pairing: nesta x morrigan x reader
summary: you’ve been infatuated with nesta and mor since the moment you landed in the unfamiliar world of the fae, but knowing they’re mated, you’ve kept a safe distance. but when they invite you to share their bed, how are you supposed to say no?
warnings: anxiety, panic attack.
authors note: this is the build up to the smut, so if that’s what you’re here for, skip to part 2. this is basically lesbian yearning with a touch of hurt/comfort. enjoy xoxo
The evening had been long - in typical Night Court fashion, the court ball had commenced early in the evening and stretched long into the small hours of the morning. Plied with faerie wine and soft with decadent food, attendees had become loose-lipped and relaxed as the evening wore on, and discussions of diplomatic affairs had blurred into amicable conversation and laughter.
Typically, you enjoyed these endless evenings. Although somewhat reserved surrounded by people you weren’t familiar with, the ease with which the inner circle had welcomed you into the fold enabled you to truly savour every moment spent at these balls.
Back in the modern world - before you had fallen through the magical rift separating your world from the land of the fae - you had never dreamed you would experience something so captivating. In the year you had spent here, however, you had attended many meetings similar to this one, and the feeling of awe had yet to fade upon glimpsing the beauty and the extravagance of fae court assemblies.
Striking males and females in swathes of silk, velvet, and intricate fabrics of all colours - although, the Night Court did appear to have a bias towards the darker and richer colourings. Tonight, deep reds, midnight navy, and gossamer black seemed to clothe the majority.
You had entered the ballroom early into the festivities accompanied by Elain; sweet Elain who had kindly offered to style your hair after you complimented her beautiful up-do two nights previous. Arm in arm you had graced the room with your presence, and almost immediately eyes were drawn in the direction of you both.
You weren’t under any illusion; Elain - pearl of Night Court and, to some, the most beautiful of the Archeron sisters - was always a sight to behold. You knew most people would be straining for a glimpse of her among even the most glamorous court elites, and you couldn’t fault them for it - if anything, it was a relief to know that crowd attention would subverted from you.
Soon enough Elain’s mate had come to whisk her away, Lucien offering you a friendly greeting and pressing his lips to Elain’s hand in a reverent bow - before leading her to the ballroom floor to join the couples dancing to live music. Musicians you knew has been hand-picked specifically by Nesta, a job delegated to her by Rhysand who knew of Nesta’s love for music and ballroom dancing, and trusted her to choose accordingly.
Elain’s departure left no excuse for you to avoid the inevitable, something you had been managing to do quite well throughout the day. Too anxious to see either of the women who held your mind and heart captive, you had busied yourself with errands and housekeeping all morning and well into the afternoon.
Your dedication to the cause had almost unravelled upon entering Feyre’s townhouse, after delivering the paints you had promised to collect while she finished preparations for the event.
Feyre had given you a warm hug and asked you to join her for a late lunch when your enhanced senses had picked up on laughter ringing from the kitchen. A high, melodious sound you recognised instantly as belonging to Morrigan - a moment before panic overtook your senses and you made a hasty retreat.
Heart hammering, you’d returned home to your quaint apartment overlooking the Sidra, cheeks burning with the embarrassment at the thought of Feyre’s confusion, and self loathing for running in the opposite direction of the woman you couldn’t bring yourself to face.
After the events of the summer solstice one week ago, you’d resolved to keep your distance from both Nesta and Mor.
You’d spent half of the week torturing yourself with futile attempts to forget the entire encounter, and the other half trying to avoid both women. Considering the fact that you had a full-time occupation and both Mor and Nesta were currently residing in the House of Wind - a fair distance from your own home - it had turned out to be surprisingly difficult.
Flashes of pale blond hair shone in the corner of your eye at the market, gone the moment you snapped your head to the side to seek the owner. Only for Morrigan to materialise the moment you thought you were safe; a charming, sly grin etching her face with a request to accompany you home. You had declined no less than three times in the last week, ducking your head and breezing past her swiftly in an attempt to prevent further awkward encounters.
Nesta had appeared as if by magic during your lunch break earlier in the week, and you had almost jumped out of your skin when you felt her delicate touch to your shoulder.
You had been so engrossed in your book, seated on a wooden bench opposite the gleaming river, shaded by a blooming willow tree, completely unaware of the world turning around you. The touchy had sent you scrambling to your feet in a clumsy rush, book snapping closed and almost toppling over in your haste to right yourself.
Nesta wasn’t as overt as Morrigan in expressing her emotions, however her warm grey eyