Aleksander Asking If Alina Was Sure Mid-kiss Was Such A Cute, Soft, And Unexpected Moment For Me. Of

hii i hope you’re doing well! from the prompt list, could you do a blackevans brotp for general #18?

18. “Cheers, I’ll drink to that.” “You drink to everything.” “Cheers!”

“I heard Haswell is retiring next year.”

Across from her, Sirius perked up, lifting his head in acknowledgment before bringing the cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply, dragging it away from his mouth a moment later.

They were sprawled out across his bed, her leaning against the fluffed-up pillows by the headboard, Sirius spread-eagled at the foot of the mattress. He was resting his head on his elbows, his hair falling into his eyes only to be tossed over his shoulder when he brought the cigarette to his lips again.

“Cheers, I’ll drink to that. Haswell was a fucking bitch,” Sirius said with a satisfied smile. He wasn't wrong; Professor Haswell, their DADA professor, was a total bitch. He'd had it out for Lily from the first class he'd taught, ruining her entire first year of NEWT Defense.

Thankfully, Professor Haswell wouldn't be there the next year, just like all the DADA teachers before him— he was apparently taking a sabbatical to move to Japan and study Japanese dueling techniques. Good riddance, Lily thought happily, with wretched satisfaction.

“You drink to everything. And you don't even have a drink, idiot,” She pointed out, but she couldn't keep the smile off her face. In an effort to save face, she pulled her cigarette up to her lips to take a drag, not coughing even once when the smoke burned her chest.

“Cheers!” Sirius replied cheerfully, winking at her before letting his head drop back onto the bed covers, exhaling loudly. A puff of gray-black smoke hovered in the air in front of his mouth, shaped like a cloud, and she thought, vaguely amused, that just a year ago, she would have balked at the thought of willingly spending time with Sirius Black.

She didn't realize that she'd laughed aloud until Sirius arched an eyebrow in question.

“Sickle for your thoughts, Evans?”

“As if I'd tell you,” She retorted automatically, but with no malice behind her words.

He hummed in response, casual as ever. “You're only making me more curious.”

Lily sighed in defeat. If she backed out now, it would be suspicious. “Just thinking how appalled fifth-year Lily would be to see this. Us, smoking cigarettes on your bed.”

Sirius snorted, tilting his head to meet her eye, the right side of his face pressed into the bed. “Believe me, fifth-year Sirius would be even angrier. I used to think you were awful.”

She smirked softly. “Who said I ever stopped thinking you were awful?”

“Ah, don't lie, Evans. I know you find me irresistible,” He said with a wink. “Just don't tell Prongs, he'll be devastated.”

He'll be devastated. Lily battled furiously against her genetics, hoping against hope that her flustered demeanor wouldn't show as a blush.

She knew she'd been found out the moment a wide, shit-eating grin spread on Sirius' face.

“You really fancy him, don't you?” Sirius asked, still grinning. “Merlin, he'll be so thrilled when—”

“Don't tell him!” Lily shrieked. “This is so embarrassing— I can't believe I really started liking him—”

Sirus roared with laughter, looking utterly delighted with her words. “Really, Evans, don't tell me you didn't see it coming.”

Well. It sort of felt like she always knew she would fall for him in the end; in a convoluted, confusing way, Lily has suspected that this would happen eventually. That didn't make it any easier to deal with, though.

“Don't you dare tell,” Lily threatened. “I need time. Time. This is so fucking— ugh.”

Sirius' smile didn't diminish for a moment, but it sobered slightly, and he nodded to show that he understood.

“Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. Shit, will Prongs be mad that we're talking about your knickers?”

She cut him off with a smack to his arm, snorting in disbelief. “You're an asshole, you know that?”

“Asshole is my middle name,” Sirius quipped. “Sirius Asshole Black. Fitting, I think.”

It was Lily's turn to dissolve into laughter, clutching her stomach as she dropped her head next to where his leg lay.

“You're a decent bloke, Sirius. Who knew?”

“You're a decent bird, Evans,” Sirius parroted, almost as if it was a challenge. “Who knew?”

“Everyone other than you,” Lily retorted, flipping her hair over her shoulder haughtily. “Sirius Has-No-Fucking-Taste Black.”

Sirius scoffed indignantly at that. “Take that back, you heartless harpy! I have wonderful taste! You're just jealous that I didn't like you until this year.”

“I could say the same of you,” Lily said triumphantly, taking another drag from her cigarette, before stubbing the butt of it out on the headboard with a thump.

“Whatever,” Sirius said with a scowl, but his eyes were dancing with laughter.

For several moments they were silent, the only noise coming from Sirius' cigarette. The slightly sour, earthy scent wafted up to her nose, and Lily closed her eyes, relishing in the way she felt grounded up here in the boys' dormitory, with her back pressed against the bedsheets and the cigarette smoke just a few feet away.

“Sirius?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Thank you for being my friend even when you could have resented me for hating your best mate for so long. Thank you for cheering me up when the world is shit. Thank you for letting me stay up here with you when everyone else is busy and I don't know how to tell the one other person I want to talk to that I think I love him.

“That's what friends are for, Red,” Sirius said quietly, so quiet that she almost couldn't hear him. “I was lucky enough to have some good ones. Ought to pass on the favor, hm?”

But she did hear him, so she reached out to grab his hand, squeezing it gently, and smiled when he squeezed back.

Be the first who ever did

unhappily married nessian one-shot, angst, hurt/comfort, nesta is sick

-

“Okay,” Cassian says, brushing by her, “I’m off. I’ll see you tonight at Helion’s.” He grabs his coat off the rack and swings it around his shoulders. “Don’t be late, alright? Six o’clock.”

Nesta leans against the kitchen counter and nods. She’s never late. She’d be excommunicated by her husband’s friends—not that she’d really mind. He puts his hand on her shoulder and brushes a kiss to her forehead. “Bye,” she says, but his back is turned and he’s pretty much gone.

Without him and his interruptions, his footsteps on the penthouse floor, the place is coldly quiet. Nesta pads to the bathroom and starts to run water for a bath. It’s too cold today to do anything, and her head hurts, anyway. Sometimes Feyre will call and ask her to take care of Nyx, but there’s been no hurried voicemail today, no blinking time on the phone, and she knows the rest of the day will pass in the way of most others: slow, like molasses, tired and dripping, until someone cleans it up in time for the party, the dinner, the gala, the whatever. She puts a hand to her head and fumbles around in the cabinet for painkillers. After she takes a bath she’ll figure out what she’s going to wear tonight.

Out of the bath, she only feels worse. She pins up her hair and ties her robe, then goes to the guest room where she keeps all her clothes. There’s a lot of clothes. Being married to the general of the Night Court gives her a lot of money and a lot of time and a lot of clothes. Numbly she looks through the racks, head spinning.

Seguir leyendo

Someone tell me why instead of editing my thesis I’ve spent this morning writing an angsty Nessian/furious Nesta one-shot, when I haven’t written fanfiction in… six whole years?? Have I just unlocked a new level of procrastination and putting off deadlines????

(Nope I don’t know when this is set. Maybe after Eris proposed? Idk. Maybe Nesta accepted the proposal and it was the kick up the arse Cassian needed. Maybe Eris treats Nesta right from day one. Maybe Cassian has to actually work for it instead of just telling her her opinions are bullshit. Idk. It’s out of my system now so will probs never finish this. It came into my head like this and I had to get it down. That is all. It’s not even edited but… here it is anyway.)

“I fucked up.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that.

