Her Me Out... Tamlin And Nesta Are Mates

This is way out of my comfort zone, but for all you Nezriel lovers... here ya go! Nesta vs the Buffer - Part Two (18+)

Nesta had been about to extinguish the little lamp beside her bed when the door had knocked. She wasn’t sure if she had heard it correctly, the brush of knuckles had been so gentle like the sweep of the wind.

A male was at her door, dark head bowed as she opened it. Azriel’s hazel eyes flickered to hers.

‘Have you been sent to kill me?’

A crease pressed between his brows. ‘Do you think I would knock if that was the case?’

‘Well, you are very polite.’

It struck Nesta that they had never really had a conversation, just the two of them before. They had spoken, sure, but usually as part of a group or if other people were present. He was tall in his own right; not as physically imposing as Cassian, but he reached as high as the door frame. A thick sweeping of hair fell across his forehead. She’d always thought him the prettiest.

They stood in a strange stalemate. Two of her neighbours were arguing in their apartment; it was a common occurrence she had found out, though only occurred late at night. It would go on and on. On the second night, she had knocked to see if the female shrieking needed help – only to be told by both of them to mind her damn business.

‘Are you here for a reason?’

Azriel swallowed. A shadow eclipsed him briefly. ‘I suppose I wanted to see if you were okay.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

That dinner had been downright awful. Right from the start where she had tipped mushroom soup over herself and ended up wearing a dress that was too risqué, from being told the wrong time, for being forgotten and overlooked, all the way to her little eruption at dessert. None of it made her too embarrassed – except perhaps asking Varian if he slept with Cresseida. That was maybe slightly too far.  

‘Can I stay here tonight?’

‘What?’ Nesta’s voice blurted, far too loudly. She tightened her dressing gown around her body then shifted back a step.

At her reaction, Azriel had grimaced slightly. ‘I continued what you started at the restaurant tonight. I don’t want to speak to them. And I know this is the last place they would expect me to be.’

Her apartment became a refuge for the shadow singer. When duty called, he returned to the inner circle. That wall of ice that surrounded him would not yield. He reported back to Rhys, winnowed wherever he had to for missions, but in his free time, he could be always found at Nesta’s apartment rather than spending another moment in their company. He didn’t share what happened at the restaurant. Nesta didn’t particularly care. She had said her piece and left the door open for him to swoop in

It was startingly easy to move around him. They orbited each other silently. Nesta might go out for a few hours, returning with a new book or Azriel would bring hot food with him from a café in Velaris. They never squabbled over using the bathroom, they ate the same food, had the same tastes, and were content to be in a reserved quiet. He didn’t get in her way, didn’t take up too much space. She only bothered him to offer him a drink or snack. Azriel always tidied the blankets on the couch each morning though Nesta doubted he slept much. Sometimes she could hear him, treading almost silently around the living room. It was only because she was still awake herself that she ever heard him.

One night when he’d knocked on late, she’d handed him a key, blinking at the bright lights in the corridor. ‘I’m sick of getting out of bed in the middle of the night. Let yourself in from now on.’

His eyes had passed over the key like Nesta had given him an heirloom. The pad of his thumb stroked along the collar and the bit. ‘Thank you.’

Another week passed with quiet conversations. She saw him only in the moments before she went to bed. A bat by looks and by nature, she had said, drawing a smile from him. Nesta liked those smiles because they were so rare. She had yet to see the shadow singer throw back his head in full-bellied laugher or to even show his teeth when he grinned. Azriel guarded himself carefully. It was a practise she knew very well.

Perhaps that was the reason why, that in such short space of time, they had warmed to each other. Nesta did not pry. Azriel did not either. He read reports. She read her books. She cooked. He cleaned. Sometimes he would disappear in the middle of the night, leaving the door on the latch, coming back before dawn, but Nesta didn’t interrogate.

‘Not that I want you gone, but I have to ask how long you do plan to be here for?’

A shadow danced near his ear, but Azriel swatted it away like a fly. How long will you remain angry with your family, she wondered. Would an equal measure of five hundred years dull the pain?

‘What I mean is, I feel terrible that you sleep on this dreadful couch. At your great age, it must play havoc with your back.’ A slight smirk from the shadow singer sent a wave of pride rushing over her. ‘If you planned on a long-term scenario… We could find another place with two bedrooms.’

‘You’d want to live with me?’

‘Why not? We already are.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, threading a hand through his ebony hair. ‘The others tell me to loosen up, to lighten up, to be louder.’

A cocoon of silence always followed him. He never rushed his words or said more than he needed to.

‘I like you as you are,’ Nesta admitted.  

Something charged passed through their gaze. Nesta felt it spike in her veins like a spark. Shadows blurred him from view so she took that as her cue to go to bed.

***

‘Why do you leave the room when I light a fire?’ Azriel couldn’t keep the question in. He had been staying there for almost three weeks now. With the arrival of colder weather, he’d fought against his revulsion for fire to keep the apartment warm for them. And every time that first tendril of flame had come to life, Nesta would depart to the bedroom. ‘Is it my hands?’

He kept his hands balled into fists, the scars taut over his bones. Nesta froze in the doorway to her bedroom, a book clutched to her chest. Instinct had her gaze darting to his hands then she shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘My hands,’ he repeated, the words unsure on his lips. He hated this. Hated drawing attention to them.

Nesta drew nearer hesitantly. She set the book down on the small table. ‘I don’t know what happened to your hands. I don’t have an issue with them, Azriel.’

Azriel tensed. He had thought all the sisters knew. The story had been given wings in secret as if it would spare Azriel’s feelings if they all knew without him having to share the story.

