The day after the next day - Nesta struggles to let Cassian into her life. Domestic fluff, modern au.
Nightmare - Shaken by nightmares, Nesta goes to Cassian. Angst, post-acowar.
The wrong confessions on a rainy beach - Nesta and Cassian talk after she decides to marry Eris. Angst, modern au but could be read in canon as well.
For you, thereâs only love - Nesta reflects on her relationship with Cassian. Tiny little one-shot.
Be the first who ever did - Nesta gets sick and Cassian takes care of her, despite the tension of their loveless marriage. Angst, hurt/comfort.
Nezriel:
A nightlight and a bottle of wine - After she cuts ties with the Inner Circle, Nesta and Azriel strike up an odd friendship. Modern au, at this point the second part is urban legend but could still happen.
Moonlight - Nesta and Azriel talk about her recovery. Canon one-shot.
A rainy night in Velaris - Azriel walks Nesta home after a dinner with the Inner Circle. Fluffy and cute.
Rhysta:
A bitter heart - Nestaâs disastrous breakup with her boyfriend brings her and Rhys much closer, despite their less-than-favorable opinions of each other. Modern au.
Lukewarm coffee, a twinkle in his eye - Supermodel Nesta meets old money Rhys through a mutual friend. Lots of fluff and angst, modern au.
The red flower in my heart - After she cuts herself off from the Inner Circle, Nesta grows curiously close to Rhys. Canon one-shot.
Nesta-centric:
Turning the page, building a home - Nesta rebuilds her life with Gwyn and Emerie. Modern au, cute, domestic, from forever ago but I would like to come back to it eventually.
Evidence pt. 1 | Evidence pt. 2Â - Nesta is married, and doesnât bother to tell the Inner Circle the details. Set in canon and very self-indulgent.
A woman in the walls - Lucien goes to Velaris for the holidays, and is unsettled by Nestaâs absence. Gothic horror, Nescien if you squint.
Other:
Beautiful reflection | Mosaics - In the first part, Nesta leaves Cassian at the altar. Second part is Feyre-centric as she attempts to cope without her older sister, and comes to terms with her fate in Prythian.
Translation into Spanish by @nightsofvangogh !!! BRÂ | Mosaics
Happy nesta | Nesta and mor | Gwynriel broadway au | Lucky
It is @nestaarcheronweek aka the best week of the year!
For Day 1: Bonds, I have brought you sibling bonding, women helping women, and holding Rhysand accountable for his actions.
Read the full story (Completed!) on A03.
---
Feyre had made this child out of love, with the notion that sheâd be there to raise him. Nesta had thought, as High Lady, sheâd have been granted the utmost care, the ability to make every single decision, to have a full working knowledge of her world.
Instead, they treated her sister no better than they did herself. With secrets.
Nesta closed her eyes, readying for her abduction off the streets.
Instead, the earth trembled, tilted, and abruptly, the male she felt too much for yet no longer knew how to deal with was stumbling away, flames erupting between them.
âPut your hands on her and youâll lose them.â
Nesta blinked, pushing herself upright on the wall of whatever building sheâd been leaning against, and looked over the barrier to see her sister in all her glorious fury, her hand outstretched.
âFeyre,â Cassian croaked, looking as shocked as she felt, something agonized in his eyes. âRhys told me to-â
âSpeak his name to me again, I dare you.â Her sister hissed. âI know exactly what he told you.â
Ok I have an idea and it makes very little sense but here it is:
Nesta, Elain & Feyre are already the archetypal Fairy-tale Three Sisters so why not write a spooky autumnal s1 ouat au where they are living their ordinary lives in Storybrooke... getting coffee at the diner, drinking cheap gin, closets full of worn jeans and black boots and raincoats..... idk I have always wanted to be a background character in Storybrooke pre revelation.
There is NOTHING like the first season where all the characters are time to time staring out of windows, Remembering. and if that is not the archeron sisters I don't know what is <3
something about feyre (who's name means 'fair' as in fair folk, faerie, etc.) killing andras (who's name means 'man' as in human, mortal, etc.) as a metaphor for her transformation
Nesta on a transcontinental train. Sleepily watching through the window as the snowy wilderness passes by. Brown leather seats and the smell of black coffee.
She has a cat. 3 cats. Tabitha, Henry and Maude.
Her human landlady is elderly so Nesta writes all her letters for her. Some are to distant relatives and some are to city officials.
Nesta working under an eccentric half Fae who smokes more than he should. He's part of an organisational group dedicated to providing magical assistance to underprivileged groups. He's not as powerful but he's got some revolutionary ideas in terms of magical application. They clash a lot but never enough to interfere with work.
Nesta attending law, philosophy, human-fae sociology lectures. Sitting in circles and talking with people don't really mind that she's not the nicest with her words. A little awed when they actively invite her to discussions, nights out, art exhibitions. Nesta meets an artist who makes moving ice statues. She models for them once. They become lovers, it's a short, gentle affair.
Nesta getting comfortable enough with magic that she tries her hand at starting her own grimoire. One time she accidentally turns her cat Tabitha into a bear.
In the end, with help from her mentor, she ends up perfecting a spell to help humans protect against Fae glamour. Nesta writes letters to the Summer, Spring, Dawn and Day courts containing the spell and asks them to help spread the information and make available Fae willing to perform the spell on humans who want it.
my 10k rhysta fanfic got accidentally deleted bc i forgot it in the drafts (i know the drafts aren't supposed to be used like this but i am dumb and i will keep doing it) I have re written only 1k, and idk but the scene i am in, feels like it should be later but i don't remember exactly so it is going to stay like this. đđđđ
Oh nooo that's the worstđđđ wishing you the absolute best of luck omg. Rewriting is my least favorite thing in the entire world. My mindset is terrible, like it's written and now it's done, good riddanceđ«Ą
rhysta is such an evil darksided ship to me but bc of you i cant stop thinking about the possibilities⊠bc at the end of the day theres something a little psychosexual about his hatred for her and the line between hateful obsession and normal obsession is so thin⊠and they r so evenly matched in powerâŠ
Yes!! As the series has progressed they've become so directly Opposed that it's almost impossible not to notice the tension.
@beansidhebumbling has written an amazing fic, The True Measure of a Name, where rhys and nesta are mates and I think it has a lot of elements you would like. If you haven't read it then definitely check it out! Gem has a knack for taking characters as they are and writing them at a whole other level entirely. Canon but so much better <3
Some Nesta x Rhysand for day 7 of @sjmromanceweek !
Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta.Â
I love you so.
Devour me.
She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles.Â
(AKA, the toxic Nesta x Rhys fic that has been rattling around in my brain for months)
Chapters: 1/1
Read on AO3
November 11th. The first snow of the year numbs Velaris like novacane.Â
White snow, white sky, white salt on the roads. Clean and blank and pure for a new yearâher twenty-fourth, as of sometime mid-morning. Upon waking, shivering under her dove-grey duvet, Nesta thinks: twenty-four is the year of not fucking things up.Â
The kitchen is the fire to her hearth. The spray of small yellow rosebuds in a vase on the island, Gwynâs flame-lick of hair, Emerieâs embrace, the round smiles that fill their cheeks, the pastry waiting at her seat in a white bag, spots translucent with grease. Itâs all warm. it all makes her blood move, down to her fingertips, where they prickle with feeling.Â
***
Want is a funny thing. The questionâwhat do you want?âI want, I want, I want, like a black hole eating the stars. Nesta wants a lot of things: to be warm, awake, clean and untouched like the snow on her bedroom windowsill.Â
Emerie and Gwyn had asked her months ago what she wanted to do todayâtoday, she has some extra measure of choice, today sheâs allowed to want a little harder.Â
Today, Nesta wants to read and she wants to dance. And she wantsâ
No. No. So they tuck their feet up on the couch and pile on the blankets and Emerie makes her hot chocolate just the way Nesta likes it and the next few hours are pages whispering as they are turned, steam rising from half-empty mugs, snow curling down outside the window.Â
***
It had ended just how it had started: cold wind whipping off the Sidra to slice their cheeks wide open. The first time, it made their mouths split into smiles; the last, into trebuchets of hurt. Neither of them is good at pulling punches. His coat was on her shoulders. He said something, then she, and it was suddenly a vile thing on her skin; she ripped it away and threw it down onto the rain-soaked cobblestones. She didnât throw it over the bridge, into the river, because that would have been irreversible, but now, now, she wishes she had.Â
That was September, the last long day before time jumped back and the evenings stopped clinging to the sun.Â
Youâre fucking mine, Nesta.Â
Iâm fucking gone.
She doesnât think about it. She ruined everything, and it didnât matter, and she doesnât think about it.Â
***
Anyways, sheâs good at being fine. Sheâs twenty-four now and sheâs going to be fine forever, starting now. Gwyn has a carefully curated getting-ready playlist blasting from her speaker as she curls her hair. Emerie bites her lip as she draws eyeliner across her lid. Nesta sips from a wine bottle as she stares at her jewelry box: there are the little pearl-drop earrings he gave her when they went to Adriata for a weekend in August. I know you already have a favorite pair of earrings, but I thought these could be nice for the Patronâs Gala, maybe. If you like them.Â
Nesta fishes them out of the drawer and puts them in. She looks at herself in the mirror until her eyes turn red, and then she drops them back in the jewelry box, and stabs large silver hoops through her ears instead.Â
She turns off the light in her room and goes to the kitchen. Carefully, she pours the rest of the bottle of wine into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle, sucking the spilled drops from her fingers like itâs precious, and not a fourteen-dollar bottle. She plucks her coat off the hook and her keys from the dish by the door.Â
The three of them are laughing and chattering as they leave the apartment; Gwyn threatens to buy her a birthday girl sash, Emerie says, I think itâs too late for that, Gwyn says, The party store on East 12th is open until 11, I checked. Nesta says, I will strangle you with your own sash if you even think about it. They only laugh at her threat, and she canât keep her face from smiling, and it doesnât even bother her when the snow at the curb smears over her boots. Sheâs untouched. Sheâs new. Sheâs only started learning how to live.Â
***
It doesnât really matter how it ended. There one minute and gone the next. He was there and gone, there and gone, like seasons, like purity, like the flash of a camera imprinted on the back of your retinas, there, and there, and there, and gone.Â
So heâs gone. And good riddance.Â
She used to like to hold his hand. Liked the strong, slim bones of his fingers, the veins that crawled up the back of his hand; liked running her fingers over the scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, too, one she liked to press her lips to. I love you so, she would whisper. Iâll eat you whole.Â
Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta.Â
I love you so.
Devour me.
She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles.Â
***
They step inside the club and check in their coats and the music is so heavy she can feel it pressing right through her muscles and into her bones. She tips her head back. Her spine is one long bass note. Yes, yes, yes.Â
Bodies shift around her, swaying like stalks of kelp in a western current, and she, an otter twisting among them as she dances. Sleek and warm and with only one wild and carnal drive: hunger.Â
She wants to devour this scene. The red lights. The upward-reaching limbs. The abandon. The singing mouths, the smell of vodka, the smell of perfume and cologne that surges when pressed too closely among the others.Â
â11:11,â says Gwyn, not long after they arrive. âMake a wish.âÂ
You already know what she wishes for.Â
Emerie hands her a shot instead of a birthday candle. It sears her throat and then lights her aflame and she throws herself back into dancing and dancing and oh, when she tilts her head back like this, baring her throat, she feels knifelike and untouchable and violent, like she could strangle the whole world in her fists.Â
She imagines it. Sinking her teeth in. Getting the snow banks messy. Starting everything over so she doesnât have to make so many mistakes this time. Sometimes, when Nesta buys a new book, sheâll bring it on the train and accidentally bend a corner when she goes to shove it in her bag in her haste to get off at her stop. Later, sheâll look at the crease, run her finger over it as if she can smooth it away, and fight the urge to buy a whole new copyâone she hasnât irrevocably marred. She never does buy a new one; she knows, on some level, that itâs ridiculous to even consider it.Â
No creases this year, she reminds herself. Sheâs drunk now. Half of her blood is vodka. The music goes even louder, like a reminder or a threat. Emerie is grinding up against a striking blonde girl now; Gwyn is making eyes at someone across the room, sweeping her hair off her collarbones like a challenge; Nesta feels a drop of sweat run down her temples and sucks more swollen air into her lungs, her body greedy for it in the clubâs heat.Â
All the lights go gas-flame blue, and thatâs when she sees him.Â
***
So it ended. Fine. But it had started once, too.Â
Nesta had been in ballet as a childâno surprise, considering her family: upper class in a pearl-necklaces-and-endive-salads way. Everything was satin slippers and hair slicked back too tightly into unforgiving buns, until her mother died when she was fifteen and her father didnât care enough to make her continue taking classes. It left her with a lithe body, a hatred of the Nutcracker, and a severe case of perfectionism.Â
Her favorite show to dance had been Sleeping Beauty, so last winter, when she heard the Velaris Ballet was showing it, she went to see it twice. Once, with Gwyn and Emerie, and again with Elain, except Elain canceled last-minute and Nesta thought about canceling both their tickets and staying home, but didnât.Â
So, of course. He picked up Elainâs ticket.Â
During the show, she could drink up the colorful dresses, the masterful dancing, the beautiful shapes the dancersâ bodies made as they moved gently across the stage. When intermission came, she had no such distraction. There was only the stranger sitting next to her in his night-black suit, and of course he was devastatingly beautiful, how could she not notice? Admiring him was inexorable.Â
She caught him admiring her right backâthose dark blue eyes making a steady, unapologetic map of her face.Â
It happened in textbook steps, alarming in its simplicity, really: He introduced himself. They talked throughout the rest of intermission. At some point during the third act, his knee made its way to press against hers, and he didnât pull it away, and she didnât pull away, either. When the lights flooded back on, the spell broke, or maybe it was cast?, and he asked her if sheâd like to see the Balanchine performance with him the following week, and she wrote her number on the back of his hand with a sharpie sheâd found in her purse. He had beautiful hands, like a piano player, and she asked if he played, and he said Tchaikovsky was his favorite to play, it was why he liked coming to the ballet.Â
She sees him and the world keeps moving, even though she feels like it shouldnât. She sees him and the world doesnât end. It should. It doesnât.Â
A current of blue bodies around her. He swims right through them. She doesnât look at Gwyn or Emerie when he reaches her because she doesnât have to see their faces to know their reproach.
Sheâs been locked into those stunning eyes since she first caught them; in this blue light, they are so, so dark, like midnight, and just as devastating. And they devastate her, they do.Â
Nesta thinks, You canât unruin this. She thinks it so loudly that thereâs no way he doesnât hear it. But he doesnât say anything. He doesnât have to. He just looks at her, and she just looks at him, and, light with drink, she sways with the other kelp, sways right into him.Â
She can smell the alcohol on his breath. Heâs holding a drinkâa gin and tonic. He always liked gin. Elderflower gin, something that sounded fairy-like and ancient, something that smelled divine and didnât hurt going down. She takes the cup from his hand and downs half. Itâs cheap; burns like hell. He takes it back. Holds her stare as he drinks down the rest and drops the cup on the nearest flat surface.Â
Heâs already drunk; she can tell because his face is a little too devastated when he looks at her.Â
His hands on her waist. Her waist in his hands. His hips pressed to her stomach. Her stomach burning gas-flame blue.Â
Nesta, he mouths. His eyes drop to her lips. His forehead drops to touch her own, as if he could press a feeling straight from his mind into hers.Â
Donât, she says. Or maybe she thinks it.
He kisses her.Â
She kisses him back.Â
Itâs inevitable, after that.Â
Gwyn and Emerie donât even bother to stop her. They know better. He leads her downstairs, to the front of the club. She collects her coat. She follows him out onto the snow-driven street. A fresh coat has fallen since she and her friends went inside those few hours ago. It makes her think of new slates and starting over.Â
It makes her think of the way her boots crush the powdery snowflakes to grey slush.Â
You canât unruin this.Â
He lives closeâclose enough that they canât justify anything other than walking. She doesnât look over at him and he doesnât take her hand as they walk, and itâs almost as if theyâre colleagues, with this space between them. Space enough for her ghosting breaths to dissipate entirely before they could ever reach his face.Â
And thenâthe bridge. The quay. Inevitable, she knew it, knew theyâd have to cross the slushy Sidra, but. But.Â
She can feel him looking at her.Â
They reach the middle of the bridge, and she canât keep going anymore. Sheâs shaking, knees knocking together embarrassingly, like a child. Nesta stops and she turns and she looks at the snow on the bridge and hates it for how serene it seems.Â
âI missed you, Nesta,â he says.Â
