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jon-snows-man-bun · 2 days ago

Note

Does Aisling like women at all? I'm asking for ummmm scientific purposes.

(TW NSFW, violence, smut, etc etc)

It felt good to be making a friend once more - a genuine friend, not servants tasked with watching her. Nuala and Ceridwen were fair company, but their chief role was spying. Perhaps Feyre didn’t think of it as spying on her, merely minding her and hearing about her day, but Elain kept herself pleasant around them regardless, worried that every word she said was passed along.

She had been popular back before. Some of those friends were false, abandoning them as soon as they lost their fortune, but there had been real friendships even afterwards. Fewer, to be sure, but all the more valuable for it.

Elain remembered Clare. She’d been Nesta’s friend, really, but Elain still remembered her. Elain had cried when they had discovered that their house had burned down: once when she found out, alongside Nesta who had merely turned to stone beside her, and then for a second time, alone in her bed that night.

She hadn’t thought of her in so long, with everything that came after for her, but there was one summer’s day when Clare came to walk to the market with Nesta, and upon their return -

“A secret,” Clare had said to Elain, and from her pocket pulled two peaches.

Elain bit into hers, but spat it out immediately – it wasn’t soft fruit underneath, but half-spoiled, gone mushy and near rotten.

Clare passed her peach over, and Elain put her teeth right where Clare’s had been, tongue on the same sweet flesh. Clare had laughed as she took an outsized bite, and Elain smiled back with all her teeth, the juice running down her chin.

Clare wiped it off Elain’s face, then licked the juice off the back of her hand. The flash of Clare’s pink tongue against the cream of her skin had astonished Elain, and Clare’s laughter at Elain’s shocked face made her ears buzz. Nesta had been in the cabin while they were out in the garden, among Elain’s paltry flowers, and Elain could still smell the warm earth and honey-glow morning, face sticky with fruit.

Clare’s mouth had tasted like peaches. Elain remembered that, a little secret that she thought of when she saw Clare and Nesta walking or reading together. Clare would always smile at her, and then Elain would know Clare was thinking of it, too.

Elain was still thinking of those smiles as Cassian flew her to the doors of the Library. She smiled sweetly at him and off he went, thinking no more on her - if he did, perhaps he only thought of how relieved Nesta would be that Elain was quiet and docile and pleasant again. Boring, Nesta had called her, but the truth was Nesta and Feyre liked her to be boring. It made their own lives all the more interesting when they had her as a backdrop.

Aisling was waiting for her, in an alcove just off the steps down from the House of Wind. She wore an outfit in the Hewn City style, a top of silvery faerie-silk that was cut off to reveal her waist, and a full skirt embellished with what looked like the iridescent wings of beetles.

A priestess smiled radiantly as she passed them, on her way to other business. Reading, or writing, Elain supposed. It seemed a dull way to spend centuries, but then, so was gardening and baking.

“Ladies,” the priestess said, her voice as sweet and soporific as wine. “It pleases me to see you both looking so well and lovely. Two radiant stars of the Night Court.”

Elain smiled like a radiant star of the Night Court ought to while Aisling, linked arm-in-arm with her, merely looked bored.

“They all smile so widely here,” Aisling complained, as they rounded a corner and were out of earshot. “We do not smile so in the City. You would be considered ensorcelled or witless if you did.”

Elain considered that, her own smile still painted on. She felt like she never stopped forcing herself to smile. Her cheeks ached with it sometimes; it often felt so rubbery that she was astounded no one asked her if she was well. But it was as if they just saw her looking pleasant and sweet and pretty and looked no closer.

She tried it, letting her smile go, relaxing her brow. It was a relief, but as she followed Aisling into her room, Elain wondered if she looked as much of a bitch as Aisling did.

Elain liked Aisling, though she didn’t understand all of what she said all the time. Her manners were arcane and strange, but it fit her – she looked more fae than Rhysand, whom Elain had long suspected of glamouring himself to seem more mundane. Or Cassian or Azriel, even despite their wings; Mor, as beautiful and glossy as she was, seemed familiar to her now. But Aisling looked like how she would have thought a faerie to look, as pretty and dangerous as a poison flower. Something she both longed to touch and knew she shouldn’t. Something worth the pain of touching it regardless.

And now Aisling was here, teaching her, in her rooms in the Library. Elain had asked her to - Aisling was iridescent with magic, sometimes, in her dreams. She looked strange and beautiful and a little frightening. Elain had wanted to look that way, too.