‘What happened to your hands?’ Her voice was gentle. It was the gentle tone Nesta only ever reserved for Elain. Firmly, she caught hold of each hand and pressed them both between her own. It was the first time that somebody hadn’t examined them, hadn’t tried to cast an inconspicuous look upon them when they were the topic of conversation. She had acknowledged them, but hadn’t given them value. He was more than his scars.

‘My father and his wife kept me imprisoned in darkness for years. My brothers poured oil on my hands then lit them.’

The words were rough. He’d told the story only once before – over five hundred years ago when he had finally trusted Rhys and Cassian enough to share it with them.

Azriel could not look at Nesta. Could not bear to see if she was about to inspect his hands. He braced himself for the words that so many said. They were words that ruined him, no matter how well intended they were – have you seen a healer? Can they not be glamoured away? Why don’t you wear gloves?

Nesta merely squeezed his hands tighter with her own and said, ‘I cannot be near a fire because when it cracks, I am back on that field. I am watching the King of Hybern break my father’s neck. When I hear the logs split, I am waiting to die at the hands of the king.’

Not all scars could be seen. What his blood had done to him had ruptured a part so deep that it would never heal. What Nesta had been exposed to in the war festered in her chest too.

They had showed their insecurity to the other. It was strange to let her in – strange to let anybody in, least of all the cold and imperious Nesta Archeron.

On the couch, they sat in silence. He allowed Nesta to look at his hands without hiding them away. Her fingers found patterns in the brutal scarring rather than being repulsed by it. Azriel was sure that there wasn’t a scar that she hadn’t touched. If she was faking it, hiding her disgust, she was a good actress. Even Mor had always faltered slightly before touching them as if they might catch and her unblemished hands would be ruined.

Every time the fire spat, Nesta’s body would tense. She’d grip onto his hands until she had coasted through the wave of anguish. They were each other’s anchor that night.

The following morning, they did not acknowledge the moment they had shared. Azriel wasn’t even sure if he had dreamt it. A mutual trust had grown between them without realising. He found himself watching her butter toast with an expression that anybody else might read as severe. Nesta always looked as if she was scrutinising something even if she wasn’t. Her smiles were there, but locked away. On the rare occasion that Azriel had prised a genuine laugh from her, it bathed him with warmth. She would tip back her head and screw her eyes shut. Her laughs were beautiful.

He postponed his trip to Illyria slightly. Nesta had made them both breakfast, unexpectedly, and he was too guilty to leave it untouched. They had sat together at the narrow table tucked by the kitchen, eating in a peaceful silence.

‘I’ll be back before dinner today. If that’s alright?’

‘I won’t complain,’ she said.

There was a note in her voice that gave Azriel pause, gave him a reason to drink her in a minute longer. He thought of the way that she had cradled his hands last night. The gentle side of her that so rarely saw the light of day. How she had leaned on him for support – and he’d been happy to steady her.

‘Then I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

‘Good.’

In one syllable, Azriel’s mind raced. One syllable had him postulating over a thousand different outcomes.

Shadows enveloped him, prising him away to Illyria. The prickles that covered his body whenever he reached his homeland seemed softer today, wrapped in silk rather than iron. He glanced down at his hands as if remembering the feel of Nesta’s fingers there like she was following rivers on a map.

‘I’ve seen that look before,’ a low voice murmured.

Azriel snapped his head up, jerking away slightly.

‘No,’ Rhys breathed in awe. ‘I caught you by surprise. Five hundred years and I have finally made you jump.’

Azriel rolled his eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘So, who is she? What beguiling female has put that dreamy look in your eyes?’

His shadows curled around him, whispering that they would strike if he wanted them to. They had always protected him.

‘Where’s Devlon? Let’s get this over with.’

Rhys did not drop the subject as they marched across the windy paths of Windhaven, pausing occasionally to inspect the sparring rings they passed. ‘One day, you will finally bring a female home for us to meet.’

‘Keep waiting.’

Cassian dropped out of the sky with a heavy thud. At the sight of him, Azriel felt hot and sick all at once. He kept his face trained on the young male nearest them who was examining weapons.

After their rooftop argument, Cassian had given him the space that he knew he needed. When the time was right, he had sought him out at the River House, likely after arranging with Rhys to summon him there. Cassian had been genuine with his apology. Whenever their paths had crossed since, his brother always begged him to come back home. To the House of Wind. To the River House. Just to come home.

Yet, when Azriel had asked Nesta if Cassian had apologised to her for hurting her feelings – for letting Mor come between whatever had been budding there - she’d folded her arms across her chest and said no.

‘I don’t want an apology from him. I don’t want anything from him.’

That memory diverted his guilt into righteousness. Nesta had held his hands only – and she had every right to do that. She was not promised to Cassian. Azriel was not tangled with anyone. They were friends. Friends doing nothing wrong. Still, he couldn’t manage to look into Cassian’s eyes for very long.

The day was busy examining new recruits. Their days would follow a similar pattern until the worst of the winter came, Az knew the schedule well. They’d visit each camp to see what lecherous males each camp lord had recruited that autumn then they would assess the likelihood of any of them making the Blood Rite the following year.

‘Come for dinner,’ said Rhys. It was an order rather than an invitation.

Cass slung an arm around his shoulders. ‘We can make a night of it. Mor’s not there. She’s in the Continent still.’

The reproachful look from Rhys hadn’t faded quick enough for Azriel to miss. Mor had cried on the roof, apologised, said she wanted to be his friend. Like a bucket of water had been thrown on hot coals, any lingering feelings for her had been extinguished. More than anything, Azriel was a fool.

For years, he had nurtured a hope of them. He thought perhaps she still needed time. Needed time to meet new people after a youth spent in captivity, after what her family had done to her. Time to explore the world, time to have fun. It had not mattered to him how many lovers she had taken to bed. On the occasions that she blew hot and cold towards him, he was always unable to figure Mor out. She would invite him close then push back. He blamed it on her past, blamed it on her mother and father. Often, he blamed himself too. She would not see him as anything more than a lesser fae savage so Azriel held back. Once, he had tried to confess how he felt.

The memory of that day was scarred into his mind; of confessing that he knew he was unsuitable for her, but he still wanted her. Without a word, Mor had walked away. A bastard lesser fae savage whose father hated him enough to lock him up. The shame had burnt him. That shame of daring to believe that Mor might have given him a chance – that any female would risk sullying themselves with a male like him.  

Each time that Mor flirted with his brother, those feelings wilted more and more. Cassian was like him – and that was what he could never understand. They were both Illyrians. Both bastards. Yet Azriel was somehow less worthy of her touch. He'd blamed it on his hands, blamed it on the shadows that made others uncomfortable. Then he’d even thought that maybe he had imagined the soft smiles and loving touches that she gave to him; that he was so desperate for Mor that he was creating a love story that didn’t exist.

‘I didn’t want things to change,’ she’d wept on the roof, gripping the buttons of his shirt. ‘I like how things are between us.’

Those words had cracked the ice. She liked him to be her shield against her family, against Eris. Azriel had been her knife too. But she did not want him. She would use Cassian to put him off regardless of the strain it put on the brothers. That was what she liked, because the alternative was facing up to the fact that for five hundred years, she had let him believe he was not worthy of her rather than being honest. She would strike out at Nesta because she realised that Nesta would take away the one barrier that stopped the truth from leaking out.

‘I have places to be,’ he said coldly.

***

Azriel was one the most difficult people to read that Nesta had ever encountered. When he had arrived home that evening, tension had bracketed his body. It wasn’t unusual. It didn’t offer anything to his mood.

She was learning to observe his shadows. Sometimes they were excitable, moving quickly without restraint when Azriel was in a more playful mood. Other times, they stayed close by to comfort or to protect. Tonight, they were gone. Nesta didn’t know what that meant.

They ate quietly. Azriel did not divulge on his day, but he had thanked her for cooking and asked how her own day had been. Nesta had been into the city. The male had insisted on providing coin for his opulent lodging of the broken couch, so she had spent some money on wooden children’s games to occupy the time with the approach of winter. Nesta was happy to find that many were similar to mortal games she had played with servants.

‘You don’t want to play cards with me,’ said Azriel after his shower. His dark hair was damp and curled around his face. ‘I cheat.’

‘You’re a very honest cheat,’ she acknowledged, shuffling the cards. ‘Since I have no other company, you will have to do.’

They knew similar games and established rules. It had been a long time since Nesta had played games. She thought of the elderly servant who had seemingly always been a part of the household staff when she was little. Somehow, he had learnt sleight of hand tricks. Nesta had believed it to be faerie magic and would watch in wonder as he’d always guess what her card had been or how he’d transform her card into a toffee for her to gobble. He’d had a hacking cough, veiny hands, and grew thinner each time Nesta sought him out in the gardens. One day, he never came to the manor again. When she’d asked her father, he’d simply said the servant was gone.

‘Why do you keep glancing over your shoulder?’ Azriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you expecting somebody?’

She bit down on her lower lip. ‘I’m trying to work out how you cheat. I keep thinking there will be a shadow behind me, spying on my cards.’

‘They don’t make you uncomfortable?’

They were a part of him. ‘Of course not.’

Once games became tiresome, Nesta asked the male about the Blood Rite. She had purchased books about Illyria to better understand that part of the land. Their training was brutal, lives were short for many. She couldn’t fathom dumping a child in a war camp. It reminded her of baby birds that were pushed out of the nest and forced to fly. Many more didn’t.

‘These ones,’ Azriel said, gesturing to the whorls of black ink running over his bare arms, ‘are standard for most warriors. They’re associated with luck and glory. After the Blood Rite, males receive more in a ceremony. Bodies are flagging but you have to stand up for one more night of drinking and tattoos. That’s the final test.’

‘You have those?’

Azriel nodded, eyes searching her face. ‘You receive more depending on your status. The three of us touched Ramiel so we received the highest honours.’

‘Show me them.’

***

Obliging, Azriel pulled off his shirt. Nesta’s eyes canvassed his chest, tracking the details in the ink. Wrong. So wrong. Their conversation was minimal as she committed the hard planes of his body to memory. Both of them knew they were crossing a boundary tonight. From Nesta’s fervour, as she touched his skin, Azriel surmised she didn’t care.

Fingers traced the whorls with an intensity that a scholar might brush the letters of an ancient text, seeking answers. Her knuckles tracked up Azriel’s neck and he lifted his chin as she reached his jaw.

‘What do you want?’ His voice was a quiet warning in the dark.

A muted smile was his response. ‘You’ll make me beg for it?’

Azriel followed the pattern his thumb drew on Nesta’s collar bone, the daring sweep of it below the cut of her gown. His eyes flickered back to her. ‘I want to hear it from your lips.’

Wanted to hear if she was brave enough to voice it. Wanted confirmation that it was not just him getting lost down a path they never should have wandered down. Wanted to know that he wasn’t wasting his feelings once more on someone who didn’t value him.

Nesta brushed his hand aside. She appraised him with the same steel look that she had given to every high lord in the Dawn Court meeting.

In a swift motion, she straddled his lap. Now, she was the one pushing him to his limit. Seeing how brave he would be. A hand stroked against his hair then it was holding him in place.

‘I want you to kiss me.’

So, he’d obliged. Nesta had leant forwards and everything had felt as if it was moving at a different pace. The fire’s movements were slow and sluggish. The world even stopped turning on its axis.

They had moved too fast. Azriel’s lips crushing against Nesta. A flush spreading up her cheeks as he kissed down to her neck in a fevered motion. Her hand had raked through his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers.

