#more than just the ones I have so far on my fae page (+ odd man out Mhoir boy) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acourtofwhatthefuck · 2 years

Text

Fireleaf (Part Seven)

Lucien Vanserra x Reader

A lot of @greeneyedivy and I gif swapping and having interesting discussions brought this chapter about! Hope you enjoy it 👀

So sorry if the writing is a bit iffy and there's some mistakes in this part...this day has been so busy and my eyes are BLEEDING (not literally. I'm fine. Just dramatic). But thank you for all your support thus far, I love this story so much!

Warnings: SMUT! 🌶️🌶️🌶️

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucien was avoiding you, and that was fine.

You’d only been aware of his return to the estate two days later, when his horse reappeared in the stables. Where he’d been for those two days, you weren’t sure. And you didn’t let yourself think about it. He would keep out of your way, and you would keep out of his.

And you…you were avoiding Dion, somewhat.

You weren’t ready to talk to him yet — to face his disregard for the victims of the fire. It had jarred you, to see that side of the male you’d come to consider your…your friend. Never mind the fact that you were supposed to be marrying him. The fact that he had complied with Beron’s callousness was so at odds with the Dion you’d actually become quite fond of — and that hurt, more than you expected it to. So you weren’t ready to talk, and you put every effort you could muster into keeping yourself busy. Into avoiding being alone with him, no matter how many times he offered you a stroll around the garden or a private lunch on the veranda.

And thus began what was probably your loneliest week at the Vanserra Estate so far.

Your eyes stared, unseeing, out of the tearoom window, not really focusing on anything from the swaying blood-red trees to the gardeners milling around. You’d become prone to these long stretches of zoning out, of your innermost thoughts trying to coax you to them.

“It’s tradition, in our family, to have orange chrysanthemums at weddings,” The Lady of Autumn spoke gently beside you, a huge florilegium book open on the round table you sat at. “Such a beautiful colour, don’t you think?”

Even if she wasn’t the quiet, soft-spoken female you’d come to know her as, you doubted you would have heard her over the roaring in your head. The warring. Such a battle waged in your mind, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. But her words went through one ear and out the other as you stared, and stared and stared and stared, at that insignificant spot on the flawless lawn.

“Y/N?” A delicate hand touched your arm. “What do you think?”

You tore your gaze from the window, dropped it to the open page in front of you. You blinked a few times, clearing your throat. “Yes—sorry—beautiful.”

Your mother-in-law-to-be stared at you, those warm, brown eyes somehow softening even more. She shut the book and pushed it away from her, angling herself towards you.

“Don’t worry, love,” She reached out, cupping your cheek. “The High Lord isn’t angry anymore — not really.”

You blinked at her, not quite understanding her words. The direction her mind had gone in.

“I know he shouted, but…” Her eyes dipped to the table. “Well, we never had daughters, and he’s still getting himself used to having a young female like you to look out for. He was concerned, more than angry…he just struggles with how to channel it.”

Studying her, your already-splintered heart seemed to twist even more inside you. She was so kind, so gentle, that you didn’t have the heart to tell her that you didn’t give two honey-roasted fucks whether Beron was angry with you or not. Didn’t have the heart to ask if it was concern that had her husband so often spitting venomous words at her, or injuring her so badly that even her fae healing took a few days to rid of the bruises.

“I know what it’s like, to feel…stifled.” She admitted quietly. “But it will get easier. And Dion is a good male. I’m not just saying that as his mother, I assure you. He’ll take good care of you.”

She was trying — the Mother knew, she was trying so hard, in an environment where she so rarely got to speak her own words, to soothe you. Reassure you. And you weren’t ready to talk to Dion yet, to smooth things over, but you could at least honour the time that the Lady of Autumn spared you. At least show some interest in this wedding planning, even if you had to fake it.

So you forced your shoulders to relax. Forced yourself to smile. Dragged the book back towards you.

“Show me the chrysanthemums again,” You said.

⤲

Two days later, you still couldn’t bring yourself to face Dion.

Not that he was around much. Beron seemed to be running him ragged, and you’d received only a soft goodbye that morning before he’d taken off on his horse to attend to business. Whatever the hell that meant.

With no wedding planning arranged for that day, you spent it trying to busy yourself, to do anything but sink into your thoughts and face the fact that you were homesick. You missed your old life, the way things used to be; missed looking forward to your training sessions and workouts with Linden, to meeting Willow for picnics by the stream near your estate, to just living how you wanted to live. Without yours and Dion’s rapport to distract you, it was harder to face the reality. The changes.

It just…bothered you, a lot, that Dion hadn’t shown more concern for those in need – for people who were literally watching their livelihoods burn before their eyes. You knew it was a terse situation, that it wasn’t easy to go against his father’s word. But if Lucien had managed to do so…

You shook your head to yourself, curling up on the bench in the garden that you’d taken to sitting on the last few nights, watching the stars. Dion hadn’t yet returned from his day of work, and the estate was pressingly quiet. Too quiet. Your loneliness lurked on the outskirts of your mind, threatening to consume you.

You stared forward in deep thought, toying with the single little braid you always wore in your hair – something you’d started because of Linden. You’d always loved his braids, the way they swayed with his movement when they were down, or splayed randomly if he tied them back. It had been on a particularly bad day early-on in your training that you’d broken in front of him, told him you were scared of being weak, of being nothing. He’d sat with you and listened, and then – to your surprise – had taken a few strands of your hair between his fingers and braided them together.

“Whenever I feel weak, or scared, or like I am nothing,” He’d told you, “I imagine myself to be like one of my braids. The strands of hair are strength, and determination, and bravery, all weaved together in one pattern. And that is why I always wear my hair braided. Not just because it’s convenient,” He’d grinned at you then, “but because they remind me that having bad days doesn’t mean that the strength, the determination and the bravery are not still weaved into me. One or two bad days does not make the braid come undone. Does not mean you’re weak.”

Such a Linden thing to say, and yet it had hit its mark. You’d worn that braid in your hair every single day since, and had no longer seen the bad days as an undoing, as the hard work you’d put in being for nothing. You were strong, and determined, and brave.

And Gods above, did you miss Linden. You couldn’t help wondering, as you sat there, pinching your hair between your fingers, what he might be doing right then. Whether he missed you just as fiercely. You wished you could write to him, but…you had absolutely no clue where he was.

The bench suddenly creaked under the weight of a second person, and only then did you become aware of hot, salty tears rolling down your cheeks. You quickly wiped them away, glancing up to find that Eris had joined you.

His amber eyes met yours, and he angled his body towards you. Held out a small, rectangular object wrapped in paper packaging.

You frowned, slowly accepting it. “...What’s this?”

Eris tucked his legs beneath him, facing you properly. His short hair was tousled, the top buttons of his shirt undone. “Chocolate.”

You glanced down. Sure enough, you held a thick bar of chocolate in your hands – an expensive brand, you knew, from one of the artisan chocolatiers that sold their products in the high-end sweet shops all over Prythian.

You thumbed the paper packaging, your brow still furrowed. “Why are you giving me chocolate?”

“Because you’re sad.” Eris shrugged. “It’s from my secret stash. Not just anyone gets to have some, you know.”

You managed a watery smile. “And why do I get the honour?”

“Like I said – you’re sad. It’s been a rough week for you. And chocolate always makes me feel better. Just don’t tell any of the others. They’re not allowed any.”

That drew a genuine laugh from you – even if it was short-lived. You smiled down at the chocolate bar, peeling back the paper. Eris watched you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

You’d never heard his voice so…gentle. Of your future brothers-in-law, Eris was certainly the one you’d developed the best rapport with. Even though he was quick-witted and swaggering and smirking most of the time, you’d found your sense of humour to be greatly similar to his. There was more to him, than just an eldest son waiting to be High Lord, and you sensed that a great many people underestimated what truly lay beneath the surface.

You tore into the foil around the chocolate, breaking a square off and popping it into your mouth. “Things with Dion are just…strained, right now.”

Eris tilted his head – and also nabbed a square of chocolate. He placed it on his tongue, sucking on it for a moment, before he surmised, “You didn’t agree with his decision not to help with the fire.”

“No,” You shook your head. “I didn’t. And I didn’t understand the decision, either. And don’t get me wrong…I know that you were given orders from the High Lord, but…”

“But Lucien happily went against those orders. Right?”

You begged your cheeks not to heat, begged your scent not to change, at the mere mention of his name. “Right.”

“And you went against them, too. You and Lucien.”

Your eyes flicked up, meeting Eris’s gaze. It was often hard, with him, to tell whether his words held double meaning. Whether he was merely making a solid statement, or insinuating something else within it. He stared back at you, eyes smouldering, and you…you could have sworn he was trying to clamp down on a smile.

“I considered it the right thing to do,” You quickly said – didn’t give him the chance to throw you a witty remark. “To help those people. I’d like to think that…that if I were in such a dire situation, there would be someone who wouldn’t hesitate to come for me.”

Were you in a dire situation? By sheer definition, you supposed not. You were living in the lap of luxury, had people waiting on you hand-and-foot. You were a lady, someone who would garner respect by default, whether you’d earned it or not, just because of who your soon-to-be husband was — and it would be that way for the rest of your life. That easy.

And yet none of it felt easy. None of it felt luxurious. It felt like…like drowning. And you didn’t know how much longer you could last before your lungs gave out entirely.

Eris seemed to read every one of those thoughts on your face. There was nothing of the smirking, cock-sure male as he studied you, his eyes softening.

“You have a kind heart, Y/N,” He said quietly. “…And I know this must be an adjustment. A difficult one.”

You nodded, eyes dipping down. “Very.”

“But just…just try…to go a bit easier on Dion. Because he also has a kind heart…and it wasn’t easy for him to sit back and do nothing while those people lost everything.”

“But Lucien—”

“Lucien defies our father on a weekly basis.” He reached down, breaking off another square of chocolate. “Everyone’s come to expect it of him, and nobody really cares — because Lucien has nothing to prove. But Dion?” He popped the chocolate into his mouth. Chewed. “Well, Dion is the spare, isn’t he?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“As the eldest son, I’m expected to succeed my father as High Lord. And if anything were to happen to me, Dion, as the second-eldest, would be expected to take my place. Which is why he and I receive the same rigorous training as one another. Why he and I have more pressure on us than the other three. We don’t have the luxury or freedom to go gallivanting around fields and making daisy chains, or whatever it is that Lucien does in his spare time.”

You couldn’t help it — you snorted, fighting not to choke on the piece of chocolate you’d been swallowing. You didn’t think you’d be doing Lucien any favours by correcting Eris, telling him that he did, in actual fact, read poetry in the woods, leant against huge, mammoth trees.

And perhaps you liked the visual a little too much to destroy it — of Lucien’s intricate hands weaving daisies together. Tucking them into his red hair—

You cleared your throat, your smile fading — and jolted when Eris suddenly grabbed your chin.

“No,” He said seriously, eyes boring into yours. “No more looking sad. Your smile reminds me of sunrise. It’s too brilliant to be hidden.”

You balked at him — waited for a smirk, for some indication that he was being facetious. But his face was utterly serious and unflinching as he reached for another square of chocolate.

“Excuse me,” You pulled the bar out of his reach, swatting him, “did you bring the chocolate for me, or for yourself?”

He grinned, pulling his hands back. “I brought it for you, lady. But perhaps you could give me something in return.”

“I’m not sucking your cock.”

His hair rippled as he threw his head back and barked a laugh, so loud that it echoed through the night. You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile.

“Not what I was angling for, but thank you for making that clear,” He snorted. “What I was asking for was a promise — that you’ll smooth things over with Dion when he returns.”

Part of you wanted to scowl at the sensible suggestion, but…you could only study Eris, tilting your head. You hadn’t known, when you’d first come here, what to make of the eldest Vanserra brother. You’d heard things about him, of course — that he was cocky and flippant and brilliant at playing the part of a courtier. What you never would have anticipated was the…the tenderness. The clear concern for those around him, that he had no qualms about showing. That he longed for their happiness as much as his own.

And Dion was just the same. Just as kind. Just as tightly-bound with duty.

It was what had you giving a relenting nod. “Okay,” You agreed, “I promise.”

Something like pride seemed to shine in Eris’s eyes. It squeezed at your heart, made you feel…less alone. You’d never had a brother, but this — him — you imagined, was exactly what it would be like.

Especially as he quickly grabbed the chocolate bar from your hand, stole one more piece, and rose to his feet.

“Asshole,” You scowled, but you were smiling.

“That’s me,” He smirked, handing the bar back to you. “You can finish the rest.”

Any sarcastic retort got lodged in your throat as he leaned down, pressing a single kiss to the top of your head. And then without a word, he was turning on his feet, strolling back towards the glass doors.

“Eris,” You blurted, and he glanced over his shoulder. You swallowed your lump of emotion. “…You have a kind heart, too.”

And the words…they seemed to stun him, like nobody had ever said such a thing before. He blinked at you, his shoulders seeming to tense for a moment, before they relaxed once more.

“I can name a few people who would disagree with that declarative.” He said, his tone laced with something that made your heart pinch. “I’ve done many things I regret, Y/N. But I’m trying, now, to be better. To put things right. I only hope that I one day can.”

Once more, he turned, and he didn’t offer another word as he disappeared inside.

You could only stare after him, sit amongst the heaviness that his words had left behind. Clearly, Eris Vanserra had some demons of his own to work through.

But if he could try harder…try to be better…surely you could, too.

You bit down on another square of chocolate and stared up at the sky.

Tomorrow. You’d make things up with Dion tomorrow.

⤲

Dion didn’t return until the following evening.

You were reading in your room when you heard his voice float up from outside. It seemed strange, that such nerves stirred in the pit of your stomach, and yet you found yourself making excuses to put off your conversation for as long as possible. You remained in your quarters as he returned his horse to the stables, and whilst he took a late, solitary dinner in the dining room. You didn’t know where the best place was to even have such a conversation…to smooth things over without the risk of Beron overhearing…but when you finally mustered the courage to leave your room and go in search of him, fate had you quite literally running into him as you turned a corner on the upper hallway.

“Y/N.” Dion blinked, his eyes taking in the sight of you; your unbound hair and nightgown. “I—I didn’t expect you to be awake.”

“I heard you return,” You nervously twisted your hands. “I wanted to check you were alright…”

The hope that alighted his eyes made your heart pinch uncomfortably. Had you truly been so awful to him?

“I know it’s late,” You quickly cleared your throat. “But I was hoping we could talk.”

His gaze met yours, and whatever he read there had him giving a determined nod. “Perhaps in my room? We’ll have more privacy.”

So he sensed, at least, that it was a conversation you’d rather didn’t get back to Beron. You nodded, and followed as Dion brushed past you. You tried not to think too hard about how it may look as you filed through the bedroom door he held open for you. Late at night. In just your nightgown.

Only when the door was firmly shut did you round on him. It seemed both of you were wondering who would speak first.

“Dion—”

“I know you must think me a total wretch.” He released a long, staggered breath. Like he’d been holding it since you’d last spoken to him.

And there — that pinch in your heart again. Because Dion Vanserra was the furthest thing from a wretch. That you’d judged him without considering the complexities of his situation had utter shame stinging you.

“Actually,” You glanced down, “I wanted to apologise.”

Dion blinked. “Why?”

Chewing your lip, you crossed the room, perching on the chair tucked into his desk. He watched you carefully, slowly taking a seat on the edge of the huge bed.

“I’m…ashamed…that I didn’t stop to consider how much pressure there is on your shoulders.” You admitted quietly. “I know that there’s more at stake for you. That you don’t have as much freedom as…some of the others. I should have considered that before judging you when you didn’t join me at the hamlet.”

Dion’s head dipped. “I cannot tell you how difficult it was to sit back and do nothing.”

“I understand that now. And I’m sorry…that I didn’t before, I just…” Slowly, you shook your head. “I didn’t think. I suppose I felt…hurt…that I’d come to you for help, and you didn’t seem willing. Because I think you may be my only true friend here…”

You stared at him. And he stared back. That word — friend — hung in the air between you. A subject that needed broaching; that neither of you could dance around any longer.

“Perhaps we should discuss that, as well…” Dion shifted. “I wasn’t sure if…I mean…this connection between us, is—”

“Platonic.” You finished. “I know. I agree.”

Dion’s shoulders seem to slump — in pure, unguarded relief. Clearly he’d been worrying, too…about trying to forge a connection. About trying so damn hard to turn it into something more than it was. But he couldn’t. And neither could you. You were friends and nothing more, and the fact that you were on the same page allowed you at least a little pinch of relief.

“I’ve been thinking it for a while, now.” You said. “But…I think that as hard as we’ve both tried…we’re friends. Nothing more.”

He nodded resolutely. “…you know, though, right? That it makes no difference…”

You did. Gods, you did. It had only kept you awake most nights, reminding you that however you and Dion felt was irrelevant. That the fact that you were on the same page was a small mercy — but it didn’t change anything.

“Regardless of what we feel…” Dion said, pursing his lips. “We’ll still be expected to marry. To consummate that marriage. To have children…”

You knew. And yet you still felt your shoulders tense. Still felt that familiar cold slithering through you. The thought of sharing those things with Dion…and without love…

“There’s truly no way around it?” You asked quietly.

He shook his head. “The only thing even my father wouldn’t have the power to overrule is a mating bond. Don’t suppose you have a secret mate lurking around here that I don’t know about?”

You snorted. “I’m afraid not.”

He nodded, such…such bleakness on his face. You’d been so wrapped up in your own turmoil since you’d arrived at the Vanserra Estate, you hadn’t stopped to think what this might be like for him. What he was giving up.

“Maybe…maybe this marriage doesn’t have to be the be all and end all.” You said, and he glanced up through worried eyes. “Even if we have no choice about the marriage itself…perhaps we can have our own choices within it. Discrete choices, just between you and I…that offer us both happiness.”

Those weary eyes of his studied your face, and you let him see your thoughts. Let him see some optimism, even if it was hard for you to drag it up from amongst the roiling darkness inside you.

“You mean…”

“I mean,” you said, “that as husband and wife, we can have an agreement between us. That we honour what’s expected of us, but…if you or I find connections elsewhere…that’s okay, too. We’ll support one another. And it’d be between us — no one needs to find out about it.”

It was a relief — to see a little glimmer of hope flicker in his eyes. That you were open-minded about this. About finding a way for both of you to be happy.

You smiled softly. “Are we agreed? That first and foremost, we’re friends. We’ll support whatever the other needs.”

“Agreed,” Dion sat up. “Gods, yes, agreed. You’ll always have a friend in me. I’ll support you however I can.”

And you knew he would. That he was completely serious. That he cared. Perhaps you didn’t understand the true weight of the little bit of freedom you’d just offered him. Perhaps he didn’t understand what it meant for you, either. But that was okay.

“You’ll always have a friend in me, too, Dion. We’ll find a way to make this work.”

He reached out, grabbing your hand and pressing a single kiss to it. And such gratitude shone in his eyes that you couldn’t help wondering, couldn’t help prying…

“…Even if you don’t have a mate…” You said quietly, “is there someone you’re interested in?”

The immediate dusting of pink that coloured his cheeks was all the confirmation you needed. He shifted, like…like he was embarrassed, or something. Pressed his lips together.

“There is.” You grinned. “That’s good.”

“It’s early days.” He quickly said. “…But I feel as strongly for her as she does for me. I should have told you sooner.”

You could hardly feel bitter about it…not with your antics, as of late. And you were happy for him. He was a good male — a male deserving of a connection that went beyond friendship.

“It wouldn’t exactly have been easy for you to bring it up, now would it?” You laughed softly.

He dipped his chin, a soft smile playing on his lips. “And…what of you? Is there…I mean…do you have a connection with anyone?”

The laughter faded from your face. A simple question, and yet…it did nothing but churn you up inside. You could hardly call the mess with Lucien a connection. There was just…a fine line between hate and lust. And that line had been temporarily blurred.

“No,” You shook your head. “I don’t—I have no one.”

Those words sounded aloud as pathetic as they felt inside. And yet so achingly true. It felt…vulnerable. Raw. Empty.

“…you have me.” Dion said softly. “Your friend.”

He squeezed your hand, and it took a surprising amount of effort not to succumb to the tears that threatened you. You cleared your throat, standing from the chair.

“I should…get back to my room…before anyone works out we’re in here together.” You forced a laugh. “We don’t need a scandal on our hands.”

Dion chuckled gently. “No, we certainly don’t.”

“Goodnight, then.”

With a smile, you turned, your eyes mindlessly grazing the room as you stepped towards the door.

And then stopped.

Turned back to his desk.

Dion watched you.

The parchment had been sat in front of you throughout the entire conversation, and yet…yet for some reason, the familiar handwriting had flown completely over your head.

Until then. Until it suddenly clicked — the looping scrawl, the whorls.

The way Willow dotted every “i” with a tiny little star.

You pulled the parchment towards you, and still Dion watched. He’d gone so stiff, so still, on the bed.

“…You’ve written to Willow?” You murmured. “I didn’t know…”

“…Y/N…”

Just flitting briefly over the words, the content of the letter seemed much like the ones Willow wrote to you. Descriptions of books she was reading, a beautiful piece of music she’d heard, what she planned to do with her week—

Until you got to the bottom. Every part of you stiffened.

I think about you every minute of every day. Tell me I can see you soon. I’m sick from missing you. All my love. Willow.

“Y/N…” Dion murmured again. “Listen—”

“My sister?” You rounded on him. “My married sister?”

You didn’t know why your heart was thudding so erratically. Why you felt sick to your stomach. The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on you, after what you’d done, but—

But Willow was married. Your married little sister, who had been such a saving grace for you in your first couple of weeks at the estate, who had—

Who had sought out Dion at any chance she’d got. Who’d spoken to him for hours on end, laughed with him. Who had seen his kindness first-hand.

“Listen, Y/N,” Dion stood up quickly, striding over to you. “I didn’t plan for this to happen—”

“You kissed me at that fucking masquerade only a fortnight ago!”

His eyes shuttered. “I know.”

“And…what? You were pining after my sister the entire time? What am I, some kind of temporary replacement because you can’t have her?”

“No! Of course not!. Let’s just…talk about this—”

“No.” You gritted your teeth as you stepped aside — and so did he, “Move, Dion.”

“Y/N—”

He didn’t stop you, this time, when you pushed past him. Every part of you was trembling; from anger or from hurt or both…you didn’t even know. Nor did you know why you felt those things. Perhaps because Willow was one of your only friends, the sister you were closest to. Perhaps because you’d thought Dion felt just as lonely in this arrangement as you did…and he’d been secretly corresponding with your sister about their feelings for each other.

You heard him curse under his breath as you ripped the door open. And you didn’t care who might see as you stormed from his room, hurrying back to yours.

But you were far too incensed to sleep, or to read. If you laid and stared at the ceiling, you’d cry. Or scream.

Before you knew what you were doing, you ripped off your nightgown and blindly tore some clothes from your armoire, shucking them on. It was far too cold for just a tunic and a pair of breeches, but you didn’t fucking care.

You wanted to feel the fresh air on your skin, biting at it painfully. You wanted to breathe in the frost and chimney smoke. You needed to go somewhere. To do something.

You yanked your boots on. And you ran.

⤲

You walked for what felt like hours, just trawling the estate until your feet hurt. Wending through the trees and keeping yourself hidden, the air was brisk and cutting – a pleasant slicing against your exposed skin, but it did nothing to abate the wrenching roaring in your head.

You needed…something. Something to pour your frustration, your hurt, into. And you knew how hypocritical it made you to even feel such things, but…if this…thing…between Dion and Willow had started during the festival…it had begun long before that one night of fleeting passion with Lucien. And had been going on right under your nose, without him saying a single word.

You just…just wished one of them had at least had the decency to say something.

Across the estate, you heard the manor’s huge grandfather clock chiming two o’clock in the morning. It was silent all around, besides the whisper of wildlife. You knew you should go back – get some rest and face the situation with a cooler head.

But you found yourself storming over to the armoury.

You were far too wound up to care if anyone noticed the light on and came to investigate. The roiling in your brain and heart and veins needed an outlet, and this – this was the best way. The way Linden had taught you.

You felt like you were merely watching from outside of your body as you grabbed a training sword and went to work. Never had you sliced at the air so ferociously, your movements flowing like wind, cutting like ice. Every angered thought that arose in your mind became nothing but a manoeuvre, a strike. You were lithe, and fluid, and dangerous.

And hurt.

Lonely.

Before you knew you it, the cold in your bones had been replaced by the heat and sweat of your exertion. You needed to stop, before you lost it completely. Before you became so riled up that you smashed the armoury to pieces.

You threw the sword down, spinning on your feet to grip the edges of the nearby table. You’d barely taken a breath before something moved in your periphery, and your head snapped up fast as lightning.

Just like before, Lucien leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable as he took in the sight of you, hunched over and panting, a fire no doubt still burning in your eyes. And you stared back at him. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t know what to say, considering the last time you’d looked at that face, he’d been deep inside you.

“I saw the light was on.” He said – seemingly his way of explaining his presence.

You stared at him, your breaths still heaving. “Right.”

With a terse nod, he glanced at the sword on the floor. Then back to you. “Bit of a weird time to be getting some training in.”

“Bit of a weird time to be watching me.”

Those russet eyes dipped, and he released a sigh. Like your attitude was puzzling to him. Like he hadn’t fucked you and taken off and avoided you ever since.

“Listen–”

“Just to clarify,” You cut in sharply. “Are you talking to me now?”

He rolled his eyes. “I think it would be a good idea for us to talk, yes.”

“You’ve done a fine job of avoiding me this week. Why bother now?”

You didn’t miss the way a muscle in his jaw ticked – like he was trying so, so hard to bite down on a whole host of colourful retorts. Because this was what he’d been avoiding. This run-in with you.

Having to face the mistake he’d made.

“To clear things up after—”

“After you fucked me and left?”

“Look,” He gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry for ignoring you. But I think we can both agree that what happened absolutely shouldn’t have.”

So that was the game he was going to play.

And…fine. That was utterly fine. Because you were lonely and hurt and churned up and you wanted to go head-to-head with him. To bait him. It was about the only thing you had to cling onto right now.

So you narrowed your eyes. Cocked your head at him. “You know,” You barked a sharp laugh, “You’re acting mighty unaffected, for someone who moaned so desperately while being buried inside me.”

Not what he’d expected you to say – that much was obvious when he blinked. Straightened himself out. He seemed to quickly glance behind him, like he was looking for prying eyes and ears, before he slipped further into the armoury and pushed the door shut behind him.

And you…you approached him. You weren’t unlike a predator approaching its prey as you stepped towards him in slow, careful movements. He studied every single one of those movements like he was committing them to memory, his eyes scanning your sweat-slick skin, the slight curl of your unbound hair–

His gaze snagged on your braid, and he swallowed. He was stiff as a board as you stopped in front of him, a mere hair’s-breadth away. A shared breath would have your bodies brushing.

And when those deep, unending eyes of his moved from your braid, flickering to your lips – you knew. You had him exactly where you wanted him. You had to suppress the smirk that wanted to tug at your lips.

“One would think, Lucien,” You hummed, your breath fanning his face, “That you didn’t enjoy yourself that night.”

“I didn’t say that.” He blurted immediately, the words seeming to just fall from his mouth, out of his control. He seemed to frown at himself, to search for some way to retract the statement–

But those thoughts eddied straight from his mind as you hummed a quiet, pensive noise. And sunk to your knees before him.

“Tell me,” Your head fell into a tilt, your hands brushing up his legs, up and up to the laces of his breeches, “would you have preferred if it hadn’t happened?”

He merely blinked down at you. Like he didn’t know what you were saying, didn’t know that you’d even asked a question. His throat worked on a hard swallow, and his tongue dipped out to swipe over his bottom lip.

And as your fingers began to brush those laces on his breeches…to pull on them…the hardness that awaited you beneath was answer enough.

Your knuckles were a feather-light brush against his stomach, and you heard the slightest, tiniest intake of breath. You couldn’t help smiling triumphantly as you tugged and tugged, the laces loosening, the front flap of his breeches parting.

And when you pulled those breeches down, allowing his cock to spring free, it was pure, steeled determination not to melt into a puddle at the sight of it. To think of how it had been inside you, thrusting into you, giving you the most mouthwatering release–

Lucien just watched, his lips slightly parted, his pupils blown. And at the first brush of your hand over his cock, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

You allowed the pads of your fingers to explore the long, hard length of him, and his breath hitched in his throat as you took your time with teasing brushes and touches, tracing over the throbbing vein, learning what he felt like as you wrapped your palm around him and moved your thumb up to brush over the head.

And then you leaned forward. Stared up at him. His head was tilted back, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

You smiled. Took the head of his cock into your mouth. His hips immediately jerked.

His head fell forward once more, and he stared down at you, a noise akin to a whimper leaving his throat. But you didn’t move – didn’t slide your lips any further onto him. You held the head in your mouth, swirling your tongue around, noting every dip and indentation.

“...Holy Gods…” He gritted out, his voice deep and guttural. And then he was sliding a hand into your hair. His fingers immediately found your braid.

You gripped onto the backs of his sculpted legs as you brought more of him into your mouth, sliding down. And down. And down. A choked, wordless moan was all Lucien could manage as you went to work on his cock.

You wrapped a hand around the base, allowing your tongue to drag slowly, sensuously, over the velvety skin as you pulled him out of your mouth. You pumped him a couple of times, watching every minuscule expression pass across his face. The way his brow furrowed and his lips parted. The way he kept alternating between tipping his head back and wanting to watch you.

“It would seem to me,” You murmured, blowing on the head and causing his hips to jerk, “that you don’t wish it hadn’t happened.”

There was no chance for him to muster a response as you took him into your mouth again. Nothing but pure thrill charged through you as you bobbed your head, licking him, sucking him, the head of his cock damn near touching the back of your throat.

You wanted to feel every bit of it, even as your jaw ached, and you were breathing heavily through your nose. The burn was brilliant — satisfying. And better than anything else, it quieted the warring inside your head.

“Fuck.” Lucien gasped out. You could feel him tightening inside your mouth, feel him growing close. You wanted him spurting on your tongue.

His hands pulled on your hair to near-pain, and you smirked around him. Steadied yourself. Reached one hand up to cup his balls.

As you bobbed, and bobbed, and bobbed, licked and sucked and squeezed his balls and dug your fingernails into his leg, the low growls in his throat became guttural, feral. He wouldn’t last much longer, wouldn’t be able to resist—

He gripped your head, holding you still as his hips stuttered to a stop. And a deep, gasping groan escaped him as he came inside your mouth, spilling all over your tongue, down your throat.

And you swallowed every last drop. Embraced the taste of him, the warmth of him. Licked and pumped him through his release, until he was no more but a spent, whimpering mess.

You allowed him to come down from the high. Allowed him to catch his breath. But as soon as awareness returned to his eyes, replacing the glazed pleasure with a keen sense of knowing, you rose to your feet.

Lucien stared at you, his golden cheeks flushed. His chest still heaving slightly.

And you…you met his eyes. Smiled. Swiped a tongue over your lips and wiped the corners of your mouth with a single finger. His eyes tracked every single movement wordlessly.

“Thought so.” Was all you said, a smile tugging your lips. “Goodnight.”

You brushed past him, not even glancing back to see if he tucked himself back into his breeches, or just stood there, stunned.

Let him see how it felt to be walked away from. To be treated like a mistake.

You strode out of the armoury like the taste of him wasn’t still lingering on your tongue, and crossed the quiet estate, back into the manor.

