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fabulouslyflamboyant5 · 26 days

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The Unrighteous Knight Part 3

pairing: azriel x second archeron sister!reader

summary: an argument with nesta sends you reeling, so what better place to escape to than your own room? and what worse fate to be bestowed upon you than azriel intruding your solitude?

warning: canon typical violence

word count: 1.2k

a/n: writer's block is a menace and I like crystals so please feel free to send in suggestions for a potentially witchy reader. also, I am experiencing INTENSE throne of glass withdrawals and need something else to latch on to.

Part One Part Two Part Three

What is it to live?

Must one feel to live? Or does life only exist in the fleeting moments of feeling?

Feeling and living. Can someone composed of nothing attain either of the two concepts? Or are life and feeling limited to those composed of something.

You are, in the biological sense, alive.

You bleed red and you bleed often; usually at the hands of yourself, and sometimes by the fury of Azriel.

But what does blood matter in any of this? It signifies you are alive, but fails to determine whether or not you are truly living.

It's a peculiar thing, really.

Living.

Is it meant to be defined, can it be? Or is it just something that is felt, never objectified, only ever theorized?

And can someone filled with nothing live?

Would you be no more than a soul, rotting away in the shell of your lifeforce? Dead in all ways but anatomical?

Is that what you are? A shell, hollow enough for the winds of change to pull back your exterior and expose the monotony that brews within you?

Your answer comes in the form of wake.

Like a rose ripped from its stem and forced into a bouquet, you are plucked from your slumber and presented to the world once again; with the expectation that you live, even though you have long since died.

It’s degrading, really.

It makes you feel like a prop.

You are not y/n Archeron, and you have not been for quite some time. You are the Night Courts underutilized doll, tucked away in a gloomy room and laid across a rose pillared bed.

Adjectives fail to encapsulate your essence, for adjectives require substance. And you are lacking in everything one could possibly possess.

It is questions like this that plague your thoughts, tying you to your bed, holding you hostage from the lives playing out behind your bedroom door. You’d like to believe you lived a more fulfilling life as a human, but you are well aware of the fact that despite the mortal blood that had run through your veins, you were never living.

And despite it all, you remain placid, crestfallen on the stairs of yearning, praying for contentment to shine upon you. As fate would have it, contentment is not what arrives in seek of you, for it is Azriel looming over your unkempt silhouette.

The thought of words being shared has a wave of nausea crashing against you. So you, in spite of your resentment for the winged manipulator, turn away from the closed curtains and lean onto your right side.

His eyes are what you take in first. Had he not raised his blade against you, perhaps you’d dream of swimming in hazel. But life, never quite kind to you, has you drowning in the golden irises you cannot help but revere.

“Good evening, Shadowsinger, I do hope you’ve come in peace,” you drawl, never tearing your eyes from his own.

Peace.

The prospect of it has you scoffing.

“I’ve come to you as I am,” he replies blankly. His face, that damn face. Had he looked any less regal then perhaps you’d have an easier time listening to what he had to say, but all you can focus on are his unemotive eyes and formidable wing span.

“...I do recognize the situation is less than ideal, but it is a direct order from Rhysand, and we have no choice but to conform.”

“Ah,” you begin, not quite sure what he had been explaining to you for the past few minutes.

He raises an eyebrow but quickly lets a scowl overtake his features. His arms cross and his eyes look as piercing as they feel. “You know nothing of what I just said to you. I don’t intend on repeating myself for I do not find you of all beings to be worth the effort,” he exhales sharply, “meet me at the training grounds tomorrow, bring no weapon and arrive no later than the sun.”

Training grounds, with him and not Nesta?

It’s hard to imagine your High Lord caring very much for your well being, even with Feyre’s convincing. Still, you cannot help but feel that you are being overlooked once more. Exploited and deceived, never allowed to make decisions for yourself. You do not wish to train, you do not wish to learn the art of bloodshed, and most notably, you despise the prospect of Azriel being the one to teach you, for his blade is still wedged in between your flesh each and every time you close your eyes. Even today, he did not come in peace, for peace is a concept entirely unknown to him. He, despite his success as the Night Court's spymaster, is a creature of torment. An unrighteous knight, a commander of cruelty, the bringer of despair. And yet, in his own twisted way, he is still a savior deserving of accolades.