Her hips had circled his lap. His hands curved around to grip her waist, to help the motion that was undoing him. Nesta’s soft moans were a beacon to him, calling for more.

It was a mistake. Every kiss, every tantalising touch was a mistake. He should have stopped.

She’d been confident, tugging him to the bedroom, hands gliding up his bare back. She hadn’t said stop when he lifted her against the wall, kissing so deeply time halted. Hadn’t protested when he’d roughly pulled her dress off, not when he’d run his scarred hands over her beautiful body.

He hadn’t known. Hadn’t realised she was a maiden until he had given the first thrust, felt her body shudder around him, the sharp spike of her breath against his ear. He’d seen the blood after and nearly vomited. He should have been softer. Shouldn’t have rushed straight into bedding her. Shouldn’t have pressed his body so tightly to Nesta’s that her hips ground into his skin. He’d crossed a line. His mind buzzed with a thousand feelings, a thousand scenarios.

Revenge. Was that what Cassian would think? Some sick payback for him sleeping with Mor all those years ago?

Nesta leaned over the bed, fumbling for anything to regain her modesty. He couldn’t let her think she was a pawn in a game of vengeance. Azriel rushed to the bathroom, found a cloth to soak with tepid water. He hesitated from cleaning her himself and instead pressed it into her hands.

 ‘I didn’t know you were a maiden.’

Why was it worse that she was? Because Azriel knew how the others would view it when it came to light. Knew that for a once-mortal female, this should have been special and he had been rough with passion.

‘Not anymore,’ she muttered.

Azriel faced the wall, allowing Nesta the privacy she deserved. He heard the slide of a drawer then a night gown being pulled over her head. He fixed her with a look. ‘Did I hurt you?’

For a fraction of a second, her face faltered. ‘Just at the start.’

His chest tightened at the admission. ‘Sorry.’

Azriel knew he should leave. Knew he should not have ever come to her apartment. It had been a dangerous game, right from the start. Night after night, they’d edged further down a path that there was no returning from with their growing companionship. But if he left and never came back then Nesta would think she’d been used. That had not been his intention. Never would be his intention.

When Nesta tugged the sheets from the bed, balling them up to hide the blood, Azriel started on the pillow cases too. It was a way of atoning. Remove all traces of the illicit night they had shared.

‘You don’t need to do that.’

‘I want to,’ he murmured.

Silently, they stripped the bed then placed fresh sheets onto it. Nesta didn’t ask him to stay in her bed and he didn’t want her to.

He flew as far as he could, to the furthest reach of Illyria. He had well and truly fucked up everything.

***

Any soreness did not linger. Nesta found herself unable to concentrate without memories of her night spent with Azriel pulsing to the surface. Heat flooded her body when she remembered the way he had moaned against her skin as he entered her. Her breath shuddered each time she recalled the flicker of his tongue against her ear.

When she imagined her first time with a male, it ought to have been a wedding night to a bland mortal man her parents had arranged for her. As a fae, the vision had shifted to a fantasy of a dreamy male who loved and cherished Nesta. He’d have lit candles around the room, proposed maybe, scattered petals and moved his hips a few times until he found release while she had lay beneath him like a plank of wood.

Her imagination had disappointed her. It hadn’t been able to conjure the thrill that Azriel’s hands had. Hadn’t crafted the same pounding excitement when Nesta had taken control and climbed onto his lap. It was more intimate than anything she could have dared to dream. The shadow singer had caressed all of her, unable to settle on one place he wanted to touch. Desire had been the tinder and want the flame. They’d moved together in waves finding pleasure in each other’s bodies. There had been no reluctance or shyness, only lust.

She supposed she would not see him again. The white horror sheeting his face when he had realised that she had been a maiden was enough to deter him. It would be a secret warded in the dark whenever they were in shared spaces.

@canvashearts

Since you asked... Soft Nessian headcanon: Nesta is absolutely the type to read through the night and Cassian will be passed out asleep curled up next to her but periodically there will be a sleepy mumble of "go to sleep" but Nesta will just keep saying "one more chapter"

This technically was just a really good headcanon, but I am so sleepy that I wrote a fic about sleep. This is my second fic about sleep... being half awake must inspire me or something.

~

Nesta’s chest is a beautiful thing. Not just because her breasts mold perfectly in his hands and she becomes pliant as he tugs and bites, but because when Cassian lays his head there, he can hear her life like trickles of water. Her heart is the pitter-patter of rain.

There’s nothing quite like music than the sounds that Nesta Archeron makes. From her moans, to her yells, to her quick snapping fingers when she’s frustrated. There’s nothing much that can compare to the sound of her breathing. Even the symphonia can’t rival her heartbeat.

So Cassian finds Nesta’s chest most agreeable. It’s the best place to sleep, where he can wrap his arms around her while she reads. It’s the best position for his wings.

He worries about his weight hurting her at first, but Nesta assures him that she’s comfortable. She’s always cold, Nesta reminds him.

You keep me warm, she says.

Cassian swears he blushes at her words but he buries his burning cheeks in her blue nightgown and she burrows her fingers into his hair.

It’s easy to sleep with her heartbeat in his ears. It’s like his soul calms at the thump it makes and she reads the night away, absent-mindedly stroking his hair. He wants to cry at first... at the touch. What it means. She, the female of his dreams, in his arms.

More than that, Nesta loves him. He’s never felt more loved in all his life so it’s easy to drift, to float down still waters where sleep awaits. He has never felt more safe than in her arms.

And sometime in the night, she laughs. A soft bell rings in his ears and the movement of her chest has him grasping her tighter.

“Go to sleep,” he mumbles.

“Shhh,” Nesta whispers as if his interruption disturbs her. “It’s night already, you should be sleeping.”

He merely gives her a slow blink and when she raises a brow as if to say of course, she’s right, Cassian can’t seem to argue when he’s only half-awake.