And when you reached your bedroom and fell between the sheets, the turmoil in your head was easier to tune out.

And you slept.

⤲

You spent the following morning thinking. Reflecting. Nobody came to bother you.

You curled up on the windowsill, your head pressed against the glass as you watched the many staff and servants pass by on their errands. Saw the odd flash of red hair come and go.

It was one person you found yourself keeping an eye out for in particular. Dion.

It surprised you, to wake up and find that your overriding emotion was guilt.

Guilt over your reaction. Over how you’d dealt with it.

Because…because why shouldn’t Dion have feelings for Willow? It wasn’t as though the connection between the two of you was anything besides platonic. Betrothed you may be, but that was out of both of your control. You didn’t have feelings for him. He didn’t have feelings for you.

And Willow may have been married, but…hopefully not for much longer. Not to a beast like Isaac.

She’d be much better off with Dion, that was for sure.

Willow and Dion were both good. Both caring. And if they’d found a connection…who were you to be upset about that? Especially with your own antics…

You weren’t angry with them. Perhaps a little hurt that they’d not shared it with you, but…you realised, now, that you’d wildly overreacted. Kind of been an asshole.

You needed to apologise — again. If for no other reason than that you selfishly needed Dion’s friendship. And wanted it, too. You would be very lonely here, very miserable, without it.

You were just pushing to your feet when the knock fell on your door.

You dragged in a slow, deep breath, ignoring the ache of your muscles as you trudged to the door and inched it open.

Long red hair was the first thing you saw. And for a second, you thought maybe…maybe Lucien—

No. Dion stood there, looking terrible. Like he hadn’t slept. His skin was paler than usual, and dark smudges sat beneath his eyes.

He took in the sight of you, dragging a hand through his hair. “…please can we talk?”

Without any hesitation, you nodded, stepping aside. Dion’s footsteps were heavy, loaded, as he dragged his feet in and turned to face you.

“I’m sorry.” You blurted.

Dion went still, his shoulders tensing. “Wait—what?”

“I’m sorry,” You repeated, slumping onto the bed. “Like…really, really sorry. How I reacted last night…I had no right.” Never mind the fact that you’d then sucked his brother’s cock.

“Y/N—”

“Wait—before you say anything,” You twisted your hands anxiously in your lap. “I slept on it. And I’ve thought about it. And I’m…I’m not angry. I’d have preferred not to find out like that, but…as for you and Willow…”

Dion’s eyes dipped down. “We’d already discussed, before you saw that letter, that I should try and figure out my feelings with you, first…considering you’re to be my wife. I’m sorry that you had to find out that way.”

You studied him. Took in how utterly downtrodden he looked. And if you weren’t so worried that Lucien’s scent still lingered on you — even after bathing and brushing your teeth twice — you would have reached out and hugged him.

He’d done nothing but surprise you since you’d come to the estate. Impress you. With his kind nature, his thoughtfulness…the intricate workings of his brain. He’d become your friend for a reason. You wanted him to be happy. Willow, too.

“Having the title of your wife isn’t going to make you fall in love with me,” You said quietly. “And vice versa. We’re friends, Dion. And I haven’t worked out, yet, how we’re going to make this work, but…we both know there’s nothing between us. I would never expect you to be alone for the rest of your life because of me.”

“I know. And nor would I expect it of you, either,” he strode closer. “But Willow and I…it wasn’t intentional. I want you to know that.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t.” You shrugged. “But intentional or not…why shouldn’t you be each other’s happiness?”

He blinked, studying you. “I…are you saying…”

“I’m saying…we’ll figure this out somehow. Together. Because Willow is my sister, and you’re my friend. You both deserve to be happy. And Mother above, she needs out of that marriage with Isaac.”

The way Dion clenched his jaw told you everything you could possibly need to know about how he felt. That it was killing him, just as much as you, that Willow was where she was. With who she was with.

“I think if Willow were to have you, she’d be a very lucky person.” You said earnestly. “And if you wish to secretly court her while we figure things…you have my blessing. Hell, I’ll even help you. Especially to get her out of that damn marriage.”

Poor, poor Dion looked seconds from tears. And despite all your qualms about the…scent…that may still linger on you, you stood up. Wrapped your arms around him.

“I’ve never had a friend like you before.” He whispered, resting his chin atop of your head. “If there’s anyone that you are interested in–”

“There isn’t,” You cut in quickly, frowning to yourself, “But…thank you.”

He pulled back, studying you with eyes so soft, you couldn’t bear to meet them. “You’ll find someone, you know. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

All you could manage was a smile in response. There was no way you were ready to delve into such a subject – not when you weren’t quite sure what you would blurt out.

So you thanked him. Hugged him again. Your husband-to-be and friend.

Smoothing things over hadn’t quite taken the edge off of the loneliness, though.

You weren’t sure anything could.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

all acotar tags: @moonfawnx @writingsbychlo @moonlitcelestial @orangecreamsicle54 @saturnspoet0711 @andahugaroundtheneck @nightscourtt @mysticalcheesecakemiracle @luckypersonmentality @nobody00sthings @kristalhi @tencrushesperday @janzquu @we-were-beautiful @thewarriormoon @cirwin2013 @mrs-azriel @the-kwami-of-fandom-frustration @libraryofathousandstars @daily-dose-of-sass @pixiestix13 @basicbittywitty @simplefan-638 @highlady-ofillyria @false-desire-182 @fictionalcharacterlereasigim @theofficialmadman @kemillfreitas @sledgehammer21-1 @shannonsaid @jtargs @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @new-adventures-everyday @positivewitch @crushedcloudsx @cartoonnerdgirl @a-frog-with-a-laptop @ssmay123 @linduzmunna @ruler-of-hades @kennedy-brooke @peachyandmoon @ariaaira @topaz125 @blitz-fall @azrielsbbg @gracedarr @goldentournesol @localhopedealerr @swagfreakathletemonger @sfhsgrad-blog @lo0oserlex @ruleroftides @mayabennett03 @vera0124 @mich0731 @balam-sen @luciensbxtch @holywolfsstuff @chloesgoneposts @margssstuff

347 notes · View notes

askthehiddencaste · 2 years

Text

Fear to love

characters: Shuska Tomson and Ashoal Magree Mentioned: Viktor serren (@stuckstucktrolls) and Rutaci Faurux (@memurfevur)

studies and letters and the bonding of enemies to friends. Ashoal gets help from shuska to write a letter that has been needed to be said for a while.

"Ashoal, you HAVE to tell them!"

"You think I haven't TRIED?!"

Ashoal growled, standing from the desk he and Shuska had been studying at. In recent weeks, Ashoal had been quite sensitive with what had been going on with his body. Longer showers, nearly refusing to show himself to his mates, even going so far as to refuse shared showers or midnight romps with his mates when they were home.

He had promised and tried to convince them both that he was alright, hoping but knowing they would worry about him no matter what he said.

"Ashoal, you've come to me for my help and I've done all that i can. The Grey-fae have their own odd magics and this is as close to any answer we can get" The small lime said softly. Standing, Shuska moved over to place a gentle on the ceruleans back. He looked down to her with a soft frown on his lips, a soft sigh escaping as he let his eyes fall back to the books on the table.

"You're right" he muttered, reaching up and removing his glasses to rub his eyes. "I'm just…. Shuska HOW do i tell them? 'Oh by the way I'm acting as a mother grub, be careful with me' ? Shuska do you know how INSANE that sounds?" he almost hissed, fixing his glasses and turning to place his hands on the table.

Everything felt like it was crashing down around him, and Ashoal didn't know what to do. He shifted over and plopped down into his chair. "I don't know how" he repeated, voice soft as he allowed his head to be dropped into his hands.

Shuska was quiet as he did this, silently looking around the old wood of the shelves around them. With a deep breath, she wandered over and put a gentle hand on Ashoals shoulder. "write them letters" came her soft answer. "Write them each a letter and explain to your mates how scared you are. Tell hem that way so you don't have to use your voice and choke again" she hummed softly.

Ashoal swallowed and looked up to her, nodding as his hand came up to lightly settle over hers. "Would…..would you help me?" he asked softly, the lime nodding and offering him a soft smile.

"of course I can"

***

Ashoal looked to the crumpled pile of papers between him and what used to be an empty bin, now overflowing to the floor. They had been working at this for what felt like hours, but finally he felt the letters he had written for his mates were as good as they would get.

"So….giving them to each one directly or are you planning on leaving them for each to find?" Shuska hummed, working on cleaning their mess of papers.

Ashoal turned his eyes to her and hummed "I…..I think I'm going to leave them in each ones spot at the dining table… Let them find their letter in their own times" he answered softly, a warm smile on his lips. He went out of his recent comfort zone to pull Shuska against him in a tight hug and just held her for a few moments. "Thank you" he muttered down against her hair.

Shuska had squeaked at being pulled away from her work and chuckled in turn, wrapping her arms around him in turn.

"Any time sweetheart. And Ash? Go ahead and take the book with you, it may help the others understand if they have more questions than you have answers to" she cooed.

the cerulean nodded, releasing her and closing the book after tucking the letters in to mark his page. "You don't know how much your help means to me Shus. Especially with how I would act and treated you and your family here." he hummed, standing and starting towards the front door.

Shuska shook her head, picking up the bin and the last few balls of paper. "Think nothing of it Ash. Even with your attitude, i knew you were still a good person. even if you were nasty at times" she chuckled lightly, elbowing him in the arm as she passed him by with a sharp clip to her step.

Ashoal cracked a proper smile and chuckled to himself. This place had been a second home to him while he was attempting to court Tannos, and while he regretted much of what he had done, she was right in the end.

with a quick goodbye, he left the library with the promise to return to his friends soon.

***

Upon reaching home, Ashoal got to work setting things up. The kitchen was cleaned and his lovers letters sat upon either side of the book with their name and a single rose from the plants he had bred just for each of his mates. With the message from Viktor, he had taken time to go and made the bed in the back room, leaving an extra quilt on the end of the bed for the Moirail that would be brought over.

Ashoal was worried about the conversations he knew were to come, but he knew they would make it through.

*****************************

The letters are the same, simply one written for each Rutaci and Viktor in turn:

My dear Matesprit,

I would like to lead this letter with an apology. I know that i have been distant, almost cold to the both of you, refusing your touch, the want to connect and hold, everything

I have been scared. For my health and for your reactions to the knowledge I am imparting to you. The book accompanying this letter has a page marked to explain better the mark I have round upon myself, and that the three of us sported on that beautiful night that feels like it was both yesterday and so long ago.

the mark I now bear is the one labeled as 'Fertility' in the book, and from the studies our dear Librarian and I have made, it seems that I have come to be similar to a Mother Grub of sorts.

there are historical texts that describe something similar being the norm in the past, but without the magic the odd hornless ones posses. I am unsure how to proceed with these bits of knowledge, but i do know one thing

I am afraid

I don't know if I'll lay an egg, a clutch, or even have a live birth like some lusii do.

I do however know that with you next to me, all things are possible.

I love you my dear

I hope you will be as happy as i am to know that there will be a grub here, made from the love our matespritship has created.

~Ashoal Magree

"You think I haven't TRIED?!"

Ashoal growled, standing from the desk he and Shuska had been studying at. In recent weeks, ashoal had been quite sensitive with what had been going on with his body. Longer showers, nearly refusing to show himself to his mates, even going so far as to refuse shared showers or midnight romps with his mates when they were home.

He had promised and tried to convince them both that he was alright, hoping but knowing they would worry about him no matter what he said.

"Ashoal, youve come to me for my help and ive done all that i can. The Grey-fae have their own odd magics and this is as close to any answer we can get" The small lime said softly. Standing, Shuska moved over to place a gentle on the ceruleans back. He looked down to her with a soft frown on his lips, a soft sigh escaping as he let his eyes fall back to the books on the table.

"Youre right" he muttered, reaching up and removing his glasses to rub his eyes. "I'm just.... Shuska HOW do i tell them? 'Oh by the way im acting as a mother grub, be careful with me' ? Shuska do you know how INSANE that sounds?" he almost hissed, fixing his glasses and turning to place his hands on the table.

Everything felt like it was crashing down around him, and Ashoal didnt know what to do. He shifted over and plopped down into his chair. "I dont know how" he repeated, voice soft as he allowed his head to be dropped into his hands.

Shuska was quiet as he did this, silently looking around the old wood of the shelves around them. With a deep breath, she wandered over and put a gentle hand on Ashoals shoulder. "write them letters" came her soft answer. "Write them each a letter and explain to your mates how scared you are. Tell hem that way so you dont have to use your voice and choke again" she hummed softly.

Ashoal swallowed and looked up to her, nodding as his hand came up to lightly settle over hers. "Would.....would you help me?" he asked softly, the lime nodding and offering him a soft smile.

"of course I can"

***

Ashoakl looked to the crumpled pile of papers between him and what used to be an empty bin, now overflowing to the floor. They had been working at this for what felt like hours, but finally he felt the letters he had written for his mates were as good as they would get.

"So....giving them to each one directly or are you planning on leaving them for each to find?" Shuska hummed, working on cleaning their mess of papers.

Ashoal turned his eyes to her and hummed "I.....I think im going to leave them in each ones spot at the dining table... Let them find their letter in their own times" he answered softly, a warm smile on his lips. He went out of his recent comfort zone to pull shuska against him in a tight hug and just held her for a few moments. "Thank you" he muttered down against her hair.

Shuska had squeaked at being pulled away from her work and chuckled in turn, wrapping her arms around him in turn.

"Any time sweetheart. And Ash? Go ahead and take the book with you, it may help the others understand if they have more questions than you have answers to" she cooed.

the cerulean nodded, releasing her and closing the book after tucking the letters in to mark his page. "You dont know how much your help means to me Shus. Especially with how I would act and treated you and your family here." he hummed, standing and starting towards the front door.

with a quick goodbye, he left the library with the promise to return to his friends soon.

***

Upon reching home, Ashoal got to work setting things up. The kitchen was cleaned and his lovers letters sat upon either side of the book with their name and a single rose from the plants he had bred just for each of his mates. With the message from Viktor, he had taken time to go and made the bed in the back room, leaving an extra quilt on the end of the bed for the Moirail that would be brought over.

Ashoal was worried about the conversations he knew were to come, but he knew they would make it through.

* * * * * * * * *

The letters are the same, simply one written for each Rutaci and Viktor in turn:

My dear Matesprit,

I would like to lead this letter with an apology. I know that i have been distant, almost cold to the both of you, refusing your touch, the want to connect and hold, everything

the mark I now bear is the one labeled as 'Fertility' in the book, and from the studies our dear Librarian and I have made, it seems that I have come to be similar to a Mother Grub of sorts.

there are historical texts that describe something similar being the norm in the past, but without the magic the odd horneless ones posses. I am unsure how to procede with these bits of knowledge, but i do know one thing

I am afraid

I dont know if I'll lay an egg, a clutch, or even have a live birth like some lusii do.

I do however know that with you next to me, all things are possible.

I love you my dear

I hope you will be as happy as i am to know that there will be a grub here, made from the love our matespritship has created.

~Ashoal Magree

#Rose of a different name #ashoal #drabble #gold bitten rose

2 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 3 years

Note

Aaaaand part 6 ideas - I think the timing works out and Starfall is coming. Lucien says he can’t come (a calculated lie), but Elain sends down the bond that she went to that shop along the sidra to wear under her dress. They manage to secure a private balcony. Smut ensues.

You know, I thought about doing a serial where like, Elain accidentally accepts the bond and her and Lucien hate fuck for a while before they get to know each other, but I guess we're doing this instead.

Time has no meaning in this ficlet, do not ask me about the timeline or seasons, they change based on a whim and my needs so anyway WELCOME TO COLD WEATHER AGAIN (I think? I'm unsure when Starfall actually is? And honestly, it doesn't matter).

This is, as per usual, NSFW, 18+ and unedited beyond me just glancing at it to make sure there were no red squiggles in word.

He hadn’t meant to be gone for so long. Spring had fallen to shit and what was supposed to be a two-week stay had morphed into months of trying to convince Tamlin to eat, to legislate, and enforce his border all while Tamlin used him as his personal punching bag. Lucien was exhausted and irritated when Feyre’s invitation for Starfall dropped in his lap.

No I don’t want to go to a party, he thought privately, quickly scrawling back a much politer response. What he wanted was a week of uninterrupted alone time with his mate in which he did every filthy thing he’d been fantasizing about while she begged him for more. Lucien could still taste her in his mouth, could still smell her in the air. She was a brand on his skin, a ghost trailing him everywhere he went. He wondered about her constantly. Was she thinking about him? Did she miss him? Want to see him?

Lucien hoped openly declining an opportunity to see Elain might spur her into reaching out to him in their game and admitting she not only wanted him, but she needed him, too. He was playing aloof, like always but she was just silent. He couldn’t pretend that didn’t disappoint him.

Feyre sent back her disappointment two days later and let the invitation open if he changed his mind. She swore up and down Cassian wanted to chat with him and perhaps the General did. Their friendship was an odd one but comforting and a little familiar. Of all of Rhysand’s inner circle, Lucien liked Cassian best.

He was walking to the stables to patrol Tamlin’s border when a vision slithered down the bond. Elain, standing in front of a mirror, wearing a gown that seemed to be made of pure starlight. Silver and low cut, with capped sleeves and a skin colored lining made it seem as though she only wore the glittering diamonds and nothing else. His mouth went dry at the sight. Had she meant to send it?

Yes. A note followed the image, appearing in the air before him.

Starfall?

That was all she’d written. She might have written pages and pages, for the effect that one word had. Lucien tugged his response back, a resounding yes, absolutely, if I have to crawl I will— and turned abruptly to let Tamlin know he was officially retiring from Spring, and to write if he needed any more assistance.

Back in Velaris, Lucien paid an obscenely large amount of money to secure one of the last private balconies in Velaris. It was far from where Rhysand and his ilk would watch, but still very much out in the open. The edge of the balcony, cut from smooth, gray stone, was thick enough he could hoist Elain up and fuck her brainless if he wanted to.

Lucien very, very much did.

The day before Starfall, Lucien sent Elain only the address and nothing else. There would be no polite teasing, no stolen glances. They would be together…maybe even talk and get to know each other outside of just kissing and touching. The thought of hearing her speak excited him more than anything else, though seeing her stripped of her dress was a very close second.

He dressed in a jacket of silver and trimmed in white to match the fitted white pants he’d worn. He’d neatly combed his hair and tied it off his face after debating for too long whether he ought to leave it down or not. He slipped on clean, black boots that hugged his calves, slipped a knife inside his boot just in case, and forewent wearing any other weaponry.

He’d just made it to the balcony he’d rented when the glass, double doors that led from the building they and others were borrowing, opened, and Elain stepped out. Lucien made no show of dropping to his knee, one hand pressed against his chest, jaw hanging open. He’d lost all rational ability to speak or stand when Elain, his goddess, stepped onto the balcony, a vision in silver stars.

Her cheeks darkened with what he hoped was pleasure, though she made a big show of rolling her eyes. “You’re dramatic,” she accused as he staggered back to his feet.

“Absurd. You’re beautiful,” he replied, caressing those same, heated cheeks. He suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of marring one inch of her body and wondered if perhaps they’d just have a nice, romantic evening with nothing else between them.

She walked to the balcony, illuminated beneath floating fae lights. Lucien stood beside her, resting one of his hands over her own, unable to resist. She smiled faintly at the touch and pressed her shoulder against his.

“I missed you,” she told him without looking up, her eyes still firmly focused on the city below. His heart pounded in his chest at the admission.

“Not half as much as I missed you,” he promised, squeezing her hand. A smile bloomed fully on her face, lighting her up like the sun across the sea and Lucien thought he was ruined entirely for anyone else, regardless of what happened between them.

She turned, suddenly, her sweet smile morphing into something wicked. His body instantly tightened as anticipating thrilled up his spine. What was she thinking? She ran her hands up his chest, dragging her eyes up with them until they were firmly focused on his lips. She didn’t need to ask him to kiss her. He’d happily spend the rest of his life attached at the mouth if she wanted.

That first, sweeping kiss wrecked all Lucien’s promises to himself. She tasted like citrus coated in honey and somehow like sunshine. He was frantic, unable to get enough and all at once, desperate for more. His tongue caressed her own, licking in time with the hips he was grinding into her beautiful gown.

Elain broke the kiss with a gasp, her fingers yanking on the laces of his pants. “Before everything starts,” she said, making quick work of them. He began hiking up her dress but Elain swatted his hands away.

“The first time you have me will be private,” she informed him, her brown eyes glittering with promise. “And somewhere nice.”

He started to ask what her plan was, then, but Elain dropped to her knees and Lucien’s head immediately emptied. The last remaining shred of rationality snarled at the sight of her kneeling when he thought it ought to have been him while the animal that typical slumbered in his chest roared with appreciation at the sight of his mate eye level with his cock.

“I borrowed one of Nesta’s dirtier books,” Elain informed him, her breath curling along the skin of his hard, twitching cock. “I don’t suppose this requires any amount of skill.”

Lucien took a shallow breath as her hand cupped the base of him. She ran her tongue up the broad side of his shaft and he reached for the railing behind him in an effort to keep himself steady.

She hummed softly to herself, pumping him once. She could have done only that and nothing else and he’d have come quickly, undone at just the sight of her. She glanced up at him, her lips moistened, her eyes mischievous.

“Will you beg, Lucien?” She asked.

“Would you like me to?” He choked in response. She smiled, lowered her mouth, and sucked just the tip of his erection into her mouth. Lucien concentrated all his effort on remaining utterly still despite his body’s urge to thrust into her mouth and fuck her throat. It was her first time, he reminded himself. He didn’t need to scare her.

“Yes,” she replied, withdrawing her pretty little lips to lick his head like a piece of candy. Lucien groaned loudly.

“Elain, please—”

His words choked into another groan of need as she took as much of him as she could into her mouth, her cheeks hollowed and her hand making up the difference. Her mouth was hot and wet and utterly intoxicating in its softness. Lucien was desperate and somehow building hotly towards release despite how little time and effort she’d put into the act of sucking him.

She hummed again, the noise vibrating along his skin and settling in his tightening sac. Saliva from her mouth pooled around her hand, making it easier for her glide up and down the length of him as she licked and sucked.

First time? His mind demanded, unable to believe she hadn’t done this before. Had it been so long since someone took him in their mouth that he’d forgotten? Was the act made better when it was his mate who sucked?

Shut the fuck up, the animal in his chest demanded of his wild, out of control thoughts. Lucien’s hips jerked a little as he built higher, fire racing through his blood.

“Elain,” he gasped, unsure what else to say. She quickened her pace and Lucien hung by a thread just long enough to offer a warning. “I’m going to come, Elain—”

She didn’t pull away, didn’t withdraw and a moment later Lucien exploded into a million pieces, yelling so loud he was sure Feyre heard him, wherever she was. He pumped hot into her mouth and Elain, the angel, took all of it without moving her mouth. She waited until he relaxed to withdraw, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You,” he gasped, pulling her to her feet so he could kiss her. “Next, you next—”

A shooting star streaked through the sky and Elain twisted in his arms, her swollen, red lips parted with delight. Lucien quickly pulled up his pants and retied them, swallowing against the aftershock of his release.

“Another day,” she replied, letting him pull her against him, her back resting against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. He kissed the top of her head, aware of what she’d done.

She’d put him in a situation that forced him to see her again.

Did she not know Lucien wanted to see her all the time?

She wiggled a little, sighing sweetly, content in his arms.

He’d show her what he meant.

#elucien fic #elucien smut #elucien prompt #elucien #PART SEVEN #????????#do we want to see them do it or like....#are we all good

79 notes · View notes

kim-monsterlings · 4 years

Text

Brae - M Merman x M Human (Reader) // NSFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon; flirting, merman’s insecurities from his family, blowjob (+ mention of teeth, nothing too explicit), drinking alcohol, NSFW scene involving handjobs by the merman, mention of touching the merman’s slit, kissing, then angst with thoughts of drowning and a fluffy-ish ending

Wordcount: 6539

“Tropemas” Summary: when the mer insisting on befriending you returned day after day, falling for him was inevitable

Notes: this comes at the beautiful request of @nikipuppeteer and unfortunately I had already planned a soulmate au, but I loved the idea of a mlm mer fic too much to not do it!! This really got ahead of me and I love my boys, but so much I couldn’t let it go without it being up to my really annoying standards. I hope you love them <3

Masterlist // “Tropemas” Masterlist

No matter the dangers accompanied by falling asleep on an unanchored boat, lethargy always overcame you. It was only a small rowboat and one swayed by the gentlest of waves, hardly a comfortable place to rest and your neck always ached the evening after, but time on the sea had become like second nature to you now, and the napping was long ingrained in your afternoons out.

Though waking with water dripping on your face was rare.

Only one cloud needed to mar daylight for you to wait indoors for a brighter day. Beyond the threat of losing yourself at sea, a storm would ruin the sketchbook tucked to your lap. Fragile paper couldn’t survive the wind or rain. Scattered scrawls were no works of art, but after hours rocked at sea and memorising the crags of the cove, it was your treasure, one you took to after moving from the cities and finding peace in the small costal town, and the view was the first you’d had not from cramped flats.

Rare enough, another droplet cool dribbling down your cheek roused you to find the sketchbook damp too, tossed open. Pages wettened still from slender fingertips – clawed, tracing your latest landscaping of cliffs, pencil lines smudging into faded lines. Of all sketches, this hardly finished and quickly ruining one was nothing to prize, but the creature tipping you and your boat precariously lower with every breath seemed enamoured by it.

Watching the creature, you were torn from wanting to scare him off – if you could even scare a thing like him, corded muscle trembling with balancing your boat, sharp-finned where saltwater shone on his dark skin – or wanting to feign sleep longer, just to admire how his teal scales shimmered, clashing and darkening with navy and streaks of black. The darkest scales tipped pectoral fins, sharpened points glinting like the narrow slits in his throat, or the ridged scales rising from the curve of a dark back, down to where his long tail swayed in the water.

You itched to draw him. If portraits were your talent, the sloping of his tail beneath the water would be decorating your papers before night, if he hadn’t ruined them.

Each touch of claws almost tore through the soggy paper and he turned the page. Saltwater dripped from hair curling in the heat of the sun when the creature lurched up and the boat jostled. His hand came to your thigh before you rose from the bench, like he had known you were feigning sleep. Where he was so soaked by the sea, you hadn’t thought it possible the slender fingers stroking up your leg could be so warm, pressing against you to trace a more developed sketch – of the same view, but he admired all the same.

Seasickness had never plagued you before in all your time at sea but how the creature rocked it then made your stomach lurch. He had torn through the paper and some noise tumbled free of you, a panicked cry or curse and you reached to snatch it back before he could damage it more. The merman had stiffened. Claws you hadn’t felt before snagged at you bare thigh and the swaying of your small boat only ceased when he rose and clutched the edge tight. In a small way, you were grateful for that.

You weren’t so thankful that it brought him closer.

For the depth of colours in his scales, the sunlight brightening his rounding eyes forced back your bitterness. Equally dark hair shone a hidden navy with his head canting, though he remained as silent as you. His thin lips pulled back and you thought it a threat with predator’s teeth bared, until a black tongue slid against the points of his teeth and he smiled; a macabre smile, but the beauty of it was like the rest of him.

The sketchbook rested on your lap now, cradled, and that was where he lifted a slender arm, down to the book. Pointing to the paper then to himself, and back to you. Again. Once more, before the boat rocked.

“Do me,” he whispered, soft, disarmingly so that he came an inch more from the water and sunk the boat that much lower. “Do me or I may tip your boat.”

He dizzied your head like the boat had your senses. “You want… you want me to draw you?”

“Draw,” he echoed. When he stretched out to the paper, you let him trace the faded pencil lines and bright eyes peered up at you beneath uneven hair tangling along his forehead. “Draw me. Tomorrow at noon. Or the boat tips,” the merman breathed again through a glinting smile of daggered teeth, not entirely a tease. Smaller claws once on your blank sketchbook traced across your bare thigh, grazing up before nudging the hem of your shorts.

The boat tipped without him to held it steady, and only when he began to retreat did you catch his hand. His fingers slid through yours, claws falling to trace the deeper grooves in your palm when you asked, “do you have a name?”

“Don’t you?” In sharing yours – and hoping he wasn’t in any way fae, he smiled wider. “Brae. Noon.”

The waters carried you another hour before the touch of his thumb tracing along your wrist as he had the sketches left your thoughts. It was harder to banish him from your mind completely and he followed you home, the odd warmth of him smothered to the back of your chest where it ached. Wondering how his scales felt against you in place of his claws did you no good.

Noon came and inevitably, you were settled as far out as the day before, though you hadn’t a real choice in whether you were to return, regardless of this being a day you would nap in the sunlight without his demand.

Mer roamed the cove – it was renowned for them, notorious creatures known for luring humans out to toy with them far from land. If Brae had looked before at your art when you napped, you had no way of knowing, of knowing whether any mer had approached you before. If you left the boat moored today and returned tomorrow, you had no doubt that you would be turned into the sea.

Maybe, a little part of you so far hard to smother, wanted to see him. It was curiosity settling you on the bench of the bench, a pencil twisting through your fingers above a blank page. Most mer, those who made their homes at the cove, shimmered brighter; not so much navy but sky blue, softer hues. Brae’s fins were just that bit sharper, eyes smaller slits with less light to them, his body far stronger than any others – the first like him you knew of.

Time passing beneath the sun worked in convincing you Brae hadn’t been anything more than a hallucination. Only the damp blemishes and ripped pages anchored you a little longer – and the memory of his touch was too hard to forget, until a splash of water tipped the boat and lips pulled back into an attempted smile.

You curled the open page from range of where his head canted and saltwater dripped.

With him leaning closer, now was an opportune moment to tell him that, actually, unfortunately, portraits weren’t you specialty, else he wouldn’t need to ask for his, but the words never came when light warmed his rounding eyes.

“When will you start?”

“Start drawing?”

“Start drawing me,” he said, though his stare had risen from the blank page. Like you had only the day before, Brae appraised from your crown to your toes, tongue caught in his teeth the whole time. The weight of it settled in your chest uncomfortably; whatever mer standards were, you doubted you were anything but unappealing to a creature so beautiful, but no comment came. “Now?”

“If I’m to sketch you-“

“You are.” Deep beneath him, the slow swaying of his tail rose through to his arms curling on the boat’s edge. He rocked with every move and his attention flitted from your towels bundled at your feet to your satchel bag. “To draw me. You are.”

“I need you to-“

“On the beach.” Words overrun as you lost your thought. He hadn’t once stopped moving, dipping under the water and rising the other side of the boat, or reaching out to just brush his hand to yours before rushing back. Only his chin rested on the boat now as he said, “we should do it on the beach. Safer. Dry.”

Safer.

Coughing over your laugh couldn’t muffle it when you turned closer. “Weren’t you threatening to throw me out my boat yesterday?”

He frowned. “Not now. Tomorrow. The beach tomorrow.”

“Brae-“

Claws tipped your chin and all breath rushed from you. They were weapons, like daggers poised to cut as the predator he was, but it felt like a caress how he brought your face closer, near enough the cool air from water clinging to him brushed you. “Tomorrow.”

Being so near, the strength to protest waned. How the pencil hadn’t snapped between your fingers was beyond you; it was all that was left stopping you from returning the touch, wanting to feel his scales – were they smooth or rough, how would they feel against you? – and all you knew was that the touch of claws against the tightness locking your throat didn’t feel like a threat anymore.

If this was how mer lured humans out, you weren’t against following.