“I know. I know.” His eyes were a kind of frantic she’d never seen before. Wild. She could see the storm brewing there. He ran a hand through his hair. “Just- just tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can fix it.”

Silence.

It wasn’t often that words failed her. She was always ready with some sharp remark, some biting comment. But as he stood before her, arms outstretched and palms facing upwards almost in supplication… for the first time she didn’t know what to say.

She’d never seen him plead like this before. His face seemed bare without that smirk he always wore. His eyes empty without that gleam, that spark that said he was riling her up on purpose. His hand ran again through his dark hair, and for a moment she could have sworn his fingers trembled.

“Please.”

He was waiting. She should say something. Anything. Tell him what he wanted to hear, because there was a kind of guilt building in her stomach and clawing up her throat. Just one word from her could fix it, couldn’t it?

All she had to do was say yes. Give him what he wanted. Make him happy.

But, hell, she was far too stubborn for that. Instead she set her shoulders, stepped away from him, just barely. Enough for him to notice.

She saw his face fall even further; she hadn’t thought it was possible. He’d looked so distraught when he’d followed her out here, the door slamming behind him, and she hadn’t thought it could get worse.

That look in his eyes almost killed her.

But this wasn’t her fault.

She wasn’t good at admitting when she was wrong, that’s true. But this time, this time she was certain she wasn’t at fault. So let him grovel.

Let him suffer, just a bit.

God knows he made her suffer enough. They all had, and it made her blood boil in her veins. How blind he was. How utterly stupid.

“You seem awfully determined to right any wrongs tonight,” she said at last.

“I’ll do anything, Nes. Tell me what to do.”

She tilted her head. Kept her voice low, soft, almost gentle, as she said:

“How far back shall I go?”

Confusion flashed across his features. He wasn’t fooled by her tone. He knew her well enough to know this was a trap. That she was just waiting for him to put his foot in his mouth. His eyebrows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she was done waiting. She cut him off before he could find the words to say.

“Shall we start with tonight? Or shall I start from the beginning?”

A pause. His eyes darkened, and she knew him well enough to know that he was getting annoyed. Good.

“Every time you ignored my grief. My suffering. Ignored it because it wasn’t palatable, and decided I was dealing with all of this in the wrong way. Shall we start there?”

He folded his arms across his chest. Turned his head away.

A laugh burst from her, low and bitter.

“It doesn’t matter.” She said quietly. He snapped his head back towards her so fast she almost heard it crack.

“Of course it matters.”

She raised an eyebrow. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“We didn’t know how much you were suffering before-”

“Is that what you tell yourself? To make yourself sleep at night?”

“You think I’d have stood by and-”

“Yes.” She said simply. Her interruption stunned him. She stunned him often, she knew that much, but she rarely left him speechless. His eyes widened, and she was torn between satisfaction and devastation when she caught that look of heartbreak on his face. “What was it you said? You couldn’t understand how either of my sisters could love me?”

He flinched.

The bulking, massive, warrior before her flinched.

Again, that anger inside her was satisfied.

Good.

“You know I’d walk over hot coals for you. To hell and back-”

She couldn’t stop it, the laugh that burst out of her. Sharp and biting and vicious.

“You couldn’t even walk me back from a battlefield.” Her words were soft. So soft, but they couldn’t hide the venom there. The anger she’d harboured for so long now.

Everything else she’d told him.

How she couldn’t bear to hear the crackle of a fire. How the sound of her father’s neck breaking dogged her every step, the sight of the blood - so much blood - plagued her dreams. How submerging herself under water just to bathe made her feel like she was drowning, dying, and how oblivion was starting to feel like a mighty nice concept.

But she hadn’t told him this part. That when it mattered, when it really mattered, he’d disappeared. Limped away and left her alone.

Before then… before then, he’d listened to her when nobody else had. She’d felt something off that day at the meeting, and her sister had dismissed it, but he hadn’t. She’d felt his hand on her back when they asked her to find that damned cauldron, and it was an anchor, grounding her.

She’d bandaged his wrist, and he had looked at her like she was the entire world. Like everything else faded into insignificance the moment her fingers touched his skin. And even when he’d dropped her hand like a burning coal, she hadn’t given up.

She’d laid her life down alongside his, fully prepared to die as long as she did it by his side. She’d given up everything. Everything.

And it was in those moments after the battle, when she stood alone, watching her sisters walk away arm in arm, not even noticing that she’d fallen behind, when she couldn’t catch her breath and her lungs wouldn’t work, and it was quiet but her mind was screaming, and she wanted to sob but tears wouldn’t come…

And he was nowhere to be seen.

It was then she’d decided to fuck the lot of them.

And that night, when she’d gone to bed instead of celebrating - they were fucking celebrating - she heard their sighs. The exasperation in their voices as she turned and climbed the stairs. She felt it, how they were torn between rolling their eyes at her (haven’t we all been through a lot, she imagined they’d say), and feeling some kind of relief that she’d gone away rather than burden them with her trauma.

And as she cried into her pillow, fingers clenched into the sheets and fists shaking, she knew that every single promise every single one of them had made was meaningless. She heard the corks of bottles popping. Heard their laughter.

Fuck them all.

He looked winded now. It brought her back into the present, the almost breathless gasp that escaped his lips.

She could see the words - the excuses - starting to spill from his mouth, but she was tired. Exhausted.

She held up a hand and he stopped. Considered her for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered it, and there was pain there, in his voice and behind his eyes.

It was all she had wanted to hear from him, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she told herself at night that if he’d just realise that this - all of this - was at least partly down to him, too, then she could move on. She could forgive him for every acid word he’d thrown her way, because god knows she’d thrown enough at him, too.

But when it came down to it… she couldn’t. She thought those words would be a balm. She thought that when he finally, finally, noticed how much pain she was in that she could stop being so… angry. Stop lashing out.

Instead all she felt was disappointment. Like she’d been building up this moment for months now and it just… wasn’t enough.

Because he might have apologised, but he’d never taken those words back. And she might have snarled at him and snapped at him, but he was the one who followed her when she didn’t want to be followed. Who pushed her when she didn’t want to be pushed.

Who saw her pain on that cold winter night and instead of reaching out, told her that he couldn’t understand why anyone loved her. He was the one who told her they all hated her. Told her she needed to try harder, when even breathing felt like too much.

No. It wasn’t enough.

Nesta was slow to admit when she was wrong.

She was even slower to forgive.

Before the Dust Settles

Word Count: 4856

Writing Masterlist

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TW: miscarriage, death, depression, self-blame, eating disorder, victim blaming, disassociation, mentioned sexual assault

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A/N: Huge shoutout and thank you to @thewayshedreamed for beta-reading this fic and for being so supportive! I couldn’t have done without you Dani ♥️ Also, tysm @perseusannabeth for listening to my early rambles abt this fic, and @bookstantrash for helping my indecisive self finish up editing this. Love you guys :)

Green. The color of grass and Springtime, when seeds sprout and eggs hatch.

Blue. The color of the sky. The color of her mother’s eyes. Would she have seen those eyes beneath their sleepy, blinking lids?

Red. Her legs were coated in an ominous crimson as she raced to the hospital. As her baby, who had never had the chance to become a baby, never had the chance to take a breath of air, never had the chance to see or hear or smell or taste or touch, to have eyes and legs and fingers, disintegrated.

Maybe she should have screamed. Nesta had always been one to go down fighting, kicking and screaming and biting, even if it seemed hopeless. Maybe she should have yelled at the healers to do something, to save her baby’s life, instead of just telling her that her child was gone.

