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tadpolesonalgae · 6 days

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Love Fool

Nesta x reader

a/n: This didn’t go in the direction I was expecting, but oh well

Day 2 for @nestaarcheronweek : Metamorphosis

Warnings: mention of sexual assault, Nesta having ptsd from the cauldron, kind of hurt/comfort?

word count: 3,955

Sharp, grey eyes cut across the tavern, picking her out with ease, adorned in a dress of such deep purple it almost appears as an inky blue, velvet warm and inviting as it wraps around her body. Golden clips hold her hair back, thin and golden chains of jewellery sitting around her wrists, hanging from her pointed ears, mouth painted in a shimmery purple and gold.

Horrific beauty that never fails to reel in her attention, luring Nesta’s eyes over no matter who else may be in the room.

She feels bewitched, her heart not her own, her pulse heating whenever the female enters her vision, lips parting to allow air into her lungs. A few times her nails have grazed the pale skin of her chest, assuring herself she is still breathing. That the life hasn’t been pulled from her body without her knowing.

Grey eyes return to her cards, swiftly growing bored of the game. Her drink has been empty for a while, and none of the males hold even a suggestion of the blissful pleasure she’s searching for tonight. The kind that will take her away from the strange tightness in her chest whenever the female manages to pull another glance form her.

The game concludes, but Nesta gives no sign of choice between the males, each in silent competition with the other for a chance to bed her. And yet as they try to initiate conversation, eager to prove themselves worthy, already Nesta can feel that phantom presence shifting through the tavern, fighting to keep from looking—to affirm what she already knows.

Warmth settles at her side as the female slides into the booth, the proximity closer than anyone else has dared risk with her, a distance shared between women, then men have no access to. At least, not without effort.

There’s an intangible shift over the table, the atmosphere changing with the presence of fresh fruit pressed so appetisingly to an already appealing meal. Tantalising and irresistible to any male with hot blood in his veins. Nesta doesn’t believe the female at her side is oblivious to the change she’s caused with a simple movement, believes it was intentional to a degree. Her thoughts are confirmed when one of the males attempts to bring the fluid-bodied female in, switching his approach to what appears to be an easier catch. Unaware of the honey trap.

Remark after remark slips from his lips, accumulating into the suggestion that’s doubtlessly on all their minds, the nature shared between them, fallible and easily redirected with the allure of a hunger being satisfied, greed sticky and oozing from their rough features. It isn’t the first time Nesta’s overheard a proposition like this, but it’s certainly the first she’s so directly been included in, the male making little effort to conceal the explicit fantasy he already drools over.

And while the female at Nesta’s side has no obvious reaction other than a suggestive smile, eyes twinkling with sultry implication, Nesta catches the slight wrinkle to her nose as she returns “I doubt you have the coin to pay for a show like that”, and puts an end to the conversation.

————

You watch as the males depart, understanding they are no longer welcome at the booth you’d commandeered.

Nesta’s empty glass twinkles in the low light, and you call someone over for a refill, enjoying how the liquid splashes in the hold, swirling around like a stormy sea until full. Instead of passing it to her however, you raise it to your own lips, drinking deeply to wash away the grubby looks the males had been trying to glue the two of you together with. Trying to wash away the foul taste in your mouth.

How Nesta finds the conviction to put herself through this each night is alarming to say the least. Her determination to punish herself is indeed remarkable, if not disturbing. But she makes no move to retrieve her glass, sitting alert at your side, cornered and confined to the darker parts of the booth.

The glass clinks on the table as you set it down, at last glancing to her, pinning her with your attention. Her grey eyes ice over, sharp and piercing as they search for a way in, to penetrate past your exterior. To find a soft spot to pry open with bladed words, jamming in the steel she holds within to fracture you, to push you away like every other person in her life.