“Will you lay still on the beach for me?”

“So you can stare at me?” Brae’s black tongue traced along his teeth with a low hum. “If you wish.” he said, a rising smile binding your throat tighter.

The claws now tracing against your top’s neckline bound your throat tighter. “So I can draw you.”

“Why still?”

“If you move, it’s harder to focus. Harder to draw you. I could- can I take a photo of you?” His answer came without a need to verbalise it; his smile was nothing like a threat, far from the twisting of his face and pressed fins beneath his jaw flaring. Under passing clouds, his darkening face harshened. In an effort to calm his growl, you swallowed. “Won’t people see you on the beach?”

Curiosity drove you to again. Before him, you hadn’t seen another mer so close. Flashes of scales glimmered beneath the water but they were a reclusive kind. Why he demanded a portrait yet refused a photography intrigued you, though not enough to outrightly question.

“See me?” Brae’s cheek turned onto his forearm. Beneath the high sun, seawater glistened on his dark skin, the edges of his gills and faint scales almost glowing. “Why would anyone rather look at me than you?”

The truth tingled on your lips. That he was beautiful, and your art could never do him justice nor any photo, but you swallowed it back. Until daylight fell and left a chill, the merman curled against your side, close enough one tremor could tip your boat. Only small talk passed between glances down, and each turn was returned with a small smile until those teeth earlier bared in threat no longer focused in your thoughts. Brae fell away with a lingering run of claws against your hand and the touch stayed with you long after you found yourself retracing the beginnings of his portrait that night. After the fuss of asking, it turned out you didn’t need a photograph to remember him.

Tales of reclusive mer lessened the popularity of this cove, which had been the enticement to it in moving. Finding a shelter of jagged rocks just beyond sight of anyone passing wasn’t hard, nor was it hard to find Brae among the waves when he crept up the beach- rather inelegantly but you couldn’t have done so any better with the huge tail dragging through wet sand.

“I see you sometimes.”

Brae heeded your plea that afternoon, resting not far from reach. Returning to water wasn’t a pressing urge when he only rested, hardly an exertion, but he thanked you for the slight shelter. His knuckles reached to brush you when he spoke and otherwise cushioned himself on his arms while you contented yourself by marking him.

“Sleeping is dangerous.”

That made your pencil slip. “Have you looked at my art before?”

Brae scoffed but turned away, not before his teeth bit on his lip. Shading came easier with the slight warmth in your chest that blossomed. If he had, he must have liked the art to want his own portrait and after a minute, you looked up to find your muse gone.

Not too far but a length of his tail away, the merman dug through hot sand. Looking beyond the way his scales glowed in this light, differently to when they shimmered beneath water, he cradled dozens of pebbles in his arms, face scrunched in looking for more. The pebbles mirrored him: some dark like coal, others among the occasional shell a soft blue. He continued unaware of your standing, muffling the pain of hot sand beneath your bare feet, how it stung like needles until you crouched and kneeled beside him.

“They’re pretty.” Brae clutched them closer. He attempted a sneak at your paper like he had all afternoon, and, like you had all afternoon, you tucked it away faster. This far, so soon, it was nothing of significance, but it had promise; promise from the evening of tending to it and tonight would be the same. “Will you take them back with you?”

“We gather pebbles.”

“Why?”

Brae’s teeth nibbled on his lip. “Mer secret.”

“Pebbles are a… a mer secret?”

He moved in silence, lifting two shades of pebbles before humming. “Yes. Pick.” One pebbled a blotched black, it was no hard choice to pick the softer teal pebble. Brae slotted it in his pile before his thin lips twitched. “Can I see?”

“No.” His smile fell, and his arm trembled beneath the stones. Had they not threatened to fall, the paper would’ve been in his grasp by then. “How will you take them all with you? Do you have something to carry them in?”

On your next afternoon by his side, Brae fawned over the netting pouch with holes just small enough pebbles wouldn’t slip through. He entrusted them to you overnight for safe keeping, had watched you clutch your bag tight as it weighed you down walking along the cove, and was quick to welcome you back, already settled and sprawled against the sand. He hadn’t understood the purpose of snow angels nor sand angels, but his arms turned out in the sand, close enough to snag your shorts, until he left you again.

From that day, your time together crept earlier. Unintentionally, but he always waited no matter how early you came to the cove, and he began returning your questions. Never telling the mer secret of why he hoarded colourful pebbles, but little questions, the most repeated being why you refused to show him his portrait, and you had to swat him away from your paper each time. On hotter days when the rocky shade didn’t suffice, he crept closer until his cheek nestled to your thigh beneath the shade of your sketchbook and when a quiet overcame you, his fingers ran along your forearm, following the twitching in your hand as you drew him laying against you.

Once, he slept on your lap. The running of claws fell low and only then you succumbed, carefully tucking back the dried ringlets from his smoothed forehead. Little scales scattered his jaw and glided beneath your fingers, though you stopped yourself from following them further when he turned closer and against your palm.

You missed him when you were home. On the evenings with only a nearly finished portrait to call company, you missed laying with him.

It hadn’t taken long for you walk down late one night, a half-opened bottle tucked near your supplies. Being near the cove now helped calm you, even if you came now only to settle against the familiar rocks and close your eyes to the crashing waves. Like the swaying of your boat, the faint warmth of sand beneath you lulled you, and you woke only to a soft whisper of your name.

“I drank… I drank this.”

Damp hair fell to your lap, a quiet groan turned into your thighs. The now emptied bottle fell into the sand and rolled down when Brae laughed, at first quietly, before turning and reaching out to your face. The touch of his claws fell to a loose embrace around your neck, where now he swallowed.

This late, you didn’t want to ask why he was here, how he had known – if he had even known, or if he came just like you. You only wanted to enjoy his company, however… inebriated. It hadn’t been much alcohol, and you would only feel slightly lightheaded had you finished it, but with Brae running his claws down your chest, it had to have been a little much for him.

“Wanna see,” he whispered – slurred, trying and failing to lean up on an elbow. “Me. Show… show me.”

Perhaps through pity, you did. Only through pity, and not from the slow rolling of heat in the pit of your stomach from his claws flexing, drawing you down closer as you opened to the page. It had come a long way, far from ever doing justice to the creature gasping, his defined jaw lowering and dark eyes lifting to you, but you welcomed the flush of pride from his growing smile.

“You make me look pretty. Pretty here,” he tapped the unfinished page. “Am not-not so pretty.”

Your voice came out a whisper as you returned the sketchbook, empty bottle with it. “You don’t think so?”

“Me? Pretty?” Brae huffed, a hot breath blowing his dried hair. Falling in long ringlets, your fingers twitched and in the hopes he wouldn’t remember, you reached out to tuck it back. “My tribe. They’re pretty. Pretty. Not me.”

His cheek turned into your palm when you traced the smoother scales scattering his jaw, down to the dip of his collarbones. “Did they tell you that?”

“Always. Not-I’m not them-like them,” he mumbled, losing himself to the alcohol still thick on his breath. “Never one of them.”

The sincerity sickened you. You wished your art could be better, so Brae saw a true reflection of himself but if it couldn’t be, if your work wasn’t enough, then all you could do was say so. “I think you’re beautiful,” you whispered looking out to the calming see, so lost in it you hadn’t noticed Brae shifting closer until he was level with you. “You are. Your colourings and how you lay in the sun and… you’re beautiful.”

You had more to say, so much more, but sand became your pillow. It dirtied your hair with your head tipping further back, a deeper angle to the kiss with Brae’s thumb pressing down on your chin. His parting lips carried a salty tang, a stronger sense of your emptied alcohol, but it fell away with his breaths hastening when his curling tongue tasted you, too.

Those same lips rose into a sly smile when you found the strength to reopen your fallen eyes and found Brae kissing himself lower. Drunken touches only minutes ago felt coherent now, bunching up your shirt for his lips to warm your stomach. Pressed beneath the muscle of his tail, a slow friction worked you into a heat but he fell further with his kisses nesting lower, a pause when he tugged on your shorts.

Every touch made you tremble. Brae settled between your legs and the sight alone was burning through you. He ran soft fingers down, following your stiffened cock as it twitched and ached. His tongue jutted through his lips to the side almost in thought, a breath before his fingers stroked up your length.

“All this for calling you beautiful?”

The merman’s head canted and that curling tongue flicked up the underside of your cock. Brae’s kiss rounded against your tip until he had you hard in his mouth and your eyes rolling back from the heat of him. For a creature of spines and claws and fangs, he kissed you reverently, deeper breaths growing shallow until he swallowed around you.

Through blurring eyes, barely lifting from the sand feeling hotter beneath you, you watched and felt his lips closing around you, groaning with his flattening of his tongue along the sensitive skin. Brae braced a hand on your tensing thigh and when the other stroked lower, a slight touch of claws grazing, you groaned and rolled your hips deeper against his hollowed throat.

Soft hair threaded around your hand. His growl rumbled deep to your hips as he bowed with your guidance, arching up until his throat tightened against you. Heat rushed in your stomach and his thick tongue swirled across your tip. The warmth of his lips fell down to your thighs the longer your body trembled.

“No.” Gentle fingers pinched your jaw until your lips met his. He tasted of saltwater and you and faint alcohol, nipping your tongue. “For… for being you.”

Until the sheen left his eyes, his smile no longer lopsided, Brae rested against you. Passing whispers came beneath the darkening sky and many were from you; with each whisper of his beauty, though you burned saying it, he turned impossibly closer and ghosted lips down your throat, your chest, wherever you were nearest.

“Remind me to call you beautiful more often,” you said, leaning over him. Weak arms ran up to your neck and it felt like a goodbye when he kissed you sweeter. No teeth caught your lips and no claws curled into your nape, only a touch of foreheads before he struggled into the water.

He had told you not to watch – “it’s embarrassing,” he’d frowned, the dead weight of his tail dragging in the sand – but you watched him go, and it was the last you saw of him for almost a month.

Your corner of the cove remained abandoned by the merman. No marks in the sand were left to show if he had ever come and from there, you couldn’t see far out to the waves, not like a mer could. If he watched you where you waited for him with your heavy bag and a nearly finished portrait, he never came.

Floating no longer felt right. Being on the water wasn’t right. This beach was wrong without a glimmer of navy flitting near you and on the sunniest days, the water almost clear, a hint of scales wouldn’t be missed when you stared down. The portrait was finished now; it had been finished for days.

If something had happened to him-

The thought burned in your throat and you swallowed it back.

Worse: if something hadn’t happened to him, Brae chose not to see you.

And if Brae truly avoided you, he couldn’t stop whatever creature had begun bumping under your boat. The surface barely rose with the smallest of waves but your boat rocked again, until water splashed with every jolt, not so different from the day Brae had almost toppled you, but different in every way.

Brighter scales darted beneath you before you ducked back into the – relative – safety of the boat. This wasn’t your merman, but the churning in your stomach made you think it was his tribe. For whatever reason, they taunted you, and at least two were on you now, countering the other’s hits so all you could was curl your knuckles against the bench until they ached.

You were going to be sick.

What could a frail oar do against creatures like them?

You were going to be really, really sick.

Any option was as bad as the other. Shore was too far to swim to if you wanted to avoid a watery grave. Trying to row and lowering the oar into water would be surrendering your only paddle. You couldn’t leave your boat. The portrait bundled on your lap would be ruined; they would ruin it.

It stopped with a heavier jolt, tipping so far water flooded your feet. The jaunts fell away minutes ago but your head swum too much for you to notice anything more than the shaking in your knees, chest braced against your thighs. One final shove to your boat shoved everything against you forward. Your bag skidded, the bench almost giving out beneath you, towels tangling, but the final shove didn’t topple you.

It surged closer to shore.

Only the faintest glimmer of navy disappeared when you looked back.

Water hadn’t felt right because it wasn’t. The rumours of mer weren’t folktale falsehoods. Maybe Brae wasn’t like them, but they tried to overturn you. They tried to ruin you and your portrait and had they succeeded, the promenade steady under your running feet wouldn’t have been something you were likely to experience again.

Leaving the cities had been your distraction. Leaving your family and friends for a calmer life by the beach had always been your dream, to turn to a simpler, less stressful life, yet the beach couldn’t be your solace anymore. Thinking of even your boat made you lurch to your feet in need of something to occupy you, anything but that merman lurking in the sea, anything but the creature you still wanted to see again, the same whose face mocked you from a hidden sketchbook.

After hardly any time at all, the sudden loss almost brought you to your knees. If this was grief, you didn’t want it. If that pang in your chest was heartbreak, you didn’t want it. Flames came so near to the portrait born of hours and sun and kisses it singed, but burning the paper felt like a burning your heart from your chest.

One last time.

One last hope.

Once more, before you burned him from your thoughts. The same taunts that occupied you like intrusions softened at night, when you imagined that in place of your fist was his touch, slender fingers rolling where you cock twitched beneath him. They came in dreams, in moments you lost concentration, and stalked you down to the cove where you settled the bag, the portrait tucked beside a lighter and driftwood.

Whispers of your name from the stirring waves doused the fire in your chest. Brae made it no further than the reach of waves when you collapsed against him, rambling to his lips, “it’s done. I finished it for you but-“

“It will be beautiful.” Brae framed your face in cold and trembling hands. “Like you.”

There was a haste to his kiss unlike before. When he teased you before with light nips rousing your desire, those touches tore back your shirt and bared you to the cold night. Brae wasted not one breath that was better spent settling against you pushed apart thighs, where the hard palm of his hand fell low to rub over your shorts until he coaxed you to roll up into his touch. Slender fingers curled around your hardening cock and stroked how you had dreamed of for weeks, the pad of his thumb following up to tease the seeping slit at the head.

“I want to touch you too,” you rasped. Brae’s laugh softened in the whistles of wind at your grunt when he rubbed tighter to your thick base, but he was soon to gasp with your fingers curling into the rougher scales on his hips until he dragged against you. “Here?”

Not even the crashing waves at his back could drown out the small whine. Where his taut stomach melded with the lightest of his scales, a slick coated them. The touch of it burned against your fingertips, tracing the swollen slit. He pumped your cock in his tight fist how you teased him, arching up when he ground down, his erection rising thick from the slit.

From laying over you, Brae’s trembling lips brushed yours once more. The slow fall of his forehead brushed your hair, his curls loose against your cheek and fluttering with every deep breath. How long he could breathe without struggle on land changed, and the touch of your hips rolling up, rolling against him, clearly took a toll, shorter gasps nestling into your neck. This was an exertion for him; how he trembled at your thumb following where his hand, rolling over the slick on the swollen, purple head.

Grinding his cock to yours came with difficulty as his tail dragged in sand, but a shock of pleasure bolting up to your crown until you strained to rut against him again. The desperation locked in your bodies wouldn't settle for anything less than his cock against yours. Soft blue and deeper navy nearer the tip, your mouth dried. The memory of his lopsided smile after stealing your alcohol struck you, too similar how he slurred you name from curling his fingers and gripping your cocks together. The cry lodged in your throat muffled against the slope of his throat where you kissed the scales there, chasing the rush of his pulse beneath his jaw.

Slick from his slit and hot, it was too much to bite back every moan and curse when he rolled his hips in time with yours. Brae learned fast. His palm rolled your sac slowly, drawing rougher pants, but it was a tighter rub that made you buck up. Your cock jutted against his base, far thicker and swollen, but against the wetter scales and he cried, “again. Closer, please.”

His hot touch stirred you into a delirious high. Brae was twitching, his body rocking hard and harder when you met him faster, arching up to graze the slick, sensitive skin of his slit.

"I want you," he breathed, disoriented kisses slowing when he trembled. "Come. Come for me."

If not for him, you dragged against his waist so you could feel the heat of him yourself. Brae’s fingers locked and he felt it as you did, your cock stiff when you came against his stomach, his scales, rasping when he rutted into his palm and a thicker release came minutes later against your thighs after you traced where his cock thickened at the slit.

In the moment his final gasp left him and Brae fell against you, he ought to be drawn, to be remembered forever. Soft arms wrapped you close to the warmth of him, away from the colder winds in the shelter of the rocks. Hot sweat glistened on his scales. It stuck your hair to your cheeks, where he brushed it away with kisses and closed eyes.

“Do you think anyone saw us?”

Brae's breath caught, but he swallowed past it. His knuckles grazed down your chest and up again. Stray scratches stung beneath the touch and his parted lips kissed it away. "I hope so," he breathed, and the words stirred something in your chest. Something primal and prideful; you wanted to be seen with him, this merman come to you one day, who decided they wanted you. "You were very loud."

Panting to his chest, you smiled. "And you were beautiful."

If there were mer watching, you hadn't noticed.

No head rested heavy on your chest when you woke. Evening had been a blanket to his embrace, but the stars were your only companion at the cove. Sand settled without hint of a trail leading down to the sea and if it had been windy, you might have excused it, pardoned the long-lasting cold on your bare body.

Those questions he had brushed away with a press of his tail to your hips rose to your throat like a fuel on fire. Brae came back. Brae left, after taking you on the beach. He returned to the sea and he left you alone and bare and shivering. He abandoned you where his tribe could see, where they could reach you and your bag-

Your bag.

It had been right there, right on the rocks and wedged firm. No wind could part it from them. No wind had, and no wind would lay it so carefully by the sloping of the beach, the flap resting open. The bag looked deflated, almost like… like it was empty.

“This isn’t funny,” you called out. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. If not a joke then something far, far crueller and each staggering step nearer the waves was a twist of the knife in your stomach. “Brae?”

Harsh water frothed at your ankles. It rose in spitting shivers up to your knees then thighs, where the evening’s memories dried and washed away. The waters this shallow were clear of mer but not of what you prayed was litter. Up to your hips now, stumbling in choppy waves and the cry that tore from you was unholy. It burned up through throat like bile and stung in your eyes. It stung in your chest where your ribs caved, the soaked papers and hours of nights in your lounge wasted in one, cruel jaunt.

Not just his portrait wrecked on the waters he crawled from, but your sketchbook.

How you found your way home was a miracle. You should have stayed in the water. You should have let Brae drown you, too.

Had his tribe done it? Had they been there while he stroked your cheek and lifted your chin in a soft kiss, his scales warming where your thighs tightened? That was all you could think and all you could bear to think. If it were anything more – if he really was so cruel, you’d rather never know, would rather blame it on his tribe for tearing him away.

You could drown your boat like your sketches. That cove belonged to him. It belonged to his tribe and you wouldn’t go near the water again, not willingly and if you saw him again, it would be in nightmares.

The only family you had lived in the cities far from you and too far for them to consider buying your boat, even taking it off your hands. The wood of it was old and would burn on a fire; best to be burned completely than sunken. Brae didn’t deserve anything of yours. He’d drowned your heart with your treasure.

If this was how mer lured humans out, you weren’t against following.

Finding your boat moored and undamaged rose with a sting. The cruelty of his tribe ruined the wood beneath the water from their earlier taunting. You wished they had done more. If his tribe had sunken it, finding a dark bundle of seaweed cradling pebbles wouldn’t have made your legs sway beneath you. Whatever the mer secret behind them was, it wasn’t enough to entice you back. They weighed down your boat as they weighed on your shoulders but in settling into it before setting it alight, you couldn’t help but lift one.

It was the pebble he had asked you of, choosing from two. In your hand it felt like his scales, smooth and cold and wet.

It was still wet.

Pebbles scattered among larger stones as it fell from your hand but you didn’t watch them fall. You watched the fingertips careful on your arm, how they traced down your tense muscles with an unwelcome familiarity.

“The pebbles,” you seethed. “What do they mean?”

His touch softened and both hands rose to stroke against your unyielding fist. “Do you like them?”

Brae yelped as the favoured pebble smacked his forehead; you held another ready, but you hoped not to use it. Not to hurt him. The pain fresh in your chest urged to you but you couldn’t, and the tenderness in his hands slipping through your unfurling fingers held you closer.

His face scrunched. “When we wish to court a mate, we present pebbles. Do you like them?”

Brae never moved so slowly before – before he had wounded you enough to want nothing more than to hurt him; him, with the claws gentle on your palm and sharp teeth behind lips gracing your knuckles. No smile warmed his harsh face. Some satisfaction warmed you in shadows creeping beneath his eyes, where he lifted your palm. Loose tickled your fingers.

“I left my tribe.”

Brae’s whine quieted when you said, not in question, “taunting me wasn’t enough for them to accept you, was it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will they welcome you back if I take your pebbles?” Water splashed with his surging up and it was then you succumbed, lifting your hand to frame his dripping face. Every whisper and clashing apology fell beneath you, blood rushing in your ears from just his lips turning to your wrist. “I’m leaving, Brae. Pretend I accepted. Say you drowned me if it helps you return to your tribe. Why you would want to is beyond me, but-”

“We mate for life. This is me. These,” he whispered, and beneath the water, distorted netting carrying more pebbles swayed when he lifted another. “These are me. Proposal of courtship.”

Approaching you had to be at their insistence. The threat to topple your boat them, too, and why Brae had insisted on land. Safer, he’d said, but that was where he hurt you more than they ever had. They may have told him to use you or trick you to love him, but it hurt the same, at their tricks or his.

He hadn’t looked up from where you stroked his cheekbones until you asked, “what does it mean to leave a tribe?”

“If I stay, I trespass.”

“What do mer do to trespassers?” Brae turned his face into your palm and your stomach fell. The choice before you wasn’t one you welcomed or even wanted to consider, but you were already reaching for the pebble you had thrown at him and curling it in your hand. “If you follow me, that is your choice. I owe you nothing. Even this is more than you deserve.”

The boat was tipping.

“But if you follow me,” you drew in a sharp breath. “I say when the courting is over and if I accept you. If I refuse, you respect that.”

His breath warmed your lips.

“And I will never draw you again.”

It was a lie. That morning, his face plagued every breath. Every fleeting memory of his touch consumed you. Scatterings of scales covered old papers and already your fingers itched for more, to purge him from you, but when you accepted – if you accepted him, only then would you ever consider sharing your art with him again.

Burning your boat could wait until the water dried from the sloping of scales to your chest, lips soft on yours and apologies sweet on his tongue. It could wait until he followed you wherever you chose, offering pebbles and nights sprawled on warm sand, where you always woke with a head nestled against your throat.

When.

452 notes · View notes

cakesunflower · 4 years

Text

a court of golden shadows: elain archeron and azriel endgame

so this is like an 11 page paper i wrote on why i think Elain Archeron and Azriel from Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses are endgame. i made a joke on twitter that i’d write a proper MLA format styled paper on them because i love them so much and a bunch of my moots convinced me to do it so here i am.

this is for the Elriel lovers like myself. if you read it, which you don’t have to, please refrain from commenting anything negative. everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and this whole essay is just my opinion on it. so if you read, i hope you enjoy!!

keep in mind, it’s LONG.

A Court of Golden Shadows: Elain Archeron and Azriel Endgame

Sarah J. Maas’s fantasy series A Court of Thorns and Roses displays epic, world-shattering love stories among the thrilling action and fantastical elements present throughout the novels, as seen in the romance between Feyre Archeron and Rhysand and, most recently, Nesta Archeron and Cassian. Two sisters have already accepted and embraced the (so-called) rare mating bond with their respective counterparts, yet the question remains on what is to happen with the middle sister, Elain Archeron, who apparently has a mating bond of her own with Lucien Vanserra, but has not, for two books and a novella, made any indication of accepting it. However, Elain, in her quiet, gentle way, has shown to be more attentive towards the Night Court’s resident Shadowsinger and Spymaster, Azriel. Who, in turn, has notably started to move on from a five-century long love harbored for another female and gravitating towards the last remaining Archeron sister.

It can be said that the concept of the three Archeron sisters all ending up with the three Illyrian males is a cliché, but if done right, they can capture the reader in their grasp—one that no one would want to get out of. Taking a look at the novels, particularly starting from the second book, A Court of Mist and Fury, since this is where Azriel’s character is introduced, it is difficult to ignore the fact that Maas has been laying the groundwork for Elain and Azriel—or Elriel, as I will refer to them throughout this paper—to be a couple from the moment they met, whether these hints are subtle or obvious. In chapter 24 of ACOMAF where Feyre, the Illyrian faes, and her sisters have dinner together, we see tentative interactions between Elain and Azriel, despite the two of them having just met and Elain, as a mortal who grew up with stories of the terrors of faeries, seems to look towards the spymaster more. The first glimpse of their interaction, no matter how small, is shown on pages 253-254 when “a faint smile bloomed upon Azriel’s mouth as he noticed Elain’s fingers white-knuckled on that fork”. Though this moment can be overlooked, it is only the first of many oncoming moments of Azriel noticing Elain and her actions, a subtle hint of the spymaster’s attention towards Elain. The focus of attention is returned when Elain then turns to Azriel a few pages later, wanting to know more about their ability to fly, even so far as going to say “That’s very beautiful” when Azriel describes Illyrians as being “born hearing the song of the wind” (256-257). Additionally, there are two moments in this particular chapter where Elain, in some semblance, looks towards Azriel as a way of relaxing herself. The first is noted when Azriel’s attention is said to be on Elain, and he offers her a “polite, bland smile”, and Feyre notices how Elain’s “shoulders loosened a bit” in response to it (256). Rather than looking towards Feyre for indicators during an unexpected dinner with faeries, Elain seems to be more drawn to looking at Azriel, which is shown once again in the following passage: “Rhys chuckled, Cassian’s wrath slipping enough that he grinned, and Elain, noticing Azriel’s ease as proof that things weren’t indeed about to go badly, offered one of her own as well” (258). Elain tends to check everyone’s reactions to the circumstances to determine the levels of tension in the atmosphere, but she truly seems to be put at ease when she notices Azriel’s own relaxed state, once again indicating the attention she pays to him from the moment they met.

The first three books in Maas’s series are told through Feyre’s perspective, so it can be said that our perception of and desire for Elain and Azriel getting together is skewed because of the point of view we are given. I, however, consider this to be a moot point because Feyre’s character is the type to notice everything around her. She comes to grow close to both Azriel and Cassian, and with Elain being her sister, the reader can depend on Feyre as being as much of a reliable narrator to tell us exactly what she sees and how she sees it. With this in mind, some of the examples given will be from Feyre’s own musings, but it is important to note that she, more than once, groups Elain and Azriel together. This is shown when, in chapter 49, Feyre is distracting Rhysand as she tries to take care of his wounds and muses about her sisters visiting Velaris. There, Feyre mentions to Rhysand, “I think Elain—Elain would like it, too. Though she’d probably cling to Azriel, just to have some peace and quiet”, before proceeding to think to herself—and the reader, “I smiled at the thought—at how handsome they would be together” (487). Of course, this observation is followed by the acknowledgement of Azriel quietly loving Mor, as he has for centuries, yet what we don’t know, during this, that this wouldn’t remain an issue for long.

Moving on to focus on the third installment of the series, A Court of Wings and Ruin, there is a solemnity surrounding Elain, who, at the end of the second novel, was forcefully turned into fae against her will. After the transformation, Elain has become a shell of who she used to be, trapped in a state of deep mourning of the humanity she lost, of the love of her fiancé she inevitably lost, too. She doesn’t eat nor does she speak to anyone, an empty yet no less beautiful version of herself as her Cauldron given powers, unbeknownst to everyone else, manifest. But even in her state, in her indifference towards her mate Lucien and yearning for her human fiancé Graysen, Elain managed to acknowledge Azriel. He is gentle with her, much like everyone else, as he carries her into the townhouse, smiles, inquires if she’d like for him to show her the garden. And although he stands tall, intimidating in his fighting leathers and large wings, Elain does not recoil from him in fear or shyness. Instead, she takes the arm he offers her and, although it is unsure if she is looking at his Siphon or his scarred hands, she still utters “Beautiful” in response to him (254). Even when life has unexpectedly turned bleak for Elain, even when the world loses its color in the aftermath of the trauma she suffered, in that moment, there was a glimpse of who she used to be as she found beauty in nothing but Azriel.

This same chapter is followed by an insightful conversation between Feyre and Rhysand, triggered by Feyre watching her sister and Azriel. Feyre notes how at odds Azriel looks sitting in the garden next to Elain in his armor, yet she still questions, “Why not make them mates?” (257). This spurs a significant conversation between the High Lord and High Lady, where readers are given some more history on mating bonds and introduced to the prevailing concept of rejected bonds. Rhys provides examples of ill-chosen bonds, such as his parents, who were mates yet their relationship was not ideal in the least. Here, we are told that sometimes fate, the Mother, whatever chooses two mates can be wrong in its pairings, and it is rare for the bond to bring together “true, paired souls” (258) like Feyre and Rhysand. It has been established that the female can reject the bond, and while the male may feel the tug of it, it’s their burden to push through it. Maas spends an entire page or so talking about the concept of ill-chosen or rejected bonds, so it would be naive to look over these details if they weren’t placed in the storyline for a reason. Elain and Lucien may be mates, and Azriel (at least currently within the book) may be in love with Mor, but the idea of free will is not something to be so easily dismissed. Elain already had the choice of her humanity, her mortality, ripped away from her—it’s doubtful she would let this pattern continue.

In chapter 24 of A Court of Wings and Ruin, when Elain is having her first conversation with Lucien, she states, “No one ever looked—not really” (252), and although here she is referencing Graysen, this statement comes around a few chapters later. In chapter 27, Elain walks in on a conversation amongst the Inner Circle, and Azriel was the first to step forward as he noticed something amiss. His observations and questions when he says to her, “[But] you heard something else” and “What did you see” indicate that he, unlike Feyre and Nesta, believes that Elain’s riddled musings have a deeper meaning and need to be heard. The scene ends with Feyre looking to Azriel, noticing that his “hazel eyes churned as he studied my sister, her too-thin body. And without a word, he winnowed away” (287). Azriel didn’t brush off what Elain said, because while her sisters thought Elain had gone mad, Azriel listened to her—he looked. He looked past her “too-thin body” and read between the lines of what she said, and knew there was more than what meets the eye. He looked, which was exactly what Elain had wanted.

This is repeated in chapter 32, when Elain brings up another queen and no one is quite sure what she’s talking about, except for Azriel, who steps forward and gently prods Elain to elaborate. Even Lucien watches Elain warily, questioning if they need to help her, yet Azriel is firm in his assessment that Elain doesn’t need help, that they need to be the ones who need to listen, before ultimately determining that she does, in fact, have powers and is established to be a seer. So while Lucien “stared and stared at [Elain], as if he’d never seen her before”, it was Azriel who actually looked at her and saw what no one else was seeing, whose acknowledgment of her gift and the attention he brought to it from everyone else “freed her from whatever murky realm she’d been in” (336).

The idea of Azriel truly looking at Elain transitions into him looking for her, too. But first, another example of the former is seen in chapter 63, when Feyre, Nesta, and Amren hear the call of the cauldron in the middle of the night. They wonder about it, question why they three heard it because they were Made, not noticing that another who was Made was missing from their group. That is, until, Azriel asks, “What about Elain?” (560), and he is moving alongside the sisters to inspect Elain’s tent, only to find her missing. Azriel notices Elain—whether she is present or not. And so the concept of Azriel looking for Elain is introduced when they are discussing Elain’s rescue from Hybern in the following scene:

“From the shadows near the entrance to the tent, Azriel said, as if in answer to some unspoken debate, “I’m getting her back.”

Nesta slid her gaze to the shadowsinger. Azriel’s hazel eyes glowed golden in the shadows.

Nesta said, “Then you will die.”

Azriel only repeated, rage glazing that stare, “I’m getting her back.”” (563).

