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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 8 hours

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Just Looking At You Got Me Thinking Nonsense

A/N: happy Day Four of @nestaarcheronweek! Sometimes, to really be a lover, you have to risk it all in a bidding war, ya know? This was a fun little fic to write, and I want to give a big ole shout-out to the Anon who sent me this prompt! I hope everyone enjoys :)

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Cassian digs his phone out of his back pocket, opening back up the group chat and the most recent messages still waiting there. With a nod, he pockets the phone again, rolling out his shoulders. There’s a glass case full of pictures and some sort of awards on the wall opposite him, and Cassian uses it as a makeshift mirror. He’s always had a bad habit of running his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, and now his curls are a tangled mess as a result.

A door opening down the hall has Cassian almost jumping out of his skin. He turns just in time to see the exact woman he’s here for walking down the hall, her arm looped with a red head that Cassian is pretty sure was in his trig class last year.

“Trust me, it will be over before you know it,” the red head says as they walk.

“Until I have to sit through some stupid dinner after… You’re lucky that I love you.”

“I know, and I am lucky you’re doing this with me. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to go up there alone.”

“Hey, Nes,” Cassian calls in greeting when they’re close enough, raising his hand in a wave.

Whether she doesn’t hear him or is just ignoring him, Cassian isn’t sure. But both women don’t acknowledge him, walking through another door further down the hall. One that, he presumes, leads into the large hall.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” Cassian mumbles to himself, letting his hand drop back to his side. “Idiot.”

“Idiot is certainly one word I’d use to describe you.”

Azriel’s low chuckle echoes Rhys’s remark, and Cassian turns to glare at both his brothers. He knocks his shoulders against both of them, leading the way back toward the front of the building and the main doors into the hall. There’s more laughter, but at least his brothers fall into step behind him. He doesn’t have time for their teasing. Not tonight at least. This is his one chance, and he’ll be damned if he fucks it up, if he loses it. He needs to focus.

Cassian knew that Nesta Archeron was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen the first time he saw her walk into his gen-ed English lecture earlier this semester. Her blue gray eyes had been piercing beneath the lights of the lecture hall, and Cassian wanted to dive into them and drown in them right in that moment. Even more so when he watched her roll those eyes at something said at the front of the lecture hall.

Gods, he wanted to make those eyes roll.

He was sure that the Mother must be smiling down on him when Nesta had ended up in his seminar after the lecture too. It was clear that she was smart. That she had a passion for books. That she didn’t take any bullshit. He could sit and watch and listen to her in that seminar for the rest of his life and be happy. And when she absolutely eviscerated Tamlin for his “analysis” of Lolita, Cassian had been ready to drop to his knees right then and there.

It made him try harder. He made sure he actually paid attention in the lecture, made sure he did the readings, made sure he came to each and every seminar with his analysis prepared in hopes of impressing her. He wasn't sure it was working or not, but sometimes, he swore he saw her lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile, of a smirk, when he spoke. He swore that sometimes he could feel her gaze on him when he wasn't looking.

And then, one day, he’d walked into the seminar room to find the seat next to Nesta open. He’d practically stumbled over his own feet in his rush to slide into that open seat, earning an amused head shake from Kallias. Using the few minutes before the seminar started, Cassian had called her Nes and gotten a withering glare in response. He was sure the look was meant to cut him down where he sat, but it only stoked the embers in his chest into a full wildfire, only made him grin wider.

It became a game after that. Every seminar, he’d take the seat beside Nesta, and every seminar, he’d spark a back and forth between them. He cataloged every look, every response he was able to draw out of Nesta. Every eye roll. Every derisive snort. Every sarcastic quip. He got drunk off it all and kept coming back for more and more. And when he made Nesta blush, the pretty pink spreading across her cheeks, he knew that was it for him.

He spent the whole rest of the week after that trying to figure out the best way to ask Nesta out, sure that she wouldn’t appreciate being asked in front of their whole seminar group. He wondered if it would be weird to ask her to speak to him after the seminar, prayed to the Mother to take pity on him, and blessedly, take pity on him she did. It’s what led Cassian to finding out that Nesta was pledged to Mor’s sorority.

How he found out that she would be here tonight.

One of the sorority members greets Cassian and his brothers when they step through the doors to the hall, her name tag reading Deidre. She holds out three paddles, but Rhys and Azriel both wave her off, only Cassian taking one. Lucky number nineteen, just like his jersey. They settle into seats at an empty table, and then it’s just a waiting game.

It doesn’t take long before Mor is stepping out onto the stage, giving her welcoming speech as president, but any words she says fade away as soon as the women participating tonight walk onto the stage. As soon as Cassian catches sight of Nesta. Her dress is a silky, silvery blue that, along with the stage lights, brings out the blue of her eyes, and the hem is short enough to show off the stretch of her legs. She has that look on her face that’s Cassian’s favorite, and just the sight of her has his mouth going dry. She’s gorgeous.

“And next up we have Nesta Archeron.” Cassian’s attention snaps back to Mor. “She’s pre-law and minoring in English. She loves romance novels, so you better be ready to bring out all the stops if you’re the lucky one who gets to take her on a date. Now, we’ll start the bidding at–”

“One hundred dollars,” Cassian calls out before Mor can finish, jumping up to his feet and holding up his paddle.

“Mother save us,” Rhys mutters under his breath.

“Wow. That’s…” Mor clears her throat. “That’s quite generous. I guess we’ll be starting the bidding at one hundred.”

“One fifty.”

Anger flares low in Cassian’s gut at the second bid, and it burns even brighter when he turns his head and finds the owner of the voice. Eris Vanserra. Cassian has hated the man ever since he had the misfortune of sharing a class with him freshman year. Ever since he watched him stroll into a college class wearing designer clothes and look down on everyone. He’s pompous, pretentious, and has a face practically asking for Cassian to punch.

And punching Eris’s snooty face is definitely something Cassian’s fist itches to do right now.

“Two hundred,” Cassian declares, turning back toward the stage.

“Two fifty,” Eris echoes.

“Two seventy five.”

“Three hundred.”

“Holy shit,” Mor mutters before seemingly remembering that she has a microphone in her hands. “I mean wow. That’s officially our highest bid. Ever. Do we have a response?”

“Five. Hundred.”

Gasps and murmurs of surprise sweep through the room at Cassian’s announcement. He glances toward where Nesta still stands on stage, her eyes wide and pink settled high on her cheeks. But those wide eyes are pinned on him, not Eris, not Mor, and her attention has his heart stuttering between his ribs, has it tugging toward the stage as though she holds the thread so firmly wrapped around it.

He dares to toss Nesta a wink before turning to smirk at Eris, but Vanserra is still lounging casually in his seat with a sort of cool arrogance that ice starts to prickle beneath Cassian’s skin.

“Five fifty,” Eris declares, eyes cutting toward Cassian with a smirk of his own.

“Fucking prick,” Cassian mutters under his breath before he leans down to speak to Rhys. “Okay, I’m going to need to borrow more than what we originally agreed to.”

Rhys sighs, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Seriously, Cass? This is getting a little absurd for a single date.”

“She’s worth it.”

“Is she? You know, I’ve heard stories, and–”

“Fuck you,” Cassian growls, turning back toward the stage before he runs out of time. “Five seventy five!”

“He’s clearly dedicated. You’ve got to give him that,” Azriel mutters with a low chuckle.

“You know Vanserra’s not going to stop, right?” Rhys adds, his tone almost bored.

As if in answer, Eris’s voice rings out again. “Six hundred.”

“Seven hundred,” Cassian calls out quickly before dropping his voice again. “If you’re so worried about your rich boy checkbook, then do something about it.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Seven fifty,” Eris’s voice drowns out Rhys’s question.

“Alright,” Azriel sighs, pushing up to his feet. “This is just sad to watch now.”

Cassian sighs as his brother walks away, knocking his fist against the table in frustration. “Eight fifty!”

He waits for Eris’s answering bid, but there’s only silence ringing out in the hall. Cassian’s brow pinches in confusion, and he snaps his attention back toward Eris’s table. The man in question is on his feet, standing toe to toe with Azriel. There’s a suspicious looking stain across Eris’s shirt, and his lips are pulled back in a sneer.

Whatever lashing Eris is giving for his now ruined designer shirt, Azriel takes it unfazed. He merely reaches for a napkin, the movement nothing short of sensual as he wipes it against Eris’s shirt, against his chest and down his stomach. Even from across the room Cassian can see the way Eris’s face has turned a color to match his face.

With Eris thoroughly distracted, Cassian looks back toward the stage, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Mor.

“Oh! Right,” Mor speaks into the microphone. “We have eight fifty. Do we have higher than eight fifty?” Cassian motions with his hand to hurry up. “Eight fifty going once. Going twice. Sold for eight fifty.”

Cassian falls back into his seat with a relieved sigh, unable to bite back the wide grin that pulls across his face. He did it, he was the highest bid. He gets to see Nesta outside of their lecture, outside of their seminar. He gets to spend time with her one on one and to find out what really makes her tick.

He gets to take Nesta Archeron on a date.

He’s practically bouncing on his feet waiting for the rest of the women to have their bidding, for the evening to come to a close. He all but jumps back up to his feet, plucking the check from between Rhys’s fingers. The look on Mor’s face is all too knowing when he hands over the money, but even that doesn’t deter him.

He gets to take Nesta Archeron on a date.

“Eight hundred fifty dollars, huh?”

Cassian spins around to come face to face with the exact woman in question, her arms crossed and her expression unimpressed. But Cassian has learned a lot sitting next to Nesta this semester, and he recognizes the light sparking in her blue eyes, the slight pinch at the corner of her lips. Try as she might, she can’t hide her amusement from him.

“What can I say, sweetheart?” Cassian drawls, grin still wide. “I’m quite dedicated to getting what I want.”

“Oh? Is that why you pulled that stunt with Eris?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was merely Azriel flirting.”

