman who, eight months ago, stole her heart before leaving to be a pirate privateer. Now, at the Kenilworth pageant thrown in the queen’s honour, Cassian is back and trying to win Nesta round all over again— but there’s no way she’s going to let him off easy.

Kenilworth Castle, 1575

Nesta watched him, her wayward explorer.

It had been eight months since she last glimpsed his face, but she had not yet forgotten the sweep of his jaw. Every one of her letters had gone unanswered whilst he sailed the seven seas on Master Raleigh’s ship, and still it hadn’t been enough to drive from her mind the memory of his face, the curve of his lips or the scar by his eyebrow— a remnant from an old joust, an accident, three autumns past.

Perhaps eight more, she thought as he stood at the bottom of the small wooden dais. Perhaps eight more months would do it.

Gilden beneath a hundred candles, Cassian was clothed in an expensive velvet doublet the colour of deep red wine, sleeves slashed to reveal the finery of the shirt beneath. His hair had grown longer, a tangled mess of curls barely contained by a leather hair tie, and a touch of stubble graced his jaw. From his left ear, a single pearl dangled.

Write to me when I’m gone, he had asked when he last came to court.

And Nesta had— every week for the first three months, until she realised no reply was coming and she was wasting her time, her ink, and her paper.

And now, as though her unanswered letters were not insult enough… He was late.

So late that she had thought he wasn’t coming at all, had all but given up hope and deemed him lost at sea forevermore, requiescat in pace. But here he was— bowing low and throwing his arms wide in an exaggerated display of deference, very much alive.

Nesta scowled.

Outside, the summer night was deep and dark, the sky littered with stars that she could see through the tall windows lining the great hall of Kenilworth castle. The Earl of Leicester’s elaborate pageant had begun hours ago, and as the sound of the lute grew louder, Nesta straightened her shoulders and waited for the queen to scold the man that stood at the foot of her dais.

But Elizabeth Tudor only smiled, her painted lips parting as this nobleman-turned-rogue straightened, folding his arms behind his back with a flourish.

“Ah,” the queen said grandly, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “I had begun to wonder when my Bat would come flying back.”

The nickname rolled easily off her tongue and, with its utterance, Cassian grinned. A wolfish flash of teeth, an irreverent curving of his lips, and emboldened, the queen’s Bat took another step forward. Elizabeth only ever gave nicknames to her most favoured of courtiers, and somehow, even though Cassian was a bastard-born northerner, he’d charmed his way into the queen’s good graces.

Into Nesta’s too.

Bastard.

His nickname had been inspired by the creatures that seemed to flock to the lands owned by Cassian’s father in the north, and Nesta thought it was fitting, now. After all, she’d never seen a bat in the daylight, and come morning she was certain that Cassian would be gone again, boarding a ship with the wind in his hair and salt on his tongue.

Write to me, he had said, all those months ago. The night before he had abandoned court in favour of privateering, he had passed her in a darkened hallway, brushed a hand against her wrist and said, send your letters to the shipyard in Plymouth— we make port there every few weeks. Write to me and tell me of everything I miss whilst I am gone, from the most salacious to the most trivial. Tell me of the new dresses you buy, the new jewels the queen gifts you. Tell me of my brothers— tell me how Rhysand annoys the queen so that I may tease him when I return. Most importantly, tell me of you. Tell me how much you miss me, so that I may think of you as the waves rock me to sleep.

Tell me, and every time I make land I’ll think of you. Every time the sea storms and the weather rages, I’ll keep that ship steady because I’ll be thinking of you, of your letters waiting for me.

From her place beside Elizabeth, so close to the sovereign that she could smell the rose oil pressed into her skin, Nesta looked down, fighting a frown as she remembered all those honeyed words, as sweet as the sugar the queen adored so much. Sweet— and yet rotten to the core too, melting beneath the candle-heat as he stood there boldly, his grin yet to fade.

Nesta was the eldest daughter of a duke, the jewel of the Elizabethan court, and the favourite of Queen Elizabeth I, by the grace of God sovereign of England, Ireland, and France.

Who was he but a man a single step removed from piracy, a rogue dressed in velvet? If he had decided not to answer her letters then— so be it.

She wasn't going to lose sleep over it.

Not anymore, anyway.

“It is a travesty that I was away so long, your majesty,” Cassian drawled. “My heart ached with every wave that carried me further from these beautiful shores.”

“Pretty poetry sir,” Elizabeth crooned, crooking a finger to bring him closer. His fine leather boots climbed the three small steps of the dais, but Nesta found herself looking away— looking across to the hall behind him, to the courtiers and politicians draining goblets of malmsey wine. The entire glittering court— assembled for the pageant Leicester was throwing in the queen’s honour.

A pageant she had written to Cassian of in several of her unanswered and ignored letters. A bitter taste coated her tongue as she surveyed the hall, remembering the night she’d dragged her quill across the parchment, the candle burning low.

I trust I will be seeing you at Kenilworth, if the sea can spare you.

Another frown settled deep between her brows, and Nesta half wanted to find a barrel of malmsey and drown him in it.

“Ah, but there are so many things of exquisite beauty in this court,” Cassian countered the queen grandly, gesturing at the hall around them with an outstretched arm. His eyes alighted - for half a moment - on Nesta, taking in the cut of her gown and the jewels at her neck. His voice dropped an octave as he tilted his head, the pearl in his ear gold-limned by the candlelight. “They warrant such verses do they not, my queen?”

Elizabeth hummed, reclining in her seat - her travelling throne - and bracing her forearms on the wooden arm rests. The movement set her extravagant ruff trembling, the layers of intricate, starched lace shaking.

“I confess, sir, that I like your company much better than that of your compatriot,” she said dryly, inclining her head to her other side, where members of her privy council sat in seats of honour. Elizabeth nodded pointedly to Rhysand, one of her youngest councillors, who blinked mildly as he turned his head. Not without reason, either. Only last week, he had earned himself a shoe thrown towards his head after suggesting the queen marry a Dutch nobleman.

How fortunate for his pretty face, Nesta thought wryly, that the queen’s slippers were made of silk. The mark on his cheek had faded after only an hour.

Dressed in fine black satin, Rhysand brushed his thumb over his lip now, looking at Cassian with eyes so blue they were almost violet.

With a soft tsk, Cassian took a step closer to the queen. “Has he been plaguing you, your majesty, whilst I have been away?” He tilted his head, and let his voice affect the air of a whisper. “Would you like me to take him with me ere I leave? We are always in need of good hands to scrub the decks.”

Rhysand rolled those deep blue eyes. “Welcome home, brother,” he said dryly. “It is, as ever, an unparalleled delight to have you with us at court.”

Cassian merely grinned.

They had been raised together, the queen’s councillor and her privateer.

Right here, in these very halls, they had spent their youth. It was custom to entrust the education and upbringing of high-born boys to another noble household, sending them off as soon as they were old enough to receive instruction in the arts of both war and diplomacy. They were taught to hunt, to dance, to joust and to fight. To speak Latin, to read and to write, and in the case of Rhysand and Cassian - and a handful of other boys - the Earl of Leicester had the honour. Kenilworth had shaped them both.

Nesta still wasn’t entirely sure how Cassian’s father had managed it.

Rhysand’s father was a duke, and a distant relative of the queen through her father’s line. It made sense that his son would win a place in the household of the queen’s most treasured favourite, Leicester. After all, in the distant, far-reaching branches of Rhysand’s family tree, he shared a grandparent with the queen.

But Cassian— well, Nesta thought as she watched him look across to his childhood friend now, his grin turning wicked as he dared to wink at his sovereign. He was a bastard. The only son of a rich northern baron, yes, but a bastard nonetheless. A bastard that, apparently, felt comfortable enough to wink at the queen of England.

Thirty years ago, he’d have lost his head for the presumption.

Nesta felt her breath catch at the audacity, at the daring, and wondered whether the queen would throw a slipper at him, too. But Elizabeth only seemed to revel in Cassian’s attentions, her elaborate ruff trembling anew as a deep laugh reverberated in her throat.

“Oh,” she said as her laughter made her voice lilt and swell. “My privy councillor may have such lovely eyes, but I much prefer your handsome smile. I have half a mind to forbid you to ever leave my side again.”

Cassian bowed again, his chin almost touching his broad chest as he dipped his head. Broader than before, Nesta noted with a twist to her gut. His arms were corded with even more muscle than when she’d seen him last, far more than the velvet could disguise. Being at sea suited him, and yet as he raised his eyes again, he smiled effortlessly at the queen.

A courtier’s smile.

A fox’s smile. Exactly the kind that had snared Nesta in the first place, that had her writing letters to him as he sailed across the horizon, like little more than a lovesick girl— like some kind of Penelope waiting for her Odysseus.

“Your majesty, I have travelled across land and sea and have yet to find a court that shines as brightly as yours,” Cassian declared. “Give me the order and I shall stay forever.”

Liar, Nesta thought.

He liked the wind in his hair too much, enjoyed the freedom of being away from court. She knew that all too well. Knew, too, how skilled he was at this game of politicking, how much he knew the queen valued flattery. There wasn’t a single word falling from his silver tongue that Nesta would believe, and yet— Elizabeth hummed again, the jewels in her ears shifting and catching the light as she looked at Rhysand with a tilted head. With the sharp eyes she had inherited from her father, Elizabeth Tudor tapped her fingers on the arm of her throne, entertained and appeased in equal measure.

“I would not be so cruel to keep you forever,” she said airily. “But perhaps for a while longer.”

Cassian nodded. And then— a glint in hazel eyes, a fire burning beneath the candlelight. His eyes slid to Nesta once more as he lifted his chin with purpose. Grown long, his dark hair brushed the velvet covering his powerful shoulders.

“I know I cannot take a turn around the floor with your gentle hand in mine, your majesty, so I would ask for the nearest thing.” He paused, and Nesta could have sworn she heard Rhysand curse below his breath. “Perhaps I could ask one of your ladies for a dance?”

Elizabeth waved a heavy-ringed hand to grant his request, and Nesta felt her scowl deepen. There was only one the queen would choose in her stead, only one she would appoint, and by the expectant gleam in Cassian’s eyes… he knew it.

Bastard.

“Misstress Archeron,” the queen said proudly, her dark eyes turning and finding Nesta at her side. Approval glittered there, and a feline grin split the queen’s painted lips as she gestured for Nesta to step forward. As an aside she added, “I do hope you remember, sir, how she has made lesser men tremble in the past.”

Cassian’s smile grew. “Ah. The Venetian ambassador.”

“Indeed,” the queen hummed in bemusement, even as Rhysand muttered darkly under his breath about how it had been a diplomatic disaster. He drank deeply from his cup, fixing his friend with a wry stare as a cupbearer replenished his wine.

“A dance with Mistress Archeron is a risky thing,” Rhysand trilled. “Do try not to plunge us into civil war, Cass.”

Nesta bristled, but kept her chin high and her spine as straight as an arrow as those violet eyes rolled across her, slid across her form like water. The queen clucked her tongue, and her councillor had the good sense to look chastened, colour rising in his cheeks as Cassian took a step forward and offered her his forearm.

It had been years ago now— when the Venetian ambassador had asked her to dance.

He had been an aged man, yet self-important and narcissistic, and though he had been eager enough at first, he had stumbled in an effort to keep up once the music had begun. His face had turned puce, sweat shining on his brow, and when the music died he had asked, in a voice loud and bitter, if the English had turned wild in the years they had been separated from the Catholic Church. The queen’s face had turned stony, and when he made to lead Nesta back to her station at Elizabeth’s side, she had pulled from his hold.

Perhaps, she had said, in a voice that was polite and yet not at all meek, if the most gracious ambassador cannot keep up, the Doge of Venice should send us another, one more suited to English ways.

Elizabeth’s laugh had rang out through her hall at Westminster, clapping her hands with delight as the ambassador bowed curtly and took his leave. As Nesta reclaimed her place at her side, Elizabeth’s slender fingers had darted out to tap Nesta’s wrist. Well done little dove, she had said, dark eyes gleaming.

And ever since, Nesta had been one of the queen’s favourite ladies, always at her side— diplomatic disasters only a small matter in comparison to making Elizabeth laugh.

Nesta placed her hand lightly on Cassian’s extended arm now, feeling the firmness of the muscle beneath her hand. Try as she might, it was impossible to ignore, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many hours he had spent labouring on a ship these past eight months. How many he had spent training with sword and shield. He had always been formidable on horseback, winning almost every tournament he entered, but now… months at sea had honed him, sharpened him into different kind of blade.