The world looked grey now. It was a blurry and muffled, as if she were underwater. Perhaps this was all just a Cauldron-induced nightmare. Was she still drowning in its depths? Had everything that had happened after that point merely been a taunting vision?

But the cramps she felt were too real. Besides, she couldn’t bring herself to care about what reality was anyway. Even if everything was just a vision, her child was dead. Cassian’s child was dead. That was her reality.

So she sat on her bed in her two-day-old pajamas, staring at the grey wall, wishing she hadn’t taken for granted all the times when it had looked green.

__________

A knock sounded on the door of her bedroom.

“Nesta, come on, we’re going to be late!” Cassian’s voice called through her door.

Was she supposed to go somewhere, wondered a small voice at the back of her mind. But mostly she was too tired to think, let alone to talk, or — gods forbid!— move. No way was she going anywhere, not even the kitchen.

“Nesta!” At her lack of response, Cassian opened the door and entered. He looked startled as he took in her attire. “We’re supposed to be at Rhys’ place in ten minutes! Come on, get dressed!”

Oh, yes, Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court, host of dinner parties, husband of Feyre, and father of Nyx. Nyx would have been her baby’s cousin. Would they have had the same jet-black, silky hair? The same sunkissed, almond skin tone? Would they have played together?

Perhaps they would have sat next to each other on the swings, and Feyre and Nesta would have stood behind them, pushing them gently and chatting softly.

“Nesta!”

You have to answer, Nesta told herself. She couldn’t let Cassian suspect that something was wrong with her. If he did, he’d offer her kindness that would make her break down and confess everything. She couldn’t let herself hurt him that way. After all, she hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell him she was pregnant.

Taking a silent deep breath through her nose, Nesta steeled herself and forced herself to say, “I’m not going.” Cassian would never know that those were the first words she’d said since the healers had told her the news.

“What? Please, last week you promised you were coming!” Cassian huffed, frustrated. “Are you trying to punish me for staying out late last night having drinks with Rhys?”

She couldn’t make herself answer. It took all her energy to sit upright and blink every once in a while, when all she wanted was to melt into a puddle or to fall asleep and never have to wake up again.

“Seriously, Nesta? Look, I’m sorry, alright? Would you please just get dressed?”

I’m sorry, Cassian. I’m sorry that I’m being difficult. I’m sorry that you always have to put up with me. I’m sorry that no matter how hard I try, I can’t be a perfect wife the way Feyre is to Rhysand. I’m sorry that I’m irritable and difficult. I’m sorry that our baby is dead.

The words didn’t seem to escape her lips, since Cassian’s didn’t respond; he just continued to stare at her expectantly, with slight frustration in his gaze.

She shook her head in response to his question. The action made her nauseous, probably because she hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

Cassian opened his mouth to attempt to convince her to go, but shut it without uttering a word. He had probably realized that nothing he said would convince her.

“Is everything okay? Do you need me to stay home with you?”

No. Nothing was okay and never would be, because nothing, not even the gods-damn Cauldron, could bring their baby back. Nesta could never ever fix it. She wanted to wrap herself in his arms and yell at the world but none of that would bring them back. No, the only thing Nesta could do was to spare Cassian the pain. She needed to rein in her selfish desire for comfort and instead make sure Cassian never, ever found out. Cassian, who had never had a father and had lost his mother too early in life, who had been dealt a hand with far too much loss and violence, didn’t deserve to be hurt this way. This was Nesta’s burden to be shouldered.

So Nesta merely shook her head again. As she watched Cassian’s figure retreat out of the room and leap into the sky, she realized that suffering alone would make her feel a little less useless. If she could cry for both of them and hurt for both of them, then her pain would serve to keep the smile on Cassian’s face and the light in Cassian’s eyes.

And for that, for him, she’d willingly endure any torture. She’d willingly condemn herself to eternal silent suffering, if only to spare the male she loved — the male who was, and had always been, far too good for her. For Cassian, she would survive this.

Nesta sat there alone as the light outside faded and the room grew darker. She had no idea how much time passed. She just sat there, trying to push all her thoughts out of her head.

Pitiful, that’s what it was. She was supposed to be a Valkyrie — strong both physically and mentally. Why was it that now, she failed to do even what she’d learned in the first days of mind-stilling exercises with Gwyn?

She needed to get her emotions under control. So far, she’d managed to keep Cassian unaware. The day of her miscarriage, Cassian had been dealing with trouble in Illyria and had come home late. He had kept his emotional shields up as he usually did when with his troops, so he hadn’t felt her pain through the bond — pain she hadn’t managed to contain despite her best attempts as she felt her joy bleed out of her. If Cassian had smelt any of the blood that had refused to leave her clothes, then he likely assumed it was just wounds from training and hadn’t said a thing. He had spent the next day discussing strategy with Azriel and Rhysand and had gone drinking with them afterwards. Honestly, it was a miracle that she had been able to keep up this facade for so long, with her obvious despair permeating the room.

She had to pull herself together.

Just… maybe not just yet. Right now, it was a struggle just to take another breath. Her stomach grumbled, urging her to feed herself. However, her legs, which were number than her heart and steadier than her mental shields, refused to budge. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered why she was surprised that her body was failing her yet again. As much as she had grown to love her body while training to become a Valkyrie and fighting in the Blood Rite, she should not have forgotten that it wasn’t really hers. No, this High Fae body was given to her by the Cauldron. Although, it was debatable whether she had ever really owned her body. Had her human body not been a tool cultivated by her mother to manipulate powerful men? But still, despite being malnourished, it had been hers — enough for her to fight tooth and nail to preserve its purity against aggressive ex-fiancés.

This body… Nesta wanted to think that she owned it. It had grown and changed with her, becoming stronger and fuller and more flexible. Perhaps this was just a reminder that nothing really belonged to anyone. Her body, her soul — it was all part of the universe and in truth, she was powerless to control its fate. Her baby, too. They had never really been hers.

Nesta had been so excited to share the news with Cassian when she had found out a month ago. Anxious too of course, but mainly excited. She had read up about every detail, since she was not as informed as she wanted to be about the differences between human and Fae pregnancy. She researched everything from the best foods to eat during pregnancy to how long to breastfeed to whether flying was safe during the later months. She had even found information on how to make a safe, enclosed space with a soft floor where an infant illyrian could start to fly.

At first, she wanted to tell Cassian, but she had read about it and decided to surprise him with it as a Solstice present. She had imported a special candle from the Day Court which masked the scent of her pregnancy and had made sure to hide her nausea from Cassian to avoid his suspicion and worry.

Now, she was glad she’d decided not to tell him.

She opened her eyes, sighing softly, and found a tray of food lying next to her. As she picked up the spoon and took a bite, she realized it was all her comfort food: a plate with fried potatoes topped with fried egg, along with seafood paella and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the House — her first real friend. Eating made her feel slightly better, even if it was just because doing something occupied her mind. Still not all her thoughts were silenced: as she took a bite of the eggs, she couldn’t help but remember reading about how eggs had high nutritional value and were a food source of nutrients for pregnant females.

When she finished eating — which, to her surprise, was when almost everything on the tray was gone — a few books appeared, replacing the tray. Instead of the usual romance, these were fantasy. The House had clearly sensed that Nesta needed to escape reality for a while and that reading about happy couples would only make her feel worse.

Nesta breathed in the scent of the book — the ink, the pages, the book-binding glue — and felt a sense of calm wash over her as her problems faded away.