Nesta laughs, and it’s already Cassian’s favorite sound, a sound he wants to draw out of her again and again. “He flirts by spilling drinks on people?”

“Everyone has their own version of flirting. Look at us, with our back and forth.”

That comment does earn him an eye roll, Cassian’s blood singing and his heart soaring at the reaction. He dares to step even closer to Nesta, until he has to tip his chin down to keep smirking at her. Dares to reach up between them for a stray strand of Nesta’s hair and tug on it teasingly. Dares to tease the backs of his fingers along her now pinkening cheeks.

“You might actually be crazy, you know.”

“Only because you make me that way, Nes.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

#I’m squealing this is so cute #Cassian you adorable idiot #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 10 hours

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Nesta Week Day 4: Lover

Canon schmanon. I’m changing it so he never dropped her hand.

@nestaarcheronweek 🩵

#this is so gorgeous I’m obsessed 😭#nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 11 hours

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Sometimes, when Nesta stays out too late at Rita's with the Valkyries, when she stays up too late reading in the library, Cassian carries her back to their bed all soft and sweet 😌

A very happy Day Four of @nestaarcheronweek! And a very very big thanks to @maybemacdc for working with me on this absolutely beautiful and tender commission 🥺 Please do not repost without credit and don't feed into AI programs.

#oh it’s so soft #so so soft #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 11 hours

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@nestaarcheronweek for day 4: lover

I wasn't intending to make them vampires, but it just fit

Edit: click on the image for better quality, I'll figure this out one day

#vampire nessian!!!!!!

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 11 hours

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A Taste of the Divine (ao3)

@nestaarcheronweek day 4. Returning from a mission, the Night Court’s spymaster arrives back in Velaris in need of a stiff drink above all else, but after seeking out Velaris’ seediest tavern, Azriel gets more than what he bargained for when he finds Nesta inside. Post-ACOWAR, pre-ACOSF. Title taken from The Summoning by Sleep Token.

Even after a week away, the cobbles beneath his feet did not yet beckon Azriel home when he returned to Velaris.

With the dust of the Continent still clinging to his boots, the Shadowsinger looked up at the horizon, finding the distant lights of the House of Wind against the darkening sky— slices of golden light piercing the rock of the mountain, and though Azriel ought to have glimpsed the light shining from those windows and rushed forward, he remained exactly where he was; standing a thousand feet below, finding no desire at all to go home just yet. At Rhys’ behest, he’d spent the past week observing the human queens on the Continent, his mind fixed towards schemes and plots with nothing but his shadows for company. And now…

It took a while, after a mission, to remember what it was to live outside of the dark.

So he didn’t want home. Didn’t want the welcome he knew would be waiting as soon as he stepped over that threshold. He was too accustomed to the dark, to the hidden corners and the silence, and what he wanted more than anything right now was a fucking drink.

He needed to feel the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, blurring the edges of his mind. But he didn’t want the shiny, polished bars he frequented with Rhys. He didn’t want Rita’s. Azriel wanted grit and dust, wanted the back alleys and the dim bars lit by candlelight.

A place where his shadows could melt into the darkness, one and the same.

And so he found himself ten minutes later standing at a worn and chipped wooden bar top, a coin laid on the counter to pay for the liquor the barkeep poured into a short glass. There were no faelights here to bathe the place in a pleasant glow. Only candles, flickering flames few and far between that illuminated the gaming tables and left the corners swathed in shadow. It was run down and sub-par, and yet, Azriel thought dryly as he nodded his thanks to the bar tender, wasn’t that exactly how he felt? Wasn’t this exactly what he needed?

The whiskey burned his throat as he drank— cheap and sharp, scraping its way down through his chest, setting a fire behind his ribs. He grimaced as he took a large sip, baring his teeth with a soft hiss as he set down his glass.

Before the burn had subsided, his shadows tittered. Whispered.

Even above the din of the bar, Azriel heard the footsteps approaching. Heard the heels slamming against the wooden floorboards as his shadows skated along his arms, coiling around his wrists. He didn’t turn; didn’t bother to see who had dared draw near.

“Did my sister send you?”

The voice was cold and flat and resolutely furious— and above all else, familiar. Azriel turned his head to find Nesta standing beside him at the bar, with her arms folded over her chest and her eyes alight with anger. Silver swirled in those eyes, churned like a riptide, and her jaw was clenched so tight it made him wonder if she was physically biting her tongue to keep it behind her teeth. Her hair was swept up in her usual braid, leaving the long column of her neck exposed, and as the candlelight danced across her bare skin, it dragged golden fingers across her collarbone, illuminated the planes of her that would have most men begging for the chance to touch her.

Azriel wasn’t most men— but still, it was an effort to pull his eyes away.

He let his gaze skim her face, raising one eyebrow as he barked a dry, sardonic laugh. Downing his whiskey, he ordered another with a flick of his wrist, a twist of his fingers.

“No,” he answered, sliding another coin across the bar in exchange for another double measure. “Nobody sent me.”

“Then what are you doing here,” she gritted out; not a question but a demand.

Azriel merely lifted his glass, watching the candlelight set fire to the whiskey. “Same as you.”

The silver in her eyes burned as she lifted her chin, met his eye with every ounce of irascible hauteur she could muster. “And are you planning on being my nursemaid all night?”

A sigh slipped between his lips, quiet and resigned. The spymaster shook his head, too tired to argue, and blinked flatly as he answered her with a simple, “No.”

The furrow in her brow smoothed, her dark lashes fluttering as she blinked once, twice. She didn’t argue either, and as she leaned forward, elbows braced against the bar’s surface, Azriel caught the scent of her— something sweet beneath the sharp, something cool beneath the heat of the bar. He swallowed, tilting the glass in his hand, and forced himself to watch the whiskey clinging to the clouded glass instead of studying the way the heat gently curled the strands of hair that had escaped the braid at the nape of her neck. She said nothing, but silently Nesta lifted herself onto the seat beside him, a damn near perplexed expression on her face as she watched him drown his sorrows. Slowly, Azriel lifted his gaze to hers. Ignored the way his shadows shivered. Almost lazily, Azriel quirked a brow and slid the glass towards her, nodding wordlessly; a silent go on, then.

Nesta curled her fingers around the glass in silent understanding, didn’t hesitate in bringing it to her lips and knocking the whiskey back. She drained half before returning him the glass, and when it passed from her grip and into his their fingers brushed. He stilled, the air frozen in his lungs. It was the barest of touches, so slight, and yet one that felt far too much like a spark against touch-paper, almost begging to burst into flame.

Azriel didn’t think about the way that simple touch had his skin feeling suddenly tight.

Didn’t think about the way her lipstick lingered around the edge of his glass.

Nesta looked at him in the dim light, lifting her face until the candlelight glanced across her jaw and—

Gods, she was beautiful.

Azriel didn’t know why he’d never let himself truly notice before, why he’d never let himself fall down the well that was those mercury-blue eyes. Why he’d never given more than a passing thought to her beauty, to the lines of her face that could reduce a man to nothing with the right tilt of her head.

Cassian, a voice inside his head whispered, one he tried too hard to ignore. Cassian is why you never let yourself notice before.

But Cassian wasn’t here, and from what the Spymaster had gathered from his brother’s ranting, he hadn’t been at Nesta’s side for a while now. Had left her seeking companionship in the dark and shadowed corners of Velaris, where the starlight didn’t reach. Anyone with eyes could see that Nesta was hurting and yet— it had been Azriel to find her, entirely by accident, alone in a dive bar.

He didn’t believe in fate. It had fucked him over too many times, and yet—

There was something serendipitous in it, something providential about this chance meeting that made him feel… bold.

“What are you doing here, Nesta?” he asked a moment later.

The question was soft— tentative and half-hidden in the shadows that glided as one along the worn edge of the bar, slinking towards her like they might seek to hide the pitfalls of such an inquiry. Nesta shook her head, strands of hair slipping free from her meticulous braid, and maybe the alcohol made her bold too, because she met his eyes with purpose and didn’t look away as she said,

“I want to feel something.”

She shifted her shoulders back, the silver in her eyes catching in the light of the bar. Azriel’s shadows seemed to shiver, and he couldn’t hide the low laugh that scraped along his throat as his eyes dipped to the hollow of her neck.

“Don’t we all,” he said dryly.

His fingers dragged around the edge of his glass, and Nesta’s eyes tracked the movement, following each circle he made with his fingertips. She pressed her lips together, her sharp eyes dark, and fucking hell— this was new. A kind of uncharted territory he knew he shouldn’t want to map, shouldn’t want to explore with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. And yet he heard her heart pounding behind her ribs, its steady beat kicking when he caught her eye and pulled his gaze down to her mouth, lingering at her lips, and he couldn’t help himself.

Didn’t want to help himself.

I want to feel something.

It echoed in his mind, settling into him like a stone dropped down a well.

Nesta leaned against the old wooden bar; a thing of beauty in place so tragically dim. She tilted her head, and the movement stirred something in him that he knew he ought to ignore.

“You never answered my question,” she said bluntly. “If you’re not here to spy on me, then what are you doing here?”

Azriel sighed, sipping his whiskey and leaving a finger-worth behind. He nudged the remainder towards her, let her finish it.

“Had a shit day,” he shrugged. “Didn’t want to go home just yet.”

Wordless, Nesta lifted the glass to her mouth in an echo of the way she had before— like they were two old friends, sharing a drink together. Yet she finished his whiskey and something beneath his skin tightened as he watched her lips part, glimpsed the liquor glistening on her mouth. He wanted to taste it— wanted to taste it on her tongue, and he swore softly, cursing everything that had brought him to this threshold, so close to tipping over. There was a line he shouldn’t cross, a boundary that he knew shouldn’t be broken.

And yet.

Nesta set the glass back down on the bar. “Care to talk about it, Shadowsinger?”

“Would you care to listen, Lady Death?”

Her eyes shuttered, her face tightening in a way that had Azriel clawing at the past few moments, like a thread unspooling in his hands. “Don’t call me that.”

