I came out here, to this point, to this place, hoping against all hope and despite signs and portends suggesting otherwise that I might, somehow, find myself having a pleasant experience, and yet here I stand, alone against the world, feeling assaulted, attacked on all fronts, knowing not my enemy’s name nor his face nor whether our battle is done.
A/N: so my masochistic heart wanted some broken cassian and ruthless, mean nesta action and this is what happened
Nesta Archeron is, without a doubt, the most infuriating female Cassian has met in all 600 years of his existence.
She’s cold. She’s cruel. Her words cut sharper than the daggers that she no doubt keeps hidden beneath the voluminous fabric of her skirts.
She is, to put it delicately, a bitch.
And Gods, Cassian wants her more than he’s ever wanted anything before.
He wonders if this is his punishment. For deflowering Mor, for killing on the battlefield, for some catastrophic sin that he hasn’t even realized that he’s committed. Because really, there’s no other explanation for why the Cauldron has damned him to chase after a mortal who would rather die than touch him.
It’s lust, yes. Cassian can admit that to himself, at least.
He doesn’t want to think about the other feelings that hit his gut like a sucker punch whenever the mortal female so much as glances in his direction. Doesn’t want to think about the feeling of her skin under his tongue, his finger as he brushes away her tears. The feeling of her body against his and her hands on his chest haunt him, no matter the swift knee to the balls that follow in his memories. She could tear him apart without blinking an eye, he knows. It would be so easy to let those feelings consume him.
And then he loses his wings, rendered helpless as she is forced into the Cauldron, and he doesn’t feel much of anything, anymore.
IT’S GETTING STEAMY B @togreblog (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10) I’m sorry this literally took me .02 seconds to write
As soon as she’d thought about escaping, she could feel his frustrated reaction. Gods, this was awful. She’d never be able to hide her emotions behind sarcasm again. They’d have to actually communicate.
Worse, he might find out she loved him.
She slammed a wall over the thought as fast as she could. From the look on his face, he didn’t feel it. Hear it. Whatever.
People often made the mistake of assuming Cassian was the wilder one; the one who couldn’t be tamed. But Cassian was all hot temper–temper that could be used to forge and weld. There was an icy rage in Azriel I had never been able to thaw.
Feyre: why are you naked
Morrigan: I don’t have any clothes
Feyre, opening Mor’s closet: you have a lot of clothes, like this shirt, this coat, hi Azriel, these jeans
immortal-awesomeness replied to your post: Aurora Borealis ☆ Chapter 2
ASGKKFSDHKLHGDZJK ’S DJ ’S DKD WOWOWOWOWOW I’m in love. Obsessed. Like, I need moreeee. I’m going to be stalking you for every time you update. Not even kidding. Nessian is my life. Thank you for existing
omg this is so so sweet?? thank you so much, i’m so glad you like it!!!!! if all goes as planned chap 3 should be up by tomorrow!!!!
A/N: so, uh, fair warning this is...dark. this is more or less a character study of Azriel and his feelings for Mor- i wanted to really dig into the part of him that he hides from the rest of the circle. so yeah, this is just my interpretation of how HE feels about himself- obvs i love him with all of my heart and i would never think the things he thinks about himself. 500 ish words
Azriel is good at waiting.
It’s the reason he’s so good at his job. He is patient in a way that Rhysand calls admirable and Cassian calls sick. Time is Azriel’s oldest friend, after all. For a long while, time was Azriel’s only friend, along with the shadows that crept up his spine and the sound of water dripping from cold stone.
It’s no surprise, why he turned out the way he did. Lock a child in a dungeon, and they begin to grow dark in a way that nobody can understand.
He’s not fire, like Cassian. Not even ice, like Feyre’s sister. No, Azriel isn’t quite sure what he is. A ghost, maybe. A shadow.
It scares him, sometimes, how good he is with the shadows and a blade. How easy it is for him to shatter a man into fragments of himself. He’s seen the worst his kind has to offer, and then some.
He wonders if he is the worst his kind has to offer.
Well. It’s best not to dwell on thoughts like that.
His feet have barely touched the ground when Morrigan throws herself on him.
“Az,” she says into his shoulder, reverent in a way that makes him want to hold her by the shoulders and shake her and say I am not the good man you think I am. “Thank the Cauldron you’re home, it’s been hell without you, Cass spends all of his time holed up in his room and I practically have to force Rhys to take a break from his work to eat and sleep.” She pulls away, cheeks flushed a happy pink as she surveys the Illyrian. “Speaking of which, you look absolutely awful, when was the last time you had a hot meal?”
Azriel can’t help but smile, despite the disapproving look on the female’s face as she surveys his tired eyes and pale skin. Mor is so bright, so strong and good and beautiful in a way that Az could never be. If he is a shadow, she is the sun. “It’s good to see you too, Mor- I’m well, thanks for asking,” he teases as they enter the House of Wind, Mor just rolls her eyes.