Later, when exhaustion finally closed her eyelids, she fell asleep still clutching an open book to her chest, her mind soaring over glittering seas riding an iridescent thousand-year old dragon.

__________

“Nesta?”

She awoke to the sound of a female voice calling her name through the door. She blinked and looked around, still groggy. She wondered briefly why Cassian was not sleeping next to her before recalling the events of the past few days.

“Nesta, you better be fully dressed because we’re coming in!” called a different voice.

Emerie. Gwyn. What were they doing here? Had she forgotten to tell them she wasn’t going to training? No, she had definitely let them know that she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. There was no reason for them to suspect otherwise, not after they’d seen Nesta dry heaving after training last week due to her morning sickness.

Nesta opened her mouth, trying to formulate some response that would make them leave but she found that she couldn’t use her voice. The thought of pretending to be alright exhausted her despite the fact that she had quite literally just woken up.

The door opened and the two females entered. As they gazed at her, Nesta knew she should try to put on her regular expression but it was futile.

Emerie’s eyes softened and Nesta resisted the urge to flinch. She didn’t want their pity. She didn’t want their comfort. She didn’t-

“We were wondering if you were willing to invite us,” Gwyn said tentatively. “We missed the Pegasus.”

“And the food,” Emerie added.

“And you, of course.” Gwyn’s eyes pierced her and Nesta knew her friend could see the sadness that was drowning her, burying her alive.

“But mainly the books and the food,” Emerie said, smirking. The light, joking air they put on was for her sake. Because they knew that, no matter how far she’d come, Nesta tended to retreat into her shell when things got bad. That her old habit returned and she needed to be gently coaxed into talking about her feelings. She needed to be reminded that people loved her and that she deserved to be loved.

It was because of Gwyn and Emerie that Nesta found the strength to get out of bed and walk with them to the living room.

She didn’t miss the long glances Emerie and Gwyn shared as they seemed to be debating what to do, but she didn’t react to them.

“So, Nesta,” Emerie said, “I actually read this book recently, I think it was called Amethyst Mischief? It was incredible.”

“Oh, who was it by?” Gwyn inquired.

“Asterion Winika. She also wrote Tinted Skies of Raleigh. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Gwyn replied. Nesta shook her head as well.

“Well, it’s about this young female who was born in a world where there is a form of alchemic magic that they call ‘technology’ which is based on lighting-generated impulses. They power thousands of different things with this lighting energy, which they call electricity. Anyway, so this female was travelling…”

As Emerie recounted her story, with Gwyn chiming in occasionally, Nesta felt as though she were slowly thawing. It was as though she’d been encased in a cloud of heavy despair and now, the dark clouds were slowly moving to let a tiny stream of sunlight through. Her sadness still clung to her, but it had loosened its grip slightly, giving her room to breathe.

Although she could not attempt to feel joy, she felt like she was able to get through her day — to make it through without feeling as though she was being crushed by a mountain (now, it only felt like a boulder).

At the end of the afternoon, as she walked her friends to the door to say goodbye, she felt like she would be able to survive this. She just had to take it one step at a time.

__________

Cassian groaned, his arms raised above his head as he stretched in his chair.

“Long day?” Nesta asked. The dinner table, with their now empty plates, stood between them.

“Full day of training and drills with the Illyrians,” he replied, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “Sorry I didn’t come home last night. I needed to head to Illyria and-”

“It’s fine. Gwyn and Emerie came over today,” she said quickly, before steering the conversation away from her again. “How did the training go?”

Cassian let out a tired half-laugh, his eyes still shut. “About how you’d expect. Over-enthusiastic and energetic new recruits who need to learn some discipline, conniving warlords, disrespectful and power hungry males all around. But the drills went well.”

Pride cut through the haze of his exhaustion as he uttered that last phrase.

He opened his eyes. “It’s something beautiful, watching them all come together to fight. Of course I hope we won’t ever have another war but when we do these drills and they get into formations and fight the siphon-made simulation, they stop being individuals who are desperate for power and recognition and instead become the legendary Illyrian army. Watching those recruits who’d usually beat each other up for an extra portion of meat work together, helping each other up and guarding each other’s blind spots…”

His hazel eyes shone like liquid gold as awe colored his voice.

“It’s like Enalius is there. It’s glorious and it’s, well, I guess it’s why I love doing my job,” he smiled.

As she watched him, joy sparked in her chest which she felt keenly given its absence in the past three days. People often forgot that Cassian’s passion matched her own. They believed him to be easy going due to his mask of innuendoes, jokes, and smiles, and didn’t bother to notice his fire. Nesta loved watching him get passionate about subjects he loved. His face, his voice, and his soul lit up and Nesta couldn’t help but smile as he bloomed in front of her — fireworks breaking through the darkness of her despair.

Once in bed, Cassian promptly passed out. Laying curled against him, with his arm and wing tossed over her, Nesta felt his heat seep into her bones. In his cocoon, she felt safe, protected from the harsh tragedies she wanted to forget. Her last thought as she succumbed to Morpheus’ lull was that as long as she had Cassian, she would be alright.

__________

Nesta woke alone.

She got out of bed, threw on a robe over her nightgown, and headed towards the kitchen where Cassian probably was. Her fae ears picked up the sound of faint voices, growing louder as she approached.

Nesta entered the kitchen. For a brief moment, she absorbed the sunlight that streamed in through the window and felt at peace. Then, she took in her surroundings — or more precisely, the people who surrounded her. Cassian was in the kitchen, of course, but alongside him stood not only Azriel but also Mor, Rhys and Feyre. They seemed to be having breakfast together, as Cassian and Az cooked something on the stove while Mor and Feyre chatted as the blonde made tea. Why they had all decided to gather in her house this morning, she had no idea. Perhaps Cassian had invited them and hadn’t bothered to inform her. Or perhaps they thought that since this house had once belonged to Rhysand, they were still allowed to come and go unannounced as they pleased. Either way, she was in no state to deal with so many people, especially so early in the day.

Hoping to get some caffeine into her system, she took a step towards the cupboard to grab a mug when she noticed something moving at Feyre’s feet. A flutter of wings, chubby outstretched fingers, and rounded violet-blue eyes froze her in her tracks. Nyx. The sight stabbed her sharply and pain flooded her senses as a sludge of ugly emotions bled from the wound.

Why was it that Nyx was able to be standing there, in perfect health, with his perfect arms and legs and hair and wings, while her baby had never even gotten a chance to grow any of their own? Why was it that Nyx could hold onto his mother’s leg, babbling happily, while Nesta would never be able to hold her baby, let alone hear their voice or see their smile? Why was it that Nyx could be alive, could be born and grow up, getting a little bigger and stronger everyday, while Nesta’s baby had never even tasted a second of life?

Rage and despair churned into a violent tornado. Nyx let out a soft cry, as her baby never would. Feyre placed a kiss on his brow, as Nesta would never be able to do. Nyx exhaled air that her baby would never breathe.

Too much. The tornado had shredded her insides — her passionate heart, the temporary joy the afternoon with her friends and the night with Cassian had placed in her, the strength cultivated by her mother and her society and later by herself — all torn to pieces.

The tornado threatened to escape her, to cut others to ribbons with sharp words and destructive acts, but Nesta used the remaining shards of herself to hold it in.

Nyx laughed a toddler’s laugh: bubbly and consuming and innocent. Because that’s what he was: an innocent toddler.