With a dip of his chin, Azriel nodded. “My apologies.”

Nesta shrugged it off, the stiff set to her shoulders melting as she leaned a half-inch closer, blinking slowly as her heart thumped once in her chest. “Buy me a drink and perhaps I’ll forgive you.”

He pretended not to notice how her voice had dropped, how there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. Pretended, too, not to see her eyes darken, shining with intent. He wasn’t fool enough to pretend that his hadn’t done the same, that he wasn’t still thinking of her mouth. His shadows slipped down his arms, begging to go to her, desperate to touch, and it took effort to keep them restrained, to keep them in check. Still, he motioned for another drink. Another two.

And when the barkeep presented him with two short glasses, Azriel slid the first towards her, but kept his hand closed over the rim, the candlelight throwing his scars into relief as he kept his palm flat above her glass.

“Shall we sit properly, then?” he asked, nodding to the booths that lined the back wall. “And stop pretending we’re strangers in a bar?”

Nesta only blinked, amusement threading through those silver eyes like vines through an iron gate. Idly, she hummed. “I’ve never seen you like this, Spymaster, free of your High Lord’s influence. You may as well be a stranger to me right now.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, but lifted his hand from her glass nonetheless. A smirk lingered on her lips even as a kind of surprise swept swiftly across her face— some kind of pleasant shock that he didn’t berate her for daring to mention Rhys at all. Cassian, he knew, was far too sensitive when Nesta criticised Rhys; his brother had frowned and scowled about it too many times for Azriel to be unaware. But it didn’t rankle him the way it did Cassian. After all, what difference did it make to him, if Rhys and Nesta never found a way to get along?

Silently, he gestured to the back of the bar again, ignoring her comment and nodding once more to the tables shrouded in shadow, so far from the soft glow of the candles.

In answer Nesta slipped from the bar stool and led the way, leaving Azriel to follow, a shadow at her heels. He kept his eyes up, refusing to notice the movement of her hips, or the way her dress dipped low at her back, exposing her spine. His shadows thrummed, jerking as if they would reach out to caress the length of that spine, and he cleared his throat around the desire to pepper it with kisses, to trace a line of fire down her back with his tongue. He swallowed around the surge of pure want rising in his blood, making his every nerve feel charged. Unaware, Nesta slid into the booth, her dress whispering across the worn leather that covered the seats, and when she reclined, crossing one leg over the other, Azriel was reminded starkly of a queen in her own realm.

She was, he supposed.

The dive bars of Velaris had never really been all that popular with Rhys or the rest of the Inner Circle. They were wholly in Nesta’s domain, now.

For a moment there was quiet.

And then Nesta dragged a finger idle along the rim of her glass, an echo of Azriel’s earlier move, making it sing beneath her touch. He wondered what else might sing beneath her hands, what else she could do.

“So,” she began airily, “what is it that has the brooding spymaster brooding so much more than usual?”

Azriel laughed into his whiskey. “Brooding?”

“Brooding.” She raised a brow, stained lips pursed as she nodded. “Stop avoiding the question.”

He raised a hand in surrender. “I had a mission on the continent. Surveillance on—“ He hesitated a moment. Not because he didn’t want to share or because she couldn’t know, but because he didn’t want to shatter this moment, to bring the darkness back to her eyes. “—the human queens,” he finished quietly.

Nesta said nothing, but knocked her drink back.

In the back of his mind, Azriel knew what Rhys would say. That he was being irresponsible, feeding Nesta’s vices.

But when he looked at her, he didn’t see a woman lost to the alcohol. He saw a soul struggling to cope, leaning on the only thing that could bring her a little bit of warmth. He’d spent enough time after the first war drinking his own way through Velaris to know, and besides… When Nesta glanced at him and dragged her eyes over his chest, he thought that this was one vice he was more than willing to feed tonight.

“I see,” she said at last. “No wonder you needed a drink.”

Azriel hummed in agreement. Emboldened, he leaned his head closer to hers, dropping his voice to a murmur as he cast his eyes across the bar.

“Tell me. Which one were you taking home with you tonight?”

Nesta stilled, a frown creeping into her brow as silver eyes narrowed.

Azriel shrugged, shaking his head with an idle smile tilting his lips. “Not that I’m judging. I’m just curious.”

She pulled back, curiosity a wildfire in her eyes.

“The one by the gaming table,” she said flatly, without turning to look at the mark she’d had an eye on. “He has pretty eyes.”

Azriel cut a look across the bar to find the fae in question. The male was tall, dark haired, but willowy and thin, and there was a look in his eyes that Azriel didn’t like as Nesta’s intended watched the two of them together in that booth— it was something petulant and spoiled, like he was a child and Azriel had just stolen his new favourite toy. Even his shadows shuddered, whispering their disapproval in a language only he could understand. In answer the spymaster raised a brow and looked at Nesta wryly.

“He looks like one who doesn’t like the word no,” Azriel said, directing a dark look in the direction of the fae by the gaming table. If he made his eyes darken, if he made his face more threatening than usual… well.

“You don’t approve?” Nesta asked, her voice like syrup.

He barked a laugh. “Not really, no.”

“And here I thought you weren’t judging,” she said smoothly, her head shifting to the side as she blinked, saccharine. She shifted infinitesimally closer, just a half inch that had Azriel clinging so tightly to his restraint that it was a wonder it didn’t break entirely. “Perhaps you should tell me who I should take home instead.”

Me, he thought, shifting in his seat. The answer had risen to his tongue without missing a beat, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It had taken even Azriel by surprise, how easy it was to let even his boldest thoughts bloom around her. His shadows slid along the edge of the table, trailing towards her like they were pulled by some kind of gravity, and when Nesta glanced down at them, a smile curved her lips. When she looked back up and met his eyes, there was something searing in her gaze that had Azriel’s mouth turning dry. He cleared his throat, shrugged, and yet couldn’t bring himself to say it— to give her the answer that ricocheted inside his mind.

But mother above, Cassian was a fucking fool.

Nesta was sitting there, alone, seeking connection with any that would let her find it, and all Azriel could think was—

Me.

Me, me, me.

He couldn’t do it.

“You won’t like the answer,” he said at last.

The amusement winked out of her eyes.

“Let me guess, you think I should be here with your General instead.”

His shadows slinked closer, like even they could see the sting behind her words. And in another world, maybe Cassian would have been there with her. Maybe he would have been the one in her bed. But Cassian was nowhere to be found, and didn’t seem to have any intention of cutting in and finding out what, exactly, had Nesta seeking solace in a place like this. So Azriel blinked slowly, eyes like flint when they caught hers, hazel colliding with silver-blue and igniting in the dim light. His shadows shivered.

“No, actually,” he said flatly. “I wasn’t thinking of him at all.”

Liar— liar. He’d hardly done anything but think of Cassian ever since Nesta had sidled up to him at the bar— hardly been spared a second where some part of him wasn’t thinking of how much of a fool his brother was. After all, if Nesta was Azriel’s—

He didn’t let himself think it.

Nesta’s breath caught audibly. He’d taken her by surprise, and it had a small smile taking root at the corner of his lips. She noted it, tracked the curve of his mouth. She tilted her head, the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid brushing her shoulder. He wondered what it would be like to plunge his hands into her hair, to pull those braids loose strand by strand. There was a flame in her eyes when she met his gaze again.

“Then why won’t I like your answer, Shadowsinger?”

Gods— was he imagining the husk in her voice? The way it had dropped so impossibly low, edged with some kind of promise, something so damned seductive it had him thinking of all the things she could do with that mouth— all the things he could do with his.

Azriel downed what remained of his whiskey.

“Tell me what you’re looking for Nesta, and maybe I’ll answer.”

She rolled her eyes, and there was a moment where she looked him in the eyes, unflinching. She shook her head, and sat back, changing the subject.

“Has anybody here caught your eye, shadowsinger?”

Azriel scoffed, a low noise in his throat that seemed to make her eyes impossibly darker. It made his skin feel too tight, made his pulse thrum with anticipation so thick he could taste it on his tongue.

Around them, he noted, the atmosphere had shifted. The night had grown deeper, the hour later, and all those who had come to find someone to warm their bed had either left with their quarry already, or was closing in. Azriel glanced around the bar, saw the fae Nesta had thought of taking home sitting at a table with another fae woman draped over his lap, her fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. Beneath the din and the smell of liquor, hands began to wander and eyes began to roam, and in the corner where the candlelight couldn’t quite reach, Azriel felt the darkness masking them and leaned into it— leaned into every piece of the thrill that was building in his chest.

“What if they did?” he asked, looking at her from beneath his eyelashes.

Nesta leaned forward, daring to drag her finger around the rim of his glass. His shadows practically vibrated, the scent of her intoxicating.

“Maybe I’m looking for someone who isn’t afraid of your big bad general,” she shrugged, lifting her finger to her lips, tasting the drop of whiskey she’d collected from the rim of his glass. Azriel felt a slashing smile bloom across his lips, one that was knife-sharp and deadly.

“And that’s your only criteria?”

Nesta huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised how many run a mile when they realise who, exactly, I am.”

Fools, he thought— all of them, fools who didn’t deserve the chance to kneel before her, to take up space in her bed.

He tilted his head back, resting against the back of the booth and looking down at her. “And that’s it, is it? You want someone who can go toe to toe with Cass and make it out unscathed?”

Nesta hummed, her eyes dipping to his chest, his hands, his shadows. He didn’t think he imagined the way she looked… interested. Maybe it was the whiskey, or the intoxicating look in her eyes, but he smirked, letting arrogance take over.

“Seems to me like there’s only really two people in this entire city that fit that bill, love.” The endearment came out smoothly, without thought. Nesta’s eyes heated. “One is Rhys.”

She smirked. “And the other?”

Azriel laughed, the sound low in his throat. “Do you need me to say it?”

Nesta bit her lip to mask a smile. “I didn’t know you could be cocky, Spymaster.”