There was no hesitation on Azriel’s part in being the one to get Elain back, but there was obvious rage, as noted, in his gaze at the very idea of Elain having been kidnapped. A silent, lethal aura surrounds the shadowsinger that can be so clearly picked out within that scene, showcasing Azriel’s unwavering determination in returning Elain, even if it meant slipping into the heart of enemy camps—especially if it meant that. And throughout the dangers and urgency of this particular mission, when they do reach Elain, Azriel takes a moment to be tender towards her as he “gently removed the gag from her mouth” (573) and asks if she’s hurt. Elain, in turn, is shown to be “devouring the sight of him, as if not quite believing it” before she says “You came for me” (573). Elain looks at Azriel in wonder and disbelief, and this reaction hints towards how she feels drawn towards him. In their very first meeting during the dinner in the Archeron house, Elain looks to Azriel for reassurance, for judgement of the situation, and in the event of her rescue, she finds that same kind of comfort on a far more intense level. Because here, he truly is her rescuer, appearing in front of her to save her from the dangerous hands of their enemies and bring her to safety. And Azriel, in this sense, is devoted to her, holding up his fierce promising of getting her back. Even when he was injured, Azriel held onto Elain, refusing to let her go even while getting shot at and chased, and when they landed in their own camps, the first thing he claimed was for someone to get the chains off of her, rather than even mentioning his own injuries. This just reminds us of ACOMAF when Elain was being dragged to the cauldron and Azriel wasn’t even conscious to witness it—there is no doubt that if he was awake—and uninjured—he would’ve done all he could to save her. Maas robbed us of that type of scene.

Furthermore, evolving from the concept of Azriel rescuing Elain, we get another significant scene between the two of them that displays the kind of trust these two characters smoothly and effortlessly developed. On top of Elain accepting Azriel’s offers of taking her to the garden, a silent indicator that his company was one she enjoyed, Azriel shows a great act of trust to Elain as well when, in chapter 69, he offered her the use of his beloved knife, Truth-Teller. This blade is Azriel’s most prized possession, and to offer it to Elain to bring her the same kind of comfort and safety that we have seen she finds in Azriel himself portrays the trust he has in her—and his desire to protect her. This is emphasized when Rhys tells Feyre, “Never. . . I have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife” (610). Even Cassian was stunned that Azriel would let someone else use Truth-Teller, which is significant to note given that he has not let even Cassian nor Rhys—his brothers he has known for centuries—even touch it. And Elain, who had refused to take the knife Cassian had offered her, ends up accepting Truth-Teller—because it’s Azriel’s, and because through the short time she’s known him, he is someone she has poured her trust into and understands he wouldn’t lead her astray. And he didn’t, for it was Elain who “stepped out of a shadow” (653) and used that very same blade to kill the King of Hybern. A temporary gift, given from Azriel, that she used to put an end to one of the greatest threats to both the human and faerie realms.

In the post-war novella A Court of Frost and Starlight, Maas furthers the Elriel endgame agenda by continuing both subtle and blatant hints in their favor—and not just through actual interactions between the two. The concept of Azriel avoiding Lucien because of his mating bond with Elain is important to remember, for it will come back around later. But in this novella, we see it when Rhysand asks Azriel if he keeps an eye on Lucien, given that he is the spymaster. Azriel, in turn, informs him that he does not track his movements, because “He is Elain’s mate” and “It would be an invasion of her privacy to track him”, which Rhysand, since this is shown from his perspective, notes is because Azriel does not want to be aware of if and when Lucien seeks out Elain, and what they do together—if they do anything at all, given Elain’s tendencies to utterly ignore Lucien (70). Rhysand questions Azriel’s motives on this, but doesn’t get a response, but there is an understanding of Azriel’s intentions behind it. Not only does he want to remain ignorant of the forced bond between Elain and Lucien, but a big motivator for him is also Elain’s privacy, which he doesn’t want to intrude on—ironic, given that he is a spy, and it’s his job to know of others’ movements and thoughts.

Another example of Azriel very subtly showing his blossoming feelings towards Elain is when he unforgivingly states that if Lucien were to kill Elain’s ex-fiancé, then “good riddance” (71). He was well aware of how Graysen treated Elain after finding out she was fae, is the one who sits with her in the gardens because he is a comforting presence for her in the face of mourning, so he understands her. This idea is repeated in Azriel’s bonus chapter in A Court of Silver Flames, when Rhysand catches Azriel almost about to kiss Elain—that is definitely to be unpacked later—and warns him that Lucien has the right to invoke a Blood Duel to defend the mating bond, and Azriel does not hesitate, is confident, when he retorts that he would easily defeat Lucien, would have no problem in pulling Elain out of a bond she doesn’t even want.

The novella also includes some more obvious, sweet moments between Elain and Azriel, ones that show Elain’s own growing interest and feelings towards Azriel. Like in chapter 12, when Feyre notes that when Azriel enters the room, she feels Elain freeze at the sight of him, and then Elain proceeds to be almost in a trance when Azriel, after she greets him, moves towards her and takes the heavy dish of potatoes from her hands and says he’ll take care of it for her (105). This scene then continues when Elain hurries off to make herself more presentable, and rather than letting others dive into the food, Azriel stops Cassian from putting food on his plate and all but commands him to “wait until everyone is seated before eating” (106). Rhysand informs Feyre that this sudden reaction from Azriel stemmed from the treatment his mother received as a near servant, but it can also be tied to how Azriel keeps aware of Elain and the recurring theme of looking after her in any way. He notices her, just as she notices him, a subtle way of this being present in Elain’s solstice gift to Azriel. She doesn’t get a gift for Lucien, her mate, but does get one for Azriel, one that makes him laugh in a way that, Feyre notes, she’s never heard before. A genuine sort of joy breaking the cold, indifferent mask of the shadowsinger as he accepts and cherishes the gift Elain gave him—the extent of which we see in his bonus chapter, where it is revealed that he looks at the small vial every night before going to sleep, a not-so-subtle showing that Elain is the last thought on his mind before he descends into slumber.

This notion of the two of them looking after one another in their own ways is again repeated in A Court of Silver Flames in the following passage on page 221:

Azriel smirked. “You and Nesta are wanted down there.”

“Because of the shit with Elain?”

Azriel stilled. “What happened to Elain?”

Cassian waved a hand. “A fight with Nesta. Don’t bring it up,” he warned when Azriel’s eyes darkened.

Throughout the friendship they have formed, Azriel becomes a kind of protector of Elain’s, deriving from her being a part of their Inner Circle as well as the notion of Azriel’s own personal feelings for her. He is so obviously shown as going on the defense at the news of Elain getting into any kind of fight, of Elain potentially being hurt. It’s repeated on page 233 when Elain and Nesta are arguing, and after Nesta utters a nasty comment that lands on Elain like a blow, there is an acknowledgement of the “shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike”. The shadows, of course, are Azriel’s, ready to jump between the sisters and defend Elain from Nesta’s verbal attack, to once again be her protector.

Of course, we can’t forget that Elain has a mate in Lucien, and how it seems to offer the enticing forbidden love trope between her and Azriel. We see a hint of it in A Court of Wings and Ruin, when in chapter 24, Lucien can scent where Elain had gone off to and who she’d gone with, in this case having it be Azriel, and he’d nearly snarled until Rhysand assured him that Azriel wasn’t the “ravishing type” (254)—although I think we can all agree that he most likely is, but wouldn’t even dream of it in terms of the state Elain was in at the time. Maybe it is the mating bond or maybe it’s both Elain and Azriel’s quiet personalities—or perhaps a combination of the two—but the shyness that has them looking at each other and then looking away continues. On page 467 of A Court of Silver Flames, Cassian notes how Elain nods shyly towards Azriel, who in turn offers her a small smile that she quickly looked away from, prompting Cassian to be puzzled as he wondered, “Lucien was certainly not here to snarl at any male who looked at her for too long”. Elain doesn’t look away from Azriel because of the bond, but perhaps because she is well aware of her feelings for him and, for the moment, is too shy for them to be known, especially by Azriel.

The mating bond between Elain and Lucien does serve as a barrier between her and Azriel, though. This is particularly present during the Winter Solstice, when a layer of Azriel’s character specifically has been peeled back to show his feelings for Elain. Like on page 597, when Elain is laughing at Nesta, the older Archeron sister notes that “Azriel stood in the doorway, monitoring them. As if he’d heard Elain’s sharp laugh and wondered what had caused it”. And if that wasn’t enough, Nesta watches as Azriel’s “gaze shifted to Elain, and though it was utterly neutral, something charged went through it. Between them. Elain’s breath caught slightly, and she gave him a shallow nod of greeting”. This is perhaps the most prominent moment of both of their feelings being reciprocated by the other, because Nesta notices the way they look at one another, as if they both see past the person they put in front of everyone else and truly see the other. And even Nesta understands that there is something deeper between the two, even if they themselves haven’t figured it out yet, when she approaches Azriel where he stands by the doorway and, when asked why he doesn’t sit, responds with a “pretty lie” of his shadows not liking the fire. But Nesta looks to where Elain is the one sitting by the fire, and why Azriel chooses to stand as far as he can, because it is “his secret to tell. Never hers” (600). Just like that, Nesta is aware of Azriel’s feelings for her sister and, perhaps, her subtle way of comforting him was her showing her approval.

We get a deeper insight of this scene in Azriel’s bonus chapter—an entire chapter that allows readers to see exactly how he feels about Elain, and that she returns those feelings, too. It is confirmed that Azriel stands by the doorway, away from Elain, because Lucien is in the same room, and the sight and scent of their mating bond is one that Azriel cannot stand. Because the female he feels deeply for, according to fate, “belongs” to another male and he needs to put distance between himself and the two of them when they’re in the same room. Yet, the mating bond doesn’t prevent Azriel from thinking of Elain, from fantasizing about her every night. He goes from being shown as relieved when Rhys tells him he doesn’t have to buy the sisters presents for the Winter Solstice in A Court of Frost and Starlight, to actively buying her a beautiful flower necklace that she would no doubt love. Their secret exchanging of gifts leads to an epic, steamy, full-of-yearning almost first kiss that shows so clearly that Azriel’s feelings for Elain aren’t unrequited, that she, just like him, is desperate to give into what’s been brewing between them for so long. Yet it’s all cut short when Rhys interrupts Azriel, reminding him of a mating bond that Azriel’s painfully aware of—and confidently willing to pull Elain away from if Lucien decides to invoke the Blood Duel. Azriel’s questioning of the cauldron, wondering why it picked three sisters and had two of them end up with his brothers while the last remaining one was mated to another, is not him declaring that he has a right to Elain. This is him questioning the powers and forces that no one truly understands, this is him questioning from a place of heartbreak, wondering why, yet again, he was the one left behind. It happened when his father imprisoned him, forcing Azriel to delay in his training as an Illyrian, it happened when the female he spent centuries loving never once returned the same kind of love, and now it’s happening again. Azriel does not believe he deserves Elain—it goes against his character, because he is self-deprecating, does not think he truly deserves anything good and worthy. He is simply questioning why his choice doesn’t ever seem to matter, and why Elain is yet again left having her decisions being taken away from her.

Because the matter of choice is a prevalent, significant theme for the two of them. For Elain, she was never allowed to truly make a choice in her life. Her mother’s death, her family falling into poverty, turning into High Fae, losing Graysen, the mating bond, her father’s death—these were all huge, significant life changing moments that she had no say in and was forced to endure, completely upending who she was and how she lived. But there is one choice Elain can make, and that is to reject the mating bond with Lucien. There are so many examples throughout the books where Elain turns away from Lucien; she doesn’t express any interest in him—it’s like he doesn’t even exist to her. There is utter indifference on her end, despite any effort made by Lucien, and that in itself is Elain choosing to all but formally reject the bond, however that may come about. There is a moment in A Court of Wings and Ruin in chapter 54 when Elain, while pleading with Graysen, claims, “I belong to no one. My heart belongs to you” (498). Of course, Azriel has nothing to do with what Elain was saying at the time, but her declaration of this speaks to her character and how dearly she holds onto the idea of being with someone of her own choosing, with someone she loves. This can further be developed into the idea that although fate, the cauldron, the Mother may have chosen Lucien for Elain—a pairing that can, ultimately, be ill-chosen—Elain would not give it the time of day unless it’s what her heart wants. And from what we have seen so far, her heart wants Azriel. She chooses Azriel over Lucien, and that holds significant weight to her and, I imagine eventually, to Azriel as well.

Azriel, who has not been other people’s choice. Azriel, who was imprisoned by his own father, who was rejected by the Illyrians. Azriel, who has spent five centuries loving Mor, who will never love him the way he did her. And it’s saying something, isn’t it, that he has finally stopped yearning for her, and that it was Elain who he is enraptured by? Even Cassian noted that the way Azriel used to look at Mor have become few and far in between, telling the audience that the spymaster has finally begun to move on, or already has, from Mor. And Elain wanting to kiss Azriel confirms to him, in particular, that he is her choice as well. And she is his, as further confirmed when Azriel tells Rhys he has no problem engaging in the Blood Duel with Lucien if it means freeing Elain from a bond she doesn’t want, and allowing them both to dive into the choices they clearly want to make.

Truthfully, there are many examples throughout the books where I can talk about Elain rejecting Lucien. She cringed away from the very first time he touches her in ACOMAF—though, granted, it happens right after she comes out of the cauldron. She is unsettled when Lucien tugs on their bond, saying that it felt as though he pulled on a thread connecting to a rib, which sounds painful and nothing like the comforting bond readers have seen between Feyre and Rhys. Elain doesn’t buy Lucien any presents for solstice, and the first present he got her, gardening gloves to prevent her hands from tearing, are ones she doesn’t use. Because she would much rather feel her hands get torn up while she’s working in her garden, uncaring if they scar, which in turn is a reminder of Azriel’s scarred hands and how she found them beautiful. And for those who wonder about Azriel giving the necklace he got for Elain to Gwyn, it is important to note that he tells Clotho to give it to any priestess who would want it, and merely mentions Gwyn by name because he trained her, because he was the one who rescued her after an attack, and she is the one he knows most familiarly by name because of it. At the end of it, Azriel only wanted the necklace gone because he didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to remember that the female he wants, wants him back just as much, but he was all but forbidden to pursue her. Once again, a choice that was taken away from him, and giving the necklace away is far easier than keeping it and remembering how he couldn’t be with Elain. At least for now.

Throughout the novels, there are many symbols that hint towards Elain and Azriel being together, but that is a paper for another day. This one’s goal was to simply point out the many physical and emotional indicators of the way the two of them are drawn to one another, despite the obstacles that are thrown their way—the biggest one being the mating bond no one asked for. There is comfort in the relationship they have, an ease you wouldn’t expect someone with Elain’s light to find in Azriel’s darkness. He offers her comfort in shy smiles and soft looks, and Elain does the same for him, which we see in the act of his shadows disappearing around her. These very shadows provided him comfort when he needed them, were his friends in his prison, and them leaving him when Elain is around is a sign of the contentment Azriel feels, because he doesn’t have to protect himself in her presence. Azriel loved Mor, and it has been noted that he lights up when she is around, and Elain is the only other person he reacts similarly to—because Elain is who he wants now that he has moved on from Mor. It’s important, isn’t it, that Elain is who pulls Azriel away from the centuries-long love he’d been lost in? That she is who he looks for, thinks about, wonders after?

Elain has found comfort in Azriel’s darkness, and he has found peace in her light, and so how could they not defy what’s been expected of them and rewrite fate to fit the choices they make themselves?

315 notes · View notes

classic80sand90smovieloves2 · 4 years

Text

Meeting and Courting Jareth

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(Apologies for the long meeting, I just love him and the story of Labyrinth with all my heart)

- The thing about Jareth is that he becomes what you wish for him to be. If you want an adventure then he’ll give you one. Want romance? You’ll get it. Want an escape? He’ll whisk you away in an instant. Everything that you encounter is there because of you.

- But perhaps we’re getting ahead of ourselves. You and Jareth meet after you encounter the story of the Labyrinth at an old bookshop.

- You couldn’t quite explain why you’d entered the shop. Curiosity perhaps, you’d never been inside, in fact, you hadn’t even known it existed. But a part of you knew that it was more than that; you felt a pull towards it. It was as though something beyond your understanding had wanted you to go inside. And so you did.

- Wandering between the dusty, wooden shelves filled with old, fading books, you jumpd as an abrupt dull thud came from behind you. Once you’d turned, you found that a book had fallen off the shelves. ‘The Labyrinth’ the cover read and upon opening it, you saw the portrait of an unsightly yet endearing goblin printed on the opening page.

- You went to put it back on the shelf before an odd gnawing feeling filled you, as though you were missing out on something if you returned it to its; what you thought was it’s, rightful place. You turned the book around and gazed at the cover for another moment before deciding that you’d purchase it.

“Oh that one? That one you can have for free. See how old it is? Free, free, free. No ones bought it for many years, you’re doing me a favor by taking it.” The withered shop keeper had said as you went to hand them the book.

- Odd. You thought since nearly all of the books in the shop were just as old if not older. But who were you to turn down a persons generosity? Thanking the shop keeper, you left the store, clutching your newly owned book in your hand as you made your way home.

- Once you arrived home, you set the book down and went about the rest of your routine. It wasn’t until later that night that you actually cracked the book open, completely unaware of how invested you would become in the story.

- You spent hours devouring the pages, seldom stopping for anything and oblivious to the starry eyes which watched you from the dark of the night outside your window.

- It was a few days later that you would first encounter the goblin king in person. You’d had a bad day and felt as though you’d rather disappear forever than be a functional human being for another day. It was then that you remembered a specific quote from the story you’d read mere days before. With a solemn chuckle, you sank to the floor, closing your eyes and saying the words.

“I wish the goblins would come and take me away right now.”

- You sat silent for a long moment, taking a few deep breaths and trying to forget about the day you had. Creak! Your eyes snapped open and your head whipped to the side before you began to laugh nervously, there was nothing there.

- But in an instant, it felt as though the entire room was alive and that; even though you were completely alone, there was someone or something there with you. The distinct feeling of being watched filled you and you felt a twinge of panic invade your senses. You quickly made your way towards your back door and stepped outside …only to find that you weren’t in your backyard.

- Before you was the beautiful view of a, well, a labyrinth. It was just like the one in the book. Were you dreaming? You must have been, how else would you be …here.

- You began to walk towards the labyrinth, soon encountering the fairies, Hoggle, the worm. You marveled at the place around you and yet, you were worried. How would you get home?

- The answer wasn’t going to be anywhere outside of the labyrinth, and so you kept on going. Maneuvering your way through obstacle after obstacle, joining up with Hoggle once more who agreed to show you the way out after some bribery and blackmail. It was with Hoggle that you saw him for the first time.

- Well, it wasn’t really him at first, he was sitting on the ground in the shape of a creature-esque beggar. Even if it was him, you wouldn’t have recognized him. You moved closer to Hoggle as the two of you went to pass the blind beggar, creeping past before the creature spoke.

“Your majesty.” Hoggle said and your eyes widened. Stooping slightly, you bowed your head in a show of respect, up until the king made Hoggle confess his “true intentions behind helping you”.

- Unbeknownst to you, the goblin king was jealous of your newfound friendship with the ghastly little man and sought to squash it. Playing the role of kind king, he watched your reaction to the news, hiding his glee and making a face of teasing disappointment at the Hoggle.

“And you Y/n,” he turned his attention towards you, a smirk settling on his face as he leaned against the wall in front of you. “How are you enjoying my labyrinth?”

“Well, it’s very beautiful,” you fumbled for the right words to say, your throat dry and your stomach filled with butterflies. “I’ve enjoyed my time here, the good and the bad. But …I would like to know the way home....”

- He tsked at you before offering you a deal. If you managed to arrive at his castle in the next thirteen hours, then you could leave. But if you couldn’t, you would have to stay with him forever. With no other option, you accepted the challenge.

- Of course, he tries to foil all of your plans and attempts. Every now and again, he’ll drop in and make your mission harder. He’s always very smug whenever he messes you up and makes you take a longer route, though; at the same time, he wants you to arrive at his castle as soon as possible.

- Throughout his visits, he’ll try and win you over. Trying to impress you with his powers and woo you with his charms.

- Not many people have gotten as far as you have so believe me; he’s impressed. Though he also feels jealous as he watches you express any affection to the creatures of the labyrinth and your new friends. He threatens them every time they leave your sight.

- Regardless of his attempts to throw you off track, you do in fact make it to the castle in time. Thoroughly distraught, he offers you a final desperate deal though it sounds more like a plea. Let him rule you. Stay with him, fear him, love him. Do as he says, and he will be your slave.

- The offer makes you freeze, your heart and mind racing. For a long moment, you remain silent before you slowly open your mouth and give him your answer. Yes, you’ll stay.

- The smile he gives you is genuine and the world around you begins to put itself back together. Soon enough, you’re standing in the room full of staircases, a hopeful feeling rising within you.

“Come, let us pick your new room.” He offers you his hand and you take it, allowing him to lead you into the corridor of the castle.

- The two of you have dinner that night and both of you would consider it to be your first date. Candle light, flowers, the occasional rambunctious goblin; it was beautifully strange and you wouldn’t have changed a thing.

- The two of you share your first kiss in one of the many gardens of the Labyrinth. You were admiring the flowers and he was standing beneath a shady tree, admiring you; something he does very often.

- Out of nowhere, he stalked out from his shaded corner, hands behind his back as he leans down and kisses you. No words spoken, no questions asked and certainly no complaints made. He pulled away and you smiled up at him, though he was looking at the flowers in front of you. He only returned your smile as you turned back to the flowers happily, his heart full of adoration and gratitude.

- The two of you would only remain together forever ...not long at all.

- You’re only ever in the company of goblins and/or other creatures; and he couldn’t care less about their comfort or opinions, so pda isn’t really a problem for him. The only problem with Pda is the fact that he doesn’t want to appear too soft in front of his subjects.

- Passionate, breathtaking kisses that make you weak in the knees and send a wave of heat coursing through you.

- He loves when you come to spend time with him; or just to see him, on your own accord, even if you’re technically disrupting something. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He’ll say, his face brightening as you come into view or the instant he hears your voice.

- He craves your affection and attention, even though he’s good at hiding it. He knows that he’s been “alone” for a very long time but it still genuinely surprises him when he’s reminded as to how much he’s actually missed having a companion.

- He always gives you a closed lip smile whenever you kiss him on the cheek. How big it is depends on the situation.

- He loves when you play with his hair, he’ll lay between your legs and toy with his crystals while you braid or twirl his teased locks.

- Getting to hear him sing. He usually pulls you into a dance while he does so.

- He’s quite fond of terms of endearment, he likes that only he is truly allowed to call you them and you him. Usually, he’ll call you love, darling, pet, and my queen.

- He’s a cuddler but you aren’t allowed to let anyone know that. Most of the time, the two of you will sleep with your head on his chest, one of your hands in his and his other arm wrapped around you, keeping you close.

- He likes tracing his fingers across your skin, usually your bare back while you’re laying on your stomach next to him in bed.

- Hand kisses.

- Constant compliments and praise.

“Well don’t you look ravishing~”

- He plays little tricks on you from time to time. I’m fairly certain that he’s; at least, part fae and we all know that they’re mischievous little bastards.

- Occasionally getting spooked by him because he’ll just appear somewhere close to you out of nowhere, usually with an expression that tells you that he knew exactly what he was doing.

- He enjoys the banter that the two of you get into. He likes the little smiles he can force you into making with his teasing comments.

- Sometimes, he’ll just drape himself across you; or lay his head on some part of you, and start a conversation as though nothing is out of the ordinary; which is true because he does it enough that you’ve gotten used to it.

“Do you think it’s too much?”

- Telling him about your dreams and the little odd things that happen to you throughout the day, even though he most likely already knows about them. He finds it amusing to listen to you describe them either way.

- He likes having your full attention. He likes the feeling of being yearned for and adored, though he adores you the same amount if not more.

- He’s sorta clingy though he tries his best to hide just how clingy he is. You get little glimpses of it every now and again, like him dropping in to see what you’re doing throughout the day or having you stay close to his side whenever you can.

- He’s a; for the most part, chivalrous gentleman, even when you’re testing his patience. It doesn’t matter if you’ve just had an argument, he’s still offering you his hand to steady yourself with while climbing up the castle steps.

- Getting his capes draped over your shoulders.

- Getting to hear all of his stories about the land, the labyrinth, and all of the creatures that inhabit it.

- You definitely sit on his lap while he’s in his throne, having little conversations while the goblins jeer at each other and cause trouble around you.

- You try to get him to be nicer to the goblins and all the other creatures of the labyrinth but old habits die hard; especially since he sees them as below him. He tries though, mainly to please you.

- You’re somewhat feared by association; at least until they get to know you, which means everyone is pretty much always incredibly nice to you, even if they’re usually rude to people. After they do get to know you, then they just begin to genuinely like you enough to be kind to you.

- Although, they revert back to their; understandably, timid selves when Jareth shows up. You can; quite literally, tell when the king shows up because their smiles will drop and their eyes will widen, some cowering slightly as you glance behind your shoulder, finding the blonde watching you.

- Masquerade balls thrown in your honor.

- Strange but delicious meals.

- Nights spent in front of a fire, cuddled into his side and watching different places and dreams in his crystals.

- Watching the sun rise and set together.

- You get anything your heart desires, all you have to do is ask or mention something in passion. He’ll either leave it for you to find in your room or manifest it right then and there, raising an eyebrow at you and smirking, a sparkling little glint in his eyes.

- Magic tricks. He enjoys seeing the wonder and awe on your face.

- Hugs from behind.

- Catching him talking to the goblins about you. It’s always something that you can’t help but find cute.

- Getting dressed up in extravagant clothing. He enjoys seeing you in proper goblin ruler fashion.

- You assume your queenly duties and take it upon yourself to make the labyrinth a better place wherever you can. He doesn’t understand your need to be kind but he does find it quite adorable when you return home with dirtied clothing and mussed up hair; usually out of breath with a big smile on your face, having spent the day helping the citizens of the labyrinth.

“Well look at your dress. You’ve ruined it.” He’ll say, usually in such a fond teasing manner that you can’t help but let out a little laugh.

- All the goblins adore you, even if you don’t necessarily fit in with them and the king. They like your little quirks and contrasting personality traits as much as they like the ones that match theirs.

- Occasionally stepping in to stop him from making brash; and oftentimes cruel, decisions.

- He’s incredibly jealous. Anytime he sees someone talking to you in a relatively “too friendly” way, he’ll threaten them with the bog of eternal stench or some other horrible part of his land.

- He’s very protective of you, the labyrinth can be a very dangerous place for someone who doesn’t truly know where they’re going. He always insists that you have someone accompany you; which you usually have no problem with. He also watches you from his crystals whenever he feels that something is wrong.

- You cant be sure but you guess that Jareth has something to do with the barn owl that follows you on your little journeys through the land.

- Arguments here and there. He usually ends up either shutting you down or snapping at you, though he doesn’t ever yell. Just to be petty, you’ll ignore him and occasionally go to stay somewhere else, usually being wholeheartedly yet wearily accepted into the home of one of your strange friends.

- He’s extremely irritable during these cold shoulder sessions, snapping at the goblins more than usual and ranting to them about how you “could dare just walk out on” him. He usually makes the creatures/goblins try to convince you to talk to him. Eventually, he’ll visit, telling you that you’re acting childish before breaking; as you refuse to say a word to him, and desperately trying to get you to forgive him.

- He doesn’t say “I love you” constantly but he does say it very often. Even so, it doesn't change how special it feels every time he says it.

- He wants to marry you as soon as he can but he thinks he’ll wait for children for a little while, wanting to savor your lives together before making a new one. As surprising as it may be, he genuinely does like children and is eager to have his own, especially with you.

#80s movie imagine #80s movie imagines #80s movie headcanons #80s movie headcanon #labyrinth imagine #labyrinth headcanons #labyrinth headcanon #labyrinth imagines #jareth imagine #jareth headcanons #jareth headcanon #jareth imagines #jareth x reader

1K notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 years

Text

Moe Moe Mallekei Kyun~

In which Malleus and Cater go to a maid café, and shenanigans ensue.

... I’ve been wanting to write this for a long time.

***Warning: mild spoilers for Malleus’s PE Uniform personal story!***

Imagine this...

“Lilia-sama.”

Two bodyguards fell into line, saluting simultaneously to their vice dorm leader.

“We just finished combing through the prime gargoyle locations around campus,” Silver reported. “Unfortunately, there was no sight of Malleus-sama to be found. The accounts of the various students we interviewed also corroborate that the Young Master has not recently been spotted in the area.”

“I see. Thank you, Silver.” Lilia sighed, cupping his cheek in one hand. “Hm, this is a bit odd. Wherever could he have wandered off to this time?”

At that moment, a ping! sounded off. Lilia fished his phone out of his pocket and, with one glance at the screen, his expression softened.

“You don’t suppose some dastardly villain has… kidnapped the Young Master and is holding him for ransom, do you?!” Sebek’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull at the thought. “If that is the case… THEN WE HAVE FAILED AS MALLEUS-SAMA’S KNIGHTS!!”

“Now, now--let’s not jump to conclusions. Even if that were true, I’m certain that Malleus would be able to easily fend off assailants on his own. Perhaps he has simply lost his way, or headed off campus to run an errand.”

“... Without warning us in advance?”

“I would have happily accompanied the Young Master wherever he went--EVEN TO THE ENDS OF TWISTED WONDERLAND ITSELF!!”

“Kufufu. Malleus is still young at heart. Let us allow him this moment of independence, just this once. He will find his way home eventually.”

“Welcome home, my masters!!”

Malleus skidded to a stop in the doorway—for beyond it laid unknown territory. The interior sported cream walls, with fairy lights, streamers, and paper flowers strung up. A number of tables and chairs, populated with people, were set against flowing white curtains.

Young ladies flitted about, balancing trays of food and drinks, cameras, and microphones. Each wore the same outfit, consisting of a frilly headdress, an apron, and a black dress with lace trim and ribbons.

And now, one of those uniformed girls extended a hand to him and a warm, welcoming smile.

Malleus frowned and turned to the orange haired young man beside him. “... Diamond. What is this strange establishment you’ve brought me to?”

“Mm? It’s a maid café,” Cater chirped, glancing up from his phone. “You said you’ve never been before, right?”

“Well, yes… However, when you invited me to join you for an outing, I did not expect this to be our destination.”

“It’ll be fine~ We’re already here, so let’s get seated!” Cater insisted cheerily, ushering the fae through the door.

“Right this way, my masters!” The greeter giggled and led the way, eventually stopping at a vacant table set for two. As the duo slipped into their seats, she handed them menus and moistened towels. “We have a wide selection of special services and delicious dishes for your enjoyment!”

Malleus hesitantly flipped open the (very pink) menu and ran his eyes down the page of available items. Along with the expected offerings of desserts, savory foods, and beverages were odd listings: massage, ear cleaning, karaoke, game, arts and crafts, picture, spoon feeding, live song and dance...

He stared quizzically at Cater, who seemed to be taking everything in stride.

“I’ll take a plate of omurice! How about you, Malleus-kun?”

He stared back at his menu, trying to make rhyme or reason of the unique names. What in the Great Seven was a Pyon ❤ Pyon Sunshine Bar…? Or a Lucky☆Happy☆Cookie? Malleus’s brows furrowed in both concentration and confusion.

“I… I shall have the local specialty, whatever that may be,” the fae prince declared at last.

“Excellent choices! And would you like a bunny, or a kitty?”

“You hand out animals at this eating establishment? Is that not a health code violation?”