How could she have, even for a moment, wished ill upon such a being? Not just any child, but Nyx. Nyx, for whom she had sacrificed her powers. Nyx, whom she had rocked to sleep and fed apple-sauce to and babysat countless times. Nyx, who always smiled so widely when she played peek-a-boo with him and whose eyes sparkled as he wrapped his tiny fingers around hers. Nyx, who crawled and then walked towards her just because he loved her hair and her hugs. What kind of monster was she to question his right to exist, just because her own child had been taken unjustly?

Cold. Cruel. Contemptible. Her guilt grew claws that dug into her.

A monster. That’s what she was. No wonder the Mother had decided not to give her a child. She didn’t deserve one. What she deserved was this: unending, unrelenting pain.

Yet Nesta was a coward, so she backed out of the kitchen, eager to get away from the adorable toddler who brought her such agony.

She slid down the hall. Her footsteps grew louder, echoing the double beat of her heart: Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. She shut her eyes, then covered her ears, as though any of that would stop her from hearing the beat.

How could it, when the words came from everywhere? From the Cauldron which had stolen her child away, from the world which had castigated her from a young age, and even from herself: Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. She thought that she’d grown and changed but perhaps she’d only gotten better at deluding herself. After all, beasts can never really turn into people, no matter how hard they try and beguile themselves with fairytales.

How could she escape the truth? How could she escape herself?

Your fault, whispered the walls. Your baby is gone forever, hissed the floor. You deserve it, yelled the ceiling. And then they were all closing in on her, tighter and tighter and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fit in this tiny cage, this prison of her own design and-

“Nesta!”

She gasped, inhaling deeper as her chest finally loosened. It was Cassian’s voice behind her.

“Hey, Nesta.” His voice was so soothing and it grounded her like nothing else. She blinked a few times. She hadn’t even noticed that her vision had gone blurry but now it began to clear.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you everyone was here,” he said. “I completely forgot that I had invited them a while back. I tried to tell them that we hadn’t prepared brunch but they just said that they’d assemble things and then I kind of gave in and… I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I’m sorry.”

She had left the room because she couldn’t deal with all those people. She needed space to process the unexpected torment of facing Nyx. But Cassian wasn’t people: he was her mate, her husband, her partner, and her lover in every sense of the term.

She wanted to hug him. To bury herself in his strong, caring arms and chest and never leave his embrace. To leave behind the hurt and the pain that clawed at her continuously, and shield herself with his love.

Nesta turned around slowly, and met his amber eyes. Part of her wanted to be trapped within them forever, frozen in time in the eye of her hurricane.

“Nesta?” Her eyes fell to his lips as they curved slightly. “I brought you a surprise to cheer you up.” His dark lashes cast a shadow along his left cheek as he winked.

He raised his arms, and held out a wide-eyed, smiling child. Nyx.

Nesta could only blink in shock as her internal storm started up once more, the winds stronger than ever.

“He wanted to see his favorite aunt,” Cassian grinned, so joyously it singed a hole through her already battered heart.  She couldn’t tell him that looking at this child, who Cassian adored with his whole being and brought him so much happiness, made her want to retch, smash every item in the house, and then sob for the rest of eternity. “And I know how much you love this little ball of mischief.”

Cassian raised Nyx higher and pressed a light kiss to his hair, causing the toddler to giggle happily.

He would have been such a great father.

You took that from him, whispered her heart. You didn’t deserve a child and the Mother knew that, so she had to destroy his baby. It’s your fault. You killed his child.

Something in her expression must have betrayed her, because a crease appeared in Cassian’s brow and his smile faded slightly. He cocked his head and gently held out the laughing child towards her. “Do you want to hold him?”

She didn’t want to be here, in such close proximity to this reminder of everything she could have had — everything she had lost. She didn’t want to look at Nyx, who stared up at her with earnest round eyes and rosy cheeks.

She instinctively took a step back from Nyx, her waking nightmare, and shook her head. She tried desperately to think of a way to cover up her actions with the excuse Cassian had concocted — that she was merely overwhelmed by the Inner Circle’s unexpected presence this morning — but she couldn’t think as the desperate emotions churned and churned inside her. Her body wanted to succumb to their thrall, to sway and collapse and drown in the storm but she couldn’t — not here, in front of Cassian. That would only lead to questions, which would lead to pain for him, she reminded herself sternly. So she would need to cover up her tracks quickly.

But it was too late. Cassian’s eyes were already filled with alarm and his voice was coated with confused concern as he asked, “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

No, she wanted to yell. No, no, no. The child in Cassian’s arms, who most including her usual self would classify as a bundle of joy, was currently torturing her with his presence alone. She wasn’t strong enough to contain the throbbing anger and agony for much longer.

Nesta’s eyes finally obeyed her, tearing away from Nyx to gaze up at her mate. Nesta’s stare must have revealed that she wasn’t overjoyed to see Nyx as he had expected; he had realized that for some inconceivable reason, she was vexed by this toddler’s presence.

She watched as his emotions danced in his eyes. He looked as though he couldn’t recognize or understand her. Worse yet, a flicker of unease and of fear shone on his face. He had never looked at her like that before, and it broke something within her that she hadn’t even realized she’d been clinging to this whole time. The certainty of her bond with Cassian and the love they shared had been the one thing grounding her and now it was gone. He had glimpsed the truth of her: that she was a monster. She could feel herself spiralling as her brain noted that Cassian’s strong arms were supposed to be their child’s spot, not Nyx’s, and that those loving, protective kisses should have been their child’s.

She needed to leave before she hurt anyone else, before Cassian asked her the questions that lingered in his eyes.

So Nesta spun on her heel, and raced to their room. Mercifully, Cassian stood still in shock for a few seconds before chasing after her. Though he was faster than her due to centuries of training, the head start had been all she needed to enter the room before him. The House, her friend who understood that Nesta couldn’t bear the pain looking at Nyx or Cassian would cause her, quickly shut and locked the door behind her.

Within the privacy of her room, Nesta finally allowed herself to fall apart. Tears streamed down her face as silent sobs wracked her body. She let herself succumb to the suffering and the ache. Any remaining strength dissolved into nothingness and her head drooped onto her knees.

Outside, Cassian knocked and desperately called for her to let him in, to tell him what was wrong. His pleas were muffled by the House’s magic, but he still begged, until his throat was raw and his voice was hoarse. Even then, he stayed, resting his head against the cool wood of the locked door between him and his mate. He reached out a hand to her through their bond and felt the drops of sadness that seeped through the cracks of the usually immovable fortress walls of her mind.

Cassian shut his eyes, drowning in worry and pain, not knowing that across the door, his mate did the same.

__________

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Good at Starting Fires

I really hated the overly sexualised way that Cassian looked at Nesta in ACOSAF and ACOSF when he commented on her drastic weight loss. Instead of being concerned that she was losing weight at a drastic pace he was more ‘boobs man, great they’re still there’ and it wound me up no end.

I was sent a prompt by an anon that said 'angsty Nessian set in the Illyrian camp where Cassian sees Nesta in her underwear for the first time’ and I found that I wanted to try and right that 'wrong’ in relation to the above. Probably not quite what the requestor had in mind but hey ho.

Some mention of weight loss and concerns surrounding it.

***

The rain lashed onto Cassian’s exposed skin.

The deluge hadn’t turned into a full storm quite yet but still, this was the worst weather he had seen in a long while, the wind barrelling into him warranting his full concentration in order to continue to fly upright.

Cassian would have chanced some different manoeuvres to make flight easier but he wasn’t flying alone.