He barked another laugh. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Nesta.”

She blinked, leaned closer. “How about I find out, then?”

She was so close now, her thigh almost brushing his. It would take nothing, no effort at all, for him to reach out and brush a hand along her leg, beneath the table where none could see. Her eyes were molten, and Azriel couldn’t resist the urge to touch her— to feel her skin beneath his palms. Slowly, he moved his hand, letting it drift until it landed on her knee. His shadows tittered, and when she made no move to escape his touch, slowly Azriel traced a path upwards.

“And what happens when we’re next at the river house together?” he made himself ask, even as his fingers travelled north. They skated over the fabric of her dress, finding the split in the fabric and slipping beneath, his hands finding bare skin as a groan gathered in his throat. “When we have to sit at the same dining table and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Nesta shifted, taking his hand even higher. “I don’t see how it’s any of their business.”

Her own hand darted out, began to trace circles over his knee. His blood pulsed, raced through his veins as his entire body seemed to tremble with need, and fuck— he wanted her. Her breathing grew shallow, the beating of her heart the drum he was marching to, and when his fingers skated over the very top of her thigh, Nesta tilted her head back. A woman almost begging to be kissed.

Azriel cursed his lack of self-restraint; thanked the Mother for it, too.

She blinked up at him. “I answered your question. Now answer mine.” Her fingers gripped his knee tight above his leathers. “Who do you think I should go home with, Azriel?”

Fucking Mother above, this woman.

The sound of his name on her lips was heady, and he couldn’t help it as he leaned in, found his lips bushing her hair. Lower, dragging a slow kiss down to the shell of her ear.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he murmured. Her hand flattened, her palm dragging up his thigh even as his own fingers lingered on hers. Silent, she nodded. His lips were still at her ear, and he longed to graze his teeth over the skin there. Her eyelashes fluttered.

“Me,” he breathed.

Nesta bit her lip again, even as a smirk travelled over her mouth.

“I thought you’d never admit it,” she whispered.

His hand moved from her thigh, up and up, palming over her arm until he reached her neck, rounded it, brought her closer. She twisted in his embrace, and in one easy movement Azriel took her leg and draped it over his own, until she was all but sitting in his lap. The bar was dark already, but he bid his shadows to embrace them a little more, to hide this little corner from prying eyes, and in the darkness Nesta leaned into his touch, dragging the heel of her foot down his calf as she pressed herself into him.

His hands wandered to her waist, gripping her so tightly he wondered if she’d bruise. If he’d leave a mark behind.

Nesta arched into him, her lips close to his neck as she breathed his name.

“We shouldn’t,” he breathed, even though every nerve he possessed cursed the words.

“No,” she shrugged. “We shouldn’t.” She looked at him boldly, her fingers trailing along his arms, across his shoulders. “But is that going to stop you, Shadowsinger?”

He laughed, acerbic. “It should.”

“Not an answer.”

He couldn’t fight the grin that spread his lips, predatory and vicious, and when an echoing smile spread across Nesta’s own face, the laugh that left his chest was dry and heated, heavy with want. He dipped his head, his lips lingering a breath from her neck, from the point where, beneath her skin, her pulse was racing.

“Do you want it to stop me, Nesta?”

She shivered, her eyes closing as he said her name.

She likes that, he thought, feeling his head begin to empty, his thoughts narrowed on her and only her— on the pleasure he wanted to give to her, what he knew she wanted to take. She likes it when you say her name.

He breathed her in, daring to drag a hand down the side of her ribs, feeling her shudder again. He leaned in, his nose against her neck. His body was a continuation of hers; no end and no beginning, like they were two strands so irrevocably tangled there was no telling them apart. Her hands were at his shoulders, her fingers drifting to his neck, and his wandered from her waist to her thighs, feeling the heat of her and relishing in it. He could have drowned in her.

Wanted to drown in her.

“Nesta,” he whispered, teeth scraping against her jaw.

“Azriel,” she breathed, her chest rising beneath his straying hands. He dragged his touch up from her middle, his palm resting at the bottom of her throat.

“Stop avoiding the question,” he said, lips against the shell of her ear as he parroted back her earlier words. In his embrace, she shivered. “Do you want it to stop me?”

She shook her head as his shadows skimmed her ankle, winding around her calf like ivy. “No.”

His heart thudded in his chest, and suddenly he felt like he was falling— like the ground had opened up beneath him. He wanted this, wanted her, and it didn’t matter that she could never be his, didn’t matter that if Cassian ever found out—

Her nails, sharp on his collarbone, dragged him back to her. Cut the thought off before it could bloom.

Fuck everything else— fuck it all to hell and back.

Nesta was in his arms, his hand on her thigh beneath her dress and fucking hell, he could barely find two words to string together in a sentence, so he did the only other thing he could think of— the only thing that made sense.

In the darkest corner of the dingiest bar Velaris had to offer, Azriel lowered his lips and kissed Nesta Archeron senseless.

It wasn’t soft or gentle; they came together like a wave crashing against the shore, all lips and teeth and shared breath that tasted like whiskey. Her hands were around his neck, fingertips brushing his wings, and as his hand splayed flat against her spine, Azriel brought her closer and kissed her with a hunger that spoke to centuries of control finally, finally, beginning to slip. For so long he had kept himself in check— never allowing himself to take what he wanted.

He wanted now— he wanted her.

And Nesta wanted him. He felt it in the way she gasped his name, in the way she tipped her head back to grant him access to her neck. He groaned against her as his tongue tasted the skin beneath her jaw, because—

Divine.

She was divine, something so decadent and heady that his mind was beginning to spin.

They moved in tandem, like this was a dance they both knew the steps to. When her heart skipped a beat, Azriel’s surrendered too; when the tips of his wings shivered with anticipation, a shudder racked through her that began in her chest and ended in her fingers. They were one and the same, the kiss bringing them together, setting them alight, letting them burn like a bonfire.

Azriel never wanted it to end.

Nesta turned in his arms, lifted herself up so that it wasn’t just her legs slung over his knees now. She straddled his hips and claimed his mouth, like she had forgotten where they were, forgotten who they were— they weren’t the High Lord’s brother and the High Lady’s sister anymore, just two souls who had collided in a darkened bar and found their mirror in one another.

Azriel’s hands smoothed down Nesta’s sides as his palms came to rest on her hips. She sat back, putting distance between them as she took a breath. Her lips were swollen, the skin at her neck marked by his kisses. He squeezed her hip once, heard her heart skip in response.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nesta breathed.

She came back for one more kiss, slow this time— lingering. Azriel obliged her. He kissed her sweetly, like they had all the time in the world, his hands rising to cup her face in his palms. When Nesta’s teeth sunk into his lip, he didn’t mask the curse that slipped from him, all at once low and desperate and edged with ecstasy.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling the sting in his lips left behind by her bite. It was the most decadent thing he’d ever tasted, and as he pulled away from her mouth and pressed another kiss to her jaw, he felt the heat in his veins stirring, his blood thrumming and his need for her more potent than anything. One hand dropped to hers, and Azriel linked their fingers together as he rose, pulling Nesta to her feet. He leaned close, breathed her in, let his free hand wind around her waist and pull her into him as he nipped lightly at the edge of her jaw.

“Let’s get out of here,” he echoed.

New taglist: (if you want to be added or removed, let me know!) @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist

#nezriel #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 12 hours

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“You have me at your mercy more often than you think.” Cassian to Nesta but also me to you at this present moment because this fic has me FLOORED.

Will You Let Me Hold You?

Written for @nestaarcheronweek Day 4: Lover

Summary:

“You want to hold me?” Nesta asked, almost as if he was speaking a different language.

The implications of it broke his heart, just a little more.

“Yes,” Cassian answered.

“Just hold me?”

“Yes, Nesta. Hasn’t anyone ever held you, just because they could?”

---

Aka 5 times Cassian shows Nesta affection through physical touch, and one time she returns the favor.

Read on A03:

Tag List: @c-e-d-dreamer @podemechamardek @talkfantasytome @moodymelanist @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @doriansgf @eerievixen @sweet-pea1 @thewayshedreamed @agents-assemble @jsmelodies @aelinchocolatelover @slipknotvol3 @stylishmuser

#screaming crying throwing up #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 16 hours

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Nesta Week : Self Care

Nesta knows what’s up 🩵

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 day

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Nesta truly deserves the best kind of self-care to celebrate @nestaarcheronweek aka a stack of romance novels and no one bothering her!

Cannot thank @/brunagarretart enough for bringing this gorgeous art to life! Obsessed with all the details including Nesta's soft expression, the book titles, and, of course, her shoulder freckles. 😍

Please do not repost without credit and don't feed into AI programs.

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 day

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@nestaarcheronweek | Day 03: Self Care (tumblr)

“You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.” ― Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life

Due to her love of music and dance, in an alternate universe I believe Nesta would have been an very talented dancer. Thank you @/sunsetrina for creating this beautiful art.

Art by: @/sunsetrina

Commissioned by: @melphss

Characters belongs to: Sarah J. Maas

#!!!!!

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 day

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CRYING

“Can I do this for you?” // “Treat yourself with the same love you show me.” Oh, I am obsessed with the way he treats her, and how he’s encouraging her to be kinder to herself. It’s SO SOFT 😭

A Practice in Self Care

Written for Day 3 of @nestaarcheronweek , Prompt: Self Care

----

The shower water was warm over her back, soothing the tense muscles in her neck, her shoulders.

She adored this space – the warm tiles and the waterfall spray that allowed her to wash without submerging in the water. It was a contraption he’d built personally for her, in their little cabin, away from it all.

There was something about the knowledge that it had been with his bare hands, rather than magic, that added to the sanctity.

Nesta breathed out, head tilting back to rinse the suds from her hair. Vanilla and bergamot filled her nose – pleasant, and her favorite scent, after testing each and every one the best apothecary in Velaris had to offer – at his insistence.