“Aaah, Malleus-kun, she doesn’t mean real rabbits and cats. Look--you’ll see when she brings them, okay?” Cater laughed awkwardly. Then, turning to the waitress, he held up his index finger. “One of each, little lady~”

“Of course!” She scribbled down a few words on her heart shaped notepad before prancing off.

“... Diamond. Are you certain this is the fabled maid café of which you spoke of?” Malleus asked, folding his arms. “I find it difficult to believe that every patron here is descended from a high class lineage. Furthermore, the servers are wearing attire entirely unlike that of a traditional household servant.”

Cater blinked once, twice—then chuckled.

“Maid cafés are like normal cafés. Anyone can go to them to play pretend and chill for a while! The difference is that the waitresses are dressed cutely and offer fun services. Singing, dancing, playing games—that kinda thing!”

“I do not understand.” Malleus swept a hand at their surroundings. “The purpose of this establishment is merely for… amusement?”

“Yup! People get tired of the daily grind sometimes, so they go to places like this to see cute stuff and just take a load off.”

“I… I see.” Malleus tucked his thumb and forefinger under his chin. “We do not have anything like your maid cafes in the Valley of Thorns.”

“You don’t? What sort of things do you do back home for fun, then?”

“I was not allowed to venture far from the palace grounds. Most of my time was spent indoors, studying spells or honing my magical abilities.”

Cater inclined his head. “Oooh, right! Because you’re a prince and all, you weren’t able to do much—but hey! Things are different now! You’ve got Cay-kun to show you a good time!”

“Ah, yes. A ‘good time’...” Malleus attempted at a smile, which came out more wary than he had intended.

“Thank you for waiting!” a girlish voice chirped—their waitress had returned, wearing a tray of food in one hand and two headbands in the other. “Here is your omurice and Nyan ✨ Nyan ✨ Kitty-chan Parfait, plus one pair of kitty ears and one pair of bunny ears!”

She handed Cater his dish—a bed of ketchup flavored fried rice, sealed by a wobbling omelet and garnished with a sprig of parsley.

“Mm! Smells delicious. Thanks a bunch~” Cater grinned, winking at his server.

The maid giggled and placed Malleus’s dessert before him, along with the headbands.

“Would you like me to draw or write something special for you on your meal, master?” she asked, gesturing to Cater’s omurice.

“Sure thing! Could you write ‘Mallekei’? Oh, and a couple of hearts would be cute, too!”

“As you wish!”

As the maid set to work, Malleus marveled at the sight of his parfait.

Colorful scoops of ice-cream, granola, and sliced fruits were layered inside of a tall glass cup. A generous crown of whipped cream and a drizzle of strawberry sauce topped it off. Sticking out from the whipped cream were two wafer triangles and dots of chocolate candies, forming a cat-like face.

How adorable.

… But not adorable enough to be spared.

“Thank you for the food.” The fae raised his spoon to demolish the poor parfait kitten—

“Stop, stop, Malleus-kun!!” Cater cried, frantically waving his arms. “N-Not yet!!”

Malleus lowered his spoon with a frown. “Food is meant to be consumed, Diamond. Is there an issue you have with my table etiquette?”

“Well—no, but…” Cater played with a lock of his orange hair and sighed. “There’s certain rituals we need to do first!”

“Rituals? Oh, my apologies. I was not aware. Please proceed with your regularly scheduled… rituals.”

“Ahaha, you’re a quick learner! First thing’s first, let’s put on our headbands!” Cater swept up the cat ears and passed them over. “Here, to match your parfait! I’ll take the rabbit.”

Malleus gingerly nestled the cat ears on his head, copying Cater’s movements. It was a bit tricky maneuvering around his horns, but somehow, he managed.

“Oh!! Those ears suit you so well!” the waitress said, glancing up from decorating the omurice. Carefully placed splotches of ketchup spelled out ‘Mallekei’, hearts and little sparkles littering the space around the boys’ combined names.

“... Do they?” Malleus doubted it.

“They do!!” Cater reassured him with a laugh. “Ne, ne, miss! Can you take our picture so my friend here can have a souvenir to take home with him?”

“Certainly!” She replaced the bottle of ketchup and hurried off, returning shortly after with a polaroid camera. “Are you ready, my masters?”

“Ready, Malleus-kun?”

“Hmph. Of course. I will have you know that my posing abilities have improved considerably since our last encounter. Do not underestimate me.”

“Oh, that’s great! You’ve been practicing! Then… on the count of three, we nyah, okay?”

“... What is ‘nyah’?” Malleus inquired, his confidence suddenly waning.

“Eh?” A blip of surprise crossed Cater’s face. “Like, y’know… nyah!”

The influencer curled both of his hands into balls and made a pawing motion at his friend. “Now you try!”

“Like this?” Malleus mimicked him. He was more stiff—definitely not as practiced—but the general motion was still recognizable.

“Very good, master!!” the waitress gushed, raising the polaroid up. “On three?”

“1, 2, 3… Nyah!”

A flash went off, sending stars into Malleus’s vision. As he rubbed the daze out of his eyes, Cater’s voice called out to him.

“Are you okay there?”

“I am well. There is no need for your concern,” the fae insisted. “This ritual… it is more confounding that I took it to be.”

“Eeeh? It’s not meant to be hard or anything. Just relax, relax!” Cater paused before adding, “It’s part of the ritual’s requirements! You need to be nice and loose for the last step!”

“What is this last step?”

“We need to cast a magic spell to make your food taste extra tasty!” the waitress declared cheerily.

“Hoh?” A smirk found its way onto Malleus’s face. “That can easily be arranged. Allow me to do the honors.”

He put his hand before his parfait, an eerie green glow emulating from his palm. The sinister light engulfed his dish and Cater’s, sending them floating midair. Radioactive ice-cream and omurice hovered above their heads, causing both Cater and their maid to recoil in shock.

Other customers stared at the spectacle from their own tables. One man’s jaw dropped, the forkful of spaghetti bolognese in his mouth clattering onto the floor.

“You, who provides sustenance to the masses, become that which is delici—“

“H-Hold on a sec, Malleus-kun!!” Cater practically leapt over the table to seize his friend’s glowing hand. “Not that kind of spell!!”

Eyes wide with surprise, Malleus allowed his magic to settle down. The parfait and omurice gently floated back onto their table, and the maid sighed with relief.

“Is there a different spell needed for this occasion? I assure you that I am well-versed in practical magic—you need only speak its name, and I can conjure the proper…”

“No, no! It’s—“ Cater casted a look at their server and nervously chuckled. “Ne, Maid-chan~ Think you can give us a demonstration of the right spell?”

“Yes, master!” the girl, ever professional, flashed a perky grin. “Please watch carefully!!”

The maid set down her polaroid on the table. She then arched her fingers into C-like shapes, thumb extended straight. Pushing her hands together, she formed a heart and aimed it in the direction of the boy’s dishes.

“Moe moe kyuuuuuun!”

“What an odd spell. In all my years, I have never heard of such an enchantment…”

“Well, there’s a first for everything, right?” Cater flicked one of his floppy rabbit ears. “Plus, it should be no problem for the great Malleus-sama to pull off this spell, right?”

“This is child’s play,” Malleus’s laugh was like the earth itself rumbling. His lips quirked into a small smile. “You will join me in performing this sacred ritual, will you not, Diamond?”

“Of course~”

“Very well.”

They made hearts and thrust them upon their meals. And together, they uttered those three magic words.

“Moe moe kyuuuuun!!”

“Welcome back, Malleus,” Lilia greeted. The vice dorm leader nonchalantly hung from the ceiling, his raven and magenta bangs suspended midair. “Did you have fun on your outing?”

“Lilia. You knew?” Malleus slowly shut the door behind him, chasing away the cool air of the night. He spoke softly, knowing that sounds carried in the dusty hallways of Diasomnia and could disturb its residents.

“The wonders of modern technology,” Lilia trilled, expertly landing beside his young master. He brandished his phone in a gloved hand, a text message displayed on the screen.

hey hey lilia-chan! gonna steal malmal-kun for the day~ he’ll be back later, but do me a solid and keep it a secret from s&s til then, ‘kay? thnx!! (✿˶˘ ³˘)~♡

“It looks as though I have been exposed.”

“There is no shame in making new friends. In fact, I’m proud of you for expanding your horizons.” Lilia beamed. “Though what a shame it is that I was not present to grab a few pictures. Hopefully Cater fulfilled that task for me.”

The ancient fae tilted forward in his toes and peered up at his prince. “Soooo? Where did you sneak off to?”

“Fufu. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“My. Is that any way to treat the man that kept Silver and Sebek from hunting you down?” Lilia teased, wagging a finger.

“Such loyalty,” Malleus smirked, hands on his hips, “deserves to be rewarded.”

He produced a polaroid photograph from his breast pocket and presented it with a flourish. The image, forever captured in time, was that of Malleus and Cater—the former with cat ears, the latter with bunny ears—with hands balled to resemble paws. Cater cheekily winked, while Malleus looked slightly bewildered.

The edges of the polaroid were dotted with stickers—smiley faces, flowers, and hearts. Marker had been used to scrawl on whiskers and blushes over both boys’ cheeks.

Overall, cutesy—overwhelming so.

But the Malleus and Cater in the picture were happy.

Their eyes shining like jewels.

Nyah-ing their hearts out.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Malleus Draconia #Cater Diamond #twisted wonderland imagines #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #something no one asked for #spoilers

320 notes · View notes

duskandstarlight · 4 years

Text

Embers & Light (Chapter 28)

Notes: Happy Sunday every one. Thanks for last week's comments. They were so lovely and I love to hear from you all!This chapter is the one lots of you have been waiting for... not smut, but THE conversation. I hope you enjoy it... And sorry about the typos in this chapter, I can't look at this chapter any more! I'll try and scan over it tomorrow...Lastly, just a head's up that I might not be able to post next Sunday. Work is super busy this coming week and I haven't yet started the chapter. I'll try my best, though :)

Oh, and for those of you who ask every week, I post Sunday evening UK time between 7-10PM. I will rarely change and if it’s late, it’s because I’m still working on it :)

Also, sorry, there should be italics in some places but I am done editing so Tumblr will get what copy and paste has done!

Twenty-Eight Cassian POV

Lorrian and Cassian walked silently down the hall, following the servant who was scurrying in front of them. The sound of their footsteps rang around the hallway in an echo that was almost haunting, and if it wasn't for the meeting that has just adjourned—the Rite meeting which that was whirring around in his mind—Cassian would be contemplating how quickly he could organise their departure despite the wishes of his High Lord.

As distracted as Cassian was, he had still committed every corridor to memory. Every twist and turn as the house tunnelled into mountain rock. Up the wide staircase, right, second left, first right, next left…

Deeper and deeper they moved into the mountain. No doubt to ensure that the General and Colonel felt as uneasy as possible. No Illyrian liked being unable to escape through a window and step straight into the skies, and from what Cassian could tell, there would be no windows or doors that led them straight out into the heavens. Only endless crystalline rock and shadow.

Lord Marsh’s property always had been unusual in that way. Even though it was positioned on the wide ledge of the mountain pass, suspended high in the sky above the rest of the Ironcrest camp, the house did not stop when it hit the mountain wall. Instead, it tunnelled inside of it, providing a lodgings that was a vast, confusing labyrinth that was too easy to get lost in.

It was why Cassian had been so loathe to stay the night. To stay any longer than necessary.

Cassian could only thank the Cauldron that Rhys and Feyre’s presence had not been required. Neither of them deserved to be trapped inside a mountain again. Cassian supposed he could count his lucky stars that their presence had not been necessary. Would not be able to bear their anguish, even if they did their best to conceal it.

“Your rooms,” the servant announced suddenly, with a bow that was so deep Cassian wouldn’t have been surprised if the male’s nose had scraped the floor.

They had reached the end of the hallway, and in front of them was a heavy wooden door set into an arch.

Even through rock and stone, Cassian could sense Nesta. Knew she was located somewhere to the left with Frawley, thanks to that magnetic pull which never seemed to cease, even just for a moment. That was the one thing Nesta hadn’t been able to stop. She could constrict their bond as much as she liked—could freeze him out so nothing could travel up and down their twisted tether—but it didn’t stop him from being able to sense her. It was as if he was hyper alert to where she was. His body moved when hers did. His heart did its best to beat in tandem with hers. And when they were near, everything in him had a tendency to relax, as if he no longer had to worry.

Cassian didn’t know if Nesta felt the same. Would never know, given that they did not discuss their fate at all.

Lorrian bid goodbye to the servant as Cassian stepped through the door and into a hallway that was equally as dark. Two doors flanked the short, cramped hallway and Cassian took the immediate left, pushing the door that was ajar so it creaked wide open.

Unlike the rest of Marsh’s residence, the room was cast in a light that was almost unforgiving, betraying the dark ominous furniture and the gloomy crystalline rock thanks to bobbing faelights which Frawley had magicked to illuminate the room. To his left, fire raged silently in the grate, and ahead of him, in a huge stone bay straight ahead of him, sat Nesta.

The carved out rock was fashioned as if it were a window—an irony, given how deep underground they were—and Nesta’s back rested against the far left-hand wall. Her knees were bent, and her long legs, which were hidden beneath her skirts, stretched across expanse of the ledge. She was facing Frawley, who was sitting on the huge Illyrian bed which took up most of the floor space.

Cassian just had time to catch Nesta’s unfettered expression—the tight, bracketed mouth and the downward pull of her brows— before it was wiped clean.

“What happened?” she demanded, as Cassian cast a shield which threw the whole suite into an impenetrable sound bubble.

Her eyes bore into his, and across the surface, silver roiled like liquid mercury. Despite her careful expression, he felt her worry and Cassian wondered just how much he had accidentally hurtled down their shared bond whilst he sat in that meeting to have her so concerned.

“They’ve cancelled the Blood Rite,” Lorrian announced grimly, from where he had entered the room behind Cassian.

Nesta’s eyes snapped to Lorrian. Confusion twisted across her features, but she did not say anything.

“That,” Frawley said after a moment’s pause, “is very clever.”

Begrudgingly, Cassian nodded. Because it had been clever. None of them had seen it coming. The Solstice luncheon, which invited all of the nobility across Illyria, had been enough to ward away any suspicion when it came to the lordlings presence. Rite representatives were chosen privately by each camp, so there was no way that Cassian could have known that the lordlings who had recently met with Kallon planned to fill many of the positions. Nor had it crossed Cassian’s mind that the Rite meeting might have been pulled forward only for it to be cancelled, especially given how steadfast and stubborn Illyrians were when it came to tradition.

But, even if Cassian had asked Az to find out what representatives had been chosen for the Rite that year, they never could have predicted that Kallon intended to instate a hiatus on the most important ritual in Illyria’s long history—a political manoeuvre that would make the Night Court look even worse than it already did.

“How did he get the lords to agree to it?” Frawley asked, as she watched her husband sink down into a chair that sat in the right hand corner of the room next to a dark, looming wardrobe that only served to make the room feel even more cramped. “Those princes will usually be damned if they listen to a word the other says.”

“The Rite representatives,” Cassian announced with a heavy sigh, wishing he too would give in to the temptation to sink down and sit somewhere. Next to Nesta, ideally. “All of them were lordlings who met with Kallon all those months ago. And the worst thing about it all is that Lorrian and I swayed the vote in Kallon’s favour. He played us and we walked straight into his damn den. It made us look as if we were agreeing with him for the sake of politics, rather than because we thought it ourselves.”

Which was the irony of the situation, Cassian thought to himself grimly. Cassian had been worried for a long time about the unnecessary loss of further lives due to the Blood Rite. Had been losing sleep over it, just as his nightmares continued to plague him whenever he did succumb to the clutches of the unconscious. There was already so much ash of flesh and bone on Cassian’s hands from when he had deserted his legion for desperate screams. And now… he was existing on stolen time—a time which had been bought by a female who at the end of it all, had not accepted his heart.

“Every word of Kallon’s appeal resonated with the Lords,” Lorrian told Nesta and Frawley as he ran his hands over his face… over his dark, close-cropped hair and the nicked scars on his scalp. “He played upon the sentiment that is already festering inside so many of the Fae in Illyria. That the Night Court uses our warriors for their own gain in war but does not care about them in the interim.”

“And then Kallon presented them with the damn sword,” Cassian growled, clenching his fists at the memory.

Frawley’s eyes gleamed so brightly her irises turned glacial blue and amber. “You saw it up close?” she asked, leaning forward so eagerly from where she was sitting on the mattress that she near folded in half. “And what did you feel?”

“Ancient magic,” Lorrian replied grimly, even as his wife continue to stare at Cassian. “My own magic spiked at the sight of it. It was…” he broke off and shook his head, “It was odd. All of the lords could feel it, I am sure of it. Not one of them disputed that it was Enalius’s.”

Cassian remembered the way his siphons had throbbed and the ruby star over his chest had pulsed so fiercely it felt like a second heart—as if it were answering a silent call that even he couldn't hear. Only Nesta’s power had made Cassian feel like that before. It didn’t matter if it was silver fire or healing light, Nesta’s magic called to him, chanting and moaning until he thought he might combust from it.

But Cassian did not say any of that. Had barely dared to admit it to himself, let alone voice it out loud. So, instead, he flared his siphons and rummaged through the travel bag which appeared on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

His fingers found the book without having to search for it, his callouses brushing against soft brown leather. He pulled out Heroicis, the gold-lettering on the cover shimmering as he flipped it open to peel back the delicate pages.

It was easy to find the illustration of the sword. Cassian had stared at the drawing so many times the book wanted to be opened to that page.

He placed the book down on the vanity. “It looked exactly like that,” he announced wearily, waving a hand to the illustration. “Except the jewel is missing.”

The rustle of clothing sounded as three Fae moved towards him. Cassian did not turn but he scented all three of them. Lorrian’s gentle rush of heat and sandalwood. Frawley’s damp forest earth after rain and air streaked with fire smoke. And then Nesta. She had drawn up to his left, but he would have known where she was in a room without scent or sight. Yet, he allowed himself the privilege of scenting her all the same, as that rush of her became sharper and more focussed, like a blade narrowing to an essential point: jasmine and vanilla and Nesta.

Rivalling most Fae in height, Nesta’s head barely reached his shoulder. Cassian desperately wanted to wind his arm around her and pull her close, but out of the public eye they were no longer pretending. He didn’t want to push the boundaries that were already so brittle. Would not disrespect Nesta by overstepping the mark. Not unless she indicated she wanted it otherwise.

So, Cassian pushed away the stark vision of him moulding her to his body, or the way he had bowed earlier to press his lips to her knuckles. Tried not to ponder over the temptation of brushing his lips over her cheek by the end of their visit…

“I did not expect a General to carry epic poetry,” Frawley drawled in amusement, but there was an edge to her voice that told Cassian she was holding something back.

Lorrian snickered at his wife and did what Cassian had yearned to do to Nesta—he dropped a kiss to the top of her white head. The Colonel had used his siphons to peel back his armour as soon as the door had closed behind them. With it, his arm had disappeared, and the Colonel looked more like himself.

“Well, witch,” Cassian demanded with forced lightness, “is this an accurate depiction?”

“It is the only illustration I have ever seen that is correct,” Frawley said simply, her head cocked to the side so the white of her hair fell in an impossibly straight stream. The strands shimmered pearlescent in the light. The colour was almost otherworldly.

“Did you find anything out from the females?” Lorrian asked. He was rubbing over the stub of his limp, as if it was causing him phantom pain, his expression drawn tight.

The change of subject wasn’t as abrupt as it seemed. Cassian knew why Lorrian was asking. If they found anything incriminating against Kallon or the Ironcrest clan, it would aid them in stifling the rebellion that at this point seemed inevitable.

A fierce flare of pain wrangled through Cassian’s gut and his head snapped to Nesta, but she was staring fixedly at the book.

Lorrian had also turned sharply to Nesta, his eyes wide. His hand dropped from where he had been trying to ease the pain from his arm and his expression, although surprised, was free of any discomfort.

“Thank you,” Lorrian said quietly.

There was a pause that stretched out too long. All of them were silent, but Nesta dipped her chin without turning her head.

“The females didn’t speak beyond polite conversation,” Frawley began, steering all of their attention from Nesta. “But I did mention the kerit attacks on the widows camps.”

“Did you pick up any emotion?” Cassian asked Nesta.

“Yes,” Nesta replied, but her shrug dismissed the notion that she may have felt anything prominent. “Fear, disgust, anger towards the attacks. Most of it low level.”

Cassian frowned. “I suppose the attacks have not hit Ironcrest. They have not experienced the damage first hand.”

“There was a spike of horror and despair,” Nesta told him. “From someone. But I couldn't place it. It came from behind me and by the time I had turned the emotion had gone.”

Cassian stared down at Nesta. “Did you scent it? The insignia behind the emotion?”

Nesta shook her head. “All of the scents were jumbled. I got a flash of something, but I couldn’t—” Nesta stopped abruptly and her beautiful face twisted into a dissatisfied grimace. “If I sensed it again, I might recognise it, but—”

Already Cassian knew she was punishing herself. He refrained from putting a hand on her shoulder in silent reassurance.

“Even a Fae with years of practice would find it difficult to associate the source of an emotion in a crowded room,” Frawley said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if she too knew that Nesta would not stop the self-blame. That it would rage internally until it consumed her. “You do not have eyes in the back of your head.”

“And from Kallon?” Cassian asked, even though he suspected he already knew the answer, and that he wasn’t going to like it.

They all watched Nesta’s lips tighten into a thin line. Eventually, she said, “He likes my power.”

Cassian knew that expression. Knew from the way everything had gone very quiet that she had frozen him out so he would not know how the promise in those yellow eyes had turned triggered Nesta’s trauma.

But the problem was that Cassian had learnt to notice the slightest change in Nesta’s expression. Had catalogued every movement in the four months they had lived together, even when he didn’t know what it meant.

Frawley’s brown eye flicked to Cassian. Even behind the brisk facade, Cassian could tell she was worried about Nesta. Cassian wondered what they had spoken about whilst he and Lorrian had been gone. “What time is this dreaded dinner?” she asked.

“In an hour,” Cassian grimaced.

“And do you think the princeling will be carrying the sword with him, now he has confirmed the rumours?”

Lorrian grunted a laugh. Cassian wondered if he, too, was thinking of the way Kallon’s eyes had gleamed triumphant. How tempting it had been to smack the princeling around the face. “I think we can count on it.”

***

An hour later, the same servant escorted the four of them down the warren corridors to dinner.

Both Lorrian and Cassian had discarded their full-scaled armour for tunics layered with a stainless steel cuirass over the top. That, coupled with plates and fingerless leather gauntlets on both of their hands, allowed Cassian and Lorrian to showcase their siphons. The light-weight pieces of armour were made of the usual Illyrian scales, and whilst the armour was more ornamental than for the purpose of fighting, Rhys had worked his magic so it was as indestructible as carbon steel, if not more.

Lorrian’s right arm was back and glowing. Cassian understood why his friend wanted to face the vultures with all of his limbs, but he wished he could take Lorrian’s shame away. He supposed there was nothing to be done but to hope that time led to acceptance. Already Lorrian had come a long way. Had even started training with Cassian without his arm, learning to wield a sword with his left-hand should the occasion every call for it.

It was that willingness to adapt that reminded Cassian why Lorrian was an exceptional warrior. Why he would conquer where others would fail. The Colonel would be prepared for every scenario. Would know how to balance his body with and without a limb.

Opponents would not expect it. It would give Lorrian the upper hand in battle, rather than showcasing a weakness that anyone who knew about his limb would expect.

It meant that if Lorrian’s siphons ever became drained, that he could still fight.

Nesta and Frawley had also changed for dinner, even though the witch had grumbled at having to dress up for company she would rather obliterate from Prythian. Unsurprisingly, Nesta had only grown more divine with a change of clothes, but she had barely spared him a glance as she looped her hand through his arm.

Which, Cassian thought, had been just as well, because he had not been able to stop his eyes from darkening and his wings from rustling at the sheer sight of her.

Now, Nesta held onto him as they followed the backs of Lorrian and Frawley from where they walked in front of them. The two of them had fallen slightly behind, most likely because of their hesitancy to fling themselves back in the path of the vultures that were Marsh and Kallon.

And, Cassian admitted, because he had purposefully shortened his stride so he could glance surreptitiously at Nesta—at the dark, deep forest green of her long-sleeved dress, which had actually stopped Cassian’s heart and made his breath catch in his throat. Something which he knew Lorrian had clocked but had decided not to mention— thank the Cauldron.

The top half of the velvet material wrapped around Nesta’s every curve, before it billowed out softly at the hips into an A-line skirt. At her chest—which was bared rather than hidden away—the silver chain of the pyrite necklace fell tauntingly below the v-neckline.

Cassian thanked his lucky stars and the Gods combined that he could not glimpse her cleavage.

“Want to go home yet?” Cassian murmured, breaking their silence.

They had barely spoken since the luncheon and certainly not alone. Nesta had not commented when she had emerged from their bedroom. Had not mentioned the single bed that had taunted him when he had first entered to change.

Cassian had ensured they were not in the room at the same time. Was actually terrified to close himself into such a small and cramped space with her.

The way in which Nesta did not look up at him as he spoke told Cassian that she was very far away. Her huffed breath was practically inaudible, and she had an almost unreachable air about her that told him that for some reason, her trauma had caught up with her.

So, Cassian did what he did best. He decided to rile her.

“You’re going to have to lower your shields,” he warned her.

The slightest of frowns graced Nesta’s expression as they came to the end of a corridor and entered the vast landing that graced the first floor. Here, the flagstone floor was layered with a carpet runner that was dappled in brown and white, like the feathers of a hawk-crested eagle. “I’m aware,” Nesta clipped, that chin of hers raising as her back straightened.

Cassian brought a hand up to cover hers. Anything to get her to look at him. “You can stay in the room if you’d prefer,” he said quietly.

Those tempting lips thinned into a straight line. She turned her head away from him, so he could only see the intricate braid that weaved a halo around her head. “No, I can’t,” Nesta replied shortly.

She was not wrong. Cassian would not leave her deep in the mountain where he could not protect her. Even if that meant taking her to a place where her trauma would intensify.

He hated himself for it.

“I won’t let him harm you. I won’t let them touch you.” The words came out fiercer than he had intended, even if his voice was a low rumble.

There must have been enough urgency in his voice, because finally Nesta twisted her head to look up at him. Those eyes were a little less hollow. “I know,” she replied simply. Her eyes slid to a spot past his head. “I might harm them, though.”

A dark, please laugh issued from his throat, even as he wished that mercury would slide over the frosty blue of her irises. Nesta had issues summoning her magic when she succumbed to the numbness, and Cassian did not want her in this Gods damned awful place without her power at her disposable.

“I look forward to seeing it,” he responded smoothly, but his heart fell as she turned away from him again.

Desperation clawed at his insides—at the bond which was constricted by ice—that the next words left him without contemplating the gravity of them. “Are you wearing that dress to taunt me, Nesta?”

Nesta’s eyes snapped to his so quickly that everything in him jolted. A dim light throbbed in the depth of her gaze. “Excuse me?”

“This dress,” he said in a low confession, “has become my favourite thing.”

An unamused snort, even as a glimmer of embarrassment forced its way down their bond. It was fleeting and barely there, but Cassian felt it. Grasped for it. “Your favourite thing is chocolate.”

“My favourite thing is you,” he corrected, scarcely believing his loose tongue. He made his eyes glint playfully. “Chocolate is a close second.”

“In fact,” he mused after a moment’s pause. “The two together—”

“In your dreams,” Nesta snapped, her words coming out so sharply and with such aggression that both Frawley and Lorrian’s heads whipped round to stare at them.

Cassian grinned wolfishly, watching Lorrian shake his head at the obvious fire in Nesta’s eyes. The fire that Cassian was doing everything to rally.

Both of his friends had noticed Nesta turn silent in the hour before dinner, but neither of them had uttered a word. They understood the peaks and troughs—the challenges of life when things became too hard.

“That comeback again, sweetheart? I’d have thought you’d have something more original by now.”

“You are insufferable,” Nesta clipped. And at her hands… a wisp of that mist.

“Do you not like being complimented” Cassian taunted, stifling the way his blood soared at the faint pink that stained her cheeks—another blessed reaction.

Together they descended the elaborately wide staircase, moving slowly to accommodate for Nesta’s skirts. Usually, Cassian had no time for impractical attire, but he had long learnt that Nesta could wear whatever she liked and he would accommodate it, no matter how ill-thought-out.

Nesta’s grip on his arm tightened into a death grip.

She was not looking at him again. Deliberately avoiding his gaze, even as his eyes did not once stray from her face, his legs carrying him blindly as he furiously scanned her for expression.

Finally, Nesta said with a quiet that did not lack in intensity, “A compliment isn’t true if it’s designed to be a distraction.”

Cassian huffed a breath of laughter. Of course, she had seen right through him. Yet…

He dared to lean towards her, to close the distance between them so he could murmur into her elegantly tipped ear. “It was a distraction,” he confessed honestly as they turned down the corridor that led off to the right-hand side of the foyer, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, does it?”

Blue, smoky eyes latched onto his, Nesta’s chin tilting upwards to meet his gaze. It was a torturous form of bliss, the movement bringing her face far too close to his. She stared at him and he stared right back, even as his heart thumped hard against his ribcage.

He lowered his head further. Watched Nesta’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he closed the distance between them. She had stilled completely, halting them just outside of the dining room.

This time he allowed his lips to ghost her ear. Let the Illyrian roll of his tongue and savoured her suppressed shiver. The spark of something which wound itself around his ribcage. “After you, amore.”

Cassian made himself wink as he straightened up, as if he were entirely unaffected by her proximity.

And then he steered her into the dining room.

***

Dinner was worse than Cassian had anticipated, and by the time the four of them arrived back at their suite, none of them were bothering to hide their exhaustion. The door had barely shut behind them when Frawley brusquely announced that the sword which had been showcased at the dinner was undoubtedly Enalius’s, before she disappeared into her room with Lorrian following closely behind.

The first thing Cassian had done upon entering he and Nesta’s shared room was to flop onto the bed. Dealing with Lord Marsh was trying at the best of times, but tackling Lord Marsh, Kallon and the other arrogant lords, as well as the drama that came with it… Cassian had been fighting a headache all day and the pressure was now a keen, insistent throb behind his eyes.

That, coupled with a tense dinner that had slowly chipped away at his pain threshold, had Cassian desperately wanting to slide beneath the sheets and succumb to sleep.

To Cassian’s surprise, Marsh had not been present at dinner, and from the way that Kallon sat unfazed at the head of the table, Cassian gathered that it was not an unusual occurrence.

Kallon had held audience with an ease that had rivalled Rhys when he was playing cruel High Lord during a visit to the Hewn City, and apart from the shadows of servants lining the walls, no other lords and ladies had been present at dinner. It had been a surprising move. Cassian had expected Kallon to parade and taunt in front of the watchful eyes of the Illyrian nobility, who would no doubt disappear later to whisper into others ears…

But, instead, it had only been the five of them. That had been enough to tell Cassian that whilst Kallon might have no qualms in wielding words as vicious as Nesta’s, he also did not believe he could control the tongues of those he was dining with. That he knew that despite the sword that lay gleaming on the gilded cushion further down the table, that they his company had the capability of maiming him if they saw fit. Something which Kallon could not afford given his victory earlier that afternoon.

This fear came to a conclusion halfway through their main course, when Kallon deigned to insinuate that females were not designed to wield a sword.