As the minstrels struck up a new song, Cassian covered her hand with his own and together they descended the three steps of the dais slowly. They moved backwards, never turning their backs to their queen, and as Elizabeth nodded in approval, Nesta tried hard not to relish the feel of his arm beneath her fingers, the warmth of him she’d almost forgotten in the long months they had been parted.

It was a feeling that only intensified with every step they took, every one that brought them closer to the wide floor of the hall where the long tables had been pushed aside for dancing. And then Cassian was bowing to her, his lips alighting on the back of her hand as her fingers curled around his, drawn to the warmth of him, and her heart was fluttering in her chest, flickering like a candle flame. Like the past eight months had been nothing but a fevered dream, like she hadn’t spent days on end anticipating the arrival of a messenger only to end up disappointed, crestfallen—

“I missed you,” Cassian whispered.

Dropping her hand, he rose to his full height. He stood a full head and shoulders above her, but though his bulk made him far from the most elegant of dance partners… He drew her into the music easily as it began, the steps practiced and well-rehearsed, familiar to them both.

“And yet,” Nesta said as the dance brought them closer together, “You didn’t answer my letters.”

“It’s difficult to post correspondence whilst on a ship,” he said easily. “A storm blew us off course. We couldn’t make port in Plymouth as often as planned— or at all, actually. I didn’t get any of those letters until we alighted a week ago.” He gave her a daring grin, a flash of a smile. “But trust that I penned a reply to each and every one as soon as I was able, and I brought them here with me— along with every letter that I wrote whilst at sea, every one I couldn’t send, because yes, sweetheart, I spent every day of that voyage thinking of you.”

Damnable bastard, Nesta thought as she kept her face blank, watching the candlelight dance across his skin, limning the stubble on his jaw that belied his hasty journey from port to castle. A rouge— he looked like a bloody rogue, despite the velvet and the gold and the pearls. And God save her, Nesta couldn’t help but adore it.

Damnable charming bastard.

“They’re in the chest in my chambers,” he continued lightly, lifting his arm to let her spin beneath, twining his fingers with her own to make a bridge of their arms. “I will have them delivered to you as soon as I find a squire.”

He made a show of glancing around the hall, as if searching out a boy to fetch the letters right here, right now. She wouldn’t put it past him, and she didn’t know if that made him more charming or more bloody infuriating.

“Maybe if I grow bored enough I shall read them,” she shrugged, her heart skipping even as she damned it— even as she cursed herself for falling prey to that dazzling smile. Cassian spun her away and brought her back again, a hand snaking around her waist as she raised her eyebrows.

He let out a breath. “Oh, so cruel.” A smirk curved his lips, and the pearl in his ear shone bright in the candlelight. “Were you always so, my lady? Or was it the bitterness you found in my absence that sharpened your tongue?”

“The only thing I found in your absence, sir, was peace.”

The music swelled, and as the steps demanded, Cassian pulled away, the distance between them stretching. He smirked, and Nesta felt an answering smile of her own pulling, unbidden, at her own lips. Heaven help her, she thought as he flattened his palm and held it up and out, facing her. Nesta placed hers flat against his, feeling the chill of his golden rings against her skin, mingling with the heat of his hand. Her heart kicked, traitorous in her chest. She was supposed to be angry, supposed to be indignant and yet—

The dance ended, and with her palm still pressed against his, sure and steadying, she dipped into a deep bow. He bent low too, and from beneath his eyelashes, he dared to look at her and take his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I will tell you one thing, Mistress Archeron,” he murmured as she rose in a rustle of embroidered silk and heavy brocade. “Your beauty has grown boundless whilst I was away. There were times when I would think of you at night, watching the moonlight gild the waves, and I sometimes worried that, in my desperation for you, I may have exaggerated your fairness.” His eyes darkened, dipped appreciatively to her collarbone, to the low cut of her dress. “If anything, the memory pales in comparison.”

Nesta straightened, her hand fluttering to her neck as her fingers traced the jewels at her throat.

“And still,” she said dryly. “You ignored my letters.”

He barked a laugh, as deep and rich as the finest wine. “I told you. We didn’t make port.”

“Too busy attacking Spanish ships in the Atlantic?” Nesta asked with a raised eyebrow. Oh, word had reached court of Master Raleigh’s ships, of the enemy vessels they raided and seized. The court had taken to calling them the queen’s Sea Dogs, and the only thing saving Cassian and his captain from piracy was the queen’s approval— but he seemed to care little, an irreverent grin on his face as he shrugged with an air of ease and arrogance.

“For queen and country, sweetheart.”

And even though she knew she should leave, knew she should return to the queen, Nesta let him lead her from the dance floor, strung along by that godforsaken smirk. Cassian took up a spot by the wall, leaning against it and bracing a booted foot against the stone. He tipped his head back, his smile turning effortless as Nesta lingered by his side, knowing she should leave, longing to stay.

The lute began again, and she watched the queen’s court move around her. Watched the courtiers dance, listened to the laughter and the revelry. Cassian hardly seemed to notice, too intent on watching her, studying her like a map that would yield some hidden treasure.

“I meant it, you know,” he said idly, folding his arms across the broad span of his chest. “When I said I missed you.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

She kept her eyes forward, on the circles of ladies dancing with earls and dukes and lords. And as she watched the Earl of Oxford stepping forward, eyeing her across the room like a fox might a deer, Cassian followed her gaze and scoffed. He rounded her, blocking the Earl of Oxford from view as he held out his hand again.

“Then let me prove it,” he said. “The queen returns to London in nineteen days. Let me spend each day from now until then winning back your favour.” He cast a glance over his shoulder, to where the Earl of Oxford still approached. “I’ll start by rescuing you, my lady.”

“So gallant,” Nesta said dryly. “Saving me from a dance with an earl.”

“The Earl of Oxford,” Cassian said with a wicked smirk. He huffed a laugh as his eyes danced across the earl’s elaborate ruff, the gaudy cut of his doublet. “He would bore you with talk of poetry and Shakespeare’s latest.”

“Perhaps I’d like to hear about Shakespeare’s latest,” Nesta shrugged.

Cassian smirked again. “Or I could show you the gardens, and save your feet from being stamped on by an ingrate like the Earl of fucking Oxford.”

“An ingrate? Rich coming from a pirate.”

“Privateer, sweetheart.” His eyes went to the dais, to the queen that was now deep in conversation with the Earl of Leicester. “Our most gracious majesty knows all about our exploits in the channel.”

“Semantics.”

“If you’d like to talk semantics, maybe I should leave you to the Earl of Oxford.”

Nesta bit back a laugh as she wrapped her fingers around his forearms. “Show me the gardens, sir. You can tell me about your travels whilst you do.”

“And then?” he asked with a raised brow.

“And then you have nineteen days to win me round.”

#nessian #nestaweek2023 #there is also a very lengthy authors note on ao3 full of historical detail and addendums #nessian au #nessian fic

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c-e-d-dreamer · 9 months

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But I'm Only Looking At You: Part Two

A/N: Happy happy day two of @cassianappreciationweek! Nothing says Gentle like (checks notes) crashing the wedding of the woman you love, right? Right? What can Cassian say, sometimes love makes you do crazy things! Anywho! Hope everyone enjoys :) Also, fun fact! The words Cassian says during the ceremony are historically accurate!

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Cassian watches from the shadows as a carriage pulls up in front of the church. The footman steps down and pulls open the doors, Elain and Feyre stepping out first. Both of Nesta’s sisters are wearing dresses of a pretty, pink color, their hair pinned up with flowers tucked into the golden brown strands.

Lord and Lady Archeron follow their youngest daughters out of the carriage, Eleanor turning back to say something. From this distance, Cassian can’t hear what’s said, but from the dip of Eleanor’s brows, the pinch of her lips, it appears to be some sort of reprimand. The look just has Cassian’s resolve hardening, a scowl of his own twisting across his face.

Finally, Nesta steps out of the carriage and into the afternoon sun. Despite the other ladies of London preferring yellow for their special day, Nesta has opted for a pale blue dress that looks almost silver beneath the sun’s rays. The style is simple but elegant, exactly what Cassian would expect for Nesta, and while he can’t quite see her face beneath the lacey veil she’s wearing, she looks beautiful.

With a steadying deep breath, Cassian straightens and rolls his shoulders back. He takes a moment to tug at the cuffs of his sleeve, combing his fingers through his hair to ensure the strands fall neatly around his face. A sigh from behind him has Cassian pausing before he steps out of the alleyway, and he just barely swallows down an eyeroll.

“Are you sure there’s no talking you out of this?”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Cassian turns around to face his chosen brothers, Rhys and Az each leaning against the brick walls of the buildings on either side of the alleyway. Rhys looks at Cassian with blatant exasperation as he waits for the response to his question, an expression he’s been wearing since Cassian first informed him of his plan the night of his House Party. Not that it made a difference then. Nor, does it make a difference now.

“No,” Cassian answers matter-of-factly, almost daring Rhys to try his argument tactics again. They didn’t work all week and they certainly won’t work now. “Did you ensure my request arrived?”

Rhys sighs again, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t look particularly surprised at Cassian’s response. “Yes. I pulled a few strings and was able to make sure the Bishop sees your request as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Cassian nods his head, turning back toward the church. He can no longer see the Archeron family, which means they must have gone inside and the countdown has officially started.

“There’s no going back from this you know,” Azriel finally pipes up. “She honestly might hate you for this.”

“I know,” Cassian answers quietly. And he does. He knows exactly how disastrously this is probably going to go. “But I love her.”

And that truly is the crux of it. He loves Nesta, and he refuses to watch the woman he loves marry a man like Tomas Mandray. He refuses to watch her become just like Lady Mandray, growing pale and thin, wearing long sleeves even in the warmer months, being prone to ‘sudden illnesses’ that keep her out of the public’s eye for weeks. He refuses to watch her curl into herself and lose that fire he loves so much under the words he used to hear Tomas spew when they were at school. And if that means throwing himself into the firing line in order to do that, then so be it.

“We all know exactly the kind of man Tomas Mandray is,” Cassian continues, glancing over his shoulder at Rhys and Azriel one last time. “And even if she hates me forever, at least she’ll be safe.”

“Then go get your wife,” Azriel tells him, smirking slightly.

Cassian chuckles and shakes his head, walking across the road to the church. He wastes no time jogging up the front steps and through the door, but he pauses just inside the atrium. The large, wooden doors that lead into the nave loom before him, taunting him. Everything he’s ever wanted is right there on the other side, and once he steps through them, he won’t be able to take it back.

He takes a slow breath in, holding it for a few moments before he lets it back out. It’s all quiet in the atrium, almost eerily so. Cassian tries to strain his ears for sounds, for voices, beyond the doors, but the wooden doors and the stone surrounding him are too thick. He supposes there never really is a good time in a wedding ceremony for this type of thing.

“I’m sorry, Nes,” Cassian mutters to himself before he pulls open the doors.

The wood of the doors creaks and groans, and the metal hinges give a high pitched whine, the sound echoing loudly along the vaulted ceiling of the church. Cassian winces slightly, but it does have the required reaction. All sets of eyes in the church snap to him, but he doesn’t even bother looking anywhere else. Not at Lady Archeron who he’s sure must be sneering and glaring at him. Not at Elain or Feyre who he’s sure are staring with shock. Definitely not at the Mandray family…

Instead, Cassian keeps his attention firmly on Nesta, on where she’s standing at the front of the church, her hands clasped neatly with Tomas’s. Her hands that decidedly do not yet have a ring on them. Beneath the lace of her veil, her blue eyes are wide, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Rector asks, frowning down at Cassian.

“Forgive me, Father,” Cassian begins, continuing down the aisle and closer to the altar. “But I cannot lie, cannot continue on with this secret. Not under the Mother. I must be honest, must confess.”

“Then confess, son,” the Rector encourages.

“I have already had Miss Archeron.”

For a moment, the whole church is deathly silent, his words slowly but surely sinking in. And then gasps and murmurs break out, a cacophony of sounds and alarm. It’s with sick satisfaction that Cassian watches Tomas drop Nesta’s hands like he’s been burned, watches him step back and away from her with a disgusted scowl on his face.

“I beg your pardon?” the Rector asks, clearly trying to calm the rising emotions swirling around the church.

“I'm sorry, Father, but it’s true. I have laid with Miss Archeron. I know what a grave sin it is, what a dishonor I’ve committed for us both, but I’m prepared to right this wrong. I’m prepared to take her hand in marriage myself.”

“What are you doing?” Nesta seethes, storming over to him and shoving hard at his chest.

“I’m sorry, Nesta,” Cassian tells her, and he prays she can see the truth in his eyes, hear it in his words. He prays that she knows just how much he means it, how sorry he is for all of this. “But we cannot pretend any longer, cannot lie to everyone here including your betrothed. It’s not right.”