“How was dinner last night?” You ask neutrally, the painted nails of your fingers grazing along the cold ridges of the glass, tracing the bumps and dips. “The usual,” she replies, quicksilver eyes darting between your own set at the amber liquid at the bottom of the glass. “Really?” You remark, with sarcastic surprise. “You know, that’s quite odd, because Mor tells me you haven’t been a single time in the last six months, so it really is quite impressive you’ve managed to elude her so thoroughly.”

Nesta’s lips purse, silver eyes glinting with something slightly other. “I didn’t realise it was any of your business—what I do in my personal life,” she replies coldly.

“It isn’t really. But you’re making it. You aren’t exactly subtle about your interests.” Her gaze shutters, a sure sign the comment had hit close to a nerve. “You can’t honestly tell me numbing yourself every night with sex and alcohol really works, Nesta,” you continue, speaking while you have her attention. “Whatever problem you’re running from won’t shrivel up and die if you leave it long enough. It’ll be waiting for your return.”

“You don’t know what you’re taking about,” she replies lowly, the edge of a snarl to her voice, and you flick your gaze over her, marking that while she makes no attempts to hide herself, a certain stiffness follows the sweep of your attention. Fighting to not shrink away. “I know grief when I see it,” you reply, taking another drink from her glass. Silvery eyes track your motions acutely, feeling their weight on your mouth as you take what she probably considers the last of her absolution.

The glass thunks upon the wooden table, a clear end to the conversation as you stand, gazing down at her. “It’s already been a long night,” you say idly, watching her from your higher position. “Retire with me. The dark can be dangerous, even in a city of starlight.” Her expression sours at the mention, resentment tucking itself between the slight dip of her brows, the subtle disgust shown in the crinkle around her pretty nose.

“Oh-so-powerful Rhysand can’t keep the streets tidy?” Nesta remarks, but it’s clear she’s trying to rile you. “Worry about yourself before speaking from the gutters,” you murmur softly, low enough fo no one to hear, vicious enough to put an end to her poisonous games. “I think you’re forgetting you’d be included in that cleanse,” you speak quietly, pausing, “at least, as you are.” Unless you change.

Nesta bristles, mercury swirling in her glacial eyes, glittering with something stinging and wrathful, before it’s smothered with self-destructive efficiency. But then she settles in her seat, pressing comfortably into the booth, gazing up at you. “And yet here you are, in these gutters too. A little hypercritical, don’t you think?”

“I will wander worse places if necessary.”

“How noble of you.”

You sigh, feeling fatigue beginning to weigh on you—a buildup of late nights spent keeping an eye on her, subtly, always finding your own company to make it less glaring. Shaking your head, you pin her with a cold look, one that thaws out against her own ice. “Aren’t you tired, Nesta?”

She’s quiet, features unmoving; unyielding. Growing colder, if possible.

“Come back with me,” you say, “start tonight, and by tomorrow you’ll have already taken the first step.”

But she allows herself no reprieve. No relief from the numbing poison.

Soaking in her nest of self-imposed sickness.

————

After that initial confrontation, Nesta only becomes more aware of her presence. How she shines in the middle of rooms, sending shockwaves of laughter crashing down upon her own dim and quiet corners, so raging and wrathful they’re an effort to withstand. To weather.

Night after night she appears, without fail, stalking Nesta’s steps relentlessly with a drive that has her own conviction both growing stronger; more impenetrable, and pausing. On the verge of collapse.

There have been more times in the past month the female has approached her, trying to lure her away from the blissful deadening of her mutinous senses. Usually it’s a subtle dismissal of whatever group Nesta has aligned herself with for the night, a quiet send-off that leaves Nesta with the choice of either integrating herself into a new setting, or to leave for her cold, smelly bed. Usually though, she forges onward, a creature of habit that persists relentlessly, rotting in the dark, grimy corner of whatever establishment she’s chosen.

Nesta worries about that pull, though.

Every step echoes through her mind, every word reverberating through the numbed halls of her memories the next day.