“Are you saying,” Nesta asked with a deathly sort of calm that had Cassian tensing, “that you do not deem females worthy of protecting themselves?”

“I think that the Night Court should protect the entirety of its court so the females don’t have to worry about protecting themselves,” Kallon had responded swiftly, his sharp knife slicing into his bloody steak as if it were nothing but butter.

“What you are saying,” Frawley corrected, her voice brusque and hard, “is that you do not see females as having any other purpose than bearing younglings.”

“Is that not their purpose?” Kallon had challenged. He paused, surveying all of their faces with a grim sort of satisfaction, before he had pressed on, “Is that not what is needed for a race who has lost more males in this war than it has seen in hundreds of years?”

“A female’s worth is not found in their ability to reproduce,” Nesta had responded coolly. Her voice, Cassian had noticed, had dipped into the deathly sort of calm that usually preceded an outburst of flame. “In fact, I have not met one male in Illyria who is more worthy of learning how to wield a weapon than the females in Illyria’s camps.”

“And does that sense of worth extend to the males around this table?” Kallon had replied, his yellow eyes gleaming at a sudden opportunity. Like the rest of the residence, the dining room had been dimly lit, illuminated by faint faelight and the fire that raged in the hearth. It meant that shadows had crept across the walls and table as Kallon leant forward to where Nesta was sitting at his right. “I assume not, given your tendency to fuck anything that moves.”

The sentence was as abrupt as a slap to the face, but Nesta did not move. Did not give any indication that the princeling’s words had hit home, even as Cassian’s gut had wrenched.

“It is funny,” Nesta had mused icily, her voice as cold as the fiercest Illyrian winter, “that you should try to shame me, especially given that if I was a male, I am sure you would be praising me for such a consistent pursuit of pleasure.”

Carefully, Nesta had set down her goblet, her eyes boring into the princeling’s with such intensity that Cassian had been surprised that the male hadn’t burst into flame.

Other than Frawley’s snort of agreement, nobody had dared to move. Time had passed. Time in which Cassian vowed to remain steadfast to his silent promise that he should not interference unless it was absolutely necessary. Even as Kallon did not back down.

Together, they had all watched the princeling settle back into his chair with the relaxed sort of ease that had Cassian wanting to castrate him. “Perhaps then, I should surprise you by showing you my room in case you fancy pursuing some real pleasure later—”

“That is —” Cassian had started to snarled, banging a fist on the table just as Lorrian had growled, the sound a low, deep warning—

And that was when the entire room had glowed silver, the magic snapping around the room with such ferocity that it was like a whip cracking against bare skin.

When Nesta’s magic dropped—when Cassian’s blood had reduced to a simmer rather than boiling—Cassian realised that exercising her magic had been the perfect excuse for Nesta to silence the fire that had been crackling fiercely in the grate behind them. The fire from which Cassian had spent the entirety of the meal trying to shield her from as best as possible, his wing curled protectively around the back of her chair.

Even so, the showcase of Nesta’s power had been startling and undeniably effective. As Nesta’s temper had flared, that silver fire had ignited in the grate, swallowing the orange flames as mist wreathed up her arms, eddying around her at such speed that it began to seep across the table towards Kallon.

And the whole time Kallon’s eyes had gleamed. Not with fear, but with the kind of awe that Cassian felt when he’d first witnessed how magnificent Nesta was.

It had taken everything in Cassian not to leap across the table and rip the princeling’s head from his body. From the way Frawley was gripping Lorrian, it had seemed as if his friend felt the exact same way.

But to Cassian’s surprise, Nesta had only let out a low, cruel laugh which had sliced through any of Cassian’s intention to intervene.

Instead, he had watched, riveted as those eyes of pure mercury raked up and down Kallon’s body with a look of unbridled disgust. And when Nesta had spoken, her voice was as terrifying as the promise of death, “I would never deign to lower myself by sharing a bed with you,” she told Kallon, “and I certainly hope that no other female has been forced to endure it.”

Infuriatingly, Kallon had only let out a musical laugh rather than a snarled retort. “And I suppose you would rather pair yourself with a male who has nothing to give you—not a title or a name, only the promise of a cheap necklace. Perhaps that is why you seem to have no true inclination to secure your future with him.”

Then, Kallon had slowly dragged his eyes to Cassian. “I would have thought your role in leading the Night Court’s armies would pay better than that, General. But I suppose you can’t take the bastard out of the slums.”

It had been at that point that Nesta had found Cassian’s hand under the table. It had been the most careful of movements—unnoticeable to anybody but them. The clasp of her fingers around his and the easing of the pain and fury in his gut had been the only thing that had stopped him from either beating Kallon to a pulp or leaving the meal in a rage.

Both of which would only have allowed Kallon to emerge triumphant… So, they had eaten in the sort of tense silence, speared sporadically with the odd ferocious comment. And at the end of the table, that damned sword had lain on the gilded cushion, gleaming magnificently in the firelight, calling to Cassian’s power in a way that pulled at his skin…

Now, recollecting the monstrosity of the evening, Cassian wanted to ward away the feeling of unworthiness that still lay bitter on his tongue. There was also a sense of foreboding that he could not shake. A terrible knowledge that whatever he and Nesta had constructed between them was something false rather than true.

There were so many cracks they had hastily tried to ignore. So many past actions that had been pushed to the background rather than being acknowledged.

Cassian didn’t know what would happen if they were addressed. If it would fling the two of them so far back into the past that it would shatter the present.

Yet… it seemed inevitable. A hulking, looming presence that clung to them like a shadow.

But for now… Cassian wanted lightness. He wanted to know that he and Nesta were ok. So he waved a hand tiredly at the room, and said, “Sorry we have to share.”

“It’s fine,” Nesta replied finally, as if she had been so far away it had taken her a while to rope herself back to reality.

Cracking open an eye, Cassian watched her close the bedroom door behind her. She had closed their bond as soon as they had left the dinner table. Cassian did not know if it was a deliberate move to shut him out, or just an attempt to sever any emotion. He knew she must be feeling raw. Lowering one’s shields did that, especially for Nesta, who felt more than everyone else. Azriel had warned him of that. Had confirmed what Cassian and Feyre had always thought. That Nesta’s gift expanded outside of the power she had clawed from the Cauldron. Something which had always existed inside of her but which had been magnified further when she was Made.

“I wouldn’t want my own room here,” Nesta elaborated when she caught him studying her.

Cassian watched Nesta’s ever perceptive eyes scan the room: the simple, whitewashed walls and the pine furniture. The room was of moderate size, although Cassian would wager that it wasn’t Lord Marsh’s biggest guest room. That silent rebuff hadn't gone unnoticed — not that Cassian cared. He had endured far worse conditions, after all.

Most of the floor space was taken up by the Illyrian bed, which was big enough for two sets of wings. Now, Nesta hovered beside it as if she were unsure what to do next. It was the most awkward he had ever seen her.

“By all means,” he drawled tiredly, waving to the other side of the mattress. He folded the wing that he had spread onto the other side—her side—of the bed, “I can sleep on the floor. Just...give me a moment.”

Ignoring his invitation, Nesta floated over to the dressing table instead. Propping his head under a bent arm, Cassian watched her as she started to slowly take the pins out of her hair.

For a long while, the clink of metal on wood was the only noise that filled the room, and Cassian was just about to ask Nesta how many gods damned pins she used, when she started to slowly unspool the hair from the top of her head. Jaw slightly slack, Cassian watched in awe as Nesta parted the thick strands of the braid with well-practiced hands. When she was finished, she began to brush it out, until the light brown strands shimmered gold in the faelight and the teeth no longer snagged on knows.

Cassian wondered if any male had ever seen her do this: the simple act of getting ready for bed. He hoped not. There was something intimate about watching Nesta let her hair down, as if every pin that came out of her head removed a little bit of that mask, revealing a younger, softer version of the hot-headed hellcat he usually had to contend with.

“You’re staring.”

The words clipped through the silence, as sharp as a cutting knife.

Well, perhaps she wasn’t a softer version, after all.

Cassian’s eyes slid to Nesta’s in the mirror. In the dim faelight, the blue of her irises had given way to a stormy, mesmerising grey. He made his lips pout, even as he imagined running his fingers through the soft strands. “Your hair looks prettier than mine.”

The faintest of smiles tugged at Nesta’s lips. It was slightly wicked, the only warning she gave him before she tossed him the ivory-handled brush.

Cassian’s hand snapped up, catching the brush inches from his face, his eyes never straying from hers.

His grin was triumphant and when Nesta rolled her eyes at him, the gesture so uncharacteristically playful, satisfaction burned through every pore, every fibre of his being.

How far they had come.

“Then brush it, you stupid brute. I won’t deny that it needs it.”

Cassian laughed throatily—the first true laugh he had let loose that day. “I thought you liked my rugged looks?”

A soft, unimpressed snort. “A wholly made up notion.”

He watched Nesta rummage through her travel bag and pull out a white cotton nightdress and some toiletries, before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. He brushed his hair whilst the water ran and then peeled off his clothes, baring his skin to the chill air.

The glare Nesta sent him when she reemerged would have sent a lesser male scarpering. It made him wonder how any of the males she had bedded had even made it home with her in the first place. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, which only emphasised the swell of her breasts beneath the cotton. She was still wearing the pyrite, and the metal shone mockingly against her creamy skin—silver flecked with gold.

The sight of it so close to her cleavage had him biting back a groan.

Mother Above, he had to get a grip if they were going to sharing a room all night.

“You can’t wear night clothes like a normal person?” Nesta hissed at him.

With a taunting grin, Cassian rested a hand on a hip, highlighting his tight undershorts. He refrained from flaring his wings—largely because the space did not accommodate for it. “I usually sleep nude sweetheart, which would you prefer?”

And then, not waiting for her to start on him, he headed straight for the bathroom, making sure their skin brushed as he passed.

To his delight, Nesta’s angry snarl chased him until he closed the bathroom door firmly behind him.

When he reappeared five minutes later, Nesta was already under the covers with her nose buried in a book. Silent, silver flames licking fiercely up the chimney from the open fire grate. The heat was fiercely warm and very welcome, especially given that this deep underground, there was little warmth to be found. The heat sunk deliciously into his skin, and Cassian flared his wings slightly to fight the goosebumps that were scattered across the sensitive membrane.

Since Nesta had lit the torch at the widows funeral, she had taken to lighting the fires throughout the house, and Cassian had become so used to the glow of silver flames in every fire grate around the house that he barely bat an eyelid.

It warmed him, though, to see the house alight with silver and warmth. To see Nesta unafraid and relaxed. To see her sit near the fire, rather than as far away from it as possible.

“I didn’t see you sneak a book into the bag,” Cassian commented, as he pulled a blanket from the wardrobe and pulled on some loose pants. He had been teasing her before about sleeping in his undershorts. He’d mainly wanted to pull a reaction from her, to see how she would respond to his bare skin.

Her hiss had been satisfying enough. Not that Cassian hadn’t hoped for more. A too long glance, or even better, a blush.

Nesta didn’t glance up at Cassian as she turned the page. “You should know better than to think I’d travel without a book.”

He watched her eyes move across the page, utterly absorbed. Her long hair fell over her face and unconsciously she tucked the strand behind an elegantly arched ear. A signature move of hers, however unconscious, that he had yet to name. It was fast becoming one of his favourites.

Nodding, Cassian reached for the pillows on his side of the bed to distract himself from looking at her. Her next words made him pause.

“Just stick to your side.”

Nesta did not look up. She gave none of her focus to him yet she must have been watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her after a moment.

A flip of a page. “There’s no room for your wings down there.”

She was right. It was a tight enough squeeze for his body let alone the wings on his back, and the blanket would do little to protect him from the cold flagstone floor. Cassian had endured far worse of course, but the thought of tucking his wings in that tight all night... well, he’d suffer for it tomorrow. And even though he knew sleeping an arms length away from her would be torture of a different kind...

“Thank you,” he conceded softly.

No acknowledgement, yet… this was progress. Only months ago, Nesta would have made him sleep on the cold just to watch him suffer.

A contented groan escaped him as the mattress moulded to his sore back. He rolled onto his side, flaring his wings to settle behind him and examined her.

The faded paperback Nesta was reading was well-worn. Many of the pages were dog-eared and Cassian knew that he’d seen her curled up with it before. He craned his neck in an attempt to try and read the title on the spine. He would bet good money it was a love story. No, he would bet his entire wealth that it was a love story.

It was quick, but he caught Nesta’s darting glance. It was enough for him to break the silence.

“Why do you read romance novels?”

A burning question Cassian had wanted to ask her more times than he could count. On both hands.

Not that he didn’t have his own theory on that.

“Why do you read books about war?” Nesta countered.

A slow, taunting smile. “I asked you first, sweetheart.”

Nesta rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Why can’t I read them?”

Cassian bit back a growl of frustration. “You can read whatever you like. What I mean is why do you enjoy reading romance novels so much?”

Nesta bookmarked her page with a scarlet ribbon—a gesture at odds with the earmarked pages—and placed it on the nightstand with a sigh. “I revoke my offer, you can sleep on the floor.”

“But what about my poor wings,” he whined.

“Feyre’s right, you really are Illyrian babies.”

Cassian scowled. “I’m full of testosterone, thank you very much.”

Nesta snorted. “Rumour has it that Azriel has the largest wingspan.”

The soft snarl that tore out of Cassian’s mouth surprised even him. He hadn’t made the noise deliberately, it had been completely unconscious, just as much as the next words out of his mouth. “Would you like me to prove you wrong, Nesta?”

His voice had turned low and husky without his bidding, as if it had done so purely on instinct. Maybe allowing himself to get in the same bed as Nesta had been a mistake. The scent of her was enough to cloud his judgement and this close... He could have his mouth on hers in seconds.

“I’d like anything but, actually,” Nesta clipped, completely unfazed by his act of dominance. “Besides, males seem to forget that it’s style over substance.”

Propping himself up on an elbow, Cassian leant towards her. He arched an eyebrow at her, his expression cocksure. Somehow, his headache had completely vanished. “Lucky for you, I have both.”

Nesta’s groan was one of long suffering. She reached to undo the clasp of the chain around her neck.

“Don’t take it off.”

Nesta’s head snapped round to his, his sudden command at odds with their banter. He held up his hands, the two ruby siphons glinting from where they sat firmly on the leather straps.

“We’re in that much danger?” she asked.

Cassian sunk back down onto his side, “I’m not taking any chances, and... I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re not wearing it.”

Nesta’s lips parted slightly but her hands slowly withdrew from her neck. The stone glinted briefly against Nesta’s skin and then she extinguished the lights.

The soft flicker of silver that glowed from the hearth was the only reprieve from the darkness that fell across the room. Cassian wondered if flames would go out when Nesta fell asleep or if they would keep on burning.

The sheets rustled as Nesta got comfortable. In the following silence, Cassian could make out the reassuring thump of her heart. It wrapped around his own, the feeling a comfort until his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed.

“He’s horrible,” Nesta said suddenly into the darkness.

“Marsh?” Cassian asked, but he knew who she meant. Wasn’t sure why he didn’t say it out loud.

“Him too, but I meant Kallon.”

Cassian grunted in agreement. Then, he dared to say, “He’s taken a liking to you.”

Revulsion forced its way down their constricted bond and into his gut.

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know her expression was hard. “He’s a pig-headed Illyrian brute.”

A flicker of a smile tugged at Cassian’s mouth, despite the subject. “I thought I was a pig-headed Illyrian brute?”

“Then I’ll have to rework my insults for you in light of recent events.”

Cassian barked another true laugh. Would Nesta ever stop surprising him? He suspected that if they were to spend a lifetime together, he would never grow bored. Would never be tempted to look in another female’s direction.

“I feel both triumphant and expectant,” he confided, before he sobered. “You didn’t have to defend me, earlier. I’m used to the comments. It doesn’t matter what I do, but my race will always see me as a bastard first and a General second. Being coupled with you is not something they will ever believe I deserve.”

More rustling of the sheets as Nesta turned onto her side to face him. Through the shadows, Cassian’s Fae eyesight could make out Nesta’s eyes staring directly at him. Even in the muted light, they were mesmerising. “I had a pretence to upkeep,” she replied shortly, as if that explained everything. But then her voice became so quiet that his ears strained to hear her. “You’re worth more than them.”

Usually, Cassian would have teased Nesta for voicing something so groundbreaking, but in this room—in this shared bed—the words dissolved on his tongue. He was momentarily speechless, so much so that the silence became awkward and weighted. His family had attempted to address his insecurities before, but it had never been enough to quash the beliefs that had been drummed into him from a young age. Cassian, too proud to succumb to the seriousness of the conversation, had brushed his family off until they left him well alone.

Azriel was the only one who truly understood; it was why he had never seen himself worthy enough to pursue Mor.

By the time Cassian summoned the courage to open his mouth, Nesta was already speaking, “How do they know about the war?”

The question made his heart stop. Not just because Nesta had mentioned a subject they usually stayed well clear of, but because, for the first time, she was addressing what had happened between them on the battlefield.

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly, ignoring the way his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. “By the time the healer had mended my wings everyone was talking about it. I think a conversation must have been overhead by a healer.” He paused, hoping Nesta might speak again. When she didn't, he added, “I was… very angry when I found out.” He palmed a hand over his face to try and soothe away the nerves that were humming agitatedly inside of him. He had done his best to ignore the whisperings behind his back.

It hadn’t been hard at first. The aftermath of the war had taken all of his attention. He had barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone digest the gravity of what others had found out. Not that he had gotten the gist of it in drabs: the entirety of the Night Court knew of how they had defended one another; how Nesta had been willing to die with Cassian when she could have run.

They did not know what he had promised. That he had kissed her, even though they were calling it the greatest love story in centuries. Cassian would never forget how Nesta had lain over him when she’d had the chance to run, and the urgency to her voice—the way it had cracked—as she had said; I can’t.

It was those two words which hounded Cassian the most, because even now, he did not know whether Nesta had said that because she hadn’t wanted to leave him, or because she had no choice.

“I assumed it was my sister and her loose mouth.”

Nesta’s words startled Cassian, bringing him back to the dark room rather than the muddy battlefield where his body was broken but his heart was full and aching. And in truth, Cassian had expected Nesta to draw a line under the conversation by ignoring him and feigning sleep, the next morning a fresh page where they need not bring up the previous night’s discussion.

Despite the dark, Cassian nodded, even though he was unsure as to whether Nesta could see it.

He had considered the same about Feyre. Not on purpose, of course, but by mistake. Feyre had been a witness. The original witness. “One thing I’ve learnt growing up Fae is that there are eyes and ears everywhere,” Cassian said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer having my business kept to myself.”

Cassian knew Nesta was fiercely private, far more than him. Was it that invasion coupled with the monumental pressure that came with being spoken about by Fae and humans alike, as they whispered about the greatest love story in Prythian—the lowly bastard and the human Made Fae—that had been the final straw for her? Or had it been the death and destruction which had slammed the door shut on something as naive and fanciful as love?

The desperation to know—to understand—was so fierce that Cassian could not stop himself from asking what he had never dared, “Is that why you wanted nothing to do with me?”

A long, stony silence that eventually began to simmer with anger. Cassian did not know if it was the audacity of him having asked or for bringing unwanted memories to the surface.

Finally, Nesta clipped, “I wanted nothing to do with someone who treated me as second best.”

The icy dismissal in Nesta’s tone had goosebumps rising on Cassian’s bare arms. Recently their conversations had been a torturous, delicious heat rather than frosty, but this delivery… it made Cassian feel as if he had stepped back into the past.

They were going there then. A conversation Cassian never dreamed they would have. Yet here they were... and suddenly he was so terrified it would ruin everything he wished it would stop, even as he asked in a low voice, “In what capacity?”

Snapped words like the crack of a whip. “In every capacity. Let me go to sleep.”

“Nesta,” Cassian pressed, not caring that it was dangerous. Desperate to try and understand why they were not together when his entire body was begging him to close the distance. He knew she must feel it too. Hoped that she did. That it was not just a wishful fantasy on his part. Cassian had always thought their chemistry undeniable. It was what scared him.

It never went away, the wanting.

“What do you mean second best?” he urged.

“The fact that you do not know shows how stupid you are,” Nesta replied coldly, turning away from him, signalling that the conversation was over. Through the shadowy dark, Cassian could make out the slope of her shoulder and the outline of her curvaceous side. The spill of her hair, a tempting drape across the pillow.

He curbed most of the desperation that wanted to creep into his voice. “You are speaking of Mor.”

An abrupt snort of confirmation.

“Mor is my family,” Cassian said carefully, even though he knew his words would not convince Nesta.

“Your dynamic is not familial.”

“Not at the start, no,” Cassian admitted, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. To give himself distance. Because he could not bear to stare at her turned back as she tried to shut him out. “We slept together once when we were very young. It has never been repeated.” He blew out a long breath as he ran a hand over his face, trying to smooth over his pained expression. “She used me to lose her maidenhead. I don’t know how much you know, but Mor was mutilated by her family for it—she was dumped in the Autumn court with a note nailed to her womb for her betrothed to find her. It collapsed her marriage proposal and I have been responsible for that mutilation every day since, not least for driving a wedge between me and my brother.”

As he trailed off, the blankets moved and to his surprise, Nesta’s shoulder dipped slightly towards him. He’d clearly piqued her interest. “You mean Azriel.”

“Yes,” Cassian admitted bitterly. “I slept with Mor because I was a jealous prick and Az was besotted with her. His diverted attention made me feel like I had lost my brother and I thought it would make him move on.” Loosing another sigh, Cassian rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his palms. “I grew up alone, so when I moved in with Rhysand’s mother and Azriel joined us… he and Rhys were the closest I had ever had to a real family. When we were a three, it was the first time I remembered being truly happy. Mor threatened that, so I did what I thought would remedy it. I was a naive, arrogant prick and bedding Mor is a regret that I have lived with ever since.”

Pausing, Cassian took in a deep breath. He’d never voiced any of this out loud before. It had always been something he and his family did not discuss out in the open, not until recently with Mor, anyway. And he had not gone into so much depth.

He hoped that Nesta understood what it had meant for him to be happy for the first time, when before that he had been miserable and alone. Nesta herself had confessed to Frawley that she did not know when she had last felt joy, but then Cassian had felt it the other day, the sensation so wonderful in her stomach he felt as if he had been knocked of breath. He had flown to find her, followed that tether between them that was more visceral than he had ever felt it, before he realised that this was not his moment to experience. So he had turned around in the skies, headed back home, waited to see Nesta later. Her face had been flushed and she was dirty from a day of helping in the widows camp… but her face, it was free of that mask. With it, her expression was less severe and the light in her eyes made her irises a shade lighter. It was the most beautiful thing Cassian had ever seen. And when she had seen him, she had smiled without thinking. As if he, too, brought her joy.

It had been a quiet smile. Secret. His.

But where could Cassian even start to begin explaining the mess of the love triangle between Mor, Az and himself? Of the guilt he felt for a few minutes of pleasure which nearly costed Mor her life.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I felt so much guilt over what I had done—over what happened to Mor and for betraying Azriel like that—I spent the next five hundred years doing everything I could to make things easier between them. Azriel doesn’t think he is worthy of Mor and Mor isn’t interested. So I stepped in when I could… I eased the tension. I let Mor use me as a buffer and it just… it became a bad habit. We fell into an unusual friendship. Mor can be very protective of me.” He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I can see how things were misconstrued. I think about it a lot, Nesta. I think about it all the time.”

Only silence met his confession.

“Things won’t be like that anymore,” he pressed on. Because he needed Nesta to understand that Mor was not in the equation—that she never had been—even though he was sure he and Nesta would never be anything but two Fae forced into close quarters. “Mor has finally been honest with Azriel.”

No reply. Nesta had turned preternaturally still again, as if she weren’t breathing.

“Nesta?"

“What.”

It was only one word but it was more vicious than anything she had said to him in months.

He felt his blood heat as he propped himself up onto an elbow. “Are you going to say anything or are you going to ignore me and pretend this conversation never happened?”

Nesta’s body moved slightly beneath the sheets as her muscles seized up. “I don’t think any of it matters now, so it’s not relevant.”

“It has always been relevant to me.” Cassian’s voice came out as a low hiss, his self-control snapping as his vulnerability became too much to bear. He threw a protective bubble around the room, sound proofing them inside. For the sake of their pretence, he couldn't have Fae ears overhearing their conversation. And… he could not bear Lorrian and Frawley overhearing something so painful. “You terrify me, Nesta, because I have never been so fucking captivated by anyone in the whole five hundred years I have been alive. From the very start you were different and it scared the shit out of me. My entire family knew it, too. I’m not a fan of everyone knowing my business, either, believe it or not, and they witnessed you putting me down at every step.”

Nesta’s snort was so cold that his entire blood heated fire. He was thankful for the dark to conceal how red his face has turned. He wanted to throttle her at the same time as he wanted to press her into the mattress and slant his mouth on hers. To show her that even now he only wanted her. That Mor meant nothing. Hadn’t for centuries. That he’d royally fucked up in so many ways that he didn’t even know how to start apologising.

“If you cared so much, perhaps you would not drop my hand when your friend enters the scene or gift her lingerie whilst I am in the same room. You are disgusting,” she spat.

Then, Nesta was facing him again with such sudden speed that Cassian braced himself for an attack, but Nesta only propped herself up onto an elbow. Her hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder, the flare of silver from her fingertips lighting the room with a sudden brightness.

“You asked why I read romance novels,” Nesta said, her voice having dropped suddenly into a quiet fervour that was no less chilling. “I read them because I was engaged to a boy who turned out to be cruel and I have watched a five hundred year old male discard and ignore me as he pleased. I would rather read about love than be in it. After all, I recall you saying that I was not worthy of love.”

“Sweetheart—” Cassian croaked. The blood had drained from his face and he knew that if he were to look in the mirror all he would see was a haunted ghost of himself. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say that. You were so empty. I couldn’t reach you and so I lied. I thought you’d get angry at me, but instead you just walked away.”

“You are not unloveable,” he told her fiercely, when she remained silent and so fiercely sad his heart clenched. He had not known that she was engaged to that human filth. “You are the exact opposite. If anything—”

He stopped abruptly. Took stock. Her light was still glowing around them, illuminating the room in an ethereal mist which he would have considered beautiful if the two of them hadn’t been consumed by such agony.

“You’re not unloveable,” he insisted vehemently, after a moment’s pause. “And love doesn’t work like that. You can’t choose not to love, sweetheart. You know—”

“We decide how we act on it, that’s what matters,” Nesta interrupted, that mist sparking momentarily into flame before it was eaten by shadow.

And that was the crux of it. The truth behind the words—the calculated response that told Cassian that Nesta had thought of this over and over again. He would not change her mind when it came to him, because it all boiled down to her ability to choose. And he was not a choice. He had been thrust upon her. They were history rather than present. Would always be that way, it seemed.

Cassian fell onto his back as the gravity of the realisation crushed him with such force that for a moment, he felt as if he was choking.

“It was wrong of me to do those things,” Cassian said quietly, forcing out the hoarse words through the tightness in his windpipes as a result of the crushing disappointment. “All of it was wrong of me. I know that, Nesta. You may think I’m old but around you I find myself a teenager. On Solstice last year I didn’t know how to deal with the situation so I ignored you before you could do it to me and then regretted it later. I hoped you would speak to me. I hoped—”

That you would change your mind. That you would want to be with me. That you would stop fucking all those males. That you would forgive me.

But Cassian did not say those things. Instead, he said, “Look, we just need to pretend to be together for one more day and then you don’t have to think about being tied to anyone ever again.”

Silence.

That as all he needed to move. Logic told him that he should stay put—that he should remain calm and rational rather than affected—but the pain was too much and he found himself sitting up and pushing off the covers. He needed distance. In this room all he could scent was her—jasmine and vanilla—and it hurt, to be so close and know that he could not comfort her without the knowledge that she’d set him alight.

Cassian had thought he’d drawn a line under it all. Thought he’d accepted that he was content to co-habit with her and resist the undeniable pull between them for the rest of his days. But they had taken such big steps forward recently. Had thought things had continually shifted until all it boiled down to was their connection, which ran far deeper than twists of rope and a damn Cauldron.

At times, Cassian had even thought Nesta had wanted him to touch her. Had almost leant in to him. Walked close, stayed close.

Snorting, he discarded the memories, angry at himself for having wished for something that he had tried to put to rest.

“Where are you going?” Nesta’s words were sharp. The fanciful part of him detected alarm, but Cassian pushed it away. He knew better.

“To sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Again, Nesta moved with that extraordinary speed that Cassian should have accounted for. He had seen her in the sparring ring, had witnessed her move so fast that she was almost a blur. Only he could move that fast.

A mist-wreathed hand closed around his wrist with a strength that had his heart beating in his mouth and his siphons flaring. “Stay.”

Cassian ran a shaking palm over his face, pressing the heel of it to his eyes, hoping the pain of it would ground him. “I can’t,” he lied.

“You can,” Nesta said shortly, but there was a quiet plea lacing her voice. “You will.”

When Cassian didn’t move, Nesta tugged on his arm, urging him to join her back on the mattress. “Please,” she breathed, and this time Cassian did detect panic, as if Nesta had not bothered to conceal it. “I don’t want to fight with you. You’re the only—”

To Cassian’s dismay, Nesta broke off as her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke, her words were barely audible—small, “I like my life at the moment. I’ve never liked it before.”

Something cracked inside of Cassian, the sound internal and akin to the smashing of china.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Nesta continued. “I don’t want to have to move back to Velaris. I want to stay with you where I feel safe.”

Her expression cracked. The tight line to her mouth trembled and a frown twisted across her features. A tear slid down her cheek. “I said awful things to you,” she admitted.

“Yes,” Cassian conceded with a sad, tremulous smile, because even now he did not want her to hurt. “And I said awful things to you.”

“I wanted you to leave me alone. You scared me.”

“I know,” he replied. Because he understood what she meant. How even though his blood sang when she was near, he was equal parts terrified. “You scared me, too.”

“I needed to make you leave.”

“I know,” he repeated again. Because he knew that, too. Knew she had purposefully driven him away. She had wanted to hurt and be consumed with trauma. To finally feel nothing. To make sure the those she cared for were safe from her.

A broken sob had Cassian cupping Nesta’s face before he could help himself. Her skin was unbelievably soft against his calloused palms. He brushed a thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. “Nesta,” he breathed, waiting until she looked at him, until blue and hazel clicked into place. “I want you to stay with me. You never have to move back to Velaris, not if you don’t want to.”

Nesta did not reply. Did not move away. He bowed his head until his forehead was resting against hers, wanting her to know that he was sincere. That he wanted her to stay not because that’s what she needed to hear, but because he didn’t know what life would be like without her in it.

“I like living with you,” he told her again, because he knew somehow that she didn’t believe it. “I don’t want you to leave, either.”

Then he pulled her to him. She didn’t resist, her body pliant as he wrapped his arms around her. Cassian could feel Nesta’s heart, the sound pattering to meet his, as she wound her arms around his bare waist.

Her furled fists rested lightly against his skin, the pressure welcome and wonderful as she finally held him back.

“So, you won’t sleep on the floor?”

Such a small voice. Vulnerable and trusting. A voice she didn’t use with anyone but him.

“No,” Cassian assured her, knowing that staying was something he would never refuse. Something he couldn’t. “I won’t sleep on the floor.”

When he lay on the edge of his pillow closest to hers, Nesta settled beside him. She found his hand beneath the blankets, her fingers threading through his.