“Come on, Az, we’ve known each other for, what, 500 years?” At his nod, she continues with an impish smile, “I think we’re past manners.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” he says with a soft chuckle, ready for the elbow that surely enough jabs him in the side a moment later. He turns to face the female, and the sheer radiance of the smile on her face is enough to knock the air out of his lungs.
He doesn’t deserve her smiles. He doesn’t deserve her.
He’s in love with her. He’s in love with her. He’s in love with her.
“I have to talk to Rhys,” he says gruffly, tearing his gaze away from her and turning his back on the female.
“Wait, Az-“ she calls, but he’s already too far down the hallway. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the image of her smile from his head.
A/N: thank you guys so much for your sweet comments on chapter 1! knowing that y’all liked it definitely motivated me to write this faster. so, without further ado…here is chapter 2!
Healing, Cassian soon realizes, is more difficult than any battle he has ever fought. He’s been hurt before, of course. The first War wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, and Cassian has had his fair share of gruesome injuries- after all, a bastard is a bastard, and the leaders of the Illyrian camps he grew up in made sure to remind him of that frequently and painfully. This, though, this is unlike any recovery he has ever been through.
Gods, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Still, he grits his teeth and squares his screaming shoulders and smiles at his brothers. He lives, lives for his absent Lady. Lives for his grieving Lord. Lives for his newly Made-
Well. He doesn’t quite know what Nesta is to him. Not his friend, obviously. Nesta can barely stand being in the same room as him, much less having a two minute conversation that isn’t comprised of taunts and barbs aimed to sting. Even so, she’s no enemy. Nesta Archeron is a bold, vicious question mark haunting Cassian’s mind. She is somewhere in the middle.
Cassian isn’t sure how to handle that. He sees the world in black and white- friend or foe, good or bad, right or wrong. Nesta, on the other hand, is as grey as those icy eyes of hers, and it drives the Illyrian absolutely mad. He wants to play with her, to poke and prod and push at her until she materializes solid in his life, frost made flesh. He wants to know her, to really know her, to learn what makes her smile and cry and scream.
Yes, he most definitely wants to know what makes her scream. He’s pretty sure that if she gave him half an hour with his mouth, he could find out.
Time, Cassian decides, is one hell of a bitch. Time is clever, and cruel, and thoroughly untouchable. Much like someone else Cassian knows, come to think about it.
His wings belong to time. Cassian has become a slave to the hourglass standing tall and proud on his desk. He calls out a prayer to every grain of sand that falls- pleasepleaseplease give them back- but nothing seems to come of it. He wonders if he is pathetic, like Nesta said. He feels pretty damn pathetic.
“Still sulking?” Cassian is always surprised by how clear Nesta’s voice is. It sounds like bells. “Or have you finally decided to grow up and move on with your meaningless life?”
“Sweetheart. Always a pleasure,” Cassian grates, slowly shifting in his chair to face the female standing in his doorway. She’s wearing a ditsy, simpering smile that, for a split second, reminds him of Ianthe. “If you’re here to beg me to bed you, I’m afraid the medics say I can’t engage in any…strenuous activity for another few weeks. Don’t be too disappointed.”
Nesta curls her lip, faux-smile gone. “I’d sooner bed an Attor,” she says icily. Cassian raises an eyebrow.
“I see Rhysand has been giving you some lessons on all of the creatures our fine realm has to offer,” he says. “I hope you’ve been taking notes. ”
Nesta narrows her eyes, stepping closer to Cassian, and the Illyrian feels a thrill in his stomach when the female stops in front of his chair. “Get up,” she says, and the sheer authority in her voice startles Cassian into following her command. He towers over her, even with her new Fae height, and Cassian can’t help but think about how perfectly her head would fit tucked under his chin. “Rhysand,” she begins, somehow making the name sound like a curse, “has decided that you are to train me. Why he wants some mangled oaf to be my teacher, I’m not sure, but he made it very clear that his order is non negotiable.”
Cassian furrows his eyebrows. He’s doing better, yes, but he’s not even close to recovered, and the muscles in his back scream and protest with every move he makes. It would make more sense for Az or Rhys to train her; they, at least, could spar with her, demonstrate moves properly. “And Elain?” he asks, looking down at Nesta. She’s still so deliciously close to him, her scent- warm and heady, so at odds with her personality- wafting up in a way that makes Cassian want to bury his nose in her neck.
Nesta’s scowl deepens. “Elain, apparently, will be training with Azriel. When he’s not doing reconnaissance in the Spring Court.”
So, Azriel is available for training. Cassian, it seems, needs to have a little chat with his High Lord. “I see.”
Nesta scans the Illyrian, dragging her gaze across his bandaged wings before returning to his face with a sniff. “You need to bathe. You reek of rot.” With that, she turns around and leaves Cassian with only the ghost of her scent in the air.
Cassian finds Rhysand in the study. His brother radiates sheer exhaustion; even the sharp crackle of his magic in the air seems tired, subdued. It kills Rhysand to know that his mate is back in that suffocating spring. Feyre knows what she’s doing, she can take care of herself, but Cassian knows that if he could, Rhys would tear apart the entire Spring Court to get her back.