But the prospect of actually doing magic was a lot more daunting than she thought it would be.

“First a glamour,” Aisling said, her knees tucked neatly under her as she sat on a cushion on the floor. Her room was filled with her clothing and jewellery tossed about carelessly, and strange mementos from her home littered the tables - silver goblets, enchanted jasmine flowers that never wilted, an ash-bound dagger as long as her forearm. “They are easiest, because it is by eye. Other magic can only be done by feel.”

Aisling was careless where she touched her, manipulating Elain’s hands until they were just so. Her long fingers were gentle as they held her hands, but the touch was thrilling and a little frightening, too.

“I don’t know if I’m capable,” Elain admitted, still studying her hands.

“Of course you are. You’re fae. Even the least of the lesser fae can glamour, in some amount.”

A peach was unceremoniously placed in her hand.

“Picture it as you want,” Aisling told her. “Imagine it, then desire it. First by eye, then by heart.”

Elain stared at the peach, trying to desire it to become something else, but all she could think about was the texture and weight of it in her palm. It was just a peach, really. She couldn’t imagine it being anything else.

“Even curiosity is a kind of desire, just to see what else it might become,” Aisling coaxed her. Elain diligently tried to become curious, yet still the peach was stubborn.

Aisling sighed.

“Perhaps I should show you,” she said, and the peach turned to an apple in Elain’s palm, then to a pear, then to a mouse, then to a diamond. Then it was gone.

The peach reappeared in her hand once more. Rose, Elain thought, as hard as she could. She thought of the texture of the petals and the prick of the thorns, the blooming pink colour, the velvet-soft smell. She pictured it in her mind, and yet she was still astonished when it appeared in her hand where the peach once was.

Aisling clapped her hands in delight, while Elain flushed red with pleasure at her new skill. Magic! It was strange, and felt like something she shouldn’t be doing, but she had done it – the rose sparked occasionally as it caught the light, something Aisling explained was due to the weakness of her glamour, hinting at the true nature underneath. There were always clues, she said. No glamour was perfect. But Elain’s glamour seemed perfect enough in her estimation.

That night, still flush on her own success, Elain had felt filled with confidence over her magic. Perhaps for the first time, she felt - if not in control, then at least capable. It felt like Aisling had lifted the veil on some secret everyone had known but her, and now she knew, too. It wasn’t unthinkable that she could tame it, and it wasn’t some raging fire that scorched her every time she touched it. It was, perhaps, something like clay. She could mould it.

She should have known it wouldn’t have been leashed so easily.

The vision started out familiar enough: places she had never been, people she had never seen. Still languid with the joy of her earlier victory, Elain didn’t fight the vision as she normally did, merely watched passively, as if the two of them had reached a truce.

When she saw Rhys and the terrible red-haired queen, Elain realised with a sickening lurch that any truce was forfeit.

They were laughing at something, and she was forced to watch through the fog of time and magic. She saw them surrounded by other faeries, sorts she had never seen nor imagined. A great crowd, all laughing, all gathered in a red stone hall around a crying human girl.

There was blood on the floor, blood on the walls, and Elain wasn’t sure how she knew that when everything was made of that ugly red stone.

The human girl was crying, her dark hair pulled over her face. Half of her was red, but not because of blood, because the skin had been peeled back. There was another crack and an almighty scream and Elain realised her skin was split in meaty stripes because she was being whipped.

They all laughed again, ugly laughter that sounded like shrieks. Elain thought she saw the white flash of bone, underneath all the red.

Rhys was holding the whip.

He raised it again, his white teeth flashing, and Elain’s stomach turned inside out when she heard him laughing, above all the screaming, above the shrieks and the howls and the wailing flute that wouldn’t stop.

Elain tried to accept the vision, as Aisling had taught her, to see and accept and then let it pass over her as a wave. I’ve seen it, she shouted in her own mind, I understand, I understand, please, I’ve seen it now, and still it did not release her, not even as Rhys raised the whip again, and she saw his face so terrible and clear that she didn’t know how she would ever look him in the eye again, nor did it release her when another dark-haired faerie bent over the bloodied girl, and Elain didn’t see what he did to her but there was more laughter and terrible screaming. The front of the faerie’s tunic was all bloodied when he rose again, an ugly splotch that would be impossible to wash out.