Past tense. He doesnât anymore. He has her now, is what he means. He won't let go again, not like last time.Â
âAre you cold?â he asks. âDo you want my coat?â
She bites her lip and shakes her head, still looking down at the snow. His shoes scuff the snow as he steps closer. He takes her in his arms and he is just as warm and comforting and safe as he ever was, and it makes her want to cry, but she doesnât. She does let him hold her. Even though it makes everything worse.Â
Rhys tilts up her chin and she keeps her eyes closed. He kisses her, so gently at first that she shudders, and then her mouth opens to him like a rose, and she presses harder into him, and he isnât gentle anymore.Â
Her lips, cracked from the cold, split and bleed when he bites into them, and their kisses change to copper.Â
***
Nesta threw up before their first date. She stood in front of her mirror, trying to like the grey dress she was wearing, but she started thinking that maybe a dress was too much, and then she envisioned herself sitting stiffly next to the manâRhysandâfor the whole two and a half hours, not looking at him, and the thoughtâthe thought of the awkwardness made her physically ill. He wouldnât like her anymore, and then she would never be able to go to the ballet again, and and andâ
She threw up neatly into the toilet, flushed it, brushed her teeth, and left.Â
By the time she was walking up the steps to the theater, she was trembling like a fawn, but she neednât have worried. He was charmingâhis hand holding the door for her, his hand steering her respectfully from the small of her back, his hand alighting on her knee during intermission and lingering there, light and steady, until the lights began to dim again and he pulled it away.Â
The second half of the performance, she watched him. The way his breath caught at the crescendo of a number. The way his fingers tapped on his thighs in time with the notes. The way the bare light that reached them from the stage cast a glowing outline around the beautiful parts of his face, which seemed to be all of them.Â
The ballet ended, and he invited her to get a late-night coffee; he knew a cafe, one run by real Italians, so she should know it was good. By midnight, sheâd made him laugh so hard heâd choked on a sip of his cappuccino, and he had made her feel coltish and new and brilliant, and finally, entirely at ease.
He was always very good with prey.Â
***
Nesta isnât prey. She has a mouth full of teeth and she uses them. Heâd do well to remember that, for fuckâs sake.Â
She bites down too hard and Rhys makes a noise in his throat. She pushes him away and they stand there, panting, staring at each other.Â
âNesta,â he says.Â
They stand on the bridge. The snow numbs sound, numbs hurt, numbs everything.Â
âCome home with me, Nesta,â he says.Â
She goes home with him.Â
***
He loved her too hard. Maybe that was the problem.Â
Rhys wasnât clingy, desperateânothing so plebian as that. It was more authoritative. More intense, like a bruise. He always, always wanted her. Sex, of course, but more than that.Â
When it was sex, it was hungry. It was always too much, and it was never enough. It hurt every time, but it was never painful. There was sweat and tangled hair and open mouths and tenderness, always, and gentleness, only sometimes, only after. His hands were always tight around some part of her flesh, as if he were afraid sheâd disappear the moment he let go, as if he could have more of her if he held more tightly.Â
She could never stop herself from sinking her teeth in, anyways. His shoulder, his neck, his arms, his side. Sheâd never made a habit of it before. It was something primal only he could bring out in her.Â
When it wasnât sex, it was a different kind of want. Uncontainable, devastating. He wanted her like it hurt him. Sometimes she wasnât even sure if he liked her. He just wanted her.Â
One hot day that summer: billowing, gauzy curtains, Nesta in those lavender sleep shorts he liked so much, the hair around Rhysâs temples curling with sweat. Still, he held her close against him as they lay on the couch, her stomach to his stomach, her chest to his chest, her chin tucked against his shoulder.Â
Nesta asked, âWhy did you ask me out that day at the ballet?â
His arm banded around her more tightly. He said, âI liked the way you watched them. Hungrily. I wanted to make you look at me like that.âÂ
***
They step inside Rhysâs townhouse and the familiar smell hits her like a truck. Itâs just the smell of a homeâa home heâs lived in. Recently, without her. She wonders if his coffee machine still refuses to work unless he thumps the side of it as it gets going. She wonders if he ever got around to replacing the batteries in his TV remote. She wonders how many other women heâs brought here since everything ended. Maybe he fucks them in their own houses. Maybe he brings them here, has them on the couch, pushes the dove-grey pillows to the floor to make room for their bodies. She canât imagine him fucking them in his bed, or sheâll throw up right here on his doormat.Â
The door clicks behind her, shutting out the cold. The air inside is warm and still, waiting for something. His hand touches her waist, moves her until her back is against the wall, and she thinks this is it, this is the part where he kisses her and takes her apartâbut not yet.Â
Rhys kneels on the floor, takes her calf in his hands and slips off her boots, one by one, setting her feet down gently as if she were a child, or a queen. Something precious and vulnerable.Â
His soft fingers, piano-playerâs fingers, trail up her body as he rises, hitching her dress up with them. She knows how this ends and it hurts. He kisses her wet cheekbones, one and the other.Â
âNesta,â he says. He kisses her lips and she tastes salt.Â
She sinks her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him closer.Â
Their kisses get harder, serious. She hitches her leg around his hips, presses into himâhis beautiful fingers are everywhere. They tangle in her hair and pull her head back so he can better lick her throat. They count her ribs, looking for a way in. They move over her hips, down, cleverly stroking the wet seam of her underwear, starting out gentle, just how he knows she likes it.Â
She reaches for his belt. She wonders, where will he have her? Will he bring her to the couch? Will he have her right here, against the wall? Will he take her back to his bed, or would that mean to much?Â
Rhys shudders into her touch, eyes rolling back. His mouth is saying things like Fuck, Nesta, I missed you, yes, harder, more, Nesta, Nesta, Nestaâ
He chokes on his own breaths and pulls her hands away. With a few tugs, her dress is over her head, and he sinks to his knees again. She looks off to the side, towards the door, not wanting to face the way he looks up at her. Devotion poisoned by possession. His hands are hot on the backs of her thighs.Â
âLook at me, Nesta,â he orders. He pulls her underwear awayâembarrassingly wet. The expression that flits across his face thenâitâs a bit too relieved to be a smirk, but close.Â
She puts her hands into the silky onyx strands before her.Â
âEat, then,â she says, unkindly.Â
He does. Like itâs the only thing heâs ever wanted to do. Like heâs afraid sheâll stop him, take it away from him. She wishes she would, but she doesnât. Sheâs too weak to give up something this good. Something that feels so inevitableâwhatâs the use?
Nesta comes right there, silently, except for one gasping breath that she immediately stifles. Itâs horrible, itâs so, so horrible, how badly she misses him in that moment. It hits her, a pain so sharp she nearly flinches. Itâs so horrible. So obvious, how heâs ruined her.Â
A tug on the backs of her knees, and her body falls obediently to straddle him where he kneels on the floor, her lips coming to meet his, hungrily taking the taste of herself from his tongue. He pulls her back, back, until heâs lying flat on the floor of the hallway, and sheâs sitting over him, fumbling to yank off his shirt, to shove down his pants. Her body remembers how to move with him, remembers the steps to this. It remembers, even if her mind feels heavy and watered-down.Â
There is a bright spark of pain as she sinks down onto him. Rhys looks up at her from the floor. His eyes glint like a country sky at night, his sin-dark hair splays across the floor like a sunburst, his mouth parts like submission.Â
Nesta takes his throat in her hands and squeezes. âI hate you,â she tells him, and he lets her. Her knees press into the hardwood. He jerks his hips up with a groan. She says, âI hate you, Rhys.âÂ
She feels a tightness in her throat that means tears. She wonât cry. She lets go of his neck and bites into her palm to hold them at bay. She wonât cry, she wonât cry. Her fingerprints fade whitely from his skin.Â
Rhys flips them over and settles his body over hers, between her knees. He fits in her body like heâs made for her. Her head fits just so in the space between his neck and his shoulder. She breathes him in through her nose, out through her mouth, as he begins to fuck her. He had always smelled so good, like something she shouldnât eat. Sweet and rich, with some kind of spicy undertone, like pepper or ginger. Achingly sweet with a stinger.Â
Rhys takes her hand away from her mouth and pulls her wrists over her head.Â
âYou love me, Nesta, you love me so,â he says. He threads his fingers in between hers. âYou love me so.âÂ
***
Nesta closes her eyes as he washes her hair in the shower.Â
âNesta,â he says, smoothing soap away from her brow. âStay.âÂ
She tilts her head up, but doesnât open her eyes. âYou keep saying my name,â she says.