Cassian would too.
“Brother,” he says mildly. Rhysand looks up from the map he is studying, his skin pale.
“Cassian,” he says. “How are your wings?”
Cass attempts a nonchalant shrug, ignoring the jolt of pain that runs down his back. “Fine. The medics say that the tissue will heal, but they,” he sucks in a breath, “they don’t think I’ll be able to fly again. It’s fine, I’m…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Rhysand understands, understands how deep the loss hits him, understands that Cassian will never be whole again, even if they’ve managed to stitch him up. Cassian clears his throat, the air in the room suddenly far too thin. “Why Nesta?” he asks. There’s no point beating around the bush; his brother is no fool, and despite popular belief, nor is Cassian. “You know that Azriel would do better.” Rhysand makes to object, but Cassian continues, “I’m weak, Rhys. Don’t try to disagree, you know that I am. And if we’re being honest-“ Cassian stops, swallowing hard. “If we’re being honest, you need to find a new Commander. I’m useless. I’m only going to bring the Circle down.”
The look of pure shock and pain in Rhysand’s eyes is enough to knock the air out of Cassian’s lungs. “No, Cassian,” his friend, his brother, says, rising. “No. I will not replace you, what are you talking about?”
“How the hell am I supposed to command your armies when I can barely lace my boots without help, Rhys?”
“You’ll heal-“
“Don’t you get it?” He’s shouting now, all the anger and desperation and fear he’s been trying to hold back finally unleashing. “That commander, that man you think I still am- he’s gone, Rhysand!”
“Stop.” Rhys’s voice shakes the very foundation of the house as darkness floods the room. When the blackness clears, he is standing in front of Cassian, his violet eyes drawn and tired. “You’re right here, Cassian,” Rhys says softly, gripping his brother’s arm. “You never left. Wings or no wings, you’re the best fighter in Prythian. So please, don’t stop fighting. Not now.”
Cassian closes his eyes. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that Hybern never happened. He can pretend he was the same person he was two months ago, bold and reckless and alive. When he opens his eyes, all he feels is exhaustion. “Ok,” Cassian says finally, and Gods, he’s so tired. “Ok, Rhys.”
Cassian has two types of nightmares: the type where he’s back in Hybern, wings shredded, watching Nesta get shoved into the Cauldron, and the type where he’s suspended from the ceiling, forced to watch Amarantha torture his family one by one. Tonight, Nesta is in that horrible pit, screaming as Amarantha drags a sharp, crimson nail over her exposed stomach. Jurian’s eye bobs on her finger, that horrible pupil dilated and hungry. “Look at you,” the redhead croons into Nesta’s skin, tongue darting out to lap at the blood that pools on Nesta’s abdomen. “Aren’t you just delectable?” Cassian is frozen, he’s frozen, and he’s screaming and helpless and-
“Wake UP! ” Cassian snaps awake, panting and drenched in cold sweat, and she’s there, it’s Nesta, and she’s whole and unmarked and perfect.
“Nesta,” he breathes, letting his head drop as he gulps down air. She’s okay, he reminds himself. She’s okay.
“Yes,” she says, irritated. “You were screaming.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” she says again, albeit with slightly less venom. “So.”
Cassian looks up at her, soft and rumpled in her sleeping garments, and is struck with an overwhelming fondness. Her hair is tangled, as if she’s been tossing and turning, and Cassian is suddenly struck by how tired she looks. “You weren’t sleeping,” Cassian says, and it isn’t a question.
“What I do at night is none of your business,” Nesta replies coldly, but Cassian ignores her.
“When did you last get a good night’s sleep?”
“When did you?”
They’re at a stalemate, then, hazel eyes on grey. Neither of them will back down first, that, at least, and the thought is almost reassuring. “Well,” Cassian finally says, “If neither of us are going to sleep, we might as well start training now.” This, he notes with pleasure, manages to surprise Nesta.
“What?” she asks, startled. “Don’t be ridi- it’s three in the morning, Cassian.” Cassian swallows hard at the sound of his name on her tongue.
“Yes, it is,” he says. “Now, I’m going to get out of bed, and it’s my duty as a gentleman-” he pauses, smirking at her predictable scoff- “to warn you that I sleep naked. So unless that’s something you want to see, I advise you to put on some proper clothes and meet me on the roof in ten minutes.”
The female steels her jaw, giving Cassian one last scathing look before stalking out. “Prick,” she hisses, and Cassian is reminded so powerfully of Feyre that he can’t help but smile as he heaves his aching body out of bed and pulls on some leggings. He steps to the balcony, lets the moonlight wash over his face, his broken wings.
“Your sister is a menace, Cursebreaker,” Cassian says to the stars, and he can almost see Feyre’s shit eating smirk. The youngest Archeron has always been too clever for her own good when it comes to everybody’s relationships but her own. For a quiet moment, he closes his eyes, breathing in the cool night air. “We’re going to bring you back. I promise.” The night seems to hum in agreement. “Spit in Tamlin’s food for me.”
With that, he turns, ready to face hurricane Nesta.
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