“Go to sleep,” he grumbles, when he hears the shift of a page.

“There’s only one more chapter,” Nesta says.

“That’s a long chapter,” Cassian muses as he closes his eyes.. He can still see the chuck of more than a few chapters under her hands, but he’s too tired to argue and Nesta’s much too soft and warm to resist.

And when Cassian awakens for the third time that night, he can only frown at the book still in her hands. The light is still on and the heavy glow makes him want to shield them both with his wings.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

“There’s only a few more chapters,” Nesta pleads, showing him the pages as proof. “I’m not lying this time.”

Cassian concedes, tucking himself into her chest as he grumbles about sleep. He drifts off to dreams thinking of rain.

When Cassian wakes for the fourth time, it’s to a heavy book thumping on his back. Her thumb is still stuck in-between pages and Cassian reaches for her bookmark first.

Her chest moves languidly like ships rocking on the sea, and Cassian thinks he’ll dream of waves tonight. He'll hear siren songs as he sleeps.

But first, he reaches for the light and tucks her closer.

@arinbelle

at all times there is a random combination of taylor swift lyrics playing on loop in my brain

Mor is season two Cassie.

No, I will not elaborate.

“Hi, yes, I’m Lily Evans. I received a call?”

Lily unzipped her jacket and leaned against the edge of the receptionist’s desk, staring down at a dumpy old woman with big round glasses.

“Oh yes, dear, he’s right over there,” the woman said, leaning forward to continue in a whisper, “I would have him checked for a head injury if I were you…he seemed pretty confused when he walked in here. Poor thing even forgot how to use a telephone.”

Lily smiled and nodded at the woman, knowing good and well that her friend’s confusion was not caused by a concussion. She turned her head, staring a few feet down the hall at a figure slumped in a chair against the wall. She had to admit that even though it was a bit of a pain having to pick Sirius up from a muggle police station, him not being behind bars was a huge positive. She walked towards him, her footsteps echoing against the tile of the empty hallway. His head perked up and he looked at her, his wild curls covering half of his face. He stood, wrapping her in a hug.

“Lily, darling! Wonderful to see you!” He smiled his trademark smile, toothy and charismatic. A smile that had dodged many detentions, changed many grades, and fooled many girls over the years.

Lily, however, saw right through him.

“Sirius, what is going on? How did you get here? Why are you here?”

“Ah, I just figured I needed an adventure, that’s all,” Sirius shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, “Ernie from the Knight Bus and I are very well acquainted. Also have you tried this muggle drink? The secretary woman gave it to me. Honestly, the things you guys come up with-”

Lily put her hand firmly on Sirius’ shoulder, bringing his mindless rant to a halt. He always got like this when he was trying to hide something, or trying to convince his friends that he wasn’t upset. She gently took the can of Coca-Cola from his hand, setting it on the floor by her feet.

She reached up slowly, brushing away the mop of curls that covered the right half of his face. She winced as she saw his eye, dark purple and slightly swollen. Someone had punched him. Sirius avoided her gaze, opting to stare down at the toes of his boots instead. Lily had a feeling she knew who had given him the black eye, and she was livid.

They stood in silence for a few moments before Sirius reached into his pocket, pulling out a ripped piece of paper. Lily immediately recognized her handwriting. She had given Sirius her address before Christmas break after finding out that James was going to be on holiday for most of it. He had shrugged it off at the time, but she insisted that he take it in case something bad happened. However, it looked as though part of it had been torn away.

“Kreacher found it and tried tearing it to bits,” Sirius told her, rolling the paper between his fingers, “I had a right hard time getting it back from him. I couldn’t remember the rest and I didn’t know what to do when I got here, so I made a bit of a loon of myself asking people on the street until someone brought me here.”

Lily smiled, pulling her friend into another hug. She held him tighter this time, twirling his curls around her finger as he melted into her. She could tell he was exhausted. Her heart broke for him. He didn’t deserve any of this.

“Come on, it’s getting late. We’ll go back to my house and make some tea. My dad’s already made up the spare bed for you.”

Sirius pulled away, giving Lily a watery smile and running a quick hand over his eyes, wincing as he grazed his bruise. He picked up the can from beside their feet and Lily swung her arm around his shoulder, giving the woman behind the desk a quick nod as they left the building. As they stepped out into the cold winter air, Lily saw headlights coming up the street. She smiled and clutched Sirius’ arm.

“Ready to ride a Muggle bus for the first time?”

SHADOW AND BONE ↳ 1.05: Show Me Who You Are

Someone tell me why instead of editing my thesis I’ve spent this morning writing an angsty Nessian/furious Nesta one-shot, when I haven’t written fanfiction in… six whole years?? Have I just unlocked a new level of procrastination and putting off deadlines????

(Nope I don’t know when this is set. Maybe after Eris proposed? Idk. Maybe Nesta accepted the proposal and it was the kick up the arse Cassian needed. Maybe Eris treats Nesta right from day one. Maybe Cassian has to actually work for it instead of just telling her her opinions are bullshit. Idk. It’s out of my system now so will probs never finish this. It came into my head like this and I had to get it down. That is all. It’s not even edited but… here it is anyway.)

“I fucked up.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that.

“I know. I know.” His eyes were a kind of frantic she’d never seen before. Wild. She could see the storm brewing there. He ran a hand through his hair. “Just- just tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can fix it.”

Silence.

It wasn’t often that words failed her. She was always ready with some sharp remark, some biting comment. But as he stood before her, arms outstretched and palms facing upwards almost in supplication… for the first time she didn’t know what to say.

She’d never seen him plead like this before. His face seemed bare without that smirk he always wore. His eyes empty without that gleam, that spark that said he was riling her up on purpose. His hand ran again through his dark hair, and for a moment she could have sworn his fingers trembled.

“Please.”