She can feel the sigh come out of his chest. He says, âIâm afraid Iâll forget how it sounds.â
In spite of her will, her body begins to tremble. Anger and fear and rage and desperation all well up at once, and her eyes fly open, lashes dripping under the stream of the shower, and she means to say a hundred thingsâa hundred accusations and castigationsâbut only a single word comes out, choked in steam. âPlease.âÂ
His face changes into a shape she doesnât know well. âNesta,â he breathes, pulling her body into his.Â
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks. But she lets him towel her dry and brush out her hair and braid it down her back with his nimble fingers, the way she taught him, once. He pulls one of his t-shirts over her headâher favorite one, god, she hates that she has a favoriteâand tucks her close to him under the covers. His sheets smell like his detergent and him, and itâs miserable, knowing heâs letting her go after this, even though thatâs what she wanted in the first place. Catch and release. You canât uncrease a paperback cover. You can only buy a whole new book.Â
God. Twenty-four hours as a twenty-four year old and sheâs already fucked everything up. Sheâs already let him ruin her.Â
They lie there in his bed in his sheets in his townhouse on the river. Sheâs still drunk. Sheâs still here. His heart is still beating just a few ribs away from hers. She counts those beats, those bloodier sheep. One-one. One-one. One-one. One-one.Â
Sheâs not entirely sure if sheâs dreaming when he says it. She hopes she is. She wishes so badly that she is.Â
I wonât go, he promises into the dark, into the sweet warmth. Just eat me whole.Â
***
Snow falls overnight.Â
In the morning, when Nesta looks out Rhysâs window, her eyes hurt to touch anything at all, itâs so bright.Â
He is behind her, suddenly. His arms come around her, his chest pressing to her back. He fits. It is suddenly, terrifyingly, as if she never left.Â
âNesta,â he says, one last time.Â
She turns in his arms, fitting herself into the crooks of his body. She is real, she is new, she is blinding like the pure fallen snow.Â
Nesta makes a decision.Â
âRhys,â she answers, speaking against his heartbeat.Â
When she smiles up at him, secretive and small, her ribcage opens up and curls around him like the legs of a spider.
This is like if rhysta was a horror novel and the horror was actually a love story and the love story was actually about grief and self-hatred and the grief was actually a terrific love and fear for yourself and your body and anyways what I'm trying to say is that this is incredible and everyone should read it immediately
Rhysta AU where Nesta is sugaring to support her family secretly, Rhysand is interested and starts to develop feelings as they go out due to her strict emotional distancing and he sees âa challengeâ. He begins to crave her strictness and clear cut instructions, and due to his motherâs traumatic death when he was young, he begins to develop a mommy kink specifically devoted to Nesta. No other woman will do, and his obsession grows. Meanwhile Nesta is starting to feel things for the man sheâs sugaring for because no matter what she asks or behaves like, Rhysand always does his best to make her comfortable and meet her requests while also pushing her boundaries. Tensions mount and while theyâve been having sex the entire time Nesta has been his sugar baby eventually it devolves to Rhysand begging Nesta to step on him and to take control of his entire life and being, he wants her to be his, and more specifically his mommy that will care for him and deny him as she sees fit.
This is certainly an interesting and well thought out idea, maybe you should try writing it yourself instead of dumping it cold in my ask box đ
You might have recently heard about or seen the video of Israel blowing up a university in Gaza. It's also been reported that before Israel blew it up, it stole thousands of rare artifacts from the university's museum. Israel also reportedly stole a statue of the Canaanite goddess Anat from the Pasha's Palace Museum in Gaza after it destroyed it. This is not the first time and will not be the last. Israel's destruction of Palestinian heritage and history is well-documented and part of a systematic process to erase Palestinian connection to the land.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Elain Archeron & Lucien Vanserra
Characters: Elain Archeron, Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron, Nesta Archeron, Cassian (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Azriel (A Court of Thorns and Roses)
Additional Tags: Healer!Elain, post acomaf, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, just as much dissociating I put into writing, SO PROUD OF MYSELF FOR THIS BREAKTHROUGH MOMENT, is it really Elucien without gut wrenching angst, putting Elain through it SORRY, ill make up for it I promise :), Canon-Typical Violence, a tiny bit of medical gore, I mean war injuries and stuff like that, one hundred per cent inspired by a Taylor Swift lyric, what can I say a love allegories and telling imagery and SIGNS
Summary:
As Elain struggles to embrace her new body after being drowned in the Cauldron for political purposes she has never been privy to, she undertakes the gruesome journey to dissociate herself from whomever she has ever been or could ever become, Elain feels ready to do what it takes to quiet her mind and dull her senses.
In her haste and need to flee while staying inside, she finds herself drawn to knowledge that will change the course of her destiny.