In this little house, full of comfortable silence and warm, amber light, she tuned into herself, her body, and focused entirely on the concept of relaxation.

It was a ritual that had started in the weeks after Nyx’s birth.

He’d caught her washing – somehow for the first time in all the months they’d spent together. He’d stood in the doorway and watched her scrub hard at her skin until it was suitably red – the way she’d always done, if only to feel clean and worthy. She’d never known a different way to do it, really. The maids at the Archeron estate had always done so, and when she lived in that cabin, she felt so dirty all the time. That only got worse after the Cauldron.

And when she’d looked up, noticing him there, she was surprised at the way his brows were deeply furrowed, concern tightening his jaw.

“Do you always do that?” He’d asked, head tilted in the little way that told her that the way she was operating apparently wasn’t what normal, healthy people did.

It gave her pause.

“Do what?”

Read more on A03:

#perfect #absolutely perfect #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 day

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“I only have one wife, sweetheart.”

Cassian is so !!!!!!! He really saw her in the woods and said yep, that’s her, that’s my wife. Love that for Nesta 😌

You're the Kind of Reckless that Should Send Me Running

A/N: you know, sometimes, self-care is... (checks notes) making a sex bargain with a fae to get out of a marriage contract. It just be like that! But happy Day Three of @nestaarcheronweek lovelies! Hope everyone enjoys some smutty Nessian. As a warning, this is toe-ing the line with dubious consent since it is a fae bargain, so please read with care!

Read on AO3

A bottle of your finest alcohol and your most prized possession.

That's what the woman in the market had told Nesta to bring in offering. Whispered words shared between the brick building of the butcher and the wooden stalls bedecked in green leaves and pastel colored petals, the first sign of spring. The woman's own stall had been tucked closer to the alleyway between buildings, half cast in shadow. What little light did break through bounced off the gemstones of amulets, carved into the grooves of runes in animal bone.

Only desperate people spoke with the woman who always kept the hood of her cloak up to shroud her face.

And desperate Nesta was.

She listened to everything the woman said, carefully tucked away the instructions, the tips the woman offered for the best results. And when the woman had finished speaking, Nesta placed a single silver piece into her palm and slipped back into the crowds of the bustling market without looking back. She kept her head down, tried her best to look inconspicuous lest word get back where she didn’t want it to.

But Nesta caught Clare’s eye across the market square, her friend offering the barest hint of a nod. It was Clare that told Nesta about this woman, about the information she offered, about the outcomes that information promised. According to Clare, it was how Morrigan had done it just last week.

So, that day in the market, Nesta seeked out the woman, and now, here she walks.

She steps over roots and brambles, her soft steps doing nothing to quiet the crunch beneath her feet. With each step, she winces at the way the sound echoes in the wood around her. She glances around, between the barks of the trees that stretch out and above her, but there’s no sign of anyone else but her. It doesn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from standing on edge.

A twig snaps somewhere behind her, and Nesta freezes, nearly dropping the bottle of whiskey she’d stolen from her father’s reserves. She clutches it a little tighter to her chest, afraid to even breathe while she waits for another sound, waits for someone to appear. But the only sound that answers Nesta is the rustle of the wind through the branches and leaves, the distant sound of an owl hooting.

Breathing out slowly, Nesta continues trekking forward. She dares to look back over her shoulder, but there’s nothing but more trees and the streaks of silver from the moon breaking through the canopy above. She shakes her head, reminding herself of exactly why she’s here, why she’s doing this.

She just has to find the clearing. That’s what the woman in the market said, that deep into the woods to the north of the village, the trees would part into a clearing. A ring where the trees dare not grow, where the roots stretch to form an altar. Where a fae waits for humans brave enough to make a bargain.

If only she could find it.

Nesta doesn’t know how far she’s walked, but she feels as though she’s been walking half the night. She can’t help but wonder if it was all a lie, a trick. If there is no clearing and no fae who can help her. It would be just her luck.

With a huff, she decides to call it, decides she’ll make the painstaking trek back to her family’s manor house. She spins on her heel only to find herself standing in the center of a clearing that wasn’t there previously.

Fae magic.

“And what do we have here?”

The voice is deep, rough, practically a low rumble where it skates across Nesta’s skin. She swallows hard, raising her chin, before she turns to face that voice. The man is leaning casually against the trunk of one of the trees lining the clearing, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted as he watches her.

A male, really. A fae male unmistakably from his appearance.

He’s large, bigger than even the butcher back in the village, standing a header taller than Nesta with wide shoulders and a wide chest. Wings stretch behind his back and loom over his shoulders like haunting shadows. Dark curls tumble down to his shoulders, framing a pair of eyes that look almost cat-like, that seem to glint green and gold even beneath the silver of the moonlight. The sleeves of his tunic are pushed up to his elbows, showing off swirls of ink along his skin that Nesta swears shift as though a mimic of the magic she’s sure runs through the fae’s veins.

There’s a rough sort of beauty to his face, to the cut of his cheeks and his jaw. As though they’re carved by the very wind she’s sure he must ride with those large wings of his. His nose doesn’t sit quite straight, a slash slicing through his right eyebrow, but it only seems to add to his features. He’s handsome in a way that Nesta knows she’ll never find in her village, in a way that can only be fae. In a way that Nesta has to swallow hard before finding her voice again.

“Are you the fae that helps women escape their marriage contracts?” Nesta asks, refusing to allow her voice to waver, for her nerves to show.

The fae pushes off the tree, stalking closer to her. “So what if I am?”

Nesta thrusts her arms forward before the fae can get too close. “I brought these in offering.”

The fae tilts his head again, his gaze raking over Nesta from head to toe. Those cat-like eyes rover over her frame slowly, goosebumps erupting across Nesta’s skin as if it’s fingers trailing a blazing path. When his attention returns to her face, there’s something different in his expression. A fire burning amongst the greens and golds of his hazel eyes, the left side of his lips tilting up in a smirk. He reaches forward, the large span of his hands on full display as his fingers curl around the neck of the whiskey bottle.

“You have good taste,” the fae comments, examining the whiskey.

“I stole it from my father.”

“And the dress? Did you steal that from him too?”

Nesta snorts at the implication. “No. It was a gift from my mother, right before she passed.”

The fae hums, but he doesn’t say anything more. He begins to circle her, like a predator sizing up its prey, but Nesta refuses to be cowed. She stands perfectly still, straightening her spine against his scrutiny, raising her chin that little bit higher in defiance.

“Is it sufficient? To your liking?”

“Why the dress? Why not your hair?” the fae asks, twirling a strand of Nesta’s hair around his finger. He tugs it toward his face, inhaling deeply. “It’s oh so beautiful. Like burnished gold. Even beneath the moonlight.”

“If that is what it will take, then you can have it.”

The fae chuckles, the sound low and seeming to resonate from deep within his chest. “You must really dislike your betrothed.”

“You would too if you met him,” Nesta grumbles, not even bothering to swallow down her eye roll.

Tomas Mandray.

That was who her father saw fit to marry her off to. Nesta’s hated her father ever since he selfishly sat idly by when her mother fell ill, deciding that the life saving medicine she would need was not worth the steep cost. His recklessness since her death has only gotten worse, shady business deals and gambling habits digging the Archerons into a deeper hole.

Despite the confidence her father exudes around the other high society members of their village, Nesta knows it’s nothing more than a facade. She knows their family is one wrong deal away from losing everything. Knows there’s a desperation thrumming just beneath her father’s skin. It’s what led to him agreeing to the first man who came forward for her hand, without a thought for the type of man he is.

“Is that so?” the fae asks, finishing his circle and stopping in front of her again.

“It’s the worst kept secret in the village,” Nesta explains, unsure what compels her to tell this fae the truth. Perhaps there’s something in his face, in his presence, that has her wanting to trust him. “Everyone knows that Lord Mandray raises his hand to his wife, that his sons just stand by while it happens.”

“You think he’d lay a hand on you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Real anger flashes across the fae’s face, hazel eyes practically blazing and his lips curling back in a snarl. His fists clench at his sides, muscles in his arms flexing with the motion. The rage isn’t directed at her, but that doesn’t stop Nesta’s heart from thundering between her ribs. She knows the stories of the fae, knows of their strength. This male could tear her apart with ease if he wanted to.

It’s a ferity and display of power that should terrify her, that should have her spinning on her heel and running straight back to the village, but instead she continues to meet this fae’s gaze.

The fae’s expression softens, almost curious, as his gaze sweeps over her anew. It’s unnerving, as though he can see beneath her skin and down to her very bone. As though she’s splayed open for his examination all the way to her soul. Whatever he sees, whatever he finds, it has him stepping closer still. Close enough that Nesta has to tilt her head back to hold eye contact. Close enough she can feel the heat that seems to radiate off him. Close enough that every inhale has her chest a hair's breadth away from his.

“You never told me your name,” the fae says, warm breath skating across Nesta’s cheeks.

“I don’t know yours,” Nesta fires back, raising her chin even higher in challenge.

That cocksure smirk tugs its way across the fae’s face again. “It’s Cassian.”

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron.”

“Nesta,” Cassian repeats, as though tasting her name, testing the weight of it on his tongue. A shiver threatens to skitter up Nesta’s spine, but she’s quick to swallow it down. “Should we make a bargain, Nesta?”

“You’ll do it, then? You’ll end my marriage contract?”

“Happily.”

“For my hair?”

“I’ll accept the dress, but that’s just an offering, sweetheart,” Cassian explains, holding up the dress and whiskey bottle in emphasis before tossing both away. “We still need to make a proper bargain.”

“Alright…” Nesta begins slowly, wading through her memory, through the lessons from her mother. She knows wording is important, knows that she needs to be careful about the phrasing of this bargain. “You ensure that my marriage contract to Tomas Mandray is void, that I’ll never marry Tomas Mandray, that I’ll never marry anyone in the Mandray household nor anyone that I do not choose for myself. And in exchange…”

“And in exchange, you’ll become my wife.”