“I should have known you’re no better than a common whore,” Tomas sneers, tone dripping with cold cruelty.

His words have Cassian’s anger flaring red hot through his veins. He lets out a quiet growl and takes a step forward, his fist already clenching and his knuckles practically itching to collide with the Viscount’s face. It’s only Nesta’s hand settling firmly on his chest, stopping him, that has Cassian holding himself back.

“Tomas,” Nesta pleads, whirling back around to face the Viscount. “Please. It’s not like that. Just… just give me a moment. I’ll sort it out.”

Nesta’s fingers curl around Cassian’s wrist, her grip tight enough that her nails dig into his skin. From the glare she settles him with, the pain is clearly intentional. She all but drags him out of the nave and back into the atrium, leaving the still shocked wedding guests behind. She drops his wrist once the doors close behind them, but it’s only to shove at his chest again.

“I cannot believe you,” Nesta snaps, shoving hard enough this time that Cassian stumbles back a few steps.

“Nesta—”

“Seriously. What is wrong with you?”

“Nesta, please—”

“We have never laid together.”

“I know.”

Nesta finally pauses in her assault to his chest, blinking a few times as she takes in his words, before she lets out a sardonic, almost hysterical laugh. “So, you just decided to lie? To ruin me? To ruin my sisters.”

Cassian lets out a quiet breath, reaching for Nesta’s hand but she yanks it away and out of his reach. He tries not to let the gesture sting as much as it does. “Nes, please. You have to understand that I—”

“Go back in there and tell them you lied. This instance.”

“I can’t,” Cassian tells her, his voice quiet and mournful.

“Cassian!” Nesta pleads, her voice tinged with desperation.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Cassian steps closer to her, his hands coming up to cradle her cheeks. He hates it. He hates seeing the pain in her eyes, the water that’s started to line them. He hates that he's the reason for her tears. “I can’t let you marry him. I can’t lose you. If this is the only way, then so be it.”

“You have already lost me,” Nesta whispers coldly, knocking his hands away from her and taking a pointed step back. “I will never forgive you for this.”

“Nes…”

Before Cassian can finish his thought, those large wooden doors swing open again, Eleanor Archeron stalking through them. Cassian braces himself for her ire, for the cutting, choice words he’s sure she has for him, but her narrowed gaze isn’t pinned on him. It’s her daughter that she’s glaring daggers at.

“You insolent child,” Eleanor seethes, smacking the back of her hand hard across Nesta’s cheek.

Fire roars through Cassian’s veins, burning molten until his hands tighten into fists. He’s moving before he can even think twice about it, eyes glued to Nesta. To the way she has her face turned away, her hand cradling her cheek, a tear slipping free to slide down along her skin. He stalks closer and gently curls his fingers around Nesta’s wrist, tugging her behind him, placing himself firmly between her and her mother.

“I would appreciate it kindly if you did not put your hands on my wife.”

“She is not your wife yet, you filthy factory rat. I should have known when you were always sniffing around as a boy that you’d dare to lay your hands on my daughter. Not better than your disgusting father.”

“Mama,” Nesta starts to argue, but Cassian gives her wrist a gentle squeeze. There’s no reason for her to step into the firing line and certainly not for him.

“I’m staying with the Duke, Rhysand, while I’m in London, until the Bishop’s License arrives,” Cassian explains, keeping his voice calm, polite, refusing to rise to whatever bait Lady Archeron tries to dangle in front of him. “Nesta is of course welcome to stay there as well, until the wedding.”

“You truly are a fool if you think I’m going to let you whisk her away like that,” Eleanor snorts derisively, her fingers curling roughly around Nesta’s bicep and yanking her daughter to her. “She is still my daughter until the registry is signed.”

Cassian swallows hard and tries to calm the way his blood has started to simmer. “I’ll call on her—”

“You will not.”

The clear dismissal has a scoff tearing free from Cassian before he can squash it back down, but before he can argue, the doors to the nave swing back open. The Viscount comes striding out, his mother’s arm looped through his. Neither even looks in Nesta’s or Cassian’s direction, keeping their gaze straight ahead as they exit the church. If it weren’t for the way Tomas’s lips are pressed together, the way his brown eyes are darkened with clear annoyance, Cassian would almost say he looks the picture perfect of indifference.

“My lord,” Eleanor begins, her tone oozing with a courtier’s charm that Cassian has certainly never been on the other end of.

The Lady Mandray lets out a harrumph, the sound quiet but no less contemptuous, the only acknowledgement that she even heard Eleanor. Tomas and his mother continue down the front steps of the church and toward their carriage, the members of the wedding guest list there to support the would-be groom following behind them, each expression directed their way more judgemental than the next. It has Cassian taking an instinctual step to the side, blocking Nesta from those snide looks, shielding her.

He chances a glance over his shoulder, but it’s Eleanor’s gaze that meets his. With Tomas and his mother no longer looking, the placating smile has dropped from her face, that irritated scowl and glare returning and pinned right on Cassian. He can’t find it in himself to care for the look she’s settled him with, not when her hand is still curled around Nesta’s arm, fingers gripping tight enough that the skin has started to turn red.

Cassian opens his mouth to say something, but there’s more scuffling from the nave. He turns his head back around just as Elain and Feyre step into view, both of their faces still bewildered as their eyes dart between him, Nesta, and their mother. At least Feyre offers him a small, almost sympathetic smile.

“I’ll go get the carriage,” Elain offers quietly, rushing out of the church and tugging Feyre along with her.

“I’ll be sure to have a settlement drawn up for you to review and sign,” Nesta's father says, stepping out of the nave and over to Cassian, his face surprisingly impassive despite the day’s turn of events.

“Of course. Whatever terms are most favorable for Nesta,” Cassian agrees with a nod, earning a quizzical look in response from Lord Archeron.

“The carriage is ready,” Feyre declares, walking back up the church steps.

With her message delivered, Feyre turns on her heel and heads back down the steps, her parents side-stepping around Cassian to follow their daughter. It’s Nesta that takes up the rear of their party, her arms wrapped around herself even as she holds her shoulders back and her head up high. It’s a mask if Cassian’s ever seen one, and the sight sends a crack shattering clean through his chest.

“Nesta,” Cassian calls out to her, soft desperation and pain coloring his tone.

“Nesta,” her mother’s clipped voice cuts in.

Despite the clear order hidden in her mother’s request, Nesta’s steps do pause. She turns back to look at Cassian, and that crack in his chest explodes into a throbbing ache at the betrayal burning in her blue eyes, her lips pinched into a cool, hard line. She opens her mouth, words clearly poised and ready on the tip of her tongue, but then she merely shakes her head, turning away from Cassian and joining her family.

She leaves him standing there alone, nothing to do but watch her walk away from him, watch her leave. A lump presses in around his throat, his lungs burning and chest aching despite his attempts to swallow around it. He lets out sound somewhere between a scoff and a self-deprecating laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face and along his jaw. He tries to remind himself why he’s doing this, to remind himself that when it’s all said and done, it will have been worth it.

Even still, Cassian can’t help but tilt his head up, sending a silent prayer to the Mother and just hoping that he’s doing the right thing.

~ * * * ~

It takes a week before the Bishop’s License is finally signed and in Cassian’s hands. Unsurprisingly, Nesta’s family wants everything to move quickly and quietly. Cassian can’t say he minds. It means the sooner he can see her, can talk with her just the two of them privately. The sooner he can get the both of them out of London and away from all the prying eyes, the whispering gossip and judgemental looks of the ton, the better.

The Archerons are already waiting at the church when Cassian arrives with Rhys and Azriel. It’s Elain and Feyre, standing with their father, that greets him as he steps inside the atrium. Despite the fact there’s about to be a wedding, there’s a solemn air that clings inside the walls of the church, heavy and pressing in. Neither sister is smiling, even Feyre not quite able to meet his gaze. Instead, her attention is pinned to her right, lips tugged down in a frown.

Brows furrowing in confusion, Cassian turns his head, following Feyre’s gaze to where Nesta is standing with her mother. Eleanor has her head tipped down, practically right in Nesta’s face as she hisses something too quiet for Cassian to hear.

“Eleanor,” Lord Archeron calls out, drawing his wife’s attention.

Lady Archeron takes in Cassian standing there and straightens, striding over to her husband’s side. She doesn’t even acknowledge Cassian as she passes him, but he doesn’t miss the sneer still ever present on her face. It’s only when she realizes Rhys is standing behind him that her disdainful expression drops away, surprise taking over before that courtier smile returns.

“Your Grace,” Eleanor offers, dipping into a polite curtsy.

Rhys doesn’t say anything, merely dips his chin in a nod of acknowledgement, and Eleanor continues to her husband’s side. She slips her arm through Lord Archeron’s, and they head into the nave of the church, their daughters trailing behind him. Rhys claps his hand against Cassian’s shoulder and does the same, Azriel offering a small, sympathetic look as he too follows Rhys inside.

It leaves just Cassian and Nesta still standing in the atrium as they wait for their cue to walk down the aisle, for their lives to be forever bound together.

Nesta finally walks over to him, but she keeps her eyes downcast, seemingly glued to his kilt. The attention has him resetting his stance, has his hands reaching down to smooth out the fabric along his thighs. He rarely wore it when he was in school. He already heard enough from his peers, from the ton, about his family’s new money status. He hadn’t wanted to add fuel to their fires by flaunting his Scottish heritage too, practically handing over the insults and jabs on a silver platter. But now, with Nesta’s eyes on him, he finds himself more nervous than he ever was back then, his heart beginning to stutter between his ribs.

“After today, you’ll wear my colors too,” Cassian explains quietly.

The comment has Nesta’s gaze finally snapping to his, and Cassian’s heart squeezes tight enough it sends pain ricocheting through his chest. Even through the lacy fabric of her veil, Cassian can tell the way all the color seems to have leached out of her cheeks, the dark circles clinging to the skin beneath her eyes. And her eyes. Cassian doesn’t think he’s ever seen them so dull, more gray than blue and not even a hint of that spark he loves so much.

He takes a step closer to her, eyes sweeping over her accessingly. She’s wearing that same pale blue dress as her almost wedding to Tomas, but despite it only being a week, the fabric seems looser in places. Cassian has to swallow hard around a lump forming in his throat before he’s able to find his voice again.

“You look pale. Have you not been eating? Or sleeping?” Cassian asks gently, reaching a hand up beneath her veil to slide his knuckles against her cheek, but Nesta jerks her head away.

“Don’t touch me,” Nesta snaps, readjusting the veil draped over her face. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Cassian’s hand hangs in the space between them before he drops it back down to his side. The words are certainly a blow, but all Cassian cares about is that the fire has returned to Nesta’s eyes, the blue of them practically blazing up at him. He’ll take it. He doesn’t care if he’s on the other end of her ire, as long as he can keep stoking that fire, as long as he can finally make that lifeless expression vanish, as long as she gives him something.

So, Cassian scoffs and shakes his head. “Just what every gentleman wants to hear on his wedding day.”

“You brought this upon yourself. Or have you already forgotten your utter stupidity?”

“I wish you would just understand that I did this for you.”

“How dare you lie to me,” Nesta seethes, shoving him hard for extra good measure. “You did this for yourself, you selfish, insufferable idiot.”

“Careful, Nes,” Cassian taunts, catching her wrists and tugging her closer still while he dips his head down toward her. “Is that any way to speak to your soon-to-be husband?”

“I hate you.”

Cassian drops Nesta’s wrists and takes a step back from her at her words. For a moment, he swears he sees something flicker across her face, but she quickly turns her head away before he can begin to decipher it. Closing his eyes, Cassian takes a moment to breathe deeply. He holds out his arm for Nesta to take, and pointedly pushes down the hurt when she hesitates.

Arm in arm, they make their way through the church and to where the Rector is standing and waiting for them. The Rector has them turn to face one another and then the ceremony begins. Cassian can still see the exhaustion that clings to Nesta’s frame, but with the light spilling through the stained glass, she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, still takes his breath away. Still has his heart beating in time with her name, Nesta Nesta Nesta.

By the time Cassian is taking Nesta’s hand in his, sliding the band on her finger, his own is trembling. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

Following the Rector’s instruction, Nesta takes Cassian’s hand in hers, sliding his own ring on as she repeats the same words. Something unlocks deep in Cassian’s chest, deep in his soul, in that moment. It’s a final piece falling into a place, a key turning in a lock, a golden thread binding them together just as surely as the rings on their fingers. It fills Cassian with warmth, with a sense of rightness, with a sense of home.