The naked, half-raw girl was shackled, reduced to an animal to slaughter, and they hung her carcass against the wall like the chickens hung in the Palace of Bone and Salt in Velaris, and Elain saw first the rounded curve of human ears.

Oh, she thought stupidly. And it took her only a moment longer to look again, to really look, and then Clare lifted her head, one of her cheeks split open so her mouth hung wide, but her eyes looked straight at Elain -

Elain woke up to vomit on her bed, straight on the rose silk quilt.

She was still sweating, heart churning, lungs full of acid like she’d run for her life, Clare’s face and Rhys’ face still laughing.

Clare had been so pretty. And now Elain would never think of her without seeing her ravaged face, her ruined mouth, the raw meat of her back. She had sat at breakfast with Rhys that morning, with Feyre, smiling away as she looked after their baby.

Did Feyre know? How could she not? Elain wanted to claw her eyes out as she launched out of bed, but she couldn’t - she couldn’t be anything but placid and docile and so stupid and insipid -

She was at the doors to the Library before she even realised where her feet were taking her, and she knew there was one person who would understand, who would know what to do with the ugly, gritty anger that was still screaming in her chest as her heart hammered.

Aisling would be awake. She was always awake at night. She had said that. Elain’s feet carried her further into the Library, remembering where to go, and she felt only relief as she saw Aisling sat on a settee reading in the cool dark of a quiet alcove.

It was so peaceful, and yet all Elain could think of was the ugly red walls, and she swore she could still hear the wailing flute in the distance.

“Elain?” Aisling was startled, sitting up. Elain knew she looked frightful - in her nightdress, wild with fright, ugly with anger.

The story spilled out of her like more vomit.

“I just can’t believe he would act that way,” Elain finally whispered. “That he would lie to me. I told them Clare died in that fire - they didn’t say anything-”

“Of course they lied to you,” Aisling said, blue eyes amused as her head tilted indulgently. “The High Lord only knows how to lie. It’s the nature of a daemati. If he killed your friend then that is hard luck, but you should be glad you merely had a taste of his nature rather than a mouthful.”

Elain felt sick. She felt like she’d missed a step in the dark, the same panicked lurch - why would Feyre have never told her the truth? Clare had been Nesta’s friend, had been Elain’s friend. The image of her pinned to the wall - a red butterfly, a bloody smear - kept painting itself behind Elain’s eyes.

Elain tried to say something, but realised her throat was tight as a needle and her eyes were wet and stinging. She could only suck in a desperate breath, her whole body crunching down on the knife twisting through her heart.

Some time later, when Elain had cried out what felt like every drop of liquid in her body and was laying wrung out as a dish rag against the pillows of the settee, she felt a hand stroking gently through her hair.

That was very nice, she thought vaguely, her mind wiped clean and empty by the grief.

Elain turned her head, certain she looked blotchy and horrible, but Aisling didn’t stop lightly petting her, knelt beside her on the floor. She didn’t have to stay while Elain broke down. Aisling had never struck her as particularly soft, and yet there she was, her blue eyes studying Elain closely.

“I can’t believe my sister lied to me,” Elain finally managed. “And Rhys, as well. We grew up with Clare. I know he was acting as he had to, I suppose… but after. They could have said. I would have mourned Clare.”

“Did you think the rest of Prythian hates him without cause?” Aisling asked softly. “And now that you see his nature, you hate him too.”

Elain didn’t dare think that, but it was burning, sour in her ribs and rotten in her gut.

“Of course I don’t,” she said, forcing open her brown eyes wide, but Aisling only smiled.

“I won’t tell your secret,” Aisling promised, her hand finally resting on Elain’s shoulder, light as a dove.

“If you swear,” Elain finally said, studying her smile. It was pretty, though it didn’t make her look warm or placid. It made her look like she knew a good secret.

“I promise.” Aisling’s voice was soft in the dark, her eyes a lovely deep blue. Inhuman blue - they were faerie eyes, a colour no human could be born with. Eyes that could see in the dark.

“Our lips are sealed,” Elain said, and pressed her lips to Aisling’s before she could think more on it and dissuade herself. Aisling startled underneath her, but didn’t pull away, instead her mouth opened and – oh

Elain could taste the magic in her, on her tongue, and it made the magic in her own blood sparkle and bubble and hum. This was what Rhys meant, then, when he said he could taste Feyre’s power. It tasted iron and sweet at the same time, but the slide of Aisling’s tongue against hers made her feel -

She was glad she didn’t kiss Azriel, that he didn’t taste her magic like this. Aisling’s hands fluttered at her shoulders, one to her waist; unsure where to rest, but Elain felt them, despite that they were soft as moths brushing against a light.