“What.”

Cassian grins fully down at her, one of his hands reaching up between them to curl that strand of her hair around his fingers again. “You can’t marry anyone else if you’re already married to me.”

Nesta blinks a few times, trying to wrap her mind around it all, but Cassian's hand shifts, the backs of his fingers dragging down her temple, her cheek. The touch is distracting. She supposes it makes sense. How can she marry someone else if she is already wed. Clare never specified exactly what Morrigan had to do to break her own marriage contract to the eldest Vanserra. Perhaps, this is how it works.

But alarm bells still ring in the back of Nesta’s mind, whispering of caution. It’s too vague, gray area so expansive that it feels too risky to simply agree.

“And what does that entail? Being your wife?”

Cassian chuckles again, Nesta practically able to feel it where their chests are nearly pressed together. “You were about to be wed, and you don’t know about wifely duties?”

Nesta’s temper flares red hot, and she glares up at him. “I know what’s expected of a wife.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“What does being a wife mean for a fae? What does a fae expect of me?”

“You can do whatever you want as my wife, Nes,” Cassian offers, palm fully cradling her jaw.

“Don’t call me that. And stop that,” Nesta snaps, knocking his hand away. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“Trick you? I’m hurt, sweetheart. I thought you wanted this bargain?”

“I do.”

Panic swells in Nesta’s chest, churning her stomach. What if he changes his mind? Goes back on the bargain? Anything she wants as his wife. It’s not specific, definitely not even close to what Nesta was taught when it comes to fae bargains, but it only hurts him really. Anything she wants. And what she wants is to live the rest of her life far away from the Mandrays and any of the other aggravating villagers who either look down their noses or leer at her.

“Alright,” Nesta finally breathes, sending a silent prayer to the Mother that she doesn’t live to regret this.

“Alright?” Cassian repeats back, bringing both his hands to Nesta’s jaw this time, tilting her head up. “So it’s a bargain then?”

Nesta swallows hard, her heart skipping a beat when Cassian’s thumb drags across her bottom lip. “It’s a bargain.”

Cassian’s mouth crashes against hers at the same moment a burning sensation cascades along her spine and between her shoulder blades. It has Nesta gasping against Cassian’s lips, but he merely uses the reaction to deepen the kiss, to press his tongue into her mouth. His arm drops to curl around her waist, hauling her closer still until she’s pressed flush against his body. She can feel every line of hard muscle beneath his shirt, feel the strength in his grip around her.

He tears his mouth away, but he doesn’t go far, latching his lips against her neck. His mouth is hot against her skin, her entire body roaring to life and reacting to his touch. She tilts her head, a quiet groan tumbling past her lips, when Cassian’s teeth find her pulse point, tongue soothing over the brief sting.

When Cassian pulls away, Nesta’s whole body sways forward, practically chasing his mouth and his kiss. Slowly, her eyes flutter open, finding Cassian’s own gaze already firmly on her face. There’s a fire in his hazel eyes, lips kiss bitten and pink. His grip on her hip holds her steady, fingers of his other hand burying themselves in the strands of her hair.

“What do you say, wife?” Cassian asks, voice low and deep. He drags his nose along her jaw until he can press his lips to her ear. “Should we consummate our bargain?”

Just his voice has heat pooling low in Nesta’s gut. Has her thighs clenching and her toes beginning to curl in her shoes. And when he presses a kiss to that spot behind her ear, a shudder ricochets down her spine. She clutches at Cassian’s shirt to hold herself steady, daring to arc against him.

“Yes.”

Nesta’s world tilts, and then her back is cushioned by grass and moss. She barely has time to register the change before Cassian’s lips are back on hers. He settles atop her, hips cradled within the bracket of her thighs. Nesta finally buries her fingers in the dark curls of his hair, threading the strands between her fingers and tugging hard until Cassian is groaning into her mouth, his hips pressing down against her. She can feel exactly what she’s doing to him, the hardline of his arousal digging into her hip.

She slides one of her hands down his chest, feeling the heat of him even through the fabric between them, feeling his heartbeat just beneath the surface. She traces down and down, but before her fingertips can even brush the waistband of Cassian’s pants, her hand is yanked away. Cassian’s fae instincts are too quick, grip curling around Nesta’s wrists and pinning her hand above her head and into the dirt.

“Don’t you know, sweetheart, that a good husband always ensures his wife is taken care of first?”

Cassian pulls back enough that he’s able to settle comfortably on his haunches. Nesta feels overly exposed, splayed out in the grass beneath him. His gaze roves over her form with a hunger that has her heart rate spiking, has heat flooding through her veins until it settles in her core. Her chest heaves with each deep inhale as painstakingly slow, Cassian unties the laces down the front of her dress.

Her nerve endings are already on high alert, and the slow drag of fabric over her breasts as her dress is pulled open has a moan bubbling up and out of her throat. Her nipples are already pebbled when the cool air hits them, and the heat of Cassian’s hand as he palms them is a welcome reprieve.

Cassian leans back down, his mouth closing over one of her breasts. His tongue laves over her nipple, teeth nipping and tugging at the bud. He pulls back with a quiet pop, switching to her other breath, and Nesta bucks up against him, desperate for friction. Desperate for more.

“Cass… Cassian,” Nesta begs quietly, moaning when he drags the flat of his tongue over her breast again.

Nesta doesn’t even hear Cassian’s laugh this time, merely feels the vibrations against her skin, but he gets the message. He kisses a blazing path down her sternum, down her stomach. His hands find the hem of her skirts, pushing them up her thighs and her hips until her whole dress is nothing more than a bunch of fabric around her waist.

He keeps sliding down until he’s settled on his stomach in the grass, wings spread wide and tall above them both. For a moment, Nesta is transfixed on the way the moonlight ripples through the membrane, the patterns of the veins and scars, but her focus is brought solely back to the fae between her legs when Cassian’s fingers hook in the waistband of her undergarments, sliding them slowly down her legs.

Her breath hitches in her throat as he settles her thighs over his shoulders, at the feral look on his face. Those cat-like eyes of his are almost completely swallowed by his blown out pupils, and his grin shows off the sharp tips of his canines. With his dark hair falling along his temples and cheeks, he truly looks like a wild man, like a beast ready to pounce and feast on its prey. Nesta tosses her head back with a whimper as he lowers his face down, already anticipating his warm breath across her cunt, his tongue, but it never comes. Instead, Cassian’s lips find home along her inner thigh, a teasing display of what’s to come.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Cassian’s low voice rasps, lips never straying from her skin. “I want to see the look on your face when you fall apart on my tongue.”

Nesta tips her chin back down, meeting Cassian’s gaze fully again. His teeth sink into her inner thigh, sucking a bruise onto the skin. Whether it’s a reward or a punishment for her behavior, Nesta isn’t sure. A glint sparks through his hazel eyes, and it’s Nesta’s only warning before he buries himself completely between her thighs.

The first slide of his tongue over her cunt has Nesta’s thighs squeezing out of instinct, but Cassian’s fingers curl against the flesh, holding her open and exactly how he wants her. The flat of his tongue drags over her until he reaches her clit, tracing tantalizing circles over the bud that have Nesta bucking against his hold. It’s clearly the reaction he was hoping for, and the vibrations of his answering groan only add to the sensations threatening to send Nesta spiraling, send her unraveling, almost embarrassingly quickly.

And all the while, Cassian keeps his eyes on her face, pinning her in place, while he works his magic. Whether it’s his fae magic or just the magic of this male, Nesta doesn’t know. Nor does she particularly care as long as he doesnt stop. Her hands scrabble desperately for something to grasp onto, dirt digging under her nails and moans tumbling past her lips unbidden as Cassian presses his tongue into her. It curls and flicks at her walls like he’s determined to collect every last drop of her arousal, like a male parched and starved.

When Cassian finally pulls back, the sight is obscene. His hair is disheveled, lips and chin glistening beneath the light of the moon. He doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth, merely licking his lips with another low groan.

“I knew you’d make the prettiest sounds,” Cassian tells her, suddenly sinking two fingers into her cunt. “Now, come on, wife. Scream my name for the whole wood to hear.”

The pace Cassian sets is punishing, his fingers fucking into her hard and deep, thick in a way her own fingers have never been. Nesta feels like she’s on fire, her entire focus pinpointed on the fingers driving into her, the stretch of them, the way they drag along the walls of her cunt. She rocks her hips up against his hand, chasing the flames, the friction, the familiar feeling coiling tighter and tighter.

“Gods, look at you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight. Flushed such a pretty pink and taking my fingers so well.”

Nesta keens at the words, her hand snapping down to curl around Cassian’s wrist. Not to stop him, but to keep him there. He squeezes in a third finger beside the first two, curling them until Nesta is practically arching up off the ground. Her throat already feels hoarse from her moans, from the shouts of Cassian’s name.

“That’s my good girl. I can feel the way you’re squeezing my fingers. I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock.”

“Cass. Cassian. Please. Gods, please.”

Cassian groans, dropping his face to her neck, teeth dragging along the skin, across her collarbones, his fingers never stopping. “Fuck. You beg so pretty too.”

Cassian’s thumb finds her clit, working it in tandem with the three fingers still thrusting into her. Nesta’s toes curl, her thighs practically shaking. She can feel herself standing on that edge, on that precipice. Cassian shifts his face down, lips closing around her breast again, and Nesta goes tumbling head first. She clenches down hard around Cassian’s fingers, half aware of the shout torn from her throat as her release barrels through her.

Cassian continues to move his fingers, dragging out her orgasm. But soon, the aftershocks subside, the stimulation teetering toward painful. Her whole body shudders with a whimper, but Cassian slips his fingers free. He makes a big show of pushing them between his lips, groaning around the taste of her. It has Nesta reaching for his wrist again, this time, bringing his hand to her own mouth. She sucks on his fingers, curling her tongue between the digits.

“Mother, save me,” Cassian mutters, watching her with hooded eyes.