With the rings exchanged, Cassian and Nesta step forward to sign the parish registry. The wedding guests in attendance rise to do the same, but with so few of them, it doesn’t take particularly long. The ink has barely dried from Feyre signing her name before Eleanor is striding toward the doors to exit the church, shooting an expectant look over her shoulder to her youngest daughters.

“I’ll have the footmen move Mrs MacLeod’s trunk to your carriage,” she finally addresses Cassian. “I’m sure it’s quite the long journey back to Glasgow.”

Cassian has to grit his teeth, has to bite back and swallow down the harsh words he wants to fire back at her blatant dismissal. No longer is she Nesta, no longer her daughter, but Mrs MacLeod, the factory rat’s wife. And there would be no celebrating this fact, no wedding breakfast to honor the newly married couple. It has Cassian’s blood boiling, his fists clenching at his side until Nesta’s palm slides along his wrist. It’s the first contact she’s initiated, the touch soothing, but just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone again.

“Thank you, Mama,” Nesta offers politely.

Nesta side steps around Cassian, and he can do nothing but follow behind her, nothing but watch as her trunk is secured to his carriage, her whole life seemingly packed away in that one box. At least, Nesta’s sisters each give her a hug goodbye, but her mother still offers only contempt. It takes all of Cassian’s willpower to keep his face neutral, not to glare at the Lady Archeron, instead focusing on offering a hand and helping Nesta to step inside the carriage. He turns back to give a final nod to Rhys and Azriel, his chosen brothers offering a wave and a salute respectively, before Cassian steps inside and takes the seat opposite Nesta.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins once the carriage jerks into motion.

He reaches forward to take Nesta’s hands in his, but she flinches back, holding her hands close to her chest and turning her head to peer out the window, to watch as London fades away. Cassian sighs softly, dropping his hand to the skirts of her dress, his fingers curling against the fabric.

The rest of the carriage ride is painfully quiet, Nesta’s attention never straying from the carriage window. Cassian’s always loved her stubbornness, the way she never backs down from what she wants, but just once, Cassian wishes she would look at him. He wishes they could properly talk now that it’s just the two of them.

Hell, as the hours and miles continue to tick by, as the sun continues its stretching path across the sky, Cassian would give anything for Nesta to yell at him. To fight with him. For anything other than the suffocating silence. It chokes him from the inside out, his heart twisting and squeezing until he presses his free hand against his chest, rubbing like that will somehow alleviate the ache.

He feels like he’s going insane. After the first hour of stilted silence, Cassian had tried again to talk to her, to draw her attention back to him, but he’d only earned a quiet harrumph for his troubles. After the second hour, he had tried to tease her, tried to spark a reaction from her the way he had earlier, but he had even less success with that. It has Cassian wondering if Nesta really did mean it when she said she’d never forgive him. When she said she hated him.

By the time they're pulling into a coaching inn just outside of Birmingham, Cassian has never been more grateful. He clambers out of the carriage and takes a deep, heaving breath of the cool, evening air, relishing in what little soothing balm he can get. He turns back toward the carriage and holds out his hand in offering, but Nesta pointedly ignores it, stepping down on her own. She hikes up the skirts of her dress and strides forward toward the door of the inn without even a glance back, so Cassian tilts his head up toward the sky, sending a mental plea to the Mother for strength before he jogs after his wife.

“Should I expect silence for the rest of our marriage then?” Cassian mutters as he holds the door open for her.

That comment at least earns him a sharp look from Nesta before she walks through the door and inside the inn, Cassian stepping in behind her. He goes to speak with the landlord, who hands over the key and directs him up the stairs, and Cassian tries not to grimace at the fact they’ll only have the one room.

Thankfully, Nesta doesn’t say anything when Cassian unlocks the door for them to both step inside. Although, he half wonders after the hours of silence if a reaction would have been preferred. Instead, Nesta grabs the pitcher of water for their room and heads straight for the bathing chamber, closing the door behind her. With a soft huff, Cassian sits down on the bed, taking the time to peel his boots off and toss them aside. He rests his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The exhaustion of the day’s travel, of the past few weeks, burrows beneath his skin, carving space into his bones until he feels completely weighed down by it.

The soft snick of a door opening has Cassian practically leaping to his feet. He whips around just as Nesta steps back into the room, dressed now in only her shift. For a moment, Cassian is struck dumb. She’s wearing her hair down, the soft, golden brown waves falling around her shoulders and down her back. His fingers twitch at his sides with the urge to run through those strands, to tangle there as he holds her close. She’s beautiful, just like this, hair down, the faintest dusting of pink smattered high on her cheekbones.

“Where do you want me?” Nesta asks, fidgeting almost nervously with the cotton fabric of her shift.

“What?” Cassian somehow chokes out, shaking himself out of his staring.

“I presume on the bed. Perhaps a better question would be how do you want me?”

Cassian blinks a few times, his mind finally following what she’s asking. “Nes…”

Nesta lets out a frustrated huff, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m not one of those simpering girls. I know what happens on a wedding night.”

“Do you still hate me?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I won’t touch you until you ask me to, until you want me to.”

“You’ll be waiting forever then.”

“I suppose I will,” Cassian shrugs, grabbing one of the pillows and tossing it to the floor at the foot of the bed, intent on sleeping on the floor.

“That makes our marriage a sham then. I’ll go back to London and tell all of society.”

Cassian doesn’t bother biting back his taunting smirk as he lifts his attention back to her. “Did you forget that they already think I’ve had you? Everyone knows and believes that. But go ahead and try.”

That fire is a full blaze in Nesta’s eyes now, her mouth twisting into a scowl. She storms over to the bed, and Cassian half wonders if she intends to clamber over the mattress just to get to him, just to shove him and sink her claws into his chest. But she merely stops on the other side, hands clenched into fists at her side as she continues to glare at him.

“You’ll never have heirs.”

Cassian laughs dryly, cocking his head. “You think I care about that?”

“All men care about that.”

“I guess I’m not like most men, sweetheart.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at that, her tone dripping with derision when she says, “what do you care about then?”

“You,” Cassian practically shouts. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? I care about you, unlike that man you were going to marry before I stepped in.”

“Stop doing that. Stop speaking to me as if I’m stupid. As if I did not know exactly the type of man Tomas Mandray is.”

“Yet you were going to marry him anyways? What, better to marry a cruel man with a title than some factory brute?”

The silence hangs in the air between them, clearly answer enough. Cassian tries not to let it sting, but his chest already feels cut and splayed open, his nerve endings already raw and exposed. He swallows hard and turns away from her, extinguishing the candle and plunging the room into darkness. He settles down onto the floor, knocking his fist against his pillow for extra good measure, but the gesture doesn’t help the cold ache that gnaws at him the way he had hoped.

“Cassian…”

“Go to sleep, Nesta.”

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @girl-of-many-floods @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head

#nessian #CassianAppreciationWeek2023 #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #regency au #my fic

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velidewrites · 1 year

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Summary: Nesta is having the worst time on her vacation—until she spots a handsome stranger in a restaurant. Lucky for her, he's determined to show her a good time.

Pairing: Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: Smut, mature language, Mrs Archeron

Read on AO3

The only source of light in the restaurant were the candles, laid atop each table and flickering whenever the evening breeze dared to gently whoosh inside. There were no windows in the space—the climate here was warm enough to not have to bother with such things—so instead, someone had opted to carve rounded, open archways into the sandstone walls. Every now and then, the wind would find its way in, prompting the small flames into a dance that threatened to smother their enthusiasm for good.

Such cruel fate had been suffered by the fire burning over at Nesta’s table, its only remnant the thin swirl of smoke that was now slowly trailing upwards. Nesta’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the blackened wick, as if she could still feel the soft flame casting shadows over her face.

It had only been seconds, and yet the wax had already begun freezing into place as it dripped down the candle’s ivory length. To Nesta, though, the moment had somehow managed to extend into eternity—a fate even more cruel than the flame’s unfortunate death. Right now, she would do just about anything to simply evaporate into the nightly air.

A light click sounded somewhere near her side, and time resumed in an instant. A symphony of voices poured into her ears—conversations in too many languages to discern, tangled between the music playing quietly from the speakers hung in the gap between the back wall and the ceiling. Everything became too loud, too rushed, like an impending wave of the sea, the same kind that was now crashing into the shore overlooked by the restaurant. With a will of their own, Nesta’s eyes squeezed shut, as though shutting off one of her senses could somehow ease the fervour of the other, and she quickly blinked, realising there were too many gazes on her to allow an escape into her own head.

When her eyes opened again, her candle was burning anew. The fire rose from from the spent wick, resuming its dance as if never interrupted at all.

Nesta blinked one more time before finally looking up.

The waiter stood over their table, a sleek, electric lighter in his hand. He flashed her a smile, his perfect set of white teeth nearly brighter than the flame itself.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked in a thick accent. Nesta thought it made his question sound like a song. Rich and lovely—each word enunciated, each syllable important.

She opened her mouth when another movement caught her eye—a glimpse of lustrous silk, reflecting the light softly. Pink.

Nesta’s mouth closed with a flat exhale. Elain always managed to select the perfect fabric for the occasion—as if she could somehow predict how the setting would best compliment her outfit. Indeed, her own pencil skirt and a sleeveless top were no match for her sister’s dress, which could probably challenge the very sun with its own gleam. Nesta’s all-black ensemble, on the other hand, seemed to suck in all the light.

Seated to her left, Elain’s brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the menu carefully. “Do you have any vegetarian options?” she asked, brows creasing in worry.

Another movement—opposite from Nesta, this time. Her eyes darted to its source, just in time to catch the wave of their mother’s dismissive hand.

“She’ll have the octopus,” she told the waiter, whose own frown mimicked Elain’s before he quickly jotted down the order. “We’re at the seaside, after all.”

Elain’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“My eldest will have the calamari,” their mother continued, gesturing to Nesta. “Grilled, not fried. And the mussels for me.” And with that, she returned her gaze to the menu.

Elain cleared her throat pointedly, though the sound was hardly acknowledged as the woman flipped onto the last page, already examining the restaurant’s wine selection. Their mother did not deign to look up as Feyre spoke.

“I’ll have the salmon, please,” she said quietly, something strained in the back of her throat.

All the numbness Nesta had carefully cultivated in her chest prior to this evening vanished at the sound, a fire much more angry than the candle’s filling her instead. A ruthless, icy flame.

Her fury must have been evident in her eyes, because before Nesta even managed to make her feelings about mother’s obvious dismissal perfectly clear, Feyre’s slender hand wrapped around her wrist.

Nesta’s head snapped toward her little sister.

It’s not worth it, blue-grey eyes told her, even as their mother continued to question the waiter about the bitterness of the local wine.

Nesta swallowed. Hard.

Then, she looked to Elain—who shook her head quickly, honey-brown curls shifting over her shoulder.

Fine, then.

Nesta let out a deep, deep breath, and did not stop until all the fire was out and that familiar numbness filled her again.

She never thought she’d say this, but Nesta missed New York. Missed her apartment, however small, and the peace and quiet it offered on days like these—days when she felt forced to exist in the moment, to flow with its relentless current. She would give just about anything right now to be able to curl up on the grey couch in her living room and disappear under her favourite, plush blanket. She’d left a book on the coffee table beside it—she meant to bring it along for the journey, but it seemed that her mind had been too preoccupied with the destination to remember. The story—four hundred pages of her favourite romance—would have been the perfect escape for this occasion.

Frankly, Nesta had wanted to turn back and go home the moment she’d stepped on the plane. Her mood had only darkened when she discovered a raging six-year old was seated right behind her. The child had been intent on making her life even more miserable, opting to spend over half of the ten-hour flight frantically kicking her seat until his legs finally gave out about two hours before landing. The insufferable kid had been carried out by his mother, sleeping soundly in her arms and no longer resembling the devil’s spawn that he was—until they’d reached baggage claim, of course, where he’d taken the carousel for his personal playground, jumping right over her suitcase before Nesta had managed to fish it out.

The air had been warm and humid from the minute she’d left the airport, and it had only grown heavier since then. Not even the occasional breeze seemed to lift it as it swept over her face—as if mocking the beads of sweat that had begun to gather under her hairline. The climate didn’t bother her that much, to be honest—the island was beautiful, after all. The golden sand sparkling in the beaches, the turquoise water surrounding it. The palm trees growing on both sides of every stone-clad alley. Perhaps, in different company, she’d even be able to appreciate this place.

But alas, this trip was not the case. She and her sisters had been putting off this trip for two months now, though none of them had ever voiced their lack of enthusiasm aloud. Feyre would always cite her classes as an excuse, Elain was quite literally elbows-deep in work, and Nesta…after her fifteenth job interview, she was practically losing her mind.