The female in his arms had said nothing to him since they left the ground, perhaps planning to ignore him for the remainder of their eternal lives. Cassian would usually provoke her into retaliating against some jibe but tonight, with thick darkness surrounding them and the harsh pelt of the cold rain against their skin, goading wasn’t suitable.

Instead, Cassian flew through the onslaught, clutching onto a shivering Nesta.

Keep reading

Her me out... Tamlin and Nesta are mates

A scary though just came to me rn

What if somehow Sarah j mass decides to ruin us and kill us by making Az and nesta mates .....

I-

No

No that would never happen hopefully

My manifestations for today

Cassian and nests are mates

Az ends up with someone who deserves him

Az does not die

Tamilin is no more a sad and feeling sorry for himself kind of person but decides to change and become a better person

Freysands child is born and lives

Elain and Az are rly close friends and NOTHING more eventho I rly rly want them to be lovers

And everything is perfect

“You’re going to die,” Lucien said. “I’m aware of it every moment I’m with you.”  

At the morbid words, Nesta began to frown but Lucien held up his hands. Wait, his look answered. 

Ordinarily Nesta might have interrupted him purely out of principle. But Lucien was lucky she knew him so well. He looked at her with that same look she’d seen a million times. One for every chase. One for every tease. One for everyday they laughed. 

He sighed, some noncommittal, frustrated sound and Nesta yearned to reach for him, to comfort him, but Lucien placed a gentle palm on her cheek. She could feel them burn as he rubbed his thumb across. “Even if you could live forever, I think I’d still be afraid to lose you.” 

Seguir leyendo

You have no right💔

I feel like Easy on me by Adele is such a Nesta song

"Go easy on me baby, I was still a child

Didn't get the chance to feel the world around me"

This is way out of my comfort zone, but for all you Nezriel lovers... here ya go! Nesta vs the Buffer - Part Two (18+)

Nesta had been about to extinguish the little lamp beside her bed when the door had knocked. She wasn’t sure if she had heard it correctly, the brush of knuckles had been so gentle like the sweep of the wind.

A male was at her door, dark head bowed as she opened it. Azriel’s hazel eyes flickered to hers.

‘Have you been sent to kill me?’

A crease pressed between his brows. ‘Do you think I would knock if that was the case?’

‘Well, you are very polite.’

It struck Nesta that they had never really had a conversation, just the two of them before. They had spoken, sure, but usually as part of a group or if other people were present. He was tall in his own right; not as physically imposing as Cassian, but he reached as high as the door frame. A thick sweeping of hair fell across his forehead. She’d always thought him the prettiest.

They stood in a strange stalemate. Two of her neighbours were arguing in their apartment; it was a common occurrence she had found out, though only occurred late at night. It would go on and on. On the second night, she had knocked to see if the female shrieking needed help – only to be told by both of them to mind her damn business.

‘Are you here for a reason?’

Azriel swallowed. A shadow eclipsed him briefly. ‘I suppose I wanted to see if you were okay.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

That dinner had been downright awful. Right from the start where she had tipped mushroom soup over herself and ended up wearing a dress that was too risqué, from being told the wrong time, for being forgotten and overlooked, all the way to her little eruption at dessert. None of it made her too embarrassed – except perhaps asking Varian if he slept with Cresseida. That was maybe slightly too far.  

‘Can I stay here tonight?’

‘What?’ Nesta’s voice blurted, far too loudly. She tightened her dressing gown around her body then shifted back a step.

At her reaction, Azriel had grimaced slightly. ‘I continued what you started at the restaurant tonight. I don’t want to speak to them. And I know this is the last place they would expect me to be.’

Her apartment became a refuge for the shadow singer. When duty called, he returned to the inner circle. That wall of ice that surrounded him would not yield. He reported back to Rhys, winnowed wherever he had to for missions, but in his free time, he could be always found at Nesta’s apartment rather than spending another moment in their company. He didn’t share what happened at the restaurant. Nesta didn’t particularly care. She had said her piece and left the door open for him to swoop in

It was startingly easy to move around him. They orbited each other silently. Nesta might go out for a few hours, returning with a new book or Azriel would bring hot food with him from a café in Velaris. They never squabbled over using the bathroom, they ate the same food, had the same tastes, and were content to be in a reserved quiet. He didn’t get in her way, didn’t take up too much space. She only bothered him to offer him a drink or snack. Azriel always tidied the blankets on the couch each morning though Nesta doubted he slept much. Sometimes she could hear him, treading almost silently around the living room. It was only because she was still awake herself that she ever heard him.

One night when he’d knocked on late, she’d handed him a key, blinking at the bright lights in the corridor. ‘I’m sick of getting out of bed in the middle of the night. Let yourself in from now on.’

His eyes had passed over the key like Nesta had given him an heirloom. The pad of his thumb stroked along the collar and the bit. ‘Thank you.’

Another week passed with quiet conversations. She saw him only in the moments before she went to bed. A bat by looks and by nature, she had said, drawing a smile from him. Nesta liked those smiles because they were so rare. She had yet to see the shadow singer throw back his head in full-bellied laugher or to even show his teeth when he grinned. Azriel guarded himself carefully. It was a practise she knew very well.

Perhaps that was the reason why, that in such short space of time, they had warmed to each other. Nesta did not pry. Azriel did not either. He read reports. She read her books. She cooked. He cleaned. Sometimes he would disappear in the middle of the night, leaving the door on the latch, coming back before dawn, but Nesta didn’t interrogate.

‘Not that I want you gone, but I have to ask how long you do plan to be here for?’

A shadow danced near his ear, but Azriel swatted it away like a fly. How long will you remain angry with your family, she wondered. Would an equal measure of five hundred years dull the pain?

‘What I mean is, I feel terrible that you sleep on this dreadful couch. At your great age, it must play havoc with your back.’ A slight smirk from the shadow singer sent a wave of pride rushing over her. ‘If you planned on a long-term scenario… We could find another place with two bedrooms.’

‘You’d want to live with me?’

‘Why not? We already are.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, threading a hand through his ebony hair. ‘The others tell me to loosen up, to lighten up, to be louder.’

A cocoon of silence always followed him. He never rushed his words or said more than he needed to.

‘I like you as you are,’ Nesta admitted.  

Something charged passed through their gaze. Nesta felt it spike in her veins like a spark. Shadows blurred him from view so she took that as her cue to go to bed.

***

‘Why do you leave the room when I light a fire?’ Azriel couldn’t keep the question in. He had been staying there for almost three weeks now. With the arrival of colder weather, he’d fought against his revulsion for fire to keep the apartment warm for them. And every time that first tendril of flame had come to life, Nesta would depart to the bedroom. ‘Is it my hands?’

He kept his hands balled into fists, the scars taut over his bones. Nesta froze in the doorway to her bedroom, a book clutched to her chest. Instinct had her gaze darting to his hands then she shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘My hands,’ he repeated, the words unsure on his lips. He hated this. Hated drawing attention to them.

Nesta drew nearer hesitantly. She set the book down on the small table. ‘I don’t know what happened to your hands. I don’t have an issue with them, Azriel.’

Azriel tensed. He had thought all the sisters knew. The story had been given wings in secret as if it would spare Azriel’s feelings if they all knew without him having to share the story.

‘What happened to your hands?’ Her voice was gentle. It was the gentle tone Nesta only ever reserved for Elain. Firmly, she caught hold of each hand and pressed them both between her own. It was the first time that somebody hadn’t examined them, hadn’t tried to cast an inconspicuous look upon them when they were the topic of conversation. She had acknowledged them, but hadn’t given them value. He was more than his scars.