The clearing of his throat removes you from your trance, commanding your attention to his being once more. As though he expects an answer, he nods in your direction, encouraging you to say your part. You are once more a character in a play, for your lines are being fed to you and the individual you embody is a stranger to the soul inhabiting it.

“Very well,” you say, letting nothingness consume you once more, “I will see you tomorrow, no later than sunrise.”

Seemingly content, or something akin to it, Azriel’s gaze falls upon your own and his scowl deepens to the point where it seems permanently etched to his features. It is moments such as these that you wish you could retreat into the air and never return. Of everyone to have ever despised you, the hatred that Azriel emits is entirely unprecedented. Since you’d been turned into a creature of myths and legends, he has taken it upon himself, treating it like a mission of the utmost importance, to tear you apart until absolutely nothing remains. His words are venomous and his actions bleed true, never once have you felt like such a waste.

Feeling is a fickle thing because before this most recent encounter, you’d been convinced that it was a language lost to you. But no, you are capable of feeling in the same ways you are capable of living. Hope is not lost but it is frivolous because the promise of feeling and the potential of life cannot stop your soul from rotting away. According to your own philosophy, you are dying, little by little with each passing day. And yet, it is Azriel who stands before you, seemingly content with making you his prey.

“Do not disappoint me,” he says as he walks further away, through the door and down the stairs, effectively leaving you to bathe in your own grievances.

He speaks of disappointment as though they are old acquaintances; or, in simple terms, as if you’d never be capable of recognizing such a thing had he not identified it for you. But a fool he is, for you and disappointment are the dearest of friends and loveliest of lovers.

“Until next time, Shadowsinger,” you say to no one in particular, staring at the chandelier above your sprawled form. Its crystals, sharp, precise, and devastatingly beautiful are what spark something in you. Even if it is only a spark, the reminder that you are not yet dead is all that matters in this very moment.

So alas, a crystal is the muse that has called to you, and a crystal is the very thing your desires shall embody.

taglist: @aetherl0l @sidthedollface2 @marvelouslovely-barnes @impossibelle @chessebookgirl

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theladyofdeath · 9 months

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Better or Worse {20}

Nessian. Angst. Modern AU.

@snelbz x @theladyofdeath collab

Better or Worse Masterlist

A/N: I apologize for the long wait! Life got busy and we have a few other things we've been working on. Nonetheless, here is the final chapter! We hope you enjoyed this story and thank you for reading it, each week, and giving us such sweet comments, likes, and reblogs. The epilogue will be posted soon. x

~ Cass ~

Nesta was beautiful.

I spent the entire morning getting ready, so excited that I was making myself nauseous. I’ve never been one for waiting. Patience and I are mortal enemies. It was well worth it, though, the second that I saw my wife. She walked towards me with a bouquet of lilies, smiling brightly, and I could hardly contain myself.

And her dress.

The dress that Nesta chose for this perfect day was a garment made by the gods. Made nearly entirely of lace and covered in intricate beading, parts of it are damn near painted on. It perfectly magnifies her breasts and her ass, and although it’s not gentlemanly to focus on those two things, I don’t give a fuck. I can’t stop staring at either and I know damn well that that was Nesta’s intention.

After I got past the dress and was able to think clearly, I delivered the most heartfelt vows I could possibly come up with. I’ve spent the last month working on them and had Azriel, Rhys, and both of my sister-in-laws proofread them. Nesta is obviously a fantastic writer and I was nervous that they wouldn’t live up to her level of perfection, but by the time I was done reading them, she was crying.

She kissed me right then and there, before she had even read her vows, not caring that we were surrounded by all of our friends and family and coworkers. It was a hell of a kiss, too. Her tongue met mine and it took every ounce of self control not to sweep her into my arms and carry her into a closed space.

Especially in that dress.