Then there are the rare moments the female will make her intervention more blatant, more difficult to ignore. Her tone sharper than usual, her proximity closer, as if trying to physically force her way through the barrier Nesta has spent years carefully engineering.

On the worst nights, deep in the darkness after at last returning home, having stubbornly protested against leaving, her thoughts wander. Wonder what would happen if she allowed herself to be swept away. Wonder at the tension that warms in her chest with the female’s presence. And in the darkest, most liminal hours, in the utter silence of her small apartment, she sometimes wonders what it would be like to leave with her.

But leaving…going with her…

She would have to return here eventually, and she doesn’t want to crumble.

————

You’re sipping on your drink, leaning against the wall of the tavern facing the street, when you hear a snarl louder than the others, loud enough to reach you despite the carefully thought out distance.

A male growl follows quickly, starving and angry, hissing with aggression, and your skin prickles with awareness. Attention sliding toward the alley Nesta had disappeared into a while ago.

Something thuds on the floor, like a barrel being pushed over, and the sounds of commotion follow, echoing off the brick walls. You turn into the alley, magic swelling at your fingertips, warming your skin as you pull it to the surface.

Nesta steadies herself, trying to dig her nails into the male’s face as he forces himself closer. Your blood pounds around your ears, picking up to a debilitating roar as muscle seizes, fury so cutting you’re nearly swept away in the current. But then your hand settles over his shoulder, and he’s vanished away, displaced to somewhere else. Somewhere you know he’ll be treated well.

Fear-dilated pupils meet your gaze, and you can hear her heart thundering against her ribs, the ragged huffs of breath as her chest rises up and down, the front ties of her dress disturbed, revealing more of her cleavage than usual, and that roar returns to your ears, fighting to calm yourself, to be steady for her.

“Are you okay?” You ask flatly, knowing what will happen if you allow a slip of emotion out. Nesta pants deeply, gaze flickering between you and where the male had been, eyes shuttering, pupils shifting and contracting with fear as she swallows. Then manages to nod.

Your lips purse, fury beginning to abate. Refocusing on the female before you. “You’ll probably stay in shock for a little,” you say quietly, keeping your voice even. “You might start to shake in a bit. Maybe a little nauseous too, but you’ll be okay. You’re safe now.”

Nesta swallows thickly, your attention marking the roll of her throat acutely, noticing the bite on her shoulder, your eyes lingering a little longer than is wise, emotion stirring in your chest. But again you push past it, inclining your chin a little. “Let’s get you back.”

Silver eyes dart about the alley before settling on you, assessing warily. But then she dips her head, pushing up from the wall, hands raising to the roughly tugged-free ties of her dress.

“I’m going to winnow us,” you tell her, keeping your statement clear and steady, speaking so she can process what you mean. She nods her head. “Okay.” Her voice is thick and slightly raw from panic, but mostly together.

Your hand encompasses her own, and darkness wraps around you, icy and startling as wind howls in the background before you’re delivered to the door of your own house, silently bringing her up the steps and guiding her inside. You take your time removing your outer layers, untying your shoes to give her time to process, before copying your actions, remaining quiet. Likely still in shock.

“Why are we here?” She asks at last, a shard of ice creeping back into her slightly shaky voice, “this isn’t my home.”

“It isn’t,” you reply calmly, turning to face her where she’s removing her shoes. It’s a good sign, at least.

But then she stands straighter, raising her gaze to yours, blank and unreadable. “I want you to take me back,” she states, “to my house.”

The two of you watch each other, wills pushing against one another, holding their ground.

“You’ve been through a lot,” you say at last, a touch quieter. “You should stay here for the night.” Nesta manages a shake of her head, slowly walling herself off. “Take me back to my house,” she says firmly, and you glare at her, hard.

When you don’t answer, she turns, making for the door, and panic jumps in your chest, making to reach for her before forcefully tugging yourself back. “Nesta,” you call sharply, having her stop, and you catch the tightness of her shoulders, the slight flinch of her body at the tone. But when she turns to face you, her features are cold and unreadable as ice, already withdrawn and harsh.