‘My father and his wife kept me imprisoned in darkness for years. My brothers poured oil on my hands then lit them.’

The words were rough. He’d told the story only once before – over five hundred years ago when he had finally trusted Rhys and Cassian enough to share it with them.

Azriel could not look at Nesta. Could not bear to see if she was about to inspect his hands. He braced himself for the words that so many said. They were words that ruined him, no matter how well intended they were – have you seen a healer? Can they not be glamoured away? Why don’t you wear gloves?

Nesta merely squeezed his hands tighter with her own and said, ‘I cannot be near a fire because when it cracks, I am back on that field. I am watching the King of Hybern break my father’s neck. When I hear the logs split, I am waiting to die at the hands of the king.’

Not all scars could be seen. What his blood had done to him had ruptured a part so deep that it would never heal. What Nesta had been exposed to in the war festered in her chest too.

They had showed their insecurity to the other. It was strange to let her in – strange to let anybody in, least of all the cold and imperious Nesta Archeron.

On the couch, they sat in silence. He allowed Nesta to look at his hands without hiding them away. Her fingers found patterns in the brutal scarring rather than being repulsed by it. Azriel was sure that there wasn’t a scar that she hadn’t touched. If she was faking it, hiding her disgust, she was a good actress. Even Mor had always faltered slightly before touching them as if they might catch and her unblemished hands would be ruined.

Every time the fire spat, Nesta’s body would tense. She’d grip onto his hands until she had coasted through the wave of anguish. They were each other’s anchor that night.

The following morning, they did not acknowledge the moment they had shared. Azriel wasn’t even sure if he had dreamt it. A mutual trust had grown between them without realising. He found himself watching her butter toast with an expression that anybody else might read as severe. Nesta always looked as if she was scrutinising something even if she wasn’t. Her smiles were there, but locked away. On the rare occasion that Azriel had prised a genuine laugh from her, it bathed him with warmth. She would tip back her head and screw her eyes shut. Her laughs were beautiful.

He postponed his trip to Illyria slightly. Nesta had made them both breakfast, unexpectedly, and he was too guilty to leave it untouched. They had sat together at the narrow table tucked by the kitchen, eating in a peaceful silence.

‘I’ll be back before dinner today. If that’s alright?’

‘I won’t complain,’ she said.

There was a note in her voice that gave Azriel pause, gave him a reason to drink her in a minute longer. He thought of the way that she had cradled his hands last night. The gentle side of her that so rarely saw the light of day. How she had leaned on him for support – and he’d been happy to steady her.

‘Then I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

‘Good.’

In one syllable, Azriel’s mind raced. One syllable had him postulating over a thousand different outcomes.

Shadows enveloped him, prising him away to Illyria. The prickles that covered his body whenever he reached his homeland seemed softer today, wrapped in silk rather than iron. He glanced down at his hands as if remembering the feel of Nesta’s fingers there like she was following rivers on a map.

‘I’ve seen that look before,’ a low voice murmured.

Azriel snapped his head up, jerking away slightly.

‘No,’ Rhys breathed in awe. ‘I caught you by surprise. Five hundred years and I have finally made you jump.’

Azriel rolled his eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘So, who is she? What beguiling female has put that dreamy look in your eyes?’

His shadows curled around him, whispering that they would strike if he wanted them to. They had always protected him.

‘Where’s Devlon? Let’s get this over with.’

Rhys did not drop the subject as they marched across the windy paths of Windhaven, pausing occasionally to inspect the sparring rings they passed. ‘One day, you will finally bring a female home for us to meet.’

‘Keep waiting.’

Cassian dropped out of the sky with a heavy thud. At the sight of him, Azriel felt hot and sick all at once. He kept his face trained on the young male nearest them who was examining weapons.

After their rooftop argument, Cassian had given him the space that he knew he needed. When the time was right, he had sought him out at the River House, likely after arranging with Rhys to summon him there. Cassian had been genuine with his apology. Whenever their paths had crossed since, his brother always begged him to come back home. To the House of Wind. To the River House. Just to come home.

Yet, when Azriel had asked Nesta if Cassian had apologised to her for hurting her feelings – for letting Mor come between whatever had been budding there - she’d folded her arms across her chest and said no.

‘I don’t want an apology from him. I don’t want anything from him.’

That memory diverted his guilt into righteousness. Nesta had held his hands only – and she had every right to do that. She was not promised to Cassian. Azriel was not tangled with anyone. They were friends. Friends doing nothing wrong. Still, he couldn’t manage to look into Cassian’s eyes for very long.

The day was busy examining new recruits. Their days would follow a similar pattern until the worst of the winter came, Az knew the schedule well. They’d visit each camp to see what lecherous males each camp lord had recruited that autumn then they would assess the likelihood of any of them making the Blood Rite the following year.

‘Come for dinner,’ said Rhys. It was an order rather than an invitation.

Cass slung an arm around his shoulders. ‘We can make a night of it. Mor’s not there. She’s in the Continent still.’

The reproachful look from Rhys hadn’t faded quick enough for Azriel to miss. Mor had cried on the roof, apologised, said she wanted to be his friend. Like a bucket of water had been thrown on hot coals, any lingering feelings for her had been extinguished. More than anything, Azriel was a fool.

For years, he had nurtured a hope of them. He thought perhaps she still needed time. Needed time to meet new people after a youth spent in captivity, after what her family had done to her. Time to explore the world, time to have fun. It had not mattered to him how many lovers she had taken to bed. On the occasions that she blew hot and cold towards him, he was always unable to figure Mor out. She would invite him close then push back. He blamed it on her past, blamed it on her mother and father. Often, he blamed himself too. She would not see him as anything more than a lesser fae savage so Azriel held back. Once, he had tried to confess how he felt.

The memory of that day was scarred into his mind; of confessing that he knew he was unsuitable for her, but he still wanted her. Without a word, Mor had walked away. A bastard lesser fae savage whose father hated him enough to lock him up. The shame had burnt him. That shame of daring to believe that Mor might have given him a chance – that any female would risk sullying themselves with a male like him.  

Each time that Mor flirted with his brother, those feelings wilted more and more. Cassian was like him – and that was what he could never understand. They were both Illyrians. Both bastards. Yet Azriel was somehow less worthy of her touch. He'd blamed it on his hands, blamed it on the shadows that made others uncomfortable. Then he’d even thought that maybe he had imagined the soft smiles and loving touches that she gave to him; that he was so desperate for Mor that he was creating a love story that didn’t exist.

‘I didn’t want things to change,’ she’d wept on the roof, gripping the buttons of his shirt. ‘I like how things are between us.’

Those words had cracked the ice. She liked him to be her shield against her family, against Eris. Azriel had been her knife too. But she did not want him. She would use Cassian to put him off regardless of the strain it put on the brothers. That was what she liked, because the alternative was facing up to the fact that for five hundred years, she had let him believe he was not worthy of her rather than being honest. She would strike out at Nesta because she realised that Nesta would take away the one barrier that stopped the truth from leaking out.

‘I have places to be,’ he said coldly.

***

Azriel was one the most difficult people to read that Nesta had ever encountered. When he had arrived home that evening, tension had bracketed his body. It wasn’t unusual. It didn’t offer anything to his mood.

She was learning to observe his shadows. Sometimes they were excitable, moving quickly without restraint when Azriel was in a more playful mood. Other times, they stayed close by to comfort or to protect. Tonight, they were gone. Nesta didn’t know what that meant.