I’m watching her now, dancing with her sisters with a drink in her hand. I can’t take my eyes off of her, I haven’t been able to since the moment she came into view a few hours ago. She’s been my wife for ten years and I can’t believe it. I’m so in love with her, more in love with her every day.

My feet are moving before my mind catches up with me. I’m close enough to touch her before she turns around and jumps, apparently not expecting me to sneak up on her. Or, judging by the slight glaze of her eyes, she’s just a little tipsy.

“Hi,” I say, grabbing her by her waist and pulling her close to me. ”Can we go now?”

She throws her head back and laughs which is one of the most beautiful sights known to man. “No. We just got here. Besides, we haven’t had dessert yet, and we all know that’s the best part.”

I cock a brow. “I think dinner is the best part, but I see the appeal.”

“Spoken like a chef,” she says, finishing off her drink and running her arms around my neck.

I’ve never been one to make dessert. It’s not my strength, at all, but damn it, I can cook a hell of a meal.

“I think he’s enjoying himself, don’t you?”

I follow Nesta’s line of sight and snort. Eris is standing by the bar, drink in hand, scowling at the bartender as he flirts with one of my coworkers further down the line. “To be honest, I’m surprised you wanted to invite him.”

Nesta shrugs. “We’ve been trying to get along better lately.”

“And how’s that going?”

She rolls her eyes. “About as you’d expect it to. Come on. Dance with me.”

I can’t say no to that. We make our way to the middle of the dance floor just as a slow song begins. Without any hesitation, I pull Nesta into my arms and begin swaying to the beat.

Suddenly, it’s just the two of us. No one else matters, no one else exists. We are in our own little world, just as we were on the dancefloor ten years ago, just like we are whenever we are alone, as one.

As she rests her head on my chest, I take a deep breath and think about everything we’ve been through, the highs and the lows, about how far we’ve come in a year. A year ago, our marriage was in shambles. Nesta was hurting in ways I couldn’t imagine, and while my heart was broken, too, we both let ourselves fall into our own brands of darkness. I wasn’t sure we would be able to pull out of it.

But here we are.

Here we are and I have never been so in love with my wife.

Lifting her head, Nesta gazes up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears, but they have been all day, so I don’t think anything of it until she says, “So I got a phone call earlier today.”

My eyebrows raise. “About?”

Gnawing on her lip, I can see she’s about to burst with the news. Whatever it is, the fact that she’s kept it from me until now is impressive. And when she speaks, my heart stops.

“About a possible placement coming up in a couple months.”

We stop swaying. We stop moving and I stare at her. “A couple of months?”

Nodding, she’s unable to stop the tears from finally spilling over. “There’s a young mother who just entered the program. She’s six months pregnant and wants her baby to have the best life possible, but knows that isn’t possible for her right now. We’re going to meet her next week.”

I’m speechless.

I’m rarely speechless, but right now, I have no words. I can’t stop staring at Nesta, with my mouth hanging open, as tears of joy run down her cheeks. She laughs, quietly, and cups my face in her hands.

“Next week?” I ask, at last, and it’s nothing more than a whisper.

She nods, and her smile is so pure that it makes me weak. “Wednesday, ten o’clock.”

“Wednesday,” I repeat, and swallow hard. I have so many emotions running through my body that I can’t contain, that can’t be deciphered, so all I let out is an eloquent, “Holy fuck.”

Nesta laughs as she nods once more, and then she’s kissing me. I take her into my arms and spin her around, not caring who sees. This is our night, and I don’t give a damn that anyone is watching.

By Wednesday, we may be on the right track to having what we’ve wanted for so long. A baby. A family. The thought alone has me feeling more joy than I ever thought imaginable. Just when I think the night can’t get any better, it does.

When I let her feet touch the floor, I pull back to look at her and the smile on her face is breathtaking. She’s so damn beautiful and for a second, I can’t believe she’s mine. I don’t realize that I’m crying until she reaches up to wipe the tears from my face. She whispers, “I love you so much.”

There’s no hesitation in my answer. “I love you more.”