Now, though, with the semester over and summer quickly approaching, the three of them found themselves with a lot of free time and too many missed calls from their mother. And so, when Nesta suggested they get on the plane and get the whole thing over with, neither one of her sisters even tried to protest.

It wasn’t that Nesta didn’t love her mother—they all did, truly. But love was a complicated thing, almost as complicated as the woman herself, and sometimes…sometimes it overwhelmed her.

She did feel guilty, of course. Mother’s health had been deteriorating over the past few years until finally reaching its critical point in early January. Her doctors strongly recommended a change of climate—a place where chaos didn’t thrive as wildly as it did in New York. Somewhere warm—somewhere quiet, where she could live out the rest of her days undisturbed by other worldly afflictions.

All of it was merely delaying the inevitable—even their mother knew that too well. Still, Nesta supposed, a remote island far away from the rest of the world did not seem like the worst place to turn to for comfort. She would have probably done the same had she found herself in a smilier predicament.

Except that comfort seemed to elude Mrs Archeron no matter where she fled—in fact, Nesta was starting to believe there wasn’t a single place on Earth that the woman could truly be satisfied. Even here, surrounded by nature’s radiant beauty, there was something missing. Sometimes, it was her favourite boutique in New York. Other times, the friends she’d left behind there, the weekly card games they always held at the Plaza. And lately, it was her three daughters, who, after all had not visited her in six months.

She’d seemingly forgotten that it had been Feyre who’d helped her move all the way across the world—who’d taken care of all the planning and paperwork until their mother had set foot in her new, beachfront suite. Her youngest sister had missed an entire week of lectures because of that trip, and would later sacrifice her sleep to catch up on the material overnight.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Nesta blinked, the question snapping her focus back into the present. The waiter was long gone—instead, mother had now seemed to engage Elain in a conversation, from the exasperated flush on her sister’s cheeks.

“Nesta,” Feyre murmured.

God, she needed to get it together.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta said carefully. “I got distracted for a minute. You were saying?”

The woman let out a long-suffering sighed. “You spend too much time in your own head, Nesta, and I know very well why.” Nesta’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’ve always told you should read less—or at least, read something more productive than those silly rom-coms I’ve seen on your shelf.”

Suddenly, Nesta regretted ever inviting her mother to her apartment. She’d only come over for tea once—and apparently, it had been enough for her to restock her ammunition for later.

Forcing a smile which came out a bit crooked, Nesta met the woman’s gaze. Blue-grey eyes, the same exact shade as hers and Feyre’s, stared back, adorned by wrinkles not yet smoothed out by botox. “What was your question, mother?” she asked.

Another sigh, aimed to make her disappointment clear. “I was saying you should perhaps speak to your boss about Elain,” she suggested.

Nesta angled her head slightly. “Whatever for?”

“Mother,” Elain cut in, “I told you it’s not—”

“A job, of course,” she said, dismissing her daughter completely. “You work for a high-profile company.” It was the closest to a compliment Nesta had ever heard fall from her lips. “Surely they could find something for Elain, too.”

“Elain already has a job,” Nesta reminded.

Her mouth twisted in distaste. “A different job.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I do now,” Elain spoke again, her tone sharper now, colder.

Their mother raised a hand, the golden rings on her fingers glistening under the candlelight. “Of course there isn’t, dear. You misunderstand me again.” She turned to Nesta. “I’m only saying you could ask your boss if there are any opportunities. I’m sure Elain could use the extra money.”

“I’m doing perfectly fine where I am, mother. But,” Elain added through gritted teeth, “thank you for your concern.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I take it business is going well, then?” She never called Elain’s bakery by what it was—as if the mere thought of her daughter spending her days dabbling in flour already filled her with some unimaginable horror.

“Yes,” Elain said tightly. “Perfectly well.”

Mother shrugged. “If you say so. Still,” she looked to Nesta again. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Elain’s face practically burned red.

“Fine, mother,” Nesta quickly said, making sure to squeeze Elain’s hand under the table. “I will.”

She sure as hell wasn’t asking Tomas Mandray for anything. As of Monday, she’d never have to see him again.

Her mother didn’t have to know about the resignation latter, saved on her laptop and waiting to be sent out the second she returned. If she found out Nesta was planning to quit her stable, corporate job…not even the island’s lovely climate would save her.

Mrs Archeron nodded. “Good. You should ask him about your promotion, too,” she added. “I keep hearing about it, and yet nothing ever happens.”

Nesta tried not to cringe at the displeasure in her voice.

“A fine man, that Mandray,” she mused innocently. “Good looks…good social standing.”

Dread began to build in her stomach. Please, don’t, she begged her silently. I hate him.

Something twinkled in her mother’s eyes, and she opened her mouth.

“Greysen and I broke up,” Elain announced loudly.

Mother’s face whipped to her middle daughter, and Nesta’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Why?”

A one-shouldered shrug, so similar to the one mother had given her only a minute ago. Thank you, Nesta wanted to shout across the table, though she suspected Elain hardly needed her gratitude. She was clearly enjoying this—especially as she added, “He wasn’t good for me.”

Mother was practically seething. “Greysen Nolan is a good match,” she said, as though unaware they were living in the twenty-first century. “His father and I are friends.”

“Just how good of a friend is he?” Elain shot back.

Nesta stilled.

Beside her, Feyre’s eyes widened.

Slowly, their mother leaned back in her seat.

“Ladies,” a deep voice sounded. “Your drinks.”

The waiter appeared as if out of nowhere, leaning to set their wine atop the table. Nesta had never reached for her glass quicker, urging the crimson liquid to flush down the heart lodged in her throat. Feyre, it seemed, had opted to do the same.

Only when the man pulled back, moving to approach another table, did Elain finally sway the wine in her hand, her gaze still levelled on her opponent. While mother had taken Nesta under her wing from a very young age, and completely dismissed Feyre as anything other than a tiresome presence in her house, she’d never seen Elain as anything beyond her looks—it was no surprise that she’d quickly become their father’s daughter—calm and unyielding, unafraid to face her head on and risk her disapproval. Mother had always underestimated her.

She seemed to realise that at last, as lightning seemed to rage in her blue-grey eyes, just barely restrained—an ancient storm ready to ravage a blooming land.

Not good.

So Nesta spoke, “Mother, did you know Feyre passed all of her finals with an A this year?” Feyre’s head snapped to her at that, even the freckles on her face paling. “Tell her about your post-colonialism class, Feyre.” And when Feyre didn’t manage to utter a single word, Nesta turned back to their mother, explaining, “It was the most difficult one, and she got the best grade out of her entire cohort. At NYU.”

Feyre released a breath. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

Those icy flames licked at Nesta’s chest again. Acknowledge her, she wanted to scream. Praise her.

“It’s not nothing,” she told her sister. “You’ve been brilliant, I—Mother?” Nesta frowned, realising the woman had already risen from her seat.

“Oh, please, keep going,” she waved a hand. “Don’t let me disturb you—I’m just going to go find the restroom. I need to freshen up.”

And with that, she was gone, the light click of her heels on the stone floor following her to the back of the restaurant.

Nesta eyed the movement, willing that inner fire to stifle its rage—until her eyes settled on something else entirely.

“You broke up with Greysen?” Feyre spoke beside her, but her voice was distant now, as if sounding from miles away. “When?”

“Last month,” Elain answered. “But he had it coming long before that, really,” she added quickly.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. You were dealing with your finals, I—I didn’t want to add more onto your plate.”

A sigh. “I get it. Just—please know you can always talk to me?”

“Of course. Besides, Nesta was—Nesta?”

But Nesta had long stopped participating in the conversation.

For sitting at the table a few away was the most ridiculously beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She would’ve spotted him right away had it not been for her mother’s seat shielding him from view the entire night. It was impossible not to take notice of him—and not simply due to his size, the broad chest, the strong, golden-brown arms, their muscles practically glistening under the soft light. He looked like he’d spent the entire day on the beach, his dark, windswept hair loosening a few strands over his forehead—over his hazel eyes, bright with amusement as he listened to his companion.

And his companion…of course he’d come with a date. A woman so beautiful she seemed as though the sun itself had crafted her, her golden hair cascading down the red silks of her dress, down her exposed back. What the hell did they put in the wine in this place?

From the corner of her eye, Nesta could just barely make out Elain following her gaze.

“Go talk to him,” she urged.

At that, Nesta turned, schooling her features into cool indifference. “Who?”

Elain’s brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t act stupid now, Nesta. You were practically drooling.”

“Is it a crime to appreciate a good looking man?” she asked innocently.

“It’s a crime not to do anything about it.”

Feyre huffed a laugh. Nesta shot her a glare.

“Just do it, Nesta,” she told her.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s clearly here with a date.”

“Could be his sister,” Elain supplied helpfully, though there was little confidence in her tone.

“They look nothing alike.”

Feyre sighed deeply. “Nesta, just go talk to the guy.”

“She’s right, you know.” Elain’s head tilted slightly to the side. “When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched. “I’ve been busy.”

“Exactly,” Feyre said. “And now you’re on vacation—you deserve to…let off some steam.”

Elain chuckled.

“Is that so funny?” Nesta challenged. “Maybe you should go talk to him, Elain—a little rebound’s never hurt anybody.”

Elain sipped from her glass. “Normally, I would,” she started, a small twinkle appearing in her gaze. “But I don’t think Lucien would appreciate it.”

Feyre’s jaw practically hung open. “Lucien? NYU Engineering Lucien?” She shook her head. “No, scratch that—my friend Lucien?”

Pink bloomed on Elain’s cheeks, and Nesta suspected it had little to do with the wine. “He came by the bakery a few days after your party.” That’s right, Feyre’s end-of-exams party—the one she’d quite literally begged her to show up to. The one she’d told Tomas about when she requested a day off—and so naturally, he’d made her work overtime well into the early hours of the night. “We’re going on a date next week.”

Feyre’s arms folded over her chest. “I can’t believe that asshole didn’t tell me,” she grumbled. Lucien may have been two years above Feyre—but he was still a good friend. At least, that was Nesta’s understanding from the one time she’d met him.

“I know what would lift your mood right up, Feyre,” Nesta suggested, a sly smirk curling up the corner of her mouth. “Go talk to the guy.”

Her eyes gleamed with challenge. “I will if you don’t do it first.”

She gestured towards his table. “Be my guest.”

Feyre groaned loudly.

“Nesta, would you please stop being so stubborn?” Elain begged.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself,” she huffed.

“We’re literally on the other side of the world,” Feyre argued. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

What indeed?

Nesta considered—they were leaving after the weekend. If the golden woman really was his date, and Nesta was about to face a blatant rejection—she’d never have to see him again. She would probably have to avoid every beach on this island for the next two days, but now that she thought of it, she’d always been more of a winter person, anyway. And then, she’d simply go home and never think of him again.

If he was single, on the other hand…

Nesta sighed. “Fine.”

Elain squealed in delight.

“Ask him what he ordered—it’s good small talk,” Feyre advised.

“I can see what he ordered from here,” Nesta protested. “Besides, his plate looks horrible. Who orders steak in a place like this?”

“You’re starting to sound like mother,” Feyre cautioned.

Oh, god.

“Do it your way, then, Nesta,” Elain hurried. “Just go.”

Alright then.

Nesta set her glass, rising from the table carefully. She did not nearly have enough wine for this, she realised. Her body felt warm—but not warm enough to untangle the knots that had managed to form in her stomach. It wasn’t like her to put herself out there so…publicly. Honestly, she’d never had to work this hard to catch a man’s attention before.

“Have fun.” Feyre smirked. “We’ll be watching.”

Nesta hissed, “Don’t you dare.”

The sound of her sisters’ quiet giggles carried her through the space. She didn’t think she’d ever walked more slowly in her life, each step determined to drag this out for as long as possible. God, did she at least bother to check her hair beforehand? What if she’d smudged her mascara by accident?

Too late—she was so close now that she could make out just how perfectly the man’s stubble shaped his sharp jaw. Could see how large his hands were as he clasped them together, seemingly in excitement at whatever the woman had just told him.

She could see the perfect fullness of his lips as he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Well, shit.

Nesta practically lunged for the bathroom, making a turn so sharp she almost slipped on the polished stone floor. Damn her and her stupid heels—everyone wore sandals in this place, anyway. What devilish forces pushed her to leave all of her flat shoes back home, she did not know. She could only pray no one saw her obvious escape—or the heat that was no doubt burning her face red.

The restaurant had been booming with conversation and music all night, and despite this, the only sound she was convinced everybody could hear now was her heels, loudly carrying her away as she disappeared into the corridor that led to the restrooms.

The door swung open before she’d even managed to reach for the handle.