They ate quietly. Azriel did not divulge on his day, but he had thanked her for cooking and asked how her own day had been. Nesta had been into the city. The male had insisted on providing coin for his opulent lodging of the broken couch, so she had spent some money on wooden children’s games to occupy the time with the approach of winter. Nesta was happy to find that many were similar to mortal games she had played with servants.

‘You don’t want to play cards with me,’ said Azriel after his shower. His dark hair was damp and curled around his face. ‘I cheat.’

‘You’re a very honest cheat,’ she acknowledged, shuffling the cards. ‘Since I have no other company, you will have to do.’

They knew similar games and established rules. It had been a long time since Nesta had played games. She thought of the elderly servant who had seemingly always been a part of the household staff when she was little. Somehow, he had learnt sleight of hand tricks. Nesta had believed it to be faerie magic and would watch in wonder as he’d always guess what her card had been or how he’d transform her card into a toffee for her to gobble. He’d had a hacking cough, veiny hands, and grew thinner each time Nesta sought him out in the gardens. One day, he never came to the manor again. When she’d asked her father, he’d simply said the servant was gone.

‘Why do you keep glancing over your shoulder?’ Azriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you expecting somebody?’

She bit down on her lower lip. ‘I’m trying to work out how you cheat. I keep thinking there will be a shadow behind me, spying on my cards.’

‘They don’t make you uncomfortable?’

They were a part of him. ‘Of course not.’

Once games became tiresome, Nesta asked the male about the Blood Rite. She had purchased books about Illyria to better understand that part of the land. Their training was brutal, lives were short for many. She couldn’t fathom dumping a child in a war camp. It reminded her of baby birds that were pushed out of the nest and forced to fly. Many more didn’t.

‘These ones,’ Azriel said, gesturing to the whorls of black ink running over his bare arms, ‘are standard for most warriors. They’re associated with luck and glory. After the Blood Rite, males receive more in a ceremony. Bodies are flagging but you have to stand up for one more night of drinking and tattoos. That’s the final test.’

‘You have those?’

Azriel nodded, eyes searching her face. ‘You receive more depending on your status. The three of us touched Ramiel so we received the highest honours.’

‘Show me them.’

***

Obliging, Azriel pulled off his shirt. Nesta’s eyes canvassed his chest, tracking the details in the ink. Wrong. So wrong. Their conversation was minimal as she committed the hard planes of his body to memory. Both of them knew they were crossing a boundary tonight. From Nesta’s fervour, as she touched his skin, Azriel surmised she didn’t care.

Fingers traced the whorls with an intensity that a scholar might brush the letters of an ancient text, seeking answers. Her knuckles tracked up Azriel’s neck and he lifted his chin as she reached his jaw.

‘What do you want?’ His voice was a quiet warning in the dark.

A muted smile was his response. ‘You’ll make me beg for it?’

Azriel followed the pattern his thumb drew on Nesta’s collar bone, the daring sweep of it below the cut of her gown. His eyes flickered back to her. ‘I want to hear it from your lips.’

Wanted to hear if she was brave enough to voice it. Wanted confirmation that it was not just him getting lost down a path they never should have wandered down. Wanted to know that he wasn’t wasting his feelings once more on someone who didn’t value him.

Nesta brushed his hand aside. She appraised him with the same steel look that she had given to every high lord in the Dawn Court meeting.

In a swift motion, she straddled his lap. Now, she was the one pushing him to his limit. Seeing how brave he would be. A hand stroked against his hair then it was holding him in place.

‘I want you to kiss me.’

So, he’d obliged. Nesta had leant forwards and everything had felt as if it was moving at a different pace. The fire’s movements were slow and sluggish. The world even stopped turning on its axis.

They had moved too fast. Azriel’s lips crushing against Nesta. A flush spreading up her cheeks as he kissed down to her neck in a fevered motion. Her hand had raked through his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers.

Her hips had circled his lap. His hands curved around to grip her waist, to help the motion that was undoing him. Nesta’s soft moans were a beacon to him, calling for more.

It was a mistake. Every kiss, every tantalising touch was a mistake. He should have stopped.

She’d been confident, tugging him to the bedroom, hands gliding up his bare back. She hadn’t said stop when he lifted her against the wall, kissing so deeply time halted. Hadn’t protested when he’d roughly pulled her dress off, not when he’d run his scarred hands over her beautiful body.

He hadn’t known. Hadn’t realised she was a maiden until he had given the first thrust, felt her body shudder around him, the sharp spike of her breath against his ear. He’d seen the blood after and nearly vomited. He should have been softer. Shouldn’t have rushed straight into bedding her. Shouldn’t have pressed his body so tightly to Nesta’s that her hips ground into his skin. He’d crossed a line. His mind buzzed with a thousand feelings, a thousand scenarios.

Revenge. Was that what Cassian would think? Some sick payback for him sleeping with Mor all those years ago?

Nesta leaned over the bed, fumbling for anything to regain her modesty. He couldn’t let her think she was a pawn in a game of vengeance. Azriel rushed to the bathroom, found a cloth to soak with tepid water. He hesitated from cleaning her himself and instead pressed it into her hands.

 ‘I didn’t know you were a maiden.’

Why was it worse that she was? Because Azriel knew how the others would view it when it came to light. Knew that for a once-mortal female, this should have been special and he had been rough with passion.

‘Not anymore,’ she muttered.

Azriel faced the wall, allowing Nesta the privacy she deserved. He heard the slide of a drawer then a night gown being pulled over her head. He fixed her with a look. ‘Did I hurt you?’

For a fraction of a second, her face faltered. ‘Just at the start.’

His chest tightened at the admission. ‘Sorry.’

Azriel knew he should leave. Knew he should not have ever come to her apartment. It had been a dangerous game, right from the start. Night after night, they’d edged further down a path that there was no returning from with their growing companionship. But if he left and never came back then Nesta would think she’d been used. That had not been his intention. Never would be his intention.

When Nesta tugged the sheets from the bed, balling them up to hide the blood, Azriel started on the pillow cases too. It was a way of atoning. Remove all traces of the illicit night they had shared.

‘You don’t need to do that.’

‘I want to,’ he murmured.

Silently, they stripped the bed then placed fresh sheets onto it. Nesta didn’t ask him to stay in her bed and he didn’t want her to.

He flew as far as he could, to the furthest reach of Illyria. He had well and truly fucked up everything.

***

Any soreness did not linger. Nesta found herself unable to concentrate without memories of her night spent with Azriel pulsing to the surface. Heat flooded her body when she remembered the way he had moaned against her skin as he entered her. Her breath shuddered each time she recalled the flicker of his tongue against her ear.

When she imagined her first time with a male, it ought to have been a wedding night to a bland mortal man her parents had arranged for her. As a fae, the vision had shifted to a fantasy of a dreamy male who loved and cherished Nesta. He’d have lit candles around the room, proposed maybe, scattered petals and moved his hips a few times until he found release while she had lay beneath him like a plank of wood.

Her imagination had disappointed her. It hadn’t been able to conjure the thrill that Azriel’s hands had. Hadn’t crafted the same pounding excitement when Nesta had taken control and climbed onto his lap. It was more intimate than anything she could have dared to dream. The shadow singer had caressed all of her, unable to settle on one place he wanted to touch. Desire had been the tinder and want the flame. They’d moved together in waves finding pleasure in each other’s bodies. There had been no reluctance or shyness, only lust.

She supposed she would not see him again. The white horror sheeting his face when he had realised that she had been a maiden was enough to deter him. It would be a secret warded in the dark whenever they were in shared spaces.

@canvashearts