With a roll of her eyes, Nesta is rising up on her toes and pressing another kiss to my lips. “I haven’t even told my sisters. I told them the phone call was a business call.”

“We can wait,” I promise her. “Wait until we see where this goes. That way we don’t get anyone’s hopes up.” What I don’t have to mention is that I don’t just mean our family’s. I also mean our own. “Now come on,” I say, stepping back after I kiss her one last time. “Let’s go smash cake onto each other’s faces.”

We do just that and the rest of the night goes on with the same joy and celebration that has been present all day. After I shove cake into Nesta’s mouth, and all up the side of her face, we eat and drink and dance the night away. By the time midnight rolls around, Rhysand and Azriel are plastered and dancing with one another in the middle of a vacant dancefloor. Our guests have begun to leave and now very few of us remain.

I sit between Elain and Feyre, finishing what’s left in our glasses, watching the two fools sway and sing obnoxiously for all to see.

“I can’t believe I’m in love with that man,” Feyre mutters, although her voice is full of admiration.

“I can’t believe we procreated with them,” Elain adds.

I laugh, shaking my head. If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d probably be out there with them, but I am. It was a long day, and I’m still not completely recovered from my drinking binge last night. It was all worth it, though. Every bit of it has been worth it.

My eyes wander over to Nesta, who is saying goodbye to some of our guests. All I’ve wanted since the moment I saw her earlier today was to take her away and have her all to myself. I’m tempted to drown myself in coffee so I have enough energy to do just that, now that it’s almost time to go home.

Before I get the chance, Nesta turns and catches me staring. With one look at her raised eyebrow, I’m on my feet, crossing the room and wrapping her up in my arms. “Ready to go?”

Chucking, she asks, “How many more times are you going to ask me that?” Rising up on her toes, she leans up to kiss me.

I meet her halfway and answer with my lips still on hers. “Until you relent and let me take you home so I can ravish you.”

The way her eyes roll tells me that was exactly the answer she was expecting, but she says, “Let me say goodbye to my sisters and grab my stuff.”

“I’ll do the same.” She steps back, but I’ve got a hold of her hand. Bringing it to my lips, I press a kiss to the new band sitting alongside her original wedding set. “I love you.”

Her eyes soften and she pulls back into my body. “I love you more.”

I kiss her again, slowly, and she sinks into it. Before I can get too carried away, though, I break it off and step back with a groan. “Grab your shit. Quickly.”

She grins and her eyes light up, even as she rolls them. I force my own feet to go back to the dressing room and start throwing my stuff into my duffel bag. The door opens and closes behind me and I know it’s my brothers before I even turn to see them, practically carrying one another into the room.

“Cassssssss,” Rhysand grins, and throws himself into my arms, followed by Azriel. For a moment, we just stand there, drunkenly embracing, but then they pull back and Rhysand claps me on the shoulder. “We love you. We’re happy for you. We’re proud of you.”

He hiccups halfway through the word proud and there’s a good chance neither of them will remember this in the morning, but I have no doubt that he means every word.

And it means everything to me.

I drag them back into the reception hall with me, thinking they’d lose their way if I didn’t, and once they’re safely delivered to their wives, I find mine.

We didn’t announce that we were leaving. There were no sentimental parents waiting to see us off. Hell, we aren’t even taking a honeymoon, just taking two days off to fuck like animals at home and then get back to real life. So we don’t tell anyone as we meet in the front room and I take her bag, carrying it to the truck as we walk hand in hand. I chuck our bags in the back then make a dramatic show of opening the passenger door, before scooping her up and setting her in seat. She’s laughing by the end of it, so no matter how stupid I may look, it’s worth it. I hop in the front seat, the engine roars to life, and we’re out of there.

We’re passing through the main square when Nesta gasps. “You know what sounds so good, Cass? Fried pickles, we should stop at the diner and pick some up.”

It’s a damn good thing I know this town like the back of my hand because I’m staring at my wife, despite needing to have my eyes on the road. Blinking, I look forward. “We’re on the way home from our renewal—”

“And I want some fried pickles,” she interrupts, turning in her seat to face me. Her dress is a cloud of fabric on the floorboard, more dress than there is room at her feet.