He was waiting. She should say something. Anything. Tell him what he wanted to hear, because there was a kind of guilt building in her stomach and clawing up her throat. Just one word from her could fix it, couldn’t it?

All she had to do was say yes. Give him what he wanted. Make him happy.

But, hell, she was far too stubborn for that. Instead she set her shoulders, stepped away from him, just barely. Enough for him to notice.

She saw his face fall even further; she hadn’t thought it was possible. He’d looked so distraught when he’d followed her out here, the door slamming behind him, and she hadn’t thought it could get worse.

That look in his eyes almost killed her.

But this wasn’t her fault.

She wasn’t good at admitting when she was wrong, that’s true. But this time, this time she was certain she wasn’t at fault. So let him grovel.

Let him suffer, just a bit.

God knows he made her suffer enough. They all had, and it made her blood boil in her veins. How blind he was. How utterly stupid.

“You seem awfully determined to right any wrongs tonight,” she said at last.

“I’ll do anything, Nes. Tell me what to do.”

She tilted her head. Kept her voice low, soft, almost gentle, as she said:

“How far back shall I go?”

Confusion flashed across his features. He wasn’t fooled by her tone. He knew her well enough to know this was a trap. That she was just waiting for him to put his foot in his mouth. His eyebrows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she was done waiting. She cut him off before he could find the words to say.

“Shall we start with tonight? Or shall I start from the beginning?”

A pause. His eyes darkened, and she knew him well enough to know that he was getting annoyed. Good.

“Every time you ignored my grief. My suffering. Ignored it because it wasn’t palatable, and decided I was dealing with all of this in the wrong way. Shall we start there?”

He folded his arms across his chest. Turned his head away.

A laugh burst from her, low and bitter.

“It doesn’t matter.” She said quietly. He snapped his head back towards her so fast she almost heard it crack.

“Of course it matters.”

She raised an eyebrow. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“We didn’t know how much you were suffering before-”

“Is that what you tell yourself? To make yourself sleep at night?”

“You think I’d have stood by and-”

“Yes.” She said simply. Her interruption stunned him. She stunned him often, she knew that much, but she rarely left him speechless. His eyes widened, and she was torn between satisfaction and devastation when she caught that look of heartbreak on his face. “What was it you said? You couldn’t understand how either of my sisters could love me?”

He flinched.

The bulking, massive, warrior before her flinched.

Again, that anger inside her was satisfied.

Good.

“You know I’d walk over hot coals for you. To hell and back-”

She couldn’t stop it, the laugh that burst out of her. Sharp and biting and vicious.

“You couldn’t even walk me back from a battlefield.” Her words were soft. So soft, but they couldn’t hide the venom there. The anger she’d harboured for so long now.

Everything else she’d told him.

How she couldn’t bear to hear the crackle of a fire. How the sound of her father’s neck breaking dogged her every step, the sight of the blood - so much blood - plagued her dreams. How submerging herself under water just to bathe made her feel like she was drowning, dying, and how oblivion was starting to feel like a mighty nice concept.

But she hadn’t told him this part. That when it mattered, when it really mattered, he’d disappeared. Limped away and left her alone.

Before then… before then, he’d listened to her when nobody else had. She’d felt something off that day at the meeting, and her sister had dismissed it, but he hadn’t. She’d felt his hand on her back when they asked her to find that damned cauldron, and it was an anchor, grounding her.

She’d bandaged his wrist, and he had looked at her like she was the entire world. Like everything else faded into insignificance the moment her fingers touched his skin. And even when he’d dropped her hand like a burning coal, she hadn’t given up.

She’d laid her life down alongside his, fully prepared to die as long as she did it by his side. She’d given up everything. Everything.

And it was in those moments after the battle, when she stood alone, watching her sisters walk away arm in arm, not even noticing that she’d fallen behind, when she couldn’t catch her breath and her lungs wouldn’t work, and it was quiet but her mind was screaming, and she wanted to sob but tears wouldn’t come…

And he was nowhere to be seen.

It was then she’d decided to fuck the lot of them.

And that night, when she’d gone to bed instead of celebrating - they were fucking celebrating - she heard their sighs. The exasperation in their voices as she turned and climbed the stairs. She felt it, how they were torn between rolling their eyes at her (haven’t we all been through a lot, she imagined they’d say), and feeling some kind of relief that she’d gone away rather than burden them with her trauma.

And as she cried into her pillow, fingers clenched into the sheets and fists shaking, she knew that every single promise every single one of them had made was meaningless. She heard the corks of bottles popping. Heard their laughter.

Fuck them all.

He looked winded now. It brought her back into the present, the almost breathless gasp that escaped his lips.

She could see the words - the excuses - starting to spill from his mouth, but she was tired. Exhausted.

She held up a hand and he stopped. Considered her for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered it, and there was pain there, in his voice and behind his eyes.

It was all she had wanted to hear from him, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she told herself at night that if he’d just realise that this - all of this - was at least partly down to him, too, then she could move on. She could forgive him for every acid word he’d thrown her way, because god knows she’d thrown enough at him, too.

But when it came down to it… she couldn’t. She thought those words would be a balm. She thought that when he finally, finally, noticed how much pain she was in that she could stop being so… angry. Stop lashing out.

Instead all she felt was disappointment. Like she’d been building up this moment for months now and it just… wasn’t enough.

Because he might have apologised, but he’d never taken those words back. And she might have snarled at him and snapped at him, but he was the one who followed her when she didn’t want to be followed. Who pushed her when she didn’t want to be pushed.

Who saw her pain on that cold winter night and instead of reaching out, told her that he couldn’t understand why anyone loved her. He was the one who told her they all hated her. Told her she needed to try harder, when even breathing felt like too much.

No. It wasn’t enough.

Nesta was slow to admit when she was wrong.

She was even slower to forgive.