Aisling was unused to gentleness and did not know what to do. As she had taught Elain magic, Elain could teach her this.

Elain bit Aisling’s bottom lip lightly, so softly with her teeth, and Aisling’s little breath of surprise let Elain nudge her backwards, so she lay over her on the settee. Aisling lay dark and still underneath her, sparkling like a glamour where her diamonds glittered in her hair and at her throat; Elain admired, for a moment, the way the black of Aisling’s hair made her own look near golden as it slipped free from her braid and the two met.

Elain was flushed hot all to her toes, increasingly giddy that she had flustered Aisling, had been the one to catch her by surprise. The same feeling as telling a lie and getting away with it, or pocketing a sweet from a shop – all full of adrenaline and relief.

Elain leaned down and kissed her again, first her full lips, then the skin of her throat. Aisling arched up underneath her, blooming and opening, her breath shallow as her hands traced gently up Elain’s sides. Elain shivered under her touch, at the long, clever fingers, at the way they knew how to cup Elain’s head just so. Elain nibbled at her throat, and Aisling’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted to speak, and Elain thought it would be a rebuke –

“I have not done this,” Aisling murmured, and Elain giggled, her nose brushing Aisling’s collarbone.

She couldn’t stop now. It was as if the more they touched the more Elain wanted, and Elain was tired of denying herself and making herself smaller so others might look over her more easily. All her adrenaline was changed, transmuted, into something else. Glamoured away, she thought wildly, heart still churning.

Elain gently pulled the lacing of her top, admiring the way the silk and ribbon garment fell away – she would look scandalous if she tried to wear it, but on Aisling it was elegant, and perfectly suited – and Aisling’s bare breasts were revealed to her. Not much bigger than peaches, but they fit perfectly in Elain’s soft hands as she cupped them reverentially, watching the way Aisling’s head tipped back at the barest brush of Elain’s thumbs across her nipples. Elain toyed with them a moment, gauging how much pressure Aisling liked; the barest tug made her hips jump. Elain felt nothing but heat, seeing what she could pull from another female.

Elain knew what she looked like. Clare had told her. You look like a sunrise, she had said. Like a summer dawn, breaking soft and golden.

Elain felt soft and golden as she leant down to lick Aisling’s breast, making the other faerie gasp and arch up. The moment was ephemeral as a soap bubble, but so delicious that Elain didn’t want it to end, and so she dragged her tongue to Aisling’s skin again and again. Elain stripped her of her gown, and was astonished for a moment by the long-limbed beauty of faeries all over again.

“Please don’t stop,” Aisling asked shyly, her face red and flushed. Aisling was stroking Elain’s hair, running down her waist, pulling at Elain’s own dress. Azriel had said Aisling was rude, that they never said please or thank you where she was from, but Elain could swear Aisling gasped out a thank you as she went lower to spread open the pretty pink flower between Aisling’s legs.

She didn’t taste like Clare. She tasted impossibly sweet, inhumanly sweet, with the sparkling zip of magic that Elain couldn’t help but seek out, pressing her tongue into Aisling’s honeyed channel. This was why faeries liked sex so much, Elain realised, half-dazed as she licked and sucked hungrily, her heart careening, her blood singing – who wouldn’t want to feel like this? She could feel her magic tingling all through her, and it felt as if she sparked when she pressed two of her own slim fingers into Aisling.

They fit just so, and Elain watched in fascination for a moment before she sought out the pearl at the top. Aisling gasped when she found it, her legs trembling like a fawn’s around Elain’s shoulders.

Licking and working at her until her face was slick, Elain felt nothing but delighted accomplishment when Aisling’s core flexed and trembled around her fingers, finally fluttering as Aisling arched her back and cried out like Elain had pulled the air from her lungs.

———-

@buffy-vanserra worlds best beta who held my hand through my first lesbian smut scene

Taglist @velidewrites you’re my first babyyyyy

#shoutout to the comment that made me do a quadruple take and start frantically typing #only like 40% of this is beta read #but buffy killed it as beta as per her golden standard #this was fun even if it wasn't my best lmao I had higher ambitions for this but changed my mind #enjoy some girl kissing!!#ch: aisling #ch: elain archeron #by turns ask #prompt fill

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