The initiated contact had his blood thrumming and he resisted the urge to pull Nesta back to him and wrap her in his arms.

An indeterminate amount of time passed.

Cassian listened to Nesta’s breathing as it became even; the slow, relaxed beat of her heart. The sound of his, thumping in tandem. Watched her eyelids flutter shut and her features soften. Felt how her fingers remained entwined with his.

“We would have crashed and burned. I would have dragged you down.”

Quiet, sleepy words. A confession, really, and Cassian stilled in surprise at the honesty that was not spat or wringing with deadly venom, but level. And if Cassian allowed himself to be rational, he knew that Nesta was right. Despite the thorny, overgrown path they were trampling down, it had all been necessary. Trauma, internal conflicts, self-doubt, complicated relationships… there were so many things that the both of them had needed to face before they could be truly content. What was it Cassian had said to Rhys when his brother had asked about his happiness? I’m working on it. He still was, but with Nesta beside him, still holding tight to his hand, Cassian found the world a little brighter, despite the shadowy future that lay ahead of them—a shape that had not yet taken form.

So, Cassian allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. “Maybe I’d like to be set alight.”

A soft snort. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

Then, Nesta’s fingers squeezed his. Soft breath travelled across the pillow to caress his cheek. “Goodnight, Cassian.”

He wondered how many times Nesta had actually said his name without being in mortal danger or when she had needed to get his attention. His name sounded intimate on her lips, a whisper of a prayer across the void that he hoped was narrowing between them.

In his mind, Cassian raised her hand again to press a kiss to her knuckles, even as he merely tightened his hold on hers.

It was in that moment of calm that Cassian vowed that he would change Nesta’s mind. That he would spend this gifted time showing Nesta that they might be strung together but that he had chosen her, if she would have him.

In the flickering silver light, Cassian felt Nesta began to slip into unconscious. Felt her fingers loosen their grip on his, but he held on tight, and said, “Goodnight, Nesta.”

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @san-y-a-blog

#embersandlightfic #nessianfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #acotar fanfic #acotar #acosf

149 notes · View notes

canyouhearthelight · 3 years

Text

The Miys, Ch. 141

Last week I posted a day early because vacation was doing vacation things to my sense of time.... This week I forgot to queue the chapter up because Monday was a work holiday, so I forgot today was Tuesday. *insert facepalm here please*

Thanks on this one go largely to @baelpenrose who rightfully pointed out that one part made very little sense to him and therefore was unlikely to make sense to a reader. The clarification smoothed things out quite a bit, I think. Just in case, whoever spots the area I’m talking about gets a cookie as soon as travel restrictions lift.

As always, thanks go also to @the-raven-fae, @charlylimph-blog, and @anotherusrname for completing the corners of my support system. And, a super-duper extra-special to @drinksteawithcake! I don’t know if I am allowed to tell everyone why, but you know why you get the extra-special, and I hope you are having fun!

BWAAAAAHP! BWAAAAAHP!

“Uhhh?” I squinted in complaint as flailing arms clambered over me. One pair snagged me around my waist to drag me from bed before depositing me shakily on my feet. “What are you - ?”

BWAAAAAHP! BWAAAAAHP!

Any trace of sleep was shoved out of my system, replaced by sizzling alertness when I realized I was hearing ship-wide alarms. Shoving myself into the first clothing I grabbed, not even bothering with shoes, I was hot on Conor and Maverick’s heels as we raced out of our quarters and into the corridor. We paused only long enough for both men to kiss me and for “I love yous” to be exchanged before they turned and headed toward the areas indicated on their datascreens, while I hauled ass toward the Archives, ducking and twisting to avoid anyone in my path.

“Forty minutes,” Tyche told me crisply as I basically fell through the door, panting. “The Ark could be invaded and the battle over by the time you make it.”

“I ran….huff….the whole….ugh….way….” I managed to gasp out. Part of me felt like puking, but I was pretty sure the muscles in my abdomen were too busy to figure out the logistics.

Clicking her tongue, she pulled me up from the floor. “Alistair, make a note to suggest to Xio that Sophia’s quarters be relocated once we have a better idea of when we are dropping into real space.”

I nodded numbly. “And probably… amp up… sensors… give… earlier… warning.”

“Nice outfit, by the way,” she laughed quietly as we finally reached the shelter point within the Archives.

Glancing down, I had to suppress a sigh. The first thing I grabbed to dress myself had apparently been a pair of Conor’s boxer shorts and a very filthy t-shirt that I assumed belonged to Maverick, since Conor’s was usually under coveralls. “At least you can’t say I took my time getting dressed.”

Her shaking head was greeted by faces in various states of wakefulness - this had been a drill, and woke nearly the entire Ark during their sleep interval on Delta shift. But we weren’t out of the woods, yet: the drill didn’t end until all of Xiomara and Evan’s scenarios played out, including the mock combat and various tests of concealment for the other shelters. As such, Tyche stood guard over the choke-point into this section, while Alistair had stayed behind at the entrance.

Early on, when the drills started, there had been fifty-fifty odds that the mock-invaders would make it this far, but over the past few weeks, that had narrowed to maybe twenty-percent. It was still too high a chance in my judgement, and Xiomara clearly agreed as she stepped up training schedules and randomized the timing of the drills.

Taking a swig of water from a stash of bottles, I queued up my datapad and stood next to Tyche, watching the ‘casualties’ from a point where no one could see over my shoulder to avoid panic, which I would have done in a real situation. “They didn’t find mess hall seven this time,” I murmured.

She glanced at my screen. “Acoustics are still too damned high. She must not be simulating for that this go around.”

One of the decoy locations lit up. “Looks like this time it’s heavy on thermal.” The location in question had been equipped with a cooking surface, triggered to activate when the klaxons that had woken me up went off. Which Xiomara knew, but did not tell the ‘pirates’ for authenticity.

“How did they get past the combatants this time?” She asked, both curious and slightly worried.

Rolling back the sensor data, I watched it carefully. “Looks like these got in during the initial breaches, multiple points. But the line has held since, that’s good.”

Doing another check toward Alistair’s direction, she didn’t seem to see anything concerning. “How many?”

“Four,” I confirmed. “Sam’s thermal camouflage is working beautifully, though.” I couldn’t help but grin, and Tyche snorted at the same time. ‘Thermal camouflage’ was a bit of overkill as a name, but it was working well in every round. Potential access points were equipped with fast-acting environmental simulators - originally designed for temporary habitats on inhospitable moons - modified to release atmosphere like a Terran equatorial rainforest within one minute in an enclosed space. It was a much more simple and elegant solution than any others we had found for giving combatants defending the Ark an advantage - instead of trying to create technology to make them look colder, make the entire area match human heat signatures. Boom, instantly blinded enemies.

A tense half-hour later, the ‘all clear’ sounded, queueing grumbling from those who had dozed back off as everyone stood to make their ways back to their quarters. I waited with Alistair and Tyche for everyone else to be accounted for on the way out, and the three of us headed back toward our quarters together. Alistair peeled off first, living closest to the Archives, and no sooner had my sister and I reached my door than the page sounded for the post-drill meeting. She waved me off as she answered on her databand, and I did the same as I pushed into my quarters and flopped on the couch. “Councillor Sophia Reid, present, audio only,” I answered. “And no jokes, Pranav… I look like I smell awful.”

“Alistair Worthington, present, audio and video. I can confirm that she does, and she does.”

Laughter filled the comms and the rest of the group leaders and Councillors joined the debrief. Finally, everyone was present and Xiomara called the meeting to order. First, the leaders of each shelter reported in, as those usually went the fastest. There were a couple malfunctions in the deployment of the shielding to disguise the entrances and hide heat and electrical signatures, but nothing Huynh’s team couldn’t fix. Tyche and Alistair made the recommendations around earlier detection and the need to move those sheltering in the Archives closer as we approached time to drop out of relativistic space.

Once that was out of the way, it was on to the combat and invasion teams. Overall consensus was that Sam’s trick with the portable environments was a rousing success and would be installed at each point determined to be most likely as a breach, with trigger conditions to be determined later. “I hate to say it,” Michael sighed, “but we also need Charly’s team to crank up the scovilles on the arrows and grenades.” His team had played the ‘invaders’ this go around, equipped with sensors and readouts to simulate the effect our defenses would have on the various species who most commonly were found on pirate vessels. Evan had worked intensely with Pranav and Derek to ensure that the strategies provided by the readouts were modelled after similar strategies based on which ever species each team member was assigned, to ensure we weren’t accidentally drilling against human tactics.

Michael hated it, but he was strict about his team complying nonetheless.

“Seriously?” I squawked, and I wasn’t the only one. “One of those things accidentally went off in my quarters…. Can confirm, they’re pretty potent.”

“They dissipated too fast against my team, and also the contact element left a lot to be desired. Charly, you may want to consider adding a sticking element.”

“Duly noted,” she chimed in with a yawn, her normal pep doused by being woken up and then the drop in adrenaline post-combat.

“What about the sonic weapons?” Xiomara asked, moving the meeting along.

“Still less effective than Nixe is on her own,” a familiar voice I couldn’t put a name to responded with a sheepish tone. “How hard would it be to train more people to shatter glass with their voice?”

“Incredibly,” Grey stressed. “It takes a very unique combination of training and the right vocal chords.”

“Then we may need to work on adding a projection component. The sonic devices can match the pitch, but not the actual tone and direction. They’re very effective given time and especially contact, but we need something more immediately disabling.”

Xiomara groaned. “Are we back to Mariah Carey on this one?” Objections exploded until she muted the comms. “It’s that or opera.” Votes started scrolling up the screen, and I could see Xio nod. “Opera it is. Let’s find a suitable piece and try using more analogue-style speakers.”

“I still say that death metal would work better,” Arthur suggested as soon as the comms were back on.

“Annnnd we already tested it, I will remind you. The volume works, but the pitches aren’t high enough to hit a broad enough population of species sensitive to sound.” After that nearly-obligatory objection, the meeting continued going through reports from each combat team until finally Xiomara announced the end results. “I have to admit, this was one of our best drills yet. Ten percent casualties of the combatants defending the breaches, only two percent among non-combatants, and the invaders were only able to traverse three decks before they were subdued.” She let the cheers go for a couple seconds before getting everyone’s attention again. “Yes, great job on the improvements, but let me remind everyone - those numbers still leave us below threshold for a healthy genetic population. Engineering teams, make the necessary adjustments with whatever resources are necessary. Shelters Three and Seven, you will start training for armed and unarmed combat with Shelter Fourteen and Combat Team Two daily. Sophia, your team will coordinate schedules. Any questions?”

There were no arguments, not even a groan or mutter as the meeting was dismissed. Before I could even add the new task to my agenda the next day, I received the notification that Alistair had beaten me to the punch.

Glancing at the time, I wanted to hit something. I had to be back up and at work in four hours, and the realization weighed me down with exhaustion. The guys had come in and gone to bed while I was in the debrief, and I could already hear synchronized snoring coming from the bedroom. Rather than risk waking them with my now-frozen feet, I pulled the quilt off the back of my couch and rolled myself into it. Only minutes later, a heavy weight oozed across my hip and started purring furiously.

“Yeah, buddy. I agree. We need a nap.”

<< Prev Masterlist Next >>

#the miys #found family #humans are weird #science fiction #aliens #apocalypse #humans are space orcs #humans are space fae #earth is space australia #post apocalypse #post post apocalypse #original science fiction #original sci fi #original writing

54 notes · View notes

httphonsool · 4 years

Text

the great spymaster

2. dancing shadows

synopsis; a series of drabbles in which you manage to conquer the great, brooding spymaster’s heart, this time; you’re both in a library.

warnings; mentions of assault/hinting towards assault, hallucination, nightmares, cutting, i think that’s it but let me know if there’s something i missed.

tag list; @grandpascurtains @samaras-weavings

notes; i don’t think i took too long to write this did i? well, anyways, the story progresses and you find out more about the reader’s life and personality, i’m not sure how many parts this will have, it’ll probably be a lot as these are quite short, but anyway yeah, enjoy!!

My, my, it’s been four days, or well, you’re guessing it’s been four days due to the meal pattern you’ve figured out, and not a word from the strange, beautiful interrogator. Perhaps if it wasn’t such an odd situation you would have taken a liking to the interrogator but after having stuck you in a cell with only darkness for a whole week, it’s hard to say you even want to talk to him. You’ve noticed shadows lingering in the darkness, highly resembling those who’ve wronged you in your past, one face nagging at your brain with clear persistence. This was a madhouse. You see hallucinations, reliving your worst memories, you dream of your worst days; though you could hardly call them dreams, it’s hard feeling much other than fear, so you’ve taken to pressing into your previously shackled wrists, scratching and cutting into the raw, bruised flesh with your nails just to feel pain. A madhouse.

How long does a consultation with his High Lord take? Surely it couldn’t have taken more than at least a day. Or perhaps this High Lord doesn’t exist and you’re dreaming, just dreaming. Or maybe this High Lord is cruel, not wanting to spare much time over you and slowly torture you until you died—

“I assure you, torturing you is not the reason my spymaster and I took so long. We had protocols to abide by.” You turn your head to see your interrogator and a man—it’s hard to see in the dark but the men in this realm seem to have very prominent eyes, this man’s is almost violet. Your interrogator’s hazel eyes seem to give much more mercy than those of his High Lord, “So you’ve broken our wards, I hear.” The High Lord continues, pointing his eyes down, pacing around your cell.

“I’ve heard this news too, except I didn’t even know these wards existed.” You say. The High Lord paces some more, searching for something; what he was searching for you had no clue but you waited in silence for as long as he was quiet.

“After looking into your mind I see no reason to keep you in this cell any further,” The High Lord pauses, offering a smile as you breathe a sigh of relief, “but you can’t go back, either.”

“Please,” You plead, “I beg you, take me out of here.” You hope he sees the purple smudges that have appeared from your lack of sleep; lack of being able to stay sane.

“Oh, we’re taking you out,” your interrogator speaks, for the first time that day, “I’ll be watching over you the entire time.”

“W-where- where are you taking me?” Your arms tremble, the deathly temperature nipping away at your skin.

“The House of Wind,” The High Lord replies, “where my spymaster, Azriel, will be watching over you.”

The House of Wind was…it was something for sure with its ten thousand steps, of course, the view from the house was quite picturesque but you didn’t have time to admire it while you feel like Rapunzel in her tower, though even Rapunzel wasn’t given the luxury of ten thousand steps down to a city.

Your room, however, was definitely a score with its rustic four-post bed, old-fashioned red curtains that drooped low to the white-marble ground, and the grand walk in wardrobe: it was rich, yet tasteful. You really felt like a princess. Though, I suppose you aren’t far from it with you locked up high in building with little to no contact with the real world.

Being some princess wasn’t even the worst of your problems, no, no, the worst of your problems was the Fae man with swirling shadows surrounding him who looked like a God and barely spoke to you since he flew you up straight into your doom.

Right now, you were sitting in the library, the great spymaster only a couple of metres away from you, glancing at you every few minutes, his shadows no longer visible, as if they had melted into their surroundings.

“Is there absolutely nowhere else I can go? I have to stay up here?” Those are the first words you’ve spoken to him since you both arrived.

“Not necessarily.” You wish you could reach over and rip his throat out for being so short-spoken.

“Can you explain?” You grumble, turning the page of your book.

“I could fly you to anywhere, really,” He pauses deciding whether or not he should continue, “The only policy is that I have to watch over you.” Is he free all the time? Surely this man had his own duties.

“Don’t you have other duties? Couldn’t someone else watch over me?” You ask, keeping your eyes on your book.

“I have other people taking care of the work. This was an order from the High Lord.”

“So I’m stuck with you? All the time? I can’t even breathe without you stalking over me?” You huff; out of all the people you could’ve been stuck with… it had to be some quiet, short-spoken, boring shadowsinger (which by the way, no, you do not know what that means but you heard him mention something about it on your way here, you’re guessing it has something to do with the shadows coming out of his body), who can’t even hold a conversation to save his life?

“If you want your space go to your room and get naked, I assure you I won’t be coming in to see you any time soon while you’re in those conditions.” You have to admit it hurts that someone so pretty and so beautiful has just insinuated that he thinks your body is ugly, but the great spymaster- who you don’t even know the name of- doesn’t need to know that.

You scoff, “You fae have some audacity. Take me to some other library I can read in, I want to see more of this city.”

So he did, and you screamed as he took off into the air without any warning, and you screamed some more when you landed and saw in a puddle how messy your hair had become; it’s safe to say he didn’t give a damn at all, if anything you think he looked quite satisfied.

You learned that the priestesses ran the library, only allowing people they approved into the library, and for whatever reason they saw fit, they approved you. Maybe it was because you could relate to their experiences somehow, maybe they could feel the trauma in your past, but you didn’t say anything; just thanked them and went about on your conquest to find the filthiest, most smutty books to read.

So here you sat, your eyes pretending to read your book whilst your ears listened into the conversation he was having with some priestess of the library. Her name was Gwyn apparently, and though it was none of your business, you were interested anyway. She’s gorgeous. That’s the only comment there is to make, and she seems quite pleasant too, sincere and honest; but of course, she’s a priestess.

And you don’t miss the way the shadowsinger’s shadows dance and prance around her, celebrating and indulging her presence. They don’t show up around you, which meant that the shadowsinger actually must be friends with her. You gasp with realisation; maybe he even feels for her.

At least he can actually feel something.

“How much longer were you going to listen into my conversation?” He asks, crouching down beside you.

“I wasn’t listening, just observing.” You state, turning the corner of your page. He doesn’t answer.

A few moments later, he opens his mouth, “What did you observe?”

“Just some things,” you tease, he stares at you expectantly, “those shadows were dancing around her,” you turn another page, “maybe…it’s because you have feelings for her.”

“Shut up.” No blushing, no smiles, just a boring monotone face. What a dickhead.

Well at least one thing was clear; neither of you liked each other very much.

#azriel #azriel x reader #rhysand #rhysand x reader #acotar #acotar x reader #cassian x reader #cassian #drabble #lucien vanserra #lucien #lucien x reader #scenario

123 notes · View notes

jamiemackenziefraser · 4 years

Text

All That Was Fair

Chapter 15: The Woman of Balnain

Summary: Jamie finally sits down with a certain book.

Read on AO3

Read chp 15 on tumblr below the cut

Previous, masterlist, next

They spent the afternoon in lazy bliss. Together, they’d gone into the kitchen where Jamie had shown her how to whip up a burrito. Although most of it clearly went over her head, she had such a good time that she asked to make something else directly after he finished eating.

After a brief explanation on how humans get full after eating, he gave in and offered to show her how to make cookies.

Jamie felt distantly like his life had turned into a romcom as they baked cookies together. When Claire bumped him teasingly on the side, he grabbed a handful of flour and chucked it straight at Claire. Her mouth fell open in mock dismay before an impish gleam shone in her eye. Jamie learned that afternoon the true reason the word “impish” had originated to describe the fair folk.

Claire was mischievous and exuberant in her retaliations. Handful after handful of baking supplies had been lobbed in his direction, shoved down his clothing, mussed into his hair, and even discreetly snuck into his pockets when he was later occupied with sticking the baking sheets of cookies in the oven. Long after their initial food fight had ended, Claire continued their little game.

Later that afternoon while they sat together on the couch (the faerie’s legs draped over his, Jamie’s hands shoved under his own legs in order to keep from caressing her soft skin that was right there), Claire had produced a handful of oats from nowhere and shoved them down his collar. He’d flung her legs off, grabbed her waist, and threw her over his shoulder without a second thought as she squealed and thrashed. Stalking to the kitchen like a caveman with his prize draped over him, he unceremoniously plopped her down and then dumped an entire bowl of excess flour over her head.

“I give up,” she screeched, smacking blindly at his chest with her flour-caked face still screwed up, puffs of powder exploding from her lips.

“Promise? No more surprise attacks when I let down my guard?” he asked guardedly, trying to keep his grin out of his voice.

“You have my word,” she promised. She gave him a grave, floury nod.

Feeling quite magnanimous now that he’d won, Jamie grabbed a dishtowel, wet it, and then approached Claire.

He cupped the back of her head, feeling her curls tangling between his fingers, and gently wiped the flour from her face. Once her eyelids had been cleaned, she opened them and stared up at him with a soft look. His bones felt like they had been turned to water to be receiving such a look, and he struggled to focus on the task at hand as he tenderly dabbed at the spots of flour still left on her face. She stayed quiet, just looking at him and allowing him to clean up the mess he’d made.

How he loved her.

When the moment finally broke, their gazes tearing apart, Jamie inspected her hair.

“No way I’m gettin’ this out of these curls. Do ye want a shower, a nighean?”

“I would never say no to a shower,” she beamed.

So, he’d graciously turned it on for her and then explained that he was going to get some work done. Leaving her to it knowing full well that she’d be in there for a long time, he headed for his office.

But it wasn’t work he had in mind.

There was another matter tickling at his brain. One he’d been itching at for far too long. He’d barely had time to breathe, let alone sit down and address it, until just this minute.

He needed to read the book that the eccentric bookstore owner had shoved into his hands.

Unsure how to explain the strange interaction to Claire and disinclined to possibly worry her over nothing, Jamie still hadn’t mentioned anything about it. He’d been waiting to read it until he had a moment alone.

Settling into his office chair, Jamie stared down at the cover of the mysterious book. He was motionless for a few seconds, feeling a strange uneasiness.

The title was The Woman of Balnain. It was short, perhaps a novella, and the description on the back said that it was about a time-traveling lass. Why would the mysterious Geillis give this to him?

He was just about to start into reading, but as he opened the book, several sheets of paper suddenly fluttered out and onto his lap. Warily, he picked them up, turning them over to see what appeared to be hastily scrawled notes.

The words at the top made him draw a sharp breath.

“The Standing Stones of Craigh na Dun.”

The following notes seemed like a jumble to Jamie, the words swimming together in his mind in his haste to take them all in. He began to read so fast that several times he had to pause and reread. Geillis— at least he assumed that she was the author of these notes— wrote about planes of reality, magnetic fields, magical properties of the standing stones...

And below that was another section that was entitled “traveling.”

Gemstones. One could travel from this plane to another— through the stones— by use of gemstones. According to this, only some people (or fae, he supposed) could travel. But those who could had discovered that gemstones ensured their safety.

His hand was shaking so hard that he dropped the papers entirely. He brought his trembling hands up to bury his face into them. The gravity of the situation sat heavy on his shoulders as the realization descended.

If this was true, he’d just been handed the way to get Claire back home.

What followed was perhaps an hour of frantic, mind-bending sorting of thoughts. He read and re-read over and over, trying to ensure that he truly had understood the implications of the document. But no matter how many times he reviewed the words on the page, the meaning was clear: If Claire had a gemstone, she could safely use the stones to return to her plane. To her people and her life. Away from him.

But then he spiraled into doubt. How did he know he could trust this mysterious Geillis and her instructions? But as much as he wanted to deny it— to dismiss the entry as garbage and all thoughts of Claire leaving along with it— he couldn’t ignore the feeling in his wame that this was the truth any more than he could refute the fact that Claire deserved a shot at returning home. Besides, something about Geillis had seemed odd… mystical perhaps. Not in the same way Claire did, but he certainly believed that whoever (or whatever) the bookkeeper was, she knew a hell of a lot more about this stuff than he did. And she’d known about Claire. So in the end, while he wasn’t certain that she was a friend per se, he thought it likely she was at least an ally— and he believed what was written on the page was the truth.

Once Jamie had addressed comprehension and credibility, he moved on to his sorrow.

Grief over the thought of losing Claire.

He was no longer lying to himself about the extent of his feelings. He was in love with her, plain and simple. Infatuated, enamored— all those things— but it went deeper than that. She’d walked her way straight into his heart and burrowed in there as sure as she did when she nestled against him in his bed. And now that she’d filled that empty space in his life, he couldn’t even imagine going back to the hollow loneliness of existence without her.

Every part of him longed not to tell her. He could crumple up the page and throw it away, or better yet, he could burn it up without a trace, and she’d be none the wiser.

But his mind swirled with images, memories eating at him that he couldn’t quite ignore. Claire crying against him only a few days ago, weeping for all she’s lost. Her trepidation as she’d faced the terrifying unknown of the city. The sheen of tears in her eyes that she’d fought back as she admitted Jenny had made her scared…

As he thought about all she’d been through since being ripped from her home, he knew that taking away the chance to return would be unfair. He wanted to be selfish— God, help him, he burned with it…

But he loved her enough to let her go.

A tear leaked out of the corner of his eye— scalding as it dripped down his cheek. He sat motionless in his office chair, his hand squeezing his opposite arm so tightly that the nails made deep red indents in his flesh, but he knew what he had to do.

He’d tell her.

Decision made, Jamie stood from his desk. His feet felt like they were encased with lead, and he was light-headed, as if all that thinking and agonizing had sucked his brain out with a straw. As horrible as he felt, he was resolved, and he made his way sluggishly downstairs.

The scene in the living room nearly shattered that decision.

Claire was asleep on his couch, all curled up and shoulders hunched under the fuzzy throw blanket she had clutched around her. Her bonny pink lips were parted just slightly and tiny whooshes of air tickled a single curl that had fallen over her face.

He ached to see her like this for the rest of his life.

Just as he was about to turn on his heel and leave her to her rest (this was not the time for such a heavy revelation), she stirred. His stubborn feet anchored him in place as he watched her shift, head lifting a bit, and her eyes blinked open.

“Hi, Jamie,” she breathed sleepily.

While giving him a fond but drowsy smile, her head nestled back down onto the throw pillow. She looked up at him with eyes that always reminded him of a fawn’s.

“Havin’ a wee rest?” He asked tenderly.

“Yes,” she breathed. She glanced him up and down appraisingly and then said, “maybe you should too. You seem tired.”

Jamie was tired. He felt like he’d been put through a meat grinder several times over. Still, he knew there was no way he’d actually sleep even if he could tear his eyes away from her long enough to close them.

But if Claire wanted a nap, and was hinting for him to join him, who was he to deny her?

He indulged his selfish desires for a moment and approached the couch so he could bend down and run a hand over Claire’s hair.

She smiled drowsily and leaned into his touch. Her eyes blinked slowly as she gazed up at him.

God, she was beautiful.

“Let’s go upstairs, mo nighean donn,” he suggested quietly.

His sleepy faerie did not seem inclined to get up. Her eyes had fallen closed again, but her hand blindly reached out for him. She caught his cheek, her fingers tracing over the stubble on his jaw.

Then, suddenly, her eyes popped open.

“Are you alright, Jamie?” she asked, her whisky gaze swimming with concern.

Her abruptness startled him, but he quickly snapped himself out of it and put on his brave face.

“I’m fine, Sassenach. Do ye want to stay on the couch or go up to bed?” he softly asked.

Her brows furrowed, disbelieving, but she firmly answered, “with you.”

He felt bad that he’d upset her but couldn’t seem to drag himself out of the cloud of depression that had wrapped around him the moment he’d decided to take her home.

But he’d have this one last time with her, and he wouldn’t ruin it with dark thoughts.

“Alright. Let’s go, mo nighean donn.”

She sat up, eyes fixed on him all the while, and then took his hand. The way she was looking at him, soft and searching, made his heart skip a few beats. He hardened himself to the overwhelming desire to pour out his heart to her, lay all the cards on the table, and beg her to stay. But he knew in his bones that this wasn’t the time.

Her thumb was tracing lightly over his knuckles, patient as he struggled inside himself.

A part of him wanted to bury his face in her neck and let her stroke his hair— she would do it, he knew. All it would take was him to make the motion, take the comfort from her.

But that wouldn’t be fair. If she saw his distress, she would feel guilty about leaving him. He loved her too much to put that burden on her.

His puir heart was breaking, but he managed to wrap it up in a thin layer of composure, scoop up his scrambled thoughts, and put himself back together. He gave her a brave smile, feigning nonchalance.

Breaking the silence, he said, “let’s go, mo calman geal.”

He took her upstairs by the hand. She was still sleepy, but not inclined to let that stop her from caring for him— even if she had no idea what was going on. He could feel her hovering anxiously by his side, trying to figure out what was wrong.

As they sat down on the bed, Claire tried to tug him down to cuddle with her, but he shook his head. Settling against the headboard instead, he guided her down to lay her head in his lap.

He wanted to watch her. Just this one last time.

Sleepy as she was, but probably even more so because she wanted to do whatever was best for him, she complied. She snuggled down into his lap and settled herself so she was comfortable.

As he carded his fingers through her hair in gentle strokes, Claire began to relax. It wasn’t long before she drifted back into sleep. The lines on her face smoothed, and she seemed to melt into him impossibly further.

His hands still moving soothingly against her, Jamie returned to his thoughts. A terrible weight rested on his shoulders as he came to a realization.

He wouldn’t be strong enough to tell her here— in his home that had become their home (at least he felt that it was theirs)— and still manage to make the drive to the stones. It was selfish to keep this from her, but he simply wouldn’t be able do it. There were limits to his goodness, and he prayed God would forgive him for this one.

So, with his mind made up, a plan began to form.

He would tell her tomorrow that they were going for a hike. They’d drive out to the stones, and he would explain once they got there. His Grandfather’s ruby ring laid on his dresser— that would be what he’d give her to ensure safe passage. And then… then, she’d go home.

And that was that.

This was his last night with her.

He looked down and studied her face for a long time, trying to memorize every tiny detail. He knew it would be the remembrance of her that would warm him on the cold, lonely days that would surely follow. He traced her face reverently, first with his eyes, and then as his selfish, breaking heart took over, with soft touches of his fingertips.

All that was left was to pray that tomorrow he would have the strength to send her away.

***

A/n: I believe now is the time for me to hide 😳

#oh boy #all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #claire/jamie #fae claire

56 notes · View notes

highladyofprythian · 4 years

Text

Rhys picking Feyre up from univesity drabble

Thus Prythian was split into the seven courts…

When my eyes flutter open, the words in front of me are distorted, on the verge of blurry with my face pressed against the pages. There’s a sharp pain in the back of my neck and my thighs ache from sitting for so long.

Sitting up, I groan as I stretch out my legs, pulling my head to one side to relieve the pain there. Even still, the left side of my face is numb from being pressed against the table’s surface for so long. I scan the library quickly, my Fae ears not picking up the sounds of other students. Odd, considering I only started reading just as the sun went down, the library full of other students. But now, only the soft creek of settling floorboards and my breathing can be heard.

The room is dark, my faelight burnt down to embers, barely enough light to see three feet in front of me, let alone navigate the expansive library. Sighing, I stand up, willing my exhausted magic to fill the faelight again, just enough to guide me and pack my things away.

I pack my book away into the leather rucksack Rhys gifted me last Solstice, along with the charcoal pencils and paper scattered around. Studying, I’ve found, has left me prone to doodling while I concentrate. Little images of flowers, Nyx’s eyes, utterly random shapes. It’s difficult to sit idle, while some ancient wizened Fae drones on in the front of a grand lecture hall about the trade routes between Courts.

The clock chimes in the silence, frightening me so much I jump, pencils clattering to the floor. Grumbling, I bend to retrieve them, but snap back up when I only hear three chimes. Three? But-

Wildly, I whip my head around, determined that other students only left to eat dinner… I couldn’t have been asleep that long. But again, I hear nothing.

I’ve been asleep for hours… oh gods, Nyx.

I tug hard on the bond between Rhys and I, not caring if I wake him from sleep. I need to know if my son is ok.

Good morning, Feyre darling, his voice thick with sleep drawls in my head.