He pulls his fingers free, but he’s quick to replace them with his own mouth, kissing Nesta deeply. Nesta moans into the kiss, burying her hands back in Cassian’s hair and tugging hard. His tongue curls around her own, his hips aligning and rocking down against hers. It’s a reminder of what’s still hers for the taking, the brush of fabric against her sending sparks ricocheting anew.

She reaches for the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up and up, determined to take it off. But his wings. Her fingers falter as she realizes she’s not sure how to get it off around the wings. She pulls back from the kiss to try and get a better look, but Cassian is having none of that, drawing her right back in. She huffs against his lips, tugging at his shirt in emphasis, and when Cassian is the one to finally pull back again, his hazel eyes are alight with amusement.

He reaches behind his back, the snap of buttons almost as loud as their heaving breaths in the quiet wood. Fisting the fabric, Cassian tugs the shirt away with ease, leaving Nesta with the perfect view of the wide expanse of golden skin, of the muscles carved into it, of the dark hair dusted across his chest and down his stomach like an alluring path leading down and down.

Nesta traces the lines of tattoos painted across his skin with the tip of her fingers, traces them all the way down his chest and further still, daring to dig her nails in against his stomach. Cassian hisses at the sting, but the look in his eyes tells her that he really likes it. It makes her feel bolder, braver. She dares to reach down, palming the hard line still trapped in his pants.

With a groan, Cassian drops his head against her collarbones. She continues her ministrations, curling her fingers as best she can and moving her hand up and down. Even through the fabric of his pants, Nesta can feel the way he twitches, can feel the weight of him. The size. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, what with Cassian being fae and not an ordinary man, but it still has heat sparking along her spine, has her mouth running dry just as surely as her thighs clench together.

She pushes at the waistband of his pants until they slide off his hips, down his thighs. Cassian finishes the job, kicking off the fabric. His cock bobs free between his strong thighs, the head already glistening with his own arousal. Nesta goes to wrap her hand around it, but her fingertips barely graze before Cassian is pinning her wrists again. He’s able to hold both her wrists in the grip of just one of his hands, using his free hand to find home beneath her chin and raise her face to his.

For a moment, Cassian merely stares at her, eyes roving over her face as though he’s trying to memorize it. Warmth flares through his hazel eyes, and Nesta swears she can feel an answering spark between her ribs, can feel it grow and tether like a golden thread there. He leans down and connects their lips, the kiss surprisingly soft. Nesta tries to deepen it, tries to free her hands so she can pull him close again, but Cassian keeps the kiss a gentle slide of lips.

“Cassian,” Nesta huffs frustratedly, hooking her legs around his waist and digging her heels into the small of his back, trying to encourage him where she wants.

“So needy, my wife,” Cassian teases, gripping his cock and dragging the head along her cunt, through the wetness that’s pooled there. “Do you want my cock, Nes? Want me to fill you up and fuck you good?”

“Isn’t that what a good husband does?”

Cassian’s whole body shudders with a groan, his wings flaring wide. “Perhaps a good wife should beg for it.”

“Please,” Nesta whispers, capturing Cassian’s bottom lip between her teeth and bucking her hips up against him. “Please fuck me.”

“Good girl.”

Cassian grasps at her hips, tugging her close and tilting them up. He presses his own hips forward until the tip slides inside her, thrusting shallowly. Just the first few inches stretches Nesta in a way she’s never felt before, in a way she fears she could become addicted to. He pulls his hips back just to sink back in further, the drag along Nesta’s walls leaving her moaning.

When their hips are finally pressed flushed together, Cassian still, nosing along her neck and her jaw. Nesta feels so incredibly full, her every nerve ending on fire in the most delicious way. She clenches down around him, her cunt seeming to draw him that much deeper, and Cassian’s groan echoes her own.

“Gods, you’re so tight,” Cassian murmurs into her neck, lips dragging against her skin. “But you take me so well.”

“Cassian, please,” Nesta begs again, trying to shift her hips against his hold.

Whether the begging does the trick or Cassian merely takes pity on her, Nesta doesn’t care. All she can focus on is the way Cassian pulls his hips back only to snap them back forward. Again and again he drives his hips forward, each hard thrust sending lightning licking through Nesta’s veins. With her hands now free, she curls them around Cassian’s back, practically clawing at his skin as she rocks her hips up to meet him thrust for thrust, as she chases the unparalleled feeling of him filling her over and over.

She dares to trace her fingers toward his shoulder blades. Dares to trace the spindly bone of a wing. Cassian lets out a near animalistic growl, hips digging against her own as his movements stutter.

“If you keep that up, this will be over much too soon,” Cassian warns through clenched teeth. He sits back on his haunches, splaying Nesta’s legs across his thighs.

“Sensitive?” Nesta asks. “What does it feel like?”

Cassian’s thumb presses down on Nesta’s clit, Nesta keening at the sensation and pressure. “Like that.”

Cassian works his hips back up to a brutal pace, moving his thumb in tandem with every hard thrust. It doesn’t take long before Nesta finds herself on the edge of that precipice again, before she goes tumbling over with little to no warning. Her back arches up off the ground, cunt clenching hard around Cassian’s cock. Cassian continues to snap his hips, working her through her orgasm, until he shudders and stills above her, warmth flooding Nesta’s core as surely as the fire blazing through her veins.

Cassian shifts back, pulling his softening cock free and drawing a quiet whimper from Nesta’s lips. She still feels like she’s burning, still feels desperate to dive back into the flames and the feeling sparked by this fae male. And though there’s still the lingering fullness from Cassian’s own release, her cunt still spasms with the aftershocks of her orgasm, still clenches around nothing.

She pushes herself up into a seated position, moving before Cassian can get too far. She all but clambers into his lap, steadying herself on his shoulders until she can settle comfortably. Cassian’s hands find her waist, an almost awestruck expression on his face as he peers up at her. But there’s embers in that hazel gaze too, still flickering as one of those hands glides up her spine, as his fingers curl into the long strands of Nesta’s hair that have fallen free from her updo.

“You know,” Nesta begins, reaching down until she can fist his cock, stroking it teasingly. “There’s this rumor. That fae males can recover more quickly than a man.”

“Is that so?” Cassian teases, but Nesta can already feel the way he’s started to harden again from her ministrations.

Nesta tightens her grip, quickens her pace, until Cassian is groaning and bucking his hips up against her, until his cock is standing at full attention again. She shifts forward on her knees, lining Cassian’s cock up with her cunt and sinking down on it. She moans at the fullness taking over her again, the rightness of being pressed together like this. She feels key-up, the overstimulation too much and yet everything that she needs.

She starts to rock her hips, gasping at the drag and friction, chasing the heat already climbing dangerously high. With one hand still buried in her hair, Cassian draws her mouth back to his, groaning against her lips as he kisses her. He plants his feet on the ground, snapping his hips up to meet hers.

“Gods, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Cassian murmurs against her, hands sliding down to palm at her ass and guide her movements. “Riding my cock like a good fucking girl.”

Nesta shudders at his words, clenching down hard. She picks up the pace of her hips, chasing another release. She starts to feel the burn in her thighs, can feel the stickiness of their own arousal, of both their releases dripping and smeared across the skin there. She’s half aware of her hoarse moans ringing in her ears, of the wet sounds of sex and slapping skin echoing in the woods around them. But all that matters is the slide of Cassian’s cock, the pressure building between her thighs.

She reaches a hand down, fingers slipping through the wetness there and against her clit, but Cassian is too quick. His own fingers curl around her wrist and pull her hand away. Nesta whines high in the back of her throat, tugging against his grip, but it’s no use.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine,” Cassian warns, squeezing her wrist that little bit tighter.

“And am I yours?” Nesta asks, sinking down fully and swiveling her hips to get the friction she was looking for.

“Always. And I’m yours.”

“Good.”

With her free hand not captured in Cassian’s hold, Nesta reaches over his shoulder. She slides her fingertips across his leathery wings, trying to mimic the way her hips move with the shapes she traces. She dares to scrape her nails against his wings, remembering how he’d responded before. With a roar, Cassian all but crushes her to him, his cock twitching deep within her. It’s enough to send Nesta crashing through an orgasm right there with him, spots dancing in her vision as she shakes with the force of it.

Nesta’s entire body feels wrung out and sated, embers banked but still keeping her deliciously warm. It takes her a moment too long to realize she’s slumped forward against Cassian, their chests pressed together and her head dropped to his shoulder. She knows that she needs to move. She knows that, now that their bargain is complete, she needs to return to the village. But trying to will her muscles to work feels like an impossible feat.

She decides to give it under her still heaving breaths even out, until her still thundering heart quiets to a soft beat. Cassian’s touch is surprisingly gentle where his fingertips trace shapes and lines up and down her spine, but soon his hands are gripping her properly. He shifts until they’re both sprawled across the soft, mossy floor of the wood, wings curling almost protectively around her. Warmth seeps into Nesta’s skin every place they’re pressed together, relaxing her all the way down to the bone.

There’s a safety wrapped up in his embrace, and Nesta allows her eyes to flutter shut, allows it to lull her under. She thinks back to Cassian’s words, his declaration that she’s his and he’s hers. And for a moment, just this moment longer, she almost allows herself to believe it.

~ * * * ~

Nesta quietly thanks the seller, carefully placing the folded fabric in the basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She slides her fingers against the pretty pink of it, the color reminding her of Elain. She’s sure that her younger sister will create something beautiful with it.

As she steps out of the small shop in the village square, Nesta can already feel eyes on her. They’re practically scorching holes through her shoulder blades, but she refuses to turn and look. The staring has been the trend the past two days, ever since that night, especially with the men in the village. Perhaps she should have found a way to work keeping the village’s disdain at bay into her bargain.

Sighing softly to herself, Nesta keeps her head held high, her shoulders back, as she follows the winding road back toward her family’s home. She keeps her grip on her basket tight, wills her breathing to come steady and slow, even as her every nerve ending feels on high alert, her heart beginning to skip between her ribs.