“Ah, Nesta,” Mrs Archeron said, and Nesta almost stumbled back a step. Her mother reached for something in her handbag as she continued “Here, use this.” She fished out a small packet of tissues and pressed them into Nesta’s palm. “Public restrooms are an atrocity.”

And just like that, she left.

Nesta stared at the packet for a few seconds before finally entering the quiet room.

It was a cozy space, with golden-framed mirrors, hanging from an old mural of the sea, and marble sinks. She placed the tissues atop one of them and faced her reflection at last.

Well. She did not look half bad, at least.

Her makeup was still intact—by some miracle, even the dark wings of her eyeliner remained sharp. She’d braided her hair into an updo earlier, and though a few loose strands had fallen out to frame her face, the entire ensemble looked somewhat presentable. Nesta reached for one of the tissues, dabbing it lightly over her face in places where the heat of her embarrassment melted her foundation slightly, and sighed. What was she thinking?

She made herself count to ten before going back into the dining area, her mind already crafting a pathway back that did not involve walking past the guy’s table. There was a staircase on her left, in the corridor right by the bathroom door, that she hadn’t noticed before. The sign next to it had been written in a language she did not understand, though the message seemed pretty obvious—no entry. Shame. Nesta would have done just about anything to hide upstairs for the remainder of the night.

“I was wondering where you went,” a voice appeared beside her.

Nesta stilled. He sounded exactly as she’d imagined.

Please, let this be a dream, she begged silently. A hallucination from the humidity.

If only.

Slowly, she turned from the stairs and faced him.

Up close, he was almost criminally beautiful. He knew it, too, there was no doubt in her mind about that—not as he folded his golden-brown arms over a powerful chest, leaning against the wall with a smirk. He was so ridiculously large that he shielded most of the restaurant from view—barely, just barely, she could make out her sisters’ forms, sure to be watching them intently.

The idea made her thoughts sharpen, like a fog lifting from her gaze—pretty or not, he was still a man, and Nesta was hardly one to fall at their feet at first glance.

And so, schooling her features into what she hoped was cool indifference, she asked “Excuse me?

A chuckle.“When you left your table, I was hoping you were coming over the say hello,” he mused, his voice like a melody sang by the darkest night—low and smooth over her skin, penetrating every fibre of her being. Nesta nearly gritted her teeth as a new fire awoke inside her—hot, teasing and wet.

He’d sought her out.

“I don’t think your date would share the sentiment,” she said, careful to keep her tone aloof.

His brows knitted over hazel eyes—from up close, she could see the speckles of green dancing around his pupils. “My…” he paused, a shadow of confusion clouding his face as he took in her words. “Oh.” A smirk curled the corner of his lips. “Mor is a friend.”

“You have very pretty friends.”

He hummed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have one more.”

She couldn’t help it—couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her own lips. “You’re very cocky for a…” A what? With a face like that, she couldn’t really blame him.

He flashed her a grin, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—and enjoyed every last bit of it. “What’s your name?” he asked. God, she liked his voice. She liked everything about him.“Nesta,” she said, extending a hand.

He lifted himself off the wall, stepping in close enough to take her hand into his. That delicious heat stirred in her again at the contact—at the warmth of his skin, the slightly calloused fingers. She began wondering what he did for a living—until all thoughts evaporated from her head as he leaned to brush his mouth over her knuckles in a light kiss.

“Cassian,” he said, and the liquid fire descended down to the deepest, most aching part of her.

“Cassian,” Nesta repeated, testing out the name on her tongue. It did not sound nearly as nice on her tongue as it did on his—though Cassian hardly seemed to agree, from the way his eyes darkened at the sound.

He released her hand much too soon for Nesta’s liking. “I was about to have some dessert. Would you like to join me, Nesta?” he asked, motioning to the stairs and up.

Nesta’s brows furrowed. “Upstairs?” she questioned. “Isn’t it a private area?”

Cassian smiled at her again, and suddenly, she stopped caring about signs altogether. “Oh, it is,” he said. “Lucky for us, my brother owns this place.”

Lucky indeed.

“What of your date?”

He snorted. “I told you—not a date.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cassian jerked his chin to his table, a secretive twinkle in his eyes. “She was waiting for somebody else.”

Nesta followed his gaze—to where the beautiful woman, Mor, now smiled openly as she took the hand of her new companion. The woman who had taken Cassian’s seat returned her expression, her dark eyes shining brightly.

“Oh,” Nesta simply noted.

“Yes,” Cassian agreed, something like amusement creeping into his tone. “What’s your final verdict, then?”

Nesta shot a quick glance at another table—where Feyre was now giving her what seemed like a thumbs up.

“Lead the way,” she told him.

Cassian, it seemed, did not need to be told twice.

The room upstairs was a lovely studio, the interior similar to that of the restaurant. A small but well-equipped kitchen made up the corner on the left side of the entrance, divided from the rest of the space by a dining table of dark, polished wood. A couch stood by the windows toward the back wall, overlooking the village beneath. Nesta moved closer to the sight—it only took her a few steps to reach the other end of the apartment—as though unable to help herself, to admire the soft lights glinting from inside every household. The sea laid on the other side of the building, but she could still hear the gentle rustle of waves docking ashore. Now, with a peaceful view and a change in company, she felt her appreciation for this place grow.

“It’s beautiful.”

Somewhere behind her, Cassian hummed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nesta turned on her feet to meet his gaze—only to find it occupied. Cassian’s eyes surveyed her closely, sweeping over the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts—until they finally settled on her mouth, something bobbing in his throat at the sight.

For some reason, Nesta’s mouth felt dry. “Do you stay here often?” she asked, but her words felt distant, absent even as she spoke them.

Cassian shook his head, his gaze reluctantly moving to meet hers again. “Only sometimes. My other brother usually watches the place.”

“You have two?”

He nodded.

“I have two sisters,” she said.

He took a step towards her. “I saw.”

“You were watching me?” she asked, the question no more than a breath. He was so close to her now—she could wrap her hands around his neck if she wanted to.

His voice was hoarse as he admitted, “I was.”

Nesta went molten, all the heat he’d rallied inside her fluttering in her belly and swirling down to her core. She needed him to touch her now—anywhere, everywhere, all at once. She wanted to know how those fingers would feel as they traced the curve of her breasts, how they’d stroke that aching place deep inside her that thrummed under his stare.

He saw her—had spotted a stranger in the sea of candlelight and decided to wait for her move. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—she fascinated him just as he did her.

Perhaps this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.

Feeling bold, Nesta closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his broad chest. She tried not to gasp at the hard muscle she felt underneath—at the heartbeat that began to race under her touch. She couldn’t help but smirk.

A large palm covered her own. “So, Nesta,” Cassian said, the low rasp of his voice caressing that desperate tightness inside her. “Tell me what brought you here tonight.”

She had a feeling he didn’t mean the restaurant. “I wanted to have some fun.”

Something twinkled in his gaze as he asked, “Not enjoying your time on the island so far?”

She slid her hand up to his neck, her thumb reaching to brush the roughness of his stubble. She could’ve sworn he shuddered slightly at the touch. “Could be better,” Nesta teased.

His eyes darkened. “Let me show you, then,” he pleaded. “Let me show you a good time.”

“Yes,” Nesta breathed.

In a quick and definitely practiced move, Cassian grasped both her hands in one of his palms, lifting them above her head. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as he pinned them to the wall behind her, his grip on her deliciously firm. Nesta’s exposed shoulders brushed the stone, its cold touch instantly smothered by Cassian’s hot breath on her skin as he leaned down to crash his lips into hers.

He tasted like fire and the richest of wines, the feel of him nearly dizzying, consuming. His other hand rested heavily on her waist, trailing upward as if wanting to explore every last inch of her. Nesta’s lips parted slightly when he cupped the side of her breast, and his tongue slipped forward to meet her own like a hungry flame.

His body pressed in closer, and Nesta arched into him, desperate for more friction. Like a bolt of lightning, pleasure rocked through her she felt the hardness bulging under his trousers, digging into her stomach in repressed need.

“Take this off,” she commanded between breaths. Cassian chuckled.

As he pulled away, sliding his shirt off in one, swift motion, Nesta allowed herself a moment to admire the man before her. With his chest laid bare to her, he looked like one of the marble sculptures that decorated the space downstairs—like some kind of ancient warrior, crafted from iron and flame. He was intoxicating.

With her hands freed, she moved to trace the cords of carved muscle with her fingers, delighting in the sight of his chest falling in uneven rhythm. “I was right,” she mused, more to herself than him.

“About what?” Cassian asked, his question no more than a rasp.

Nesta flashed him a smile. “This is going to be fun.”

His lips found hers again at that, the kiss deeper now, more desperate, as if he wanted to ingrain the feel of her into his memory forever. A rustle of fabric signalled his hands on the hems of her shirt, and Nesta raised her hands, suddenly feeling very smug about her decision not to wear a bra for the evening.

A low, feral noise escaped Cassian’s throat as he took in the sight. Nesta shivered, and it had little to do with the breeze that made its way in through the open windows she was nestled between.

His hands slid down her body, and Nesta stopped breathing entirely as he circled the tip of a finger around her pebbled nipple. Her nails dug into his arms, the sensation of his touch on her sensitive skin tantalising. She needed more of him—and she needed it now.

Then, Cassian flicked her nipple, and a wretched moan ripped free from her throat. Cassian snickered in delight and flicked again, the touch drawing just enough pain this time to spur another, clawing ache that dripped between her thighs.

“Cassian,” Nesta pulled away, panting. “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, moving back an inch to meet her frantic stare. “What is it?”

“The windows.”

Cassian frowned slightly. “What about them?”

“They’re open,” Nesta said, her breath still uneven. “There are guests downstairs—”

A very satisfied smile curved his lips upwards. “Well,” he teased, his hand on her side moving to wrap under her thigh. “I guess you’ll just have to be very quiet, then.”

And with that, he lifted her up.

A thrill shot down Nesta’s spine as he pinned her to the wall again, and she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him in to settle between them.

“Just like that,” he praised, his other hand sliding down to grip her ass. There was a feral edge to her smile as she looked up at him, and a low rumble reverberated through his chest. “Nesta—”

She let her name drown in his mouth as she brought her lips to his, her legs wrapping tighter around him. The core between her thighs throbbed with her need, her anticipation, begging to be filled—to be given what she so badly wished. Keeping one of her hands on his neck, she slid the other down to the buttons of his trousers, working them quickly until another, grey fabric appeared.

Cassian groaned into her mouth as she skimmed her hand down his length.

“Who’s quiet now,” she mocked, her fingers teasing him again.

“Bossy,” he panted, his own hand moving to spring himself free at last. Any smug retorts her mind began crafting died on her tongue as she took in his cock, the breath in her chest hitching at its size, at the velvety shaft promising to completely and utterly wreck her.

He pulled her own, black skirt up to her hips before she’d even realised, as desperate for her as she was for him. Cassian’s hand moved to cup her ass again, fingers digging into the pliant flesh deliciously, as the other reached down to guide himself to her entrance.

His cock brushed the thin layer of her underwear, practically soaked with the pleasure he’d coaxed from her. “You’re killing me,” Cassian breathed, feeling the wet heat welcoming him, urging him in. She could not longer endure it—the feel of the blunt tip of his cock so achingly close, and yet not nearly close enough.

He seemed incline to agree as the sound of a ripping fabric filled the space between them. Cassian discarded her underwear to the floor before Nesta managed to open her mouth in protest, the darkness in his eyes drowning out the hazel.

“You won’t be needing it anymore,” he told her simply, his hand returning between her legs.

Her gaze followed the movement. “Is that so?”

The asshole had the audacity to wink. “I promised you a good time, did I not?” he asked, another wide smirk blooming on his beautiful face as he lazily teased a finger at her entrance, her aching cunt coating him in her slick. “Seems to me like you are,” he hummed, crooning his digit inside her.

Nesta gasped, her walls immediately clenching around him, pulsing with need. He hissed at the sensation, his cock twitching impatiently beside his hand, begging to take its place. Nesta could not agree more—she needed more, needed to feel the fullness of him inside her, to find out just how deeply she could take him. Her vision glazed with lust as she watched him add another finger, stretching her with ease.

“Cassian,” she urged, her voice tight now, strained as those fingers retreated and dipped into her again, stroking in a slow, steady rhythm that threatened to push her over the edge. Too soon—she had to find out now, had to get her craving satisfied, had to have him fill her entirely before she exploded. “Cassian,” she said again, louder, this time as her thighs shook slightly around him. It felt so fucking good and he knew it, from the smile she felt on her neck as his mouth lowered to nip at the exposed skin.