“You know, I can make you—”

“No, no,” she begins, fully knowing that she has me wrapped around her finger and I’m going to do whatever she asks, despite my protests. “Fried pickles from the diner.”

I blink. “It’s almost one—”

“The diner is open twenty four hours, lucky us.”

With a reluctant sigh, and a laugh I can’t help, I turn right at the next set of lights and less than five minutes later, we’re walking into the diner. Every person in here — and there’s not many — looks at us in surprise and I suddenly feel on full display.

And I also don’t love how the guy behind the counter is staring at my wife.

We’re seated instead of getting takeout, although Nesta orders one basket of fried pickles for now and the other to go. Seeing how I’m apparently going to be up all night, I order a coffee and a breakfast special that consists of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, and we eat our strange middle of the night meal, sitting on the same side of the booth.

By the time I’m full, all of my plates cleaned, Nesta is still munching on her fried pickles. She’s asked for more ranch twice, and completely drained them all, licking her fingers absentmindedly like she’s not wearing a stunning, expensive wedding gown.

They give us our meal for free, as a wedding present.

By the time we’re home, it’s three-thirty and her eyelids are heavy in the passenger seat, where she holds my hand while I pull into the driveway. I, however, am wide awake, thanks to my coffee refills while I waited for her to finish her basket of grease.

After cutting the engine, I round the truck and open her door. Her head lulls in my direction and she smiles at me, sleepily. “Is there when you carry me across the threshold?”

I do. I lift her up, cradle her in my arms and carry her through the garage door, into the kitchen where Greg is sprawled out on the table, snoring softly.

After kicking the door shut, I keep carrying her upstairs, through the dark, silent house. Our house, our home that’s full of love and will hopefully, one day, be filled with children.

Maybe even one day soon.

In our bedroom, I set her down and start unbuttoning the back of her dress.

There are a lot of fucking buttons.

She chuckles quietly as I work and when the band of her ivory lace thong she’s adorned starts to show, my fingers are nearly sore and I stop, muttering, “Surely you can get out of it without me doing the rest, damn.”

“You weren’t having fun?” she asks, humored, as she lets the dress fall down to a pool around her feet.

“Who puts that many buttons on a dress? How long did it take you to get into that damn thing?”

She turns to me slowly and my eyes drift to her full breasts, bare and on display for me, nipples peaked. “I thought you liked the dress.”

“I loved the dress,” I say, and I did, even if I spent most the night dreaming of getting her out of it.

She stifles a yawn as she steps toward me and lays her hands against my chest. “There was a promise of you ravishing me once we got home, if I remember correctly.”

I huff a laugh and pull her waist closer towards me. “It can wait until tomorrow. You’re tired.”

She groans and runs her hands up my shoulders, her fingers into my hair. “I don’t think so.”

My grin barely has time to widen before her mouth is on mine, hungrily, and I’m carrying her to bed. My clothes end up in a heap by her dress and we make love, slowly, then we fuck like animals like we’ve done a million times before. It’s full of passion, longing, lust and love, wholly reverent. It’s two souls connecting, reminding each other of our past and promising each other our futures.

We have risen from the ashes. We’ve taken what was ruined, shattered, and made it whole once again. We fixed what was broken and made it stronger than it was before.

We lay awake, staring at one another in the quiet of the early morning, tangled in bare limbs. Her hair is a mess, her makeup is smudged, but I made true on my promise to ravish. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect, my wife, who is a mess of a woman. She feels more than anyone else feels, loves more powerfully because she gives that love away so rarely, keeps that love for so few. She is full of grief and trauma, and some days, self-loathing. But she is healing, has healed, has helped me heal, both alone and alongside her. Some days she makes me so angry that I want to rip off my face and throw it at her, but then she makes me so enraptured by love and adoration that I can’t even think straight.

There is no other woman for me. She is it, my one and only, the other half of my very being, this woman that I married at nineteen.

My soulmate.

My wife.

The mother of any children we may be blessed to have, biologically or not.

And I am really fucking lucky.

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