You gaze at her silently, brow furrowing a little. “Stay here,” you ask quietly, “just for tonight.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction, and you sense she’s about to speak.

“Please,” you murmur, watching her. “Please, Nesta. One night.”

Her icy gaze shutters, lips tightening.

But, “fine,” she mutters, turning away from the door.

Staying the night.

————

“You can stay here,” you say, guiding her into the room adjacent to your own, a guest bedroom for people you’re more acquainted with. “There are clothes in the wardrobe over there, and a bathing room just through that door. You are the only one with access to it, so you’re more than welcome to use it.”

Nesta steps in behind you, entering the clean space, taking it in with clinical scrutiny as se analyses and examines each trunk, the wallpaper, the ceiling and windows, the rugs over the hardwood floor. “Is that everything?” She asks, turning to you.

“Do you need anything else?” You reply, leaning your back against the for frame, legs crossing at the ankles.

Her nose wrinkles, but instead of irritation rising up at the action, relief again cools your spine. She seems to already be returning to normal.

“I’ll manage,” she responds, a clear dismissal.

One you don’t follow, watching her a little longer.

Then you nod, glad she’s at least accepting help. “Okay.”

————

You’re pulled awake, something tugging in your lower stomach, an urge to see her, to find her, to make sure she’s okay after the night.

But she’s probably asleep by now, so you don’t go. Judging by the colour of the sky, it’s been a few hours since she came back. She probably wouldn’t appreciate you checking in on her, either.

So despite the tension, the prickling of your skin, you abstain from checking on her.

Yet it seems like you’re being drawn to her room. Especially when a crackling shockwave passes through your lower body, skin tingling like water that’s been struck by lightening, oil frying in a pan, and you’re swiftly heading for the door, not bothering to even grab a night robe as you cross the hall for her chambers.

“Nesta?” You call, knocking, listening for noise. Another wave sizzles through you, and something thuds from behind the wood. You try for the handle, but she’s used the latch on the other side, locking herself away, and you knock again, louder. “Nesta, can you hear me?” You call, for the most part succeeding in keeping the panic from your voice, remaining calm.

Your sharp ears pick out a low, muffled groan, and your pulse spikes, winnowing inside.

“Nesta?” You call gently, scanning her borrowed chambers, eagle-eyes picking out how the bathroom door is ajar. You make for it swiftly, carefully opening it up as you again look around the room.

She’s hunched over the latrine, the floor wet, an empty bucket tipped over and on its side, the tap to the bath dripping as if hurriedly shut off.

She groans again, and you move forward, nimble fingers slipping beneath the burnished gold of her hair, pulling it gently from her face as she heaves, body convulsing as she retches, knuckles turning white as she grips the seat, muscles shaking. Your brows narrow in concern—nausea might have been expected, but not regurgitation.

Slowly, quietly, you crouch beside her, one hand holding up her hair, the other soothingly stroking down her back—gentle but firm motions, applied to calm and soothe. The trembling begins to fade, and she groans again, spitting out the foul taste, moving to wipe her lips on the back of her palm. You grab some of the roll, pulling away two sheets and offering them to her. Shaky fingers brush against yours, and she dries her mouth on the roll, getting the corners clean.

“Feeling better now?” You ask, releasing her unbound hair, soothing her shoulder. She tries to shrug you away, moving to sit upright, but her muscles give out, falling back against you. In the same moment you discard the roll, supporting her as she collapses, limbs too weak to hold herself up. She struggles, trying to move, but you wrap your arms more securely around her. “On three, okay?” You ask clearly, knowing how she’ll flare up if you allow even a tinge of concern into your voice. “One. Two. Three.”

The two of you manage to stand, stood close together, and another shudder passes through her. You increase your hold, making sure she won’t fall, keeping her nearby. “Careful of the water,” you murmur, helping to guide her out of the bathroom on her unsteady feet, aware of her light grip on you, nearly falling away with every step.

You sit her in one of the comfortable armchairs in the room, feeling as she gives a sharp breath, another shudder passing through, wracking her chest. Her arms make to wrap around herself, but they’re too weak, too tired, so she ends up placing them in her lap, leaning to one side of the seat.

You move, getting the faelights to turn on, then making for the bathroom. You refill the bucket, vanishing the water with half a thought, before taking a washcloth with you, returning to her.

“Have enough energy to clean?” You ask, setting the bucket down before moving to the wardrobe, retrieving a fresh nightgown for her to change into. You can smell the cold sweat on her.

She makes no move to change into the clothing you’ve given her, or even to grip them. Simply remains to one side of the chair, watching them vacantly. “Nesta?” You call, a touch quieter, moving to be at her side, wary of touching her.

Her silver eyes are rimmed with red, nose tipped in a similar colour, the tops of her cheeks and her upper lip gleaming faintly as you realise she’d been crying. The shudders the result of trying to keep quiet. Your shoulders slope, and you move slowly as you settle your hand over hers, letting her see the movement and choose whether to allow it. You squeeze her hand lightly, watching her silently.

“You’re safe, Nesta,” you say quietly from her side. “Nothing’s going to happen to you here.”

Her thin brows narrow, lips cutting down in the corner as her eyes take on a new gleam, looking wet.

“Where did he go?” She asks, voice raw and faint. Scratchy sounding.

Your lips press into a flat line, looking away briefly before returning to hers.

“Azriel knows what to do with people I send his way,” you answer quietly, marking the thick roll of her throat.

��He won’t be finding you again.”

You wait for some sort of reaction. For her skin to whiten, for a fresh wave of sickness to rise up her throat. But she just swallows, dipping her head in a slight nod, eyes moving to the clothing. “Will you help me?”

You nearly miss a breath, but manage to nod, still watching her. “I—… Yes. Yes, of course.” You turn, reaching for the washcloth, but she makes a noise in her throat, having you look at her, unable to conceal your concern. “I don’t…” she struggles, pupils dilating as she glances toward the pool of water, fear tinging her scent. “I can’t manage bodies of water,” she manages quietly, not meeting your eyes. “They remind me of the Cauldron.”

Your lips part on a silent breath, but then you nod, memorising the small piece of information. You should have realised. It looked like she’d been trying with the bucket before…maybe that’s what caused her stomach to upturn itself. That and the intense events of the night.

“Right,” you manage thickly, getting to your feet. “Do you…” You trail off, suddenly unsure in yourself. She swallows again, “can you just…just sit on the bed. While I change,” she mumbles.

Nodding, you move to the bed, sitting with your back to her. You aren’t foolish enough to offer aid with undressing her. She needs the reminder of her own autonomy right now, to known she can do things on her own.

The material rasps, and you’re unable to help the way your ears pick out the noises, assigning actions to each of them. Pale palms pushing her hair out of the way, trembling fingers undoing silky buttons, clammy hands pushing soft but now-dampened fabric away.

“Okay,” she manages, some strength back in her voice. You turn on the bed, seeing her stood the other side, dressed in fresh new clothes, crisp and clean, unbound hair cascading over her shoulders, down her front.

Nesta moves to take the bucket back to the bathroom, but you shake your head, standing. “Just settle into bed for now,” you say, already moving, “it’ll be morning soon, anyway. You should get as much rest as you can.” You think she might protest at first, but she nods after a pause, moving to the bed, pulling back the sheets and laying down.

When you return from the washroom, she’s tucked under the duvet, hair bundled beneath her head like a halo to prevent lying on it during the night.

You turn the faelight off, opening the locked door to let yourself out, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll see you in the morning, Nesta.”

She doesn’t make a sound, but you can clearly see her open eyes watching you from the dark.

“Call if you need anything,” you murmur, stepping away, bringing the door to a close.

“Sleep well.”

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