“So impatient,” he purred, his breath hot beneath her ear and shooting that familiar lightning through her again, setting every nerve in her body on high alert, tingling. His pace quickened, pulling in and out of her increasingly tightening centre, and she rolled her hips into his hand, pushing him deeper, her efforts messy, needy. “I want you to come for me, Nesta,” he told her, his lips descending on her neck again as he added, “Before the real fun begins.”

Release crashed into her without warning, her inner muscles clenching him tight as she moaned loudly, unable to contain her the sweet, white-hot fire inside her any linger. Cassian’s mouth found her own again, the kiss muffling out the sounds of her pleasure from any unwanted spectators as his fingers continued to ride her through it. Nesta’s tongue darted into him, scraping over his teeth, not nearly satiated enough—she wasn’t sure she would ever get enough of him.

He did not break apart from her as he wrapped both arms around her again, taking them to the couch a feet away. She straddled him the moment his back rested against the cushions, the feel of his hardness against her now dripping core rekindling that greedy fire inside her. She rolled her hips once, twice, relishing in the feel of him, in the guttural sounds he was making in return. His palms rested on her sides, lifting her slightly before flashing her a wicked smile.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he teased, the broad tip of his cock nudging at her entrance again.

God, she was in such deep shit.

Without another thought, Nesta slid her hands to his neck and drew him inside her.

All the air was sucked from her lungs at the stretch of him, of every aching inch as she lowered herself on his cock. Cassian hissed sharply, his grip on her hips tighter now, as though he needed to restrain himself from thrusting deep inside her, to give her a moment to adjust to the thickness of him.

But Nesta was done waiting.

She grasped a hand at his shoulder, urging him to move closer, deeper, to move with her until she could no longer see anything but stars. She could practically hear how wet she was as his strokes grew steadier and devastatingly precise, each one of them reaching further into her core, each one making her breaths go shorter and her legs grow weaker.

“Nesta,” Cassian panted, his head dipping to the crook of her neck, “You feel incredible.”

Maybe it was the way he spoke her name, low with a flash of possessiveness in his dark eyes, or the praise he’d thrown at her, but she shuddered with delight as she sunk fully onto his length, her walls gripping him tighter. Cassian swore loudly, the curse in that language she didn’t understand yet still shooting jolts of pleasure through her body. She looked down to where they joined, to where she was split open around his cock, where he dragged himself up and down the slick folds of her cunt.

Her pace quickened at the sight, something in it breaking the last shred of composure within her.

Nesta mewled as he pushed in deeper than ever before, his cock hitting the back of her cunt, stroking that sensitive spot inside her that made her melt entirely. She moaned his name, no longer caring for whoever might hear—there was only the fire erupting inside her as he filled her, the sound of his heavy breaths as he matched her pace, the wildness in his eyes as she moved on him, deeper and deeper.

She felt the inevitable tug of another climax, creeping in closer and closer with every thrust, every flutter of her cunt around him. Her legs trembled, threatening to give in the next time his cock found that secret spot inside her, her breasts bouncing with her movements.

“Cassian,” she choked, throwing her head back as his hands slid up to cup them.

Cassian’s mouth closed around one of her nipples, and she exploded.

Her walls clenched around him hard as she came, Cassian following swiftly after as his thrusts became messier, more chaotic until he finally gave in. His groan reverberated into her body, settling deep beneath her skin, caressing every shuddering inch of her as she rode them both through their joint release. They recovered together, their heaving breaths syncing into one, and it felt so good and so right that she never wanted to leave.

When Cassian’s eyes searched her own again, flickering brightly, Nesta couldn’t help but grin.

“I believe you promised me dessert,” she told him.

His gaze swept over her body, over the mess she’d made of him, and when it returned to hers at last, it was filled with a new hunger that sent heat into her once more. “Yes,” he hummed. “I believe I did.”

Taglist: @sv0430 @queercontrarian @asnowfern @helhjertet @isterofimias @octobers-veryown @fieldofdaisiies @teamazris @a-frog-with-a-laptop @jmoonjones

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thewayshedreamed · 8 months

Text

Somewhere, Part 22

Cassian POV

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a/n: How has it been this long since I've updated? 😅 I've missed these two a ton lately, and I'm excited to finally share their next chapter! I'm also excited because I've been looking forward to the NEXT chapter for quite some time, and the inspiration for that one has been extra high lately 👀👀

If you want to re-read to get a refresher or need to catch up, I put the link below!

Cassian welcomes us back for this update! Hope y'all enjoy!

>> Somewhere masterlist >>fanfic masterlist

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Hanging out with Feyre was long overdue, and despite the exhaustion settling into Cassian’s bones, he was looking forward to it. She always made tea the way he liked it— something they had in common— and after such a long day, he could use a cup to help keep his eyes open until a proper bedtime.

The door was unlocked when he approached the house, and Cassian chuckled at how his brother would no doubt react to that small fact. Nevermind that Feyre did it with Cassian in mind. His overprotective little brother was likely to have a heart attack if he knew she was so flippant with her safety while he was out of town on business. The secret was safe with Cassian, if only to spare Feyre the mild lecture for the millionth time.

“Hey Fey,” he called, wiping his shoes on the small rug.

His keys made a loud clang in the metal bowl on the entryway table, and Cassian scowled at the jarring sound as if he hadn’t been ultimately responsible. His fatigue was making him grouchy.

“Cass!” Feyre came around the corner beaming and wrapped him in a tight hug. She had always been like a baby sister to him, even in the earliest days of her relationship with Rhysand. Something had made sense between them, and Cassian loved her fiercely.

Squeezing her back with equal enthusiasm, Cassian pressed a kiss to her hair and smiled. “Lonely already?” he teased. “Rhysand only left yesterday.”

Feyre scoffed and pulled away, leading him to the small table off the side of the kitchen. Tea was already steaming in a cast iron kettle in the middle and small pastries were stacked nearby. Cassian’s mouth watered at the sight.

“I’ve hardly had time to be lonely,” she mused, and affection dripped from every word. “You know he’s called with every spare moment.”

“I figured as much. This looks great, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Feyre smiled and gestured toward one of the chairs. Cassian complied— mostly because he knew better than to challenge an Archeron in their own home— and leaned forward on his elbows to bend his neck in a stretch.

A cup of tea appeared in his field of vision, and he winked at Feyre in gratitude. She was poised across from him, her attention sliding to the garden through the window, and the sun illuminating her elegant profile. They sipped in silence for a couple of moments, content in each other’s comfortable, steady company.

Cassian was the first to break the silence, a role he served more often than not. “Have you made much progress on the pieces for your next exhibit with Rhysand being out of town?”

“Some. I haven’t hit much of a stride yet, and that’s daunting considering it’s only a couple of months away.”

Feyre wrapped her hands around her mug and rounded her shoulders as if the admission had cost her something. Whatever the case, Cassian didn’t care to see her stressed.

“You’ll get it,” he assured her. “You always do.” A small smile stretched across her face, and his chest felt a little lighter than before. The joke rolled off his tongue before he could think better of it. “Worst case, I’ll model for you.”

That earned an actual laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “should I get desperate.”

“We’ll pray it doesn’t come to that.”

They laughed together before turning their focus back to their tea. Cassian took the opportunity to snack on a small scone, which he was pretty sure was meant for children by the looks of it. He said as much, and Feyre rolled her eyes. It was an expression so like Nesta that longing threatened to choke him.

“What about you?” Feyre asked, interrupting his thoughts. “You said you had something to run by me?”

Damn, he’d forgotten he planted that seed when they made plans earlier in the day. The promotion Helion offered was eating him alive, and he needed a sounding board. While that was still true, he hadn’t been tired down to his bones when he’d originally brought it up.

“Yeah, sort of.” He leaned back in his chair and twisted to rest his elbow over the back. “It’s more that I have some things to work through out loud, and I think you could help with pros and cons.”

Feyre’s brows came together over the rim on her mug. With a nod, she placed her tea atop the table and gave him her full, undivided attention. His chest felt tighter than he’d anticipated, but he’d learned to push through uncertainty many moons ago.

“I got offered a promotion,” he began, each word leaving him through an exhale.

“Why do you say that as if it’s tragic?”

A smirk tugged at the edge of Cassian’s mouth. “It’s not tragic, and if I’m honest, I deserve it.”

“So humble.”

He winked in acknowledgement of Feyre’s ribbing. She wasn’t nearly as cutthroat as Nesta in her banter, but she did well enough if Cassian’s soft spot for her was any indication.

“Helion gave me some time to decide, but I need to get back to him soon. There’s not a position to compare it to, and with Nesta and me trying to work things out, I worry about how much of my time it’ll take up.”

Feyre was quiet for a beat too long, enough for Cassian’s lower back to bead with sweat. Stoicism wasn’t something he typically associated with Feyre, but he didn’t regret his limited experience with it.

“Have you told Nesta about it?”

He took a breath. “Yeah. She was supportive, but things are still new. I don’t know if she would try and sway me either way.”

“True,” Feyre replied, taking another long sip of her tea. “Although, if we’re being fair, Nesta will understand putting yourself first.”

Cassian must have failed at keeping his expression placid with how Feyre’s eyes tracked every angle of his face. “Fey, don’t.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I came here because I thought I wouldn’t have to defend Nesta to you, of all people.”

Silence fell. Hurt flashed over Feyre’s face, her blue eyes round, and Cassian hated himself for hurting her. Defending Nesta wasn’t something he could apologize for, though.

“That’s not what I meant.” Her voice was brittle, soft. “Nesta is practical, and she would understand the value of advancing your career in these early stages of your relationship. She won’t expect you to uproot your routine— your life— simply because you decided to work things out together.”

His eyes eased shut, and he took a measured breath. “I’m sorry.”

Feyre nodded, and the tension seemed to evaporate with the simple gesture. “Not everyone has been receptive, and I can respect you having Nesta’s back. She has too few in her corner as it is.”

Emotion gathered in his throat, and he swallowed against it. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Can I tell you something, just between the two of us for now?”

“Sure. As long as you’re not asking me to lie to Rhys.”

“Nah, not exactly.” Feyre gave him a pointed look, and he raised his hands in placation. “I only ask that you not tell him before I get a chance, but if he suspects anything, I don’t expect you to lie.”

Feyre nodded, but her brow remained furrowed.

“The timing of all this isn’t great, and I don’t know how to talk to Nesta about it,” he admitted. His shoulders relaxed for the first time in minutes. He had greatly underestimated the relief that would come with such a simple admission. “I know where I stand, but I’m trying to let Nesta settle in to all this. With us.”

He paused to assess Feyre’s expression, but she wasn’t giving much away for free. To her credit, Cassian hadn’t exactly spelled things out. He fixed his attention to his palm, using the thumb of his other hand to trace circles around his calluses.

“We talked about what happens if we see this working out long-term. We can’t live thousands of miles apart forever.”

“Well, yeah. Makes sense.”

Cassian cleared his throat. “Nesta isn’t in a place to come back to Velaris, at least not right now. Before Helion talked to me about this job, I’d already told Nesta I would move. To give us a fair shot.”

Feyre’s eyes flared in surprise, but she blinked it away. “And you think it’s too soon.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her laugh was affectionate. “Cass, you and Nesta are already years in the making.”

“Sure, but…” he trailed off, gathering his words. “We agreed to give it time, but I don’t know what she’s comfortable with before deciding to take the next step. What if I turn down the job, and I end up here for at least another year? Or, what if I take it, and I have to quit in three months? I hate the idea of putting anyone in a bind, but Nesta would come first.”

Feyre observed him, her shoulders rounding toward him as if compelled to pull him into a hug. “Cass,” she murmured, “you have to talk to her.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he joked, leaning back in his chair. He felt raw after such a display of vulnerability, and he craved the levity he was known to bring to any situation. “I don’t want the pressure to freak her out.”

“It’s a risk you take. But she’s the only person who is in this with you and whose opinion really matters. If you’re both committed to this, a simple conversation shouldn’t derail everything. If it does, that’s another issue. I’m not saying it’ll be fun, but it’s necessary.”

Cassian groaned, dragging his hands over his stubbled cheeks. “I know that. You’re supposed to lie to me.”

Feyre’s head dropped back as she laughed, and it was so contagious that it managed to drag a chuckle from beneath the weight of Cassian’s ribs.

“You know, as quick as you are to defend Nesta, maybe it’s worth giving her a little more credit yourself,” Feyre said, her tone soft.

The truth of it hit him full force. He spent so much time preparing for war in Nesta’s honor that he failed to see how his own insecurities sold her short. It was hardly fair to assume the worst in her when he expected the opposite from anyone else. It hadn’t been intentional, but the way his hang-ups exerted influence over his assumptions exposed some lingering scar tissue stretched across his ego.