Chapter 1: The End of All that Was

Pity is for those who have lost. He cannot lose Nesta. There is not a universe he can fathom where he does not belong to her.

Cassian handles their breakup like a champ.

AO3

Warning: Cassian is a creep here-manipulation, stalking, the gamut

It takes weeks before Cassian begins to understand why she left. And if that isn't symbolic of their relationship he doesn't know what is.

Nesta knowing better, being better, as he trots behind. Coated in the arrogance of ignorance, always righteous until he's not, always catching the rhythm a beat too late.

***

He is a goner from their first meeting, leaning against the bedecked wall, grin growing as he watches her rip apart Rhysand's familiar monologue bemoaning the generous Christmas holidays he offers his workers (mostly under pressure from himself and Azriel).

She takes apart his brother's feeble justifications with the precision of a surgeon, irate expression contrasting beautifully with the festive and absolutely horrendous confection of lights and yarn she is wearing.

She is bewitching.

He waits, nursing his drink, quiet for once just watching, eager for a chance to introduce himself.

He is enthralled.

***

It takes three encounters to get her number and an embarrassingly sincere drunk confession to obtain a date.

Then in pieces, in the compounding fragments of the trust he earns, they become a pair.

Their relationship, his life's great love affair had always been loud. Screaming, fighting, laughing, fucking. Always wild, careless in their abandon, in their feckless behaviour as they jumped off the cliff, intertwined.

So why was Nesta's departure so quiet?

The muted rolling of a suitcase on carpet barely disturbing him from sleep, the ring left to catch morning light on the side table until he'd cops it on his way to work and rolls his eyes. Nesta is in a huff and he is indignant, ready to whinge to Azriel.

It's six months later, on their anniversary, that he sees Nesta's ending wasn't quiet.

He just wasn't listening.

***

It takes three days for him to realise she isn't coming back.

Convinced she'll return with the bang of a door, with sharp words he'll take and worse ones he'll offer in return, that after some makeup sex the ring will be home on her finger and he'll be thumbing through a wedding magazine before bed.

This misplaced confidence keeps him from calling. To let her cool off. Leads him to saunter to the apartment door Saturday morning only donning grey joggers. Wanting the upper hand, wanting to see Nesta flush so prettily and clench her jaw tightly, seeing right through his feeble tactics.   

Gwyn and Emerie, stony faces and empty cardboard boxes in hand, become a live audience to the destruction of his world. 

He stands stunned, head reeling as Nesta is removed from their apartment. He finds himself carrying out boxes of her books. All he wants is to take it all back, slam the door in their faces like a child because she can't just do this. But more importantly he needs to find Nesta. So a willing pack horse he becomes, trying to wheedle information from Gwyn.

His voice shaking, tears gathering, bile rising in his throat. 

"Do you know where she is?"

A nod.

"Will you tell me please Gwyn?"

Her red curls shake, a strong refusal. 

"I didn't realise she was being serious, I swear."

Gwyn stops in her tracks, head turning sharply to bestow a look that calls him an idiot in five languages.

***

When his house is emptied of anything that is her, anything he could not save, he returns to the ring still on the sidetable despite him begging Gwyn and Emerie to return it to Nesta. 

It is the only time they look upon him with an ounce of pity which only makes it worse. Pity is for those who have lost. He cannot lose Nesta. There is not a universe he can fathom where he does not belong to her.

The ring he cradles in battered hands amidst shattered glass and splintered oak.

His blood an artful, awful, Pollackesque smattering over the mess.

Flimsy furnishings seeming a small casualty when his heart is now a necrotic organ burning in his chest.

The ring he picked,

with a white dress,

a honeymoon in Paris,

the rest of their life, in mind.

A silent killing blow.

***

One last blazing row the night before.

Cuts landing too deep this time.

The final fragment of a trust he'd once treasured sacredly, spent so terribly,

"Who the fuck could stand you Nesta when I can't?"

It makes his stomach turn with sickening guilt. He would stitch those words into his skin with wire rather than say them to her now.

He'd like to think he's a different man, maybe a better one, but that's up to her.

She's the only deity he wants to weigh his soul.

He'll come up wanting.

But maybe...

Maybe she'd look at him.

Face him.

Let him burn alive in the grey fire of her glare.

He would delight in his damnation to have her look at him once more.

***

Saturday is a haze. Rhys and Az try to coax him out to no avail. His pain is raw. Anger, frustration, desperation a tumour growing unchecked in his chest. The broken sidetable now had a broken vase, two pictures frames and three tumblers to match it. 

She isn't answering his calls, vision blurry from tears and drink, the blue light of his phone is the only thing he can focus on in a world that is swimming. Her contact, Nes 🖤, a beacon a wavering light keeping him from going under. 

She isn't answering his calls and so the voicemails begin. 

"I have your ring. Sweetheart I'm not taking that back. It's yours. I'm yours... Nesta please just talk to me. I'm sorry about Wednesday night. Come back and we can talk."

Beep.

"What is this about Nes? We fight rough, always have baby. I'll do anything, say anything, get you anything you want just please Nes don't do this. We can get a fucking dog. I swear. We'll move to a different apartment. We can open a fucking dog hotel if that is what you want just.."

Beep.

"Tell me you're safe. Please. I'm going out of my mind here. I love you. More than anything."

Beep.

"Mor was right, you know you're such a fucking bitch sometimes. I'm trying to apologise when you left without a word. Fuck you sweetheart."

Beep.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That came out wrong, I didn't mean it, just I..I'm beginning to think you're not coming back to me. This isn't goodbye Nes right? Right?"

Beep.

"Just punish me in person, I'll grovel for you Nes, you know that..........It's just a break. It's just a break. That's okay sweetheart you can have it all. Anything you want. Just talk to me first. Talk to me."

Beep.