A hand grips hard around Nesta’s bicep, yanking her into the gap between two buildings. She barely has time to let out a shout of surprise before another hand is closing over her mouth. Her back slams against wood, nails biting into the skin of her arm, her cheek. The basket slips from her fingers, items skittering across the ground, as she comes face to face with a pair of brown eyes, ruddy cheeks, and lips pulled back in a sneer.

“Did you think you could get away with embarrassing me?” Tomas spits, leaning in until he’s right in Nesta’s face.

Nesta uses her free hand to pry Tomas’s fingers off her face. “Leave me alone. There’s no longer a contract between us or our families.”

“You think I don’t know how you did that? That the whole village doesn’t know? A lowly whore just like Morrigan.”

“Fuck you.”

“It seems you’ve dirtied your mouth as much as your body. Don’t worry. I’m more than happy to use both to remind you of your place.”

Panic flares through Nesta’s chest as Tomas uses his body weight to pin her in place, his hand reaching for her skirts. A low growl echoes in the space around them, Tomas’s entire body going rigid at the sound. They both look toward the other end of the alleyway, a large figure looming there. Even with the shadows, the silhouette of wings is unmistakable.

“A fae?” Tomas whispers, true fear leaving his voice trembling. “In the village? During the day?”

“Get your hands off her,” Cassian warns, voice low and threatening.

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tomas calls out, all fake bravado Nesta is sure.

Cassian prowls forward, each step slow but measured. “I won’t ask again.”

Tomas’s eyes dart between Cassian and Nesta, and Nesta watches the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow. Of all the things Tomas may be, one of them is clearly not stupid. He releases his hold on Nesta, stumbling back a few steps. His eyes never leave Cassian, a true prey caught in a predator’s trap, as he backs away.

Cassian’s smile is all ferity and teeth. In the blink of an eye, he closes the distance, hand snapping out and curling around Tomas’s throat, holding him in place. “Did you think I was just going to let you go?”

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tomas repeats, but even he sounds unsure at his own words.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine.”

Cassian doesn’t give Tomas the time to say anything else. His hand tightens around Tomas’s throat, lifting him up off his feet and slamming him against the wall opposite of Nesta. Tomas sputters and chokes around Cassian’s hold, his feet kicking out helplessly as he claws at Cassian’s forearm.

“What do you say, Nes? Should we break his fingers for committing such an offense?”

Nesta swallows to find her voice again. “Why stop at his fingers?”

Nesta can’t see Cassian’s face with the way he’s holding Tomas, but she can imagine the gleam in his hazel eyes. It’s clear from the way Tomas’s face completely blanches. Cassian’s wings flare out wide behind his back, keeping him balanced as he strikes. The crunch of breaking bone is drowned out by Tomas’s blood curdling scream. Cassian works with an almost terrifying ease and efficiency, as though he’s tearing mere parchment and not body parts.

Tomas crumbles to the ground with a soft groan when Cassian finally steps back. The fae crouches down, but Nesta can’t hear what he whispers to Tomas. He reaches his hands out and wipes them against Tomas’s shirt, cleaning the man’s blood off using the fabric. When he’s finished, Cassian straightens and turns back to Nesta, carefully retrieving her dropped basket and items and holding it out toward her. Slowly, she takes it from him, stepping over Tomas’s body and back into the village market and sun.

“You’re a hard woman to find, Nesta,” Cassian starts, stepping out of the alleyway behind her.

“I didn’t realize you were searching,” Nesta comments idly.

She pauses, hesitates, in the now empty town square before squaring her shoulders and continuing the trek back to her family home. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when Cassian falls into step beside her, unbothered about the villagers who clearly scattered due to his presence.

“What did you expect? Most wives don’t sneak away from their husbands in the middle of the night.”

“I thought that was how it was done.”

Cassian’s chuckle is just as warm in the light of day. “You humans have very odd traditions then.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at his teasing words. “Not that, you big bat. I meant your bargains. Do you track down every woman you make your wife to end their marriage contract?”

Cassian’s fingers curl around Nesta’s wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tugs her to a stop. With a quiet huff, Nesta turns to face him properly. It seems almost strange to see him under the bright light of the sun, without the rays of the moon casting silver shadows across his face, his wings.

He’s still as ruggedly beautiful as Nesta remembers him.

With the curls of his hair scraped away from his face and secured in a bun, the hard line of his jaw is on full display. His hazel eyes seem to burn as golden as the high noon sun, and with the light stretching through them, Nesta realizes there’s a reddish hue to those powerful wings stretched behind his back.

“I only have one wife, sweetheart.”

Nesta blinks a few times, sure that she misheard, trying to wrap her mind around his words. “What do you mean?”

“What other meaning is there?” Cassian drawls, reaching for a stray strand of her hair and twirling it around his finger, a gesture reminiscent of their night together. “The only wife I have is you.”

“So you tricked me with your bargain.”

“Tricked you? I distinctly remember you agreeing. Remember the way you begged for–”

“Stop.”

Nesta takes a firm step back, Cassian’s hand dropping away from between them and back to his side. He tilts his head as he watches her, but Nesta squeezes her eyes shut. He’s too distracting. His presence, the warmth that radiates off his frame, his eyes and the kaleidoscope of emotions swimming amongst the golds and greens. She needs to think.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins, his voice soft and low.

“I said stop.”

Even his voice is distracting, the timbre and drawl of it skating across Nesta skin, wrapping around her limbs like a warm embrace. It seems to rumble from deep within his chest, and Nesta knows exactly what that chest feels like pressed against her own. She knows exactly how his lips feel dragging across her skin, against her lips, against–

“Why?” Nesta asks, her eyes flashing open again. “Why would you make that your end of the bargain then?”

“Because from the moment I saw you in that wood, I knew there would never be another for me.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I was ready to drop to my knees before you bargain or not,” Cassian continues, stepping back into her space. This time, he wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her flush to him until Nesta has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact. “Now, I know I said you could do whatever you wished as my wife, and that is still true, but you can’t tell me you wish to stay in this sorry village. Come home, wife.”

Warmth pools through Nesta’s chest, tugging just below her ribs, at her heart, but that voice in the back of her mind still scrambles and screams. “And how do I know I’m not escaping one cruel man just to run into the arms of another?”

The question pulls a growl from Cassian’s throat. “I would never dare to lay a hand on you unless you asked. And anyone who does dare will have my wrath to answer to, just like that sorry excuse of a man in the village square.”

Before she can think twice about it, before that voice can talk her out of it, Nesta presses up onto her toes, crashing her mouth against Cassian’s. He responds instantly, his lips dragging and sliding with her own, his arms and wings wrapping around her. There’s a comfort, a safety, a contentment here in his embrace, and that warmth in Nesta’s chest puts down roots, unfurls and blooms. It settles all the way down to the very marrow of her bones, to her soul.

When she finally pulls back from the kiss, she steps back from Cassian completely before he can drag her back under. She clears her throat and resettles the basket on her arm, turning on her heel and continuing toward her destination. Only when the familiar worn wood of the door comes into view does she finally stop again, turning over her shoulder.

“Stay out here.”

She doesn’t wait for Cassian’s response before she steps inside her family’s home, the scent of fresh bread greeting her. She spies her father asleep in the rickety chair he favors in front of the fire. Typical. With an annoyed huff, Nesta sets down her basket, heading in the direction of the bedrooms.

“Nesta? Is that you? You were in the market longer than I thought. I was starting to get worried.”

Nesta ignores her sister, continuing down the hall and through the bedroom door. She digs a bag out from beneath the bed, laying it open and turning toward the wardrobe. She makes quick work pulling out all her favorite dresses and folding them into some semblance of order.

“Nesta? Is everything–what are you doing?”

Nesta only glances toward Elain now standing in the doorway, Feyre standing just behind her and peering over the middle Archeron’s shoulder. Instead, Nesta returns to the task at hand, grabbing her most beloved books and adding them to the bag as well. Her attention dances briefly toward the old desk in the corner, but she presumes even a fae would have parchment and pen for her to write.

“Don’t ask questions,” Nesta finally says, closing the bag. “But I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Feyre echoes, stepping back enough that Nesta can walk back out of the bedroom.

“Yes. Now that there is no longer a marriage contract with the Mandrays, there’s no…” Nesta sighs, pausing in front of their home's front door and turning back toward her sisters, but there’s nothing but understanding on Elain and Feyre’s faces. “I’ll write once I’m settled. I swear it.”

With a final nod, Nesta pulls open the door, stepping back into the sun. As if she already inherently knows where to look, her eyes find Cassian where he’s leaning casually against the trunk of a tree. It’s reminiscent of the first time she saw the fae, only this time, his expression seems to soften as he takes her in. Nesta refuses to admit to the way her heart stutters at the smile on his face.

“Is that–”

“Don’t ask questions,” Nesta cuts Elain off. “Just know that this is what I want, that I’ll be happy. Don’t let father ever try to convince either of you that you don’t deserve that too.” She starts down the path away from their house before another thought occurs to her. “And perhaps stay out of the woods. Especially at night.”

Nesta continues down the path and across the grass until she reaches Cassian, wordlessly holding out her bag. She swears it’s purposeful, the way his fingers skate across her skin as he takes it, and yet goosebumps erupt up her arm either way. She waits for Cassian to begin leading the way back between the trees and deeper into the woods, but instead the fae takes the time to secure her bag over his shoulder until it rests between his wings.

“Oh, we’ll be flying,” Cassian explains, answering her unasked question.

“Flying?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

Before Nesta can say anything else, Cassian scoops her up and into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Nesta is quick to wrap her own arms tightly around his neck, squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation of the rush, of the wind, but it never comes. When she opens her eyes again, she finds Cassian watching her. Waiting for her permission.

“Well? Take me home, husband.”

—

#also ‘I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine’ UGHH #so good #nestaweek2024

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