Cassian nodded and focused on his tea. Feyre had given him more than his fair share to think about, including his unresolved issues and how to shield Nesta from the aftermath.

“So, you’re leaving us, then?” The playfulness in her question was the life preserver he’d needed, and he shamelessly accepted the shift in tone.

“As soon as possible,” he said, deadpan. “Can’t wait, really.”

Feyre chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Liar. You’ll miss us the second you leave.”

Cassian responded with a tight, subtle shake of his head and punctuated it with a wink. His impish denial earned another laugh from Feyre, and his heart felt lighter in the way it usually did when he made his loved ones feel at ease.

A beat of silence passed, and then, “You really love her.”

“Yeah?” Cassian asked, barely suppressing a laugh. “What gave it away?”

A scone flew across the table and hit him square in the chest. He caught it just before it landed on the table and ate half in a single bite, staring at Feyre as if he hadn’t deserved her brutality.

“Don’t be cute, Cassian,” Feyre chided. “I don’t know… I stayed conflicted about you two a couple of years ago. I’ve never seen people who brought each other alive like you and Nesta did, but it always seemed to come at a price.”

Cassian nodded, overly invested in assessing the angle of his next bite. What was he supposed to say to that, anyway?

“Part of me wanted to be relieved when you split up, but you were both miserable,” she continued, another punch to the stomach. “After watching the two of you claw your ways back to yourselves over the last couple of years, it was hard to settle into the idea that things would all snap into place now.”

His fingers drummed a mindless rhythm on the table, the quiet thudding sound keeping his pulse in check. “Well, for what it’s worth, nothing has snapped into place.”

Feyre waited until his eyes met hers again to speak, her brows furrowed. “But I thought—”

“Everything is okay,” Cassian amended, maybe too quickly. It was the truth, but something about being under the microscope made him jumpy and a little defensive. “I just meant that it didn’t happen that way. Nesta and I…” he trailed off, trying to find his words in the ether and settling for the lame ones he found first. “We didn’t have a clean break a couple of years back.”

“So, you two have tried getting back together before?”

A huff of wry amusement left him before he could stop it. “I wouldn’t say that.”

At Feyre’s incredulous stare, he elaborated as much as he dared without sharing all the skeletons in his and Nesta’s closet. He hit the high points of their chronic push and pull. Their weakness and loose details of their misdeeds towards other partners in the name of whatever they hoped to resuscitate between them, no matter how little time they could have had.

“Gods,” Feyre muttered, draining the rest of her tea and setting the cup down heavily. “I had no idea.”

“No one did, except Nesta and me. Azriel suspected at times because he knew how much Nesta always got under my skin, but I was a vault on any of the details.”

“I guess it’s no one’s business, really.”

Cassian raised his brows in silent agreement and leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms one at a time across his chest to relieve some of the tension between his shoulder blades. That familiar pressure was building again, the one that seeped into Cassian’s bones and compelled him to redirect the conversation to less turbulent territory. If not for himself, to bring a smile and an ease back to his sister-in-law, who really had no reason to carry the burden of his past.

“Maybe keep your day job, Fey,” he teased, hoping his impulse didn’t interfere with his mark. “I don’t think your powers of deduction are going to pay the bills.”

She laughed, long and loud, and pride filled his chest to bursting. Feyre was still his ally, it would seem, and the future felt a fraction less daunting with her in their corner.

His tone shifted, suddenly thick with emotion that was a surprise to him as much as Feyre. “I’ve loved Nesta since the night we spent in that cabin. Years ago, now,” he rasped. Feyre’s eyes softened, and she reached across the table for his hand. He let her take it. “Nothing’s been the same since.”

The confession gutted him and eased a tension he’d been carrying for far too long in equal measure. Cassian wondered how he’d managed to keep it all contained to that point, but the realization hit him that he hadn’t. Not really.

Anyone who knew him well knew something chaotic and unyielding had always brewed beneath the surface of his self-control— that most of his conscious effort went toward burning off the constant unsteadiness in his veins. All to avoid a host of bad decisions along the path of shameless self-destruction. The way he carried the weight of his family members’ happiness on his shoulders, the energy he brought to his job and making himself indispensable. Making decisions for others, especially ones that protected them, had never been a challenge for Cassian, as he loved nothing more than to take care of anyone who needed it. The challenge had always been in making decisions that served him when it all came down to it, and he’d never been able to do that without the threat of impact to someone else. Not even that had been enough to keep him away from Nesta over the years, no matter the fallout.

Amren had been right when she’d finally laid it all out, but he would take that small fact to the damned grave. Cruel and unusual torture wouldn’t be enough to risk her smugness for the following millennium.

Feyre ended the prolonged silence, shattering the fragile bits of his impromptu soul search. It was probably for the best, he decided.

“It makes sense, you know,” she said, her voice hushed. “No one loves like you do, Cassian.” A lump formed in his throat, and he offered her a nod in thanks. He didn’t trust the emotions that would come spilling out if he deigned to open his mouth. “And I don’t think anyone feels quite like Nesta, either.”

All good things, he thought, if the individuals in question were healthy and settled. A disaster, if they weren’t. The path his thoughts had taken only moments before indicated that he was a long way from perfect, but Cassian realized with such a small revelation that he and Nesta weren’t damned to everything they’d been through before. Not when they’d both done the work on themselves, albeit incomplete. The game changer was in the choice, and the commitment to that growth and each other.

A weight heavier than he’d thought himself capable of carrying for so many years eased from his shoulders. Not everything, of course, but sometimes, all it took was a moment that offered a little bit of hope.

—

To Feyre’s credit, Nesta had been entirely receptive to Cassian’s perceived dilemma. He’d decided to rip off the proverbial bandaid that very evening, and if he was thankful for anything, it was the fact that he’d opted to untangle his thoughts with his sister-in-law before he’d made the potential mistake of word-vomiting all over Nesta.

He had carefully laid out his pros and cons of taking the promotion— making sure to include the items pertaining to life overall, as well as the implications for their future. Nesta was patient and had pointed out several additional considerations he’d yet to think of, and as it turned out, the two of them made a pretty solid team when they got out of their own way enough to work together through life’s hurdles.

For all her assistance in building both cases, Nesta’s stance on the matter had been straight forward and rather simple if Cassian allowed himself to acknowledge it.

“The thing is,” she’d said, “you need to do what makes the most sense for you right now. Not the Cassian 6 months from now, the Cassian a year from now, or Cassian from yesterday.”

It had been a particularly sobering realization, since Cassian’s usual method involved trying to control for every possible angle, but Nesta had gotten them straight to the heart of the matter. A former version of himself itched to take her position personally, to assume that her bluntness was some kind of directly proportional measure of how little she cared to have him closer. Still a work in progress, but Cassian was pleased that silencing that maladaptive voice in his head got easier every time he did it, and life was offering him plenty of practice.

His commitment to self-advocacy had paid off in his meeting with Helion, and he’d come away with several accommodations that he wasn’t sure they would have agreed to make. Now, days later, he dragged his heavy, sleep-deprived body up the stairs to his apartment— the only way he’d made peace with skipping his workout that day— after another long day at the office. Somehow, he was juggling his usual duties while trying to learn the new ones. His replacement couldn’t start soon enough.

The door shut heavily in his already-dark entryway, his keys landing on the small table near the door by sheer muscle memory. Cassian leaned against the shut door and eased his eyes closed, but his phone vibrated rudely almost immediately. With a groan, he shoved his hand into his pocket and hauled his phone into view. The shift in his mood at seeing Nesta’s name nearly gave him whiplash.

“Hey, Sweetheart.”

He flipped the light switch, muttering a soft curse at the sudden brightness. The assault on his vision was worth it to hear the low, melodic chuckle that came shortly after.

“Hey,” she said, her smile still evident. “Long day?”

Another groan. A rough, calloused hand over the stubble on his cheek. “Yep. Anymore of this, and my brain is going to melt.”

“That feels dramatic.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, tucking his phone against his shoulder and working the buttons on his shirt. “Doesn’t make it less true. Why are you awake?”

The time difference made their nighttime phone calls a luxury. Cassian worried all the time that Nesta didn’t rest enough, but the balance was a delicate one with voicing that concern.

“Missed you,” she said simply, as if it didn’t still rock Cassian to hear Nesta admit such intimacy. “I got in late tonight anyway because I had dinner with Claire. And I made the mistake of picking up my book once I got home.”

“You should set a timer.”

Nesta scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”

He understood the way Nesta lost herself in whatever she read, had witnessed it countless times. Hours passed sometimes before Nesta’s head would lift, her eyes bleary, and she would start the task of re-orienting to the present.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed, smiling at how he knew she would bristle. “How was dinner?”

She took a long, deep breath. “It was good. We were overdue for a catch-up.”

Cassian paused to throw his shirt into the laundry basket and traded his pants for some athletic shorts. With little grace, he threw himself onto his bed, his face buried in his pillow.

“How’s she doing?” he asked, propping on an elbow.

“Good.” Her response was almost too swift, but it felt haunted all the same. “Really good.”

“That’s good.” Cassian cringed. Usually, if the word “good” entered a conversation any number of times in rapid succession, things were quite the opposite. His response felt awkward and uninspired, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. His intuition with Nesta was solid usually, but distance complicated even the things that came most naturally. A lesson he continued to learn.

“She mentioned a promotion.” Nesta sounded detached from the information she shared, and Cassian offered her the time to work through it without comment. “She deserves it. She’s wanted it for a long time and has been passed over several times now. I’m happy for her.”

Cassian considered his words, his mouth opening and slamming shut a couple of times before he landed on, “Why don’t you sound happy?”

“I am,” she insisted, her voice adamant. “I really am… I just…” Cassian let her words linger, afraid that if he made any sudden moves that Nesta may refrain from elaborating. “Some days it feels like I’ve been stuck in place for months while the rest of the world kept moving all around me.”

A grimace pulled at the edges of his mouth. Nesta had done so much work to heal over the months, and while Cassian knew she was moving mountains in their own right, he understood where she was coming from. He and Claire— two people close to Nesta whose lives hadn’t been immeasurably disrupted by recent events — were moving forward in their goals, and Nesta still consistently mentioned how she felt like she would be trying to catch up from her time off in perpetuity.

“I’m sorry, Nes,” he murmured, his voice rough.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” A forced casualness floated along her words, and he hated them for the mask they were. A deep breath in, a deep breath out, and then, “Nothing is set in stone as of now, but it would mean a relocation for Claire. And honestly, I’m not ready to face that yet… the possibility of being here alone all over again.”

Cassian nearly choked on a curse. The thought of Nesta feeling like it was her alone against the world made his chest ache with the need to pull her against him. To press a kiss to her temple and remind her who she was— that, despite being perfectly capable on her own to handle anything life threw her way, she was never fighting alone as long as Cassian was alive.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

Nesta allowed herself a soft laugh, and Cassian’s breath came a little easier, albeit not much. “I know you would if you could.”

“In a heartbeat,” he assured her. “Look, I know the timing isn’t great, but I don’t know— maybe we can talk about our timeline again. Maybe move it up.”

“Cass, absolutely not.” Her tone left no room for discussion, and Cassian felt his eyebrow quirk up as if he’d been challenged. Before he could argue in spite of her silent warning, Nesta’s voice softened. “Not that I don’t want you here. I appreciate that you would, but I won’t be that person that you feel the need to swoop in and save. I’ll be okay.”

His eyes eased shut. How was he supposed to argue with that?

“I know you will.”

An almost-comfortable silence fell over them for a few minutes until Cassian realized that part of their conversation was effectively over. Searching for lighter territory, he cleared his throat.

“Three more sleeps until I see you.”

Her laugh was the reward he’d wanted. Anything to know he’d put a smile on her face. “Most people countdown in days.”

“Mm,” he replied, seemingly unimpressed, but his smile came through anyway. “I’m not most people.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“I’m not sure if I should take offense to that.”

Nesta was quiet, and Cassian pictured the way her teeth sank into her lower lip when she fought a smile. Then, because he felt indulgent, he thought of the way he would trace her mouth with his thumb, how her eyes went round when he tipped her chin up.

“No,” she almost whispered. “It’s a good thing.”

Rolling over to his back, he ran a hand through his wild hair and groaned at his mental to-do list.

“Shit. I still need to pack.”

“I have some of your stuff here,” she reminded him. “A toothbrush, shampoo, body wash. All you need is clothes and shoes.”

“That helps. Still have to do my laundry first.”

Nesta hummed her understanding. “Well, if our schedules line up, I’ll keep you busy while you wait for the machine to finish.”

The lazy drawl of his words was courtesy of the many images her promise inspired. “I like the way your brain works, Sweetheart.”

——————————————————————————

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