"I love you. More than anyone else ever has, will or can. Just. If you're going to shred my heart. Do it in person. Do it in person and I'll walk away. Otherwise I'm going to fight you tooth and fucking nail love."

Beep.

The last voicemail a gauntlet thrown by a drunk fool. A sealing of their fate. 

***

She arrives on Sunday. Suitable for it to be a holy day if this is his last visit from his god.

He is relieved to see her. Drunken promises of walking away temporarily forgotten. She had texted him an hour before to let him know she was on her way. Giving him time to put the house back in order, air out the smell of alcohol, sweat and despair. He's in his nicest jeans, hair tied in a low bun just how she likes. In the bedroom he has candles and rose petals, ready to worship her.

He wants to remind her she loves him, or she at least she did once.

Purple is painted in the hollows under her eyes, a slight tremor in her hand, greasy hair falling limply around her drawn face. She looks terrible and still the most stunning person he knows.

He's done this.

He'd rather Az pummel him in the ring than see her like this.The aching in his chest makes it hard to breathe. He's made a mistake forcing her hand. 

She looks around, avoiding his gaze, eyebrows raising slightly at the very absent sidetable.

She'd been so happy when they found that at old flea market off Washington St. when they first moved in together. He should have thought of that before he left it in splinters. 

"There was an accident. I fell, you know how clumsy I get Nes. The table never stood a chance."

Her eyes land on him, and now it's him that can't bear to look, hand rubbing on his neck nervously, focusing on his white socks.

The silence is choking him.

"It's okay. It's okay. We'll get one just like it. I'll check Ebay. I'll ask Amren, she prowls around all the good antique shops. I'll make a replica if I have to. Lucien knows an excellent carpenter. I can fix it Nes. I promise."

He can fix it. He can fix this.

He meets her gaze and wants to vomit.

She looking at him with care, tears running down her face, voice barely audible.

"Cassian. We can't be fixed."

He can't think, he can't breathe, the world is on its axis and she's going to leave. The distance between them has vanished, he's on his knees, soft carpet beneath them a luxury he does not deserve, burying his face in the cotton of her tshirt hands wrapped around her waist. 

"No. Nes, no. You can't do that. You can't leave. I'm going to convince you to stay. That's why you're here. You want to stay. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can't be without you."

Pulling his hands from her waist she kneels beside him, caressing his face.

"I'm here to end it in person like you asked."

Her voice and his heart break simultaneously.

'I love you too Cassian. But love is not enough. I can't live like this anymore. On a pedastal at home while you ignore how I'm treated by your friends."

The words friends is spat out.

'You either worship me or we're fighting. So much fighting. Aren't you tired? I'm so tired Cassian. I need more. I need to be by myself for a while. I need someone who doesn't live at work. I need someone you're not Cas."

This is what hell feels like. He's being excommunicated for his sins. She's even doing it in person. His god, so cruel and alluring.

"I'm leaving now Cas. I'm moving away for a while. A clean break will be good for us. You'll thank me for doing this one day."

She let's out something that an alien might count as a laugh. Nervous and watery, choked and uncertain.

"I'll never thank you for this Nes."

She leaves.

He's still kneeling hours later her words a painful, unending echo in his mind.

***

He doesn't go out much now and drinking himself numb in this empty apartment is not who he is anymore.

He doesn't drink often but on their anniversary he let's himself drown in rum, in albums, in the box of her stuff he managed to keep after Gwyn and Emerie cleared house.

He cries into that stupid fucking Christmas jumper.

He sprays her bottle of perfume, letting the vanilla, blackberry, sage sink into the air, a ghostly embrace. Sitting amidst his shrine to her he allows himself to reflect.

Regret every overlooked sneer and snide comment. He doesn't see any of his friends, his brothers anymore. Nesta doesn't like them.

Rue every time he came home late, missed a date, was too tired to talk. He has a new job now, remote with flexible hours. It pays less but he still has his stocks and the nest egg he built breaking his back working for over a decade.

Rhys was frantic to keep him on. Bullshit talk about how he was spiralling, how she wasn't worth it. Punching that remark from his mouth, in front of the board, forced his termination quite effectively.

He has enough for Nesta to retire in the morning. He has enough to buy that fancy brie she likes, and handpainted books, and enough jewellery to fill a small store. He has enough to stay beside her so she won't have to miss him. 

He's even bigger now, all his free time spent in the gym, ignoring how eating so much protein makes him feel. She always liked feeling safe in his arms.

He's read all her books. Found her goodreads and follows it like his gospel. Has watched every show,  every podcast she consumed on their accounts. He'll share all her likes. He'll never fight her on anything.

Once he earns her forgiveness they can be happy again.

***

She's coming back to town next month. A flying visit apparently. He's going to change that.

His chance is coming to show her how much better is.

The type of man she needs. The type she'll never leave. 

Let Me Go | Nessian Fic

Rating: M (tw: suicide mentions, blood/injury gore descriptions)

Summary: After a heated argument and cruel words, Nesta Archeron left the Illyrian Mountains for a mission. Upon her arrival home, Cassian smells blood and the pain of dancing with death. (Nessian angst and hurt fic. Not a death fic.)

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“You’re going to die,” Lucien said. “I’m aware of it every moment I’m with you.”  

At the morbid words, Nesta began to frown but Lucien held up his hands. Wait, his look answered. 

Ordinarily Nesta might have interrupted him purely out of principle. But Lucien was lucky she knew him so well. He looked at her with that same look she’d seen a million times. One for every chase. One for every tease. One for everyday they laughed. 

He sighed, some noncommittal, frustrated sound and Nesta yearned to reach for him, to comfort him, but Lucien placed a gentle palm on her cheek. She could feel them burn as he rubbed his thumb across. “Even if you could live forever, I think I’d still be afraid to lose you.” 

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