Before I can ask him, he calms my racing thoughts, my shield falling from my panic and lack of proper sleep. The baby is fine, he fell asleep hours ago. As did you, clearly. His dark laughter fills my head, only irritating me further.

You didn’t think to wake me up? I snap at him.

Couldn’t disturb you being so studious, now could I? His tone is amused as he goes on, And besides, I am capable of parenting our child without you.

I soften, melting at the image Rhys sends me of Nyx cradled in his arms, his head resting against Rhys’ bare chest as he bottle feeds him.

I hope you ate too, High Lord. I gripe back, still irritated with him. The stress of the baby’s birth and potential fallout with Autumn has put Rhys on edge, falling back into bad habits of forgetting to eat his meals.

Of course, High Lady. Couldn’t risk falling asleep in my study with the baby home. Infinitely amused, he continues to make fun of me.

If I remember correctly, you were the one to encourage me to attend university. Such is the life of a poor student… I lament, matching his dramatics.

If only because the thought of you sitting in a lecture halls and writing essays does wicked things to me.

What doesn’t? I retort, sending him a rude gesture down the bond. He just laughs, thinking of more creative uses for my hand.

Pig, I say as I finally find my pencil and tie my rucksack together. The faelight follows me as I walk out the grand double doors to the library, illuminating the path ahead.

You love it, his voice and my feet padding along the marble flooring the only sounds to be heard. Truly I somehow managed to sleep through students leaving for dinner, chatting amongst themselves. Even the Fae who do nightly patrolling of the library.

I doubt even the toughest of security guards would want to wake the High Lady, says Rhys. This late at night, I don’t bother putting up my shields, enjoying the simply intimacy of Rhys hearing my thoughts, sharing each moment with me. Even I don’t dare to do that, he continues.

I snort aloud, startling myself. Only when you wake me up creatively… I send him an image of us, him beneath the sheets, my hands gripping the pillow beneath my head.

I don’t think the guards would wake you up quite like that, his mental voice is a little strained. I can see through his eyes that he’s sat up in bed, the sheets pooled around his hips, revealing only a tantalizing shadow but no more.

I follow the path down the winding stairs, the sconces along the stone walls are blown out for the night, the gentle gold of the faelight flickering. The history in these walls is deep, thousand of years of Fae scholars shared this space, writing laws that still preside of Prythian today. Rhysand’s own family, High Lord’s of Night Court past sheltered together, the wards of Velaris being set up as they studied through the night.

And a painting comes to mind, of ancient Fae, gathered in a library of old, heads bent together, scroll after scroll of lore and history being recorded. One day, Rhys himself will stand beside them.

I like to think I’m not stuffy and old yet, darling. His voices brings me back, and I’m greeted by the sight of the university’s large, ornate double doors shut to the elements, no light peeking through the wood.

Yet? Says the five-hundred-year-old with bad knees, I tease as I pull on the large, iron door handle. Amongst the alumni it’s said that the iron handles and sconces were built into the building to ward away evil Fae spirits. However I, and other students have far fonder memories attached. And I’m reminded of my first week here, students rushing past me, completely bare as they ran through the ancient hallways, attempting to touch each piece of iron before their competitors, to then be greeted by a slew of cheers and applause when they completed the course. Even I partook in the spirit of unvieristy, and I’m blushing just thinking about it again.

Shame I wasn’t there, Rhys says, showing me a picture of his own days in the university. A buck-naked Illyiran warrior flouncing down the hallways, outrunning everyone, of course.

I could say the same. Though I don’t think we would’ve studied well together. The heavy doors open to an inky black night, the snow on the ground stark white in contrast.

“Considering your success at reading, I think we would have made exceptionally good study partners.” Rhys’ midnight voice floats through the air, making me jump again.

I huff at him, “You scared me! What are you doing up?” And another more pressing thought, “Who’s minding the baby?” I begin to run towards the river house, though the jog across from the university to the house would take thirty-minutes by foot.

Rhys behind me laughs, and I hear his wings flare wide before he takes me in his arms, pushing off the ground and up, up into the night sky. The air rushes past my face and I revel in the sensation, loving the icy cold against my faelight warmed skin.

Once we find a cruising altitude, Rhys answers me. “Mor is at the house, he’s fast asleep.” His voice caresses my neck and I shiver, though not from the cold. “And I’m here to pick up my star-pupil, lest she fall asleep on herself mid-flight. Again.”

“I had just had a baby! Your baby! And I didn’t fall asleep I simply closed my eyes.”

“And careened straight into a tree.”

I whack my palms against his chest in retaliation, but he’s not wrong. I was only two months post birth and pelvic-reconstruction. I needed to simply pick up something from the market and Rhys was out on business. So, I shifted into my wings and took flight; but that evening Nyx had been up crying and I only managed to sleep for an hour before he was up, happily chatting his baby nonsense about the sun being in the sky once again. I had closed my eyes briefly… and both Rhysand and Azriel still make fun of me. Azriel more so, between fits of chuckling telling me ‘I thought I trained you better than that,’.

I nestle into his arms, sleep clouding my eyes once again, but even after two years, the sight of candle-lit Velaris twinkling against the night sky, cradled betwixt the mountain rages, makes me sigh in wonder, never wanting to close my eyes.

“Sleep, Feyre. You have an early lecture in the morning, wouldn’t want the Professor to catch you drooling on the table.”

I snort weakly, partially asleep once again. “Reminiscing about your own days at university, old man?” His laugh rumbles in his chest, lulling me fully into sleep.

When we land, I wake just enough to kiss Nyx’s little forehead while he sleeps soundly before Rhys picks me up again, places me on our bed and I dream of Rhys after his first war, young by Fae standards, studying the night away in the very same library I slept.

#Feysand #feyre archeron #Rhysand #Nyx #Feysand baby #feysand drabble #acowar #acofas #post acofs au #sjm #sjm books #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #feysand fluff

70 notes · View notes

yan-twst · 4 years

Text

CYOYA - part II

and finally it’s here! chapter ii of the cyoa fic! last time you all voted on what our protagonist should do, and the winning choice was to ask malleus to study with you! so the story will be picking up from there!

“Hmm, I’m sure Silver would enjoy sharing his cookies with a friend, especially after a hard day of studying...” hummed Lilia, and it was at that moment you knew that you had to get away from the short fae as soon as possible, lest you fall victim of what would probably be the world’s most horrid food poisoning.

It’d be rude to just run away all of a sudden; Lilia was still your superior in terms of authority, and he didn’t seem to have any ill will. You nervously glanced around, eyes settling on Malleus’ imposing figure; how you had forgotten he was there for a second was beyond you. Tall, imposing, with green eyes that almost seemed to glow in the dark, you could understand why so many people feared the dorm leader just based off looks alone, but in this sort of situation...

“Um, I was actually, uh... Hoping I could ask our Dorm Leader here for help with studying.” you hoped the anxiety in your voice didn’t show through. It was uncharacteristic of anyone to get close to Malleus, be it out of respect or fear- and usually you’d keep your distance too, not wanting to annoy the fae prince (and also being admittedly intimidated by him, but you figured everyone was).

Despite your odd request, Lilia didn’t seem confused. He merely grinned and nodded, almost as if he’d been expecting this outcome. Malleus, on the other hand, did not look nearly as knowing as Lilia. His eyes opened wide and his posture stiffened for a second, telltale signs of him being shocked, as he opened his mouth soundlessly. You prepared yourself to get roasted by his fire breath or something for your request; surely you’d crossed a line or something by so carelessly asking for his time. He wasn’t just your dorm leader, he was also a prince and one of the most powerful mages, surely you shouldn’t have just-

“Is that truly what you wish for?” no green fire left Malleus’ mouth, instead a simple question to answer your request. You blinked a couple of times, releasing tension you’d gathered in the seconds of arduous wait.

“Y... Yes?” you repeated, a bit taken aback by the response. Malleus had composed himself quickly, back to his usual way of standing and his eyes no longer wide open; but there was just something about his body language and tone that was off. It wasn’t annoyance or anger (thank gods, because he could probably wipe you off the planet without much effort), but rather something akin to... bashfulness? “Oh, um- only if you have time, of course! And if you want! I don’t want to impose...”

“Ufufu, don’t worry little one, I can assure you he doesn’t mind.” said Lilia with a smirk so wide you had to wonder if he really had intended for this ordeal to go down like this. “Now, Malleus, it’s no time to be shy, one of your dorm members has come to ask you for help! Go on, show them what you know.”

“Don’t you have to deliver those... Cookies before they cool?” Malleus’ tone didn’t change much, but the faint tint of pink in his cheeks told you Lilia’s words had definitely made him flustered. It was an odd sight, to see him acting in such a way- after all, the image you had of him was shaped by watching his imposing figure walk around campus surrounded by his guards, by rumours and whispers, and the occasional viewing of him ruthlessly winning at magift. Nothing could have prepared you to see such a humane side to him; but maybe this was just how he acted when he was with people he trusted...? Lilia did seem to have a deep connection to him, after all.

“Oh, you’re right!” Lilia’s attention was immediately driven back to the plate of charcoal black masses resting on the table. He picked it up and began to walk away, not before turning around and saying goodbye. “Well you two, have a nice study session! Don’t go to sleep too late, (name)!”

“We will!” you replied, waving goodbye to him. In all honesty, you were just relieved you weren’t going to get peer pressured into eating one of those toxic looking cookies- but now that Lilia was gone, you were suddenly left alone in the common room.

“... You’re quite daring, to ask me for help.” mused Malleus, although his tone didn’t seem to hold malice. He looked more curious than anything, as he gazed down on you, as if he were trying to understand your actions. It was nerve racking, sure, but on the very least he didn’t seem upset.

“Should I have not done that?” you said, almost biting your tongue once the words were out. Were you being too casual? He was a prince and he was powerful, and you were just a normal student- but... The only person you’d seen advocate to treating Malleus like absolute royalty was Sebek, and even Malleus seemed to get tired of the first year’s antics from time to time.

“I never said that.” he replied, an amused twinkle in his eyes as he smiled. He uncrossed his arms from his chest, a small action, but one that made you feel just so much more comfortable in his presence. Surely if you stepped out of line, he’d let you know, right? So far he didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d just zap you to death for a mistake. “I’m simply... Surprised you did so. Most students would be too scared to do so.”

“Well, that’s...” what the hell were you even supposed to say to that?! As powerful as he was, it seemed Malleus wasn’t a great conversationalist, with how he was pushing you into a corner in the conversation. “... I haven’t talked to you much, but you’re my dorm leader, so it’s not so shocking I’d ask for help, right? I know you’re very skilled and powerful, too, so... I guess I just didn’t think it’d be that weird.”

“Hmm...” he seemed satisfied with the answer, maybe even... Happy? He wasn’t easy to read, and you didn’t want to seem like you were staring. Still, you could have sworn you hear him whisper ‘that’s quite interesting, indeed’ under his breath, but he quickly spoke up again. “You’re right that as your dorm leader, it’s my duty to help you. Do you have your class materials with you?”

“Yes, here they are.” you said, opening your notebook to the page with the draught’s ingredients and preparation steps. “... It’s a bit dark here, sorry if it’s not very readable.”

“Is it troublesome to study here for you?” asked Malleus, raising his eyebrows. Glancing at his green eyes, the fact he’s probably got no difficulty looking in the dark- or in the not-so-well lit common room- hit you, judging by his slit pupils.

“No, no, it’s ok, I can read, it’s just a bit dark here since the torches’ fire is dimmed at night.” you said, not wanting to seem like you were causing one problem after the other. The torches lighting up the common room were lit with magical fire, and at this time of the night, they became quite dim, probably to discourage students from lingering too long and make them go to their respective rooms. It didn’t make it impossible to use it as a study room, just not an effective one; ideally, each student would do their late night cramming in their own room, but there was no way you were asking Malleus to go to your room. First of all, it was messy, and second of all, your dormmate was there snoring the night away.

“There’s no need to lie to me. You shouldn’t strain your eyes to read in the dark.” Malleus picked up your notebook before you could complain. For a second, he looked like he was thinking; you guessed he’d offer the library as a good place to study (although you didn’t want to go all the way there, if he offered so you’d accept), or maybe he’d use his magic to make the torches burn brighter. After his deliberation, he tucked the notebook under his arm carefully and motioned for you to follow him out the common room. “Follow me, (name). We’re going to my room, if that’s ok with you.”

“That’s-!” your body froze at his words. No, no, absolutely not. Even if he offered it, it felt like too much to do that- you’d already been enough of a thorn on his side asking for his help, it was getting late, and he probably had his own things to do. “I’d hate to intrude- listen, it’s ok, I can read up my notes tomorrow morning, and-”

“I would not have offered if I was not ok with it.” Malleus’ response cut you off before you could try and excuse yourself out of the situation. He was still looking at you with that odd expression, a mix between curiosity and interest, as if he were staring at some odd flower of sorts. “Follow me.”

You certainly didn’t feel like starting an argument with him, and so you did. The halls were a bit too dark for comfort at this hour, the torches dimmed here as well to deter students from wandering around at such hours. An ironic thing, really, considering most of the Diasomnia student body stayed up until odd hours studying or simply killing time. Following Malleus, you stared at his broad back and his tall form, the way his horns curled from his head and reflected the greenish glow of the fire; truly, he looked like a prince. And then you decided to resolve something nagging you at the back of your mind.

“Um, Dorm leader, just a quick question... How did you know my name?” you asked. He’d called you by your name when inviting you, hadn’t he...? You couldn’t recall presenting yourself to him- but as soon as you finished your question you realized the answer to it. “Oh, nevermind! You probably heard Lilia say it when he left, my bad.”

“It wasn’t from Lilia.” Malleus’ response was rapid, almost as if he didn’t even have to think. You furrowed your brows at this; no, you were sure you’d never formally presented yourself to him, and you weren’t in the magift team or anything like that, so why...? “Silver talks a lot about you.”

“Oooh, of course! That makes sense.” you almost wanted to slap yourself for not realizing such an obvious connection. Silver was a friend of yours, and he did spend a considerable amount of time guarding Malleus. He’d probably mentioned you a couple times or something, nothing too weird.

“... But Lilia did tell me about you in the entrance ceremony.” added Malleus. You couldn’t see his face as you followed him from behind, but the tone in his voice had softened just a little bit. You didn’t want to make any assumptions, but it almost sounded like he was thinking back on a fond memory. “Diasomnia doesn’t get as many students as other dorms. I wasn’t even invited to the sorting ceremony, but Lilia told me how only a handful of the new students got sorted here.”

“Ah, that’s right, I remember the vice dorm leader- I mean, Lilia, telling us you were missing that day.” you said, tracing back on memories. Honestly, you’d been so anxious and excited the day you’d arrived at NRC, you hadn’t even cared about what dorm you got sorted into; you considered yourself a pretty average person, without anything too surprising or any curious talents, so you didn’t know where you’d get sorted. Unlike many NRC students, you also lacked a family history in the school; most people guessed their dorm based on what dorm their siblings or parents had been in, but you’d just... Never had a family member you knew attend NRC.

“... Lilia said the mirror claimed you held great magic potential.” he seemingly skipped over the fact he wasn’t in the ceremony (he said he wasn’t invited, right? You figured he had his reasons to not want to go over that), but his comment still caught you off guard. “It’s not often the magic mirror will say that about a person.”

“Is that so...? Haha, I’m not so sure about that. I mean, I don’t think I’m too amazing at anything.” you said, chuckling. You’d simply thought the mirror said some cheesy stuff to everyone who got sorted, as some sort of ego boost to the first years or something. “Well, I am glad I got sorted here, though. I like Diasomnia.”

“You shouldn’t say that about yourself.” Malleus didn’t turn around when he said this, but you just knew he’d narrowed his eyes as he said that. “... Just the fact you even dared ask me for help, and followed me to my room like this goes to show you’re quite different. I have no doubt your skills in magic will flourish in time.”

“I- um, thank you...!” you truly hoped your voice didn’t sound like a squeak, but it was hard to keep cool when Malleus Draconia spoke to you like that. “It means a lot to me, um, coming from you.”

A comfortable silence fell between you two. The sound of Malleus’ heeled uniform shoes against the stone floor echoed in the halls, mixing with the noise of rain outside- soon, you were faced with stairs. Being constructed like a castle from the Valley of Thorns, there were plenty of towers; of course the dorm leader’s room would be on top of one.

“We’re here.”

You were a bit surprised at how much you walked to get to his dorm- the amount of stairs you’d gone up was enough to leave you breathless, although Malleus looked fine. The door to his room was made of a beautifully dark wood, with intricate carvings and a metal doorknob. He opened the door and walked in, holding it open for you (you wondered if the door had a lock and key and he just kept it unlocked knowing nobody would dare come snooping, or if it was some sort of magic door that only opened for him).

“Come on in,” he said, and not wanting to make him just stand there holding the door open, you quickly walked in despite feeling like someone as common and unimportant as you shouldn’t just be waltzing into his room.

As he closed the door behind you, you couldn’t help but wonder at the sight of his room. It was big- dorm leader benefits, you guessed, because this one-person dorm was about twice the size of the dorm you shared with your roommate. The floor was tiled in white with black accents, and the thing that caught your eye first was the huge canopy bed. The way the canopy was built almost reminded you of the very building of the dorm. Immediately your eyes flew to the giant dragon statue next to the dresser- why was that there you had no clue, but it certainly looked cool. It was probably related to Diasomnia’s origins and its logo, since the Witch of Thorns could turn into a dragon.

The more you looked, the more details you picked up. The loveseat in front of his bed was currently occupied by books and trinkets, as if he’d been cleaning and put them all there while he found a space for them. There were many magift team banners in the wall above his desk, and you couldn’t tell why, but you found that adorable. Besides the loveseat, there wasn’t much clutter in the dorm- it was quite clean, actually, almost as if he didn’t spend much time there. His desk was probably the most well-loved spot, the chair still ajar as if he’d stood up and not put it back in place, papers crowding the surface of the desk.

“This should be well-lit enough.” he said, and with a flourish of his hand, lit the candelabra on the desk. That much was overkill, really, considering the giant chandelier hanging from the ceiling, but you appreciated the gesture- and also admired how easily and precisely he’d just cast fire magic. “Take a seat wherever it’s comfortable for you, and we can begin studying.”

Upon being presented with that choice, you blanked. Picking where to sit down should be the easy part of this whole ordeal; asking your intimidating dorm leader for help and accepting to go in his room was the ‘hard’ part, sitting down was the easy part, but in that very moment you weren’t so sure. The loveseat was occupied by his stuff, and you’d really rather die than start moving around his belongings for a seat. That left the floor, the desk, and the bed; of course you wouldn’t just sit on the floor, because then he’d also have to sit on the floor to explain, and that didn’t feel right at all.

The desk should have been the logical choice, but as you glanced at it, it was very clear that having only one chair would pose a problem. Sure, he probably wouldn’t mind- in fact he most likely expected you to take a seat there- but... Then he’d probably have to stand behind you to explain, hovering over your shoulders the whole time. He’d have to lean down to your level to check your notes, and- gods, if it were some random student you wouldn’t have cared this much, but... Something about having Malleus stand behind you, rest his hands on the back of the chair where you sat, and to have him lean down and be so close to you just to read the notes made your stomach flip. But that was your problem; you were the one making a big deal out of just sitting in a desk, of all things.

Then there was the bed- honestly you mostly studied sat in your bed, with your notebooks spread out around you. But that was in the privacy of your own dorm. Sure, if a friend was over you wouldn’t hesitate to tell them to sit on your bed with you to chat or just chill, and you’d even helped your roommate study before while you both sat down on his bed to review and exchange class notes. But this- this was Malleus’ bed. Was it too out of line to sit down on the bed to study...? It was just sitting down; he probably wouldn’t even give it a second thought...

— time to make a choice! vote in the poll linked below to choose how to advance in the story! choosing where to sit may seem innocent enough, but this particular choice is the one that may begin some interesting developments

poll: https://www.strawpoll.me/21192129

#cyoa #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #choose your own adventure

76 notes · View notes

snusbandxknifewife · 4 years

Text

So @the-chick-of-the-air mentioned something about wanting to know what Cardan said to Randalin and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. This is my attempt at writing what went down during that conversation, I hope you all like it!

~~~~

As Cardan Greenbriar drags his advisor into a separate room, all hints of a spoiled faerie boy are gone, replaced completely by the grace and danger of a High King who has been faced with treason.

“What vile, worm-hearted god spoke in your ear and gave you even the faintest idea that it was appropriate to enter the room of your wounded queen?” He hisses in the larger man’s ear. “And how, pray tell, did it convince you to stoop low enough to then question her sovereignty?”

A colossal, thorn-covered vine sprouts from the stone floor by the chamber door, actively shattering a brick as it moves to slam the door shut.

Randalin visibly swallows. “Your Majesty, please—“

“I must admit, Randalin, I thought you wiser than that,” Cardan continues. “I thought that you, for all your sniveling and spinelessness, would have enough foresight to see that your little plan could’ve never succeeded.”

The delicate pink roses in their little porcelain pot, set on the windowsill to capture sunlight, wither and die. Where their rotting petals fall, nightshade rises.

“I would’ve thought you would know my wife would never back down from a challenge. Especially one put forward by such a cowardly and insignificant man as you.”

Randalin stands, rooted to the floor by brambles growing over his feet, their thorns digging aggressively into his leather shoes. He watches, unable to move, as the boy king walks to where a cask of wine has been left on a table.

Cardan forgoes a goblet, instead gripping the neck of the wine bottle between his lithe fingers and turning it up, his eyes never leaving his advisor as he takes a long drink. When he sets the cask back down, wine as red as blood drips from his lips and down his chin, staining his moon-pale skin the same way castoff stains a wall during a murder.

“I would’ve thought you would realize that, even if it had worked, I’d find out about your meddling.” His voice is deadly quiet, his eyes swirling like whirlpools. “And I surely would’ve thought you smart enough to realize I wouldn’t appreciate someone taking away the woman I worked so hard to get back.”

“Your Majesty—“

“Have you ever been in love, Randalin?” Cardan cuts him off, his head tilting to the side and causing a stray drop of wine to fall onto his undershirt. “Have you ever looked into the eyes of another and felt your heart stop? Known that, as long as you live, no one will command your thoughts as this person does now?”

He steps closer, his boots clicking against the stone floor and the brambles at Randalin’s feet tightening with each step.

“Have you ever been given love, against all odds, and lost it?” He whispers in the shell of his advisor’s ear, a growl low in his throat as he does. “And were you then given that love back, only to find that someone you’re meant to trust is trying to rip it away once more?”

“The people of Elfhame will never accept a human queen.” Randalin tries, his face reddening with pain as a thorn succeeds in working its way through his shoe and into his toe.

“The people of Elfhame can all be damned.” Cardan smiles wolfishly, stepping back so he can loom over his foolish council member. “The land has chosen her, and it is the land’s support that proves a ruler’s worth here in Faerie.”

“Just because she said she was healed with the land’s help doesn’t mean we can believe her. Humans are liars, Your Majesty.”

Cardan Greenbriar walks away and turns towards the window, towards the land he and his wife will rule over until they choose for it to be otherwise. Beyond the gentle swaying of the curtains, a robin flaps by and the stars twinkle with the light of a thousand little suns.

“If you do not believe your queen’s word, believe Grima Mog, for she saw it happen.” The High King announces as he continues to look out the window, leaving the council member sweating behind him. “Jude stuffed her gutted belly full of soil and Elfhame chose to heal her. Flowers grew from the ground where her blood fell. The land answers to her, as it does to me.”

Randalin’s eyes widen. A human, a mortal with magic gifted by the land—

“How many people do you think my wife has murdered, Randalin?” Cardan’s voice is soft, the tone of a boy in love talking about his partner’s knack for making flower crowns. Not the voice of a ruler discussing his queen’s violent tendencies.

“I’m well aware that Lady Jude is—“

“High Queen Jude.” Cardan corrects, his voice void of all softness once more. “She is High Queen Jude. If you refer to her as anything else ever again, you do so at your own peril.”

“Your Majesty, if you would let me finish—“

“I shall let you finish a sentence when you begin to speak something other than nonsense.” Cardan’s tar-black eyes have the same devilish coldness in them that they had when he ripped that faerie boy’s wings at a revel so many moons ago. “Now refer to your queen by her proper title, or face the consequences.”

Randalin lets out a sigh and grits his teeth. “I am well aware that High Queen Jude is a woman with violent tendencies, but I do not know just how many lives she has claimed.”

“Nor do I.” Cardan smiles the smile of a man besotted. “She has a talent for swordplay that is unrivaled. Any night she is in my bed is a night in which I do not fear assassination, for I know my wife could kill anyone in her sleep.”

“Even you, Your Majesty.” Randalin tries to impart wisdom into his king, tries to show the boy just how dangerous this mortal girl is for both him and the kingdom.

“Especially me.” Cardan smiles as he catches Randalin’s eye, completely aware of what the older man is trying to say and also completely aware of just how wrong he is. “But she has had many chances, and she has yet to take them. Death at the hands of a god so sweet would be a gift, indeed, and yet I seem incapable of receiving such blessings.”

The brambles are growing up Randalin’s legs, cutting into his thighs and wrapping around his wrists as his arms stay by his sides.

The young man in front of him has danger etched into every line of his very being. The High King standing in this study is not the High King of days past, nor is he the High King one would ever wish to meet. Cardan Greenbriar is poison personified, malice dripping from his fanged smile and echoing in the light tapping of his fingernails on his elbow.

For the first time since hearing a doomed prince’s prophecy, Randalin feels true dread gather in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you think me a violent man, Randalin?” Cardan, who has always taken after felines in both his look and his mannerisms, seems far less cat-like than usual. It’s like his fangs hide venom, his body readying, not to pounce, but to strike.

“I’d never insult my king by suggesting something so rude, Your Majesty.”

“But you insulted your queen by suggesting that she abdicate her throne.” Cardan’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and his smile grows cruel. “So do humor me this once.”

If the fae had warning sirens, they’d be blaring in Randalin’s head right this very moment.

“No, Your Majesty.” A bramble works it’s way under his doublet, drawing blood the entire way. “I think you do not have a taste for bloodshed. At the very least, not one as strong as the High Queen’s.”

Cardan smiles as the council member finally refers to Jude by her correct title.

He steps away from Randalin once more, walking over to the bookshelf by the desk and pulling a random leather bound volume out, fingers tracing over the lettering on the spine and longing for a more familiar title.

“You know, I’ve read my fair share of mortal stories in my day,” he announces, outwardly calm even as the thorns continue to torture his advisor. “The humans have a saying, a warning of sorts, about how even the devil runs when a good man goes to war.”

He opens the book to a random page, completely ignoring the words as his nails drag down the binding.

“Now, for all my distaste in violence, I wouldn’t call myself a good man,” he continues with a small quirk to his mouth, just a little upward tilt. “I am cruel, I am petty. I delight in the suffering of those who wrong me and I’ll settle for hurting those who are lesser, if I’m unable to harm someone I feel truly deserves it.”

His foot starts tapping, a quiet beat to him but a deafening war drum to Randalin. His ears pick up the sound of a racing heartbeat and his smile grows.

“I tortured even the woman I love for years, albeit not in the ways she likely would’ve preferred, but what good is torture if someone likes it?”

He snaps the book closed and Randalin jumps as best he can in his thorny prison.

“I suppose that makes me more dangerous in war than a good man would be,” he thinks aloud as he slowly turns his gaze back to where Randalin appears to be in the process of soiling his pants. “Surely if the devil runs when a good man goes to war, he would sprint when a man of questionable morals joins the fray, don’t you think?”

“Please, Your Majesty, my recommendations were only voiced out of a concern for the well-being of the kingdom.” Randalin, a man used to lording over those beneath him, sounds dangerously close to begging. “I did not mean to offend you!”

Cardan laughs, a joyless and wicked sound. “But you have offended me, Randalin,” his eyes are wild and his grin reckless. “You have questioned my ability to choose what is best for my kingdom and you have insulted the woman who occupies my every waking thought. You have even made the grievous mistake of disturbing my wife in one of her extremely rare moments of weakness, a moment where she undoubtedly needs all her time and energy to rest.”

The nightshade occupying the rose’s former home overgrows it’s pot and begins spilling down the side of the windowsill, flowers reaching towards Randalin like little fingers.

“Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness,” Randalin’s voice almost catches in his throat. “I won’t ever suggest that High Queen Jude abdicate again. I promise!”

“Good,” Cardan says as he steps within reach of Randalin.

Randalin lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing forward.

And it’s all a moment too soon, for the High King lashes out in the blink of an eye, his long fingers wrapping around the advisor’s throat and pushing his head back against the stone wall with an audible crack!

“Because I am the man of questionable morals, and this is war,” Cardan continues as Randalin’s spine screams in agony at the angle he’s been forced into. “I, Cardan Greenbriar, High King of Elfhame, declare war!”

His fingers tighten around Randalin’s throat, his nails already leaving bloody half-moons in the older man’s skin as he presses his forehead to the council member’s.

“I declare war on everyone who opposes my wife’s right to rule beside me as my queen and my equal,” his eyes are wild, barely containing his rage. “It is a war that is unending, a war that is complete and total, a war that I have no qualms about getting violent during.”

Randalin tried to swallow, but he can’t as the king’s hand digs into his throat even harder.

“I, a man without a love for swordplay, will take up a blade. I, a man without a taste for bloodshed, will slit a thousand throats,” he continues, “if that is what it takes for my people to respect my wife.”

Randalin’s vision swims in black, his face beginning to turn an impressive shade of purple as blood starts to gush from bramble-inflicted wounds.

“And as for you,” Cardan is close enough to see tears gather in his advisor’s eyes. “You who was bold enough to openly question the High Queen, I reserve my greatest act of violence.”

The nightshade from the windowsill has reached Cardan’s feet. It begins to grow up his legs, over his waist and down his arms, forming a crown atop his head as Randalin watches in horror.

“I will skin you alive and bleed you dry, forcing you to watch the whole time,” he leans down to whisper in Randalin’s ear. “I will break your bones and tear your flesh, and when I’m done, I will find a way to erase every mention of you. No book in Elfhame will bear your name, even the stars will rearrange when I tell them to.”

“Please—“

“And then I promise I will use your hollowed our skull as my wine goblet for the rest of my days, just because I can.”

Randalin’s knees quake as his body gasps for air.

Cardan lets him go, watching in disgust as the man falls into a pile of blood-stained brambles with a sob.

“I promise this on my honor as High King, and on the vow I made with my Wife, Jude Duarte Greenbriar,” Cardan’s voice is the voice of an executioner. “So help me gods, I will rip the world apart for her.”

“Your Majesty, how can I atone?” Randalin is reduced to weeping, his hands covering his face as he cowers at his king’s feet.

“Never question the High Queen’s sovereignty again, and see that anyone else who dares to speak treason against her understands exactly how far I’m willing to go to support her right to rule beside me.”

The nightshade around Cardan disappears, withering back into the pot before dying and being replaced by pretty roses. The brambles around the room fade into nothingness, only a broken stone and a few blood smears left to remind anyone that they were ever there.

“And do hope that I don’t have to resort to violence again,” Cardan smiles that cruel little smile he wears so well. “Jude is so much more adept at wielding the hospitality of knives.”

~~~~

Tag list: @cardan-greenbriar-tcp

#cardan greenbriar #randalin #tfota #queen of nothing #jude duarte #mentioned #tyrannosaurus lex writes #hope yall enjoy #hope i didnt make it too violent #but that it was violent enough yknow #cant have someone do a 180 that hard without a little threatening

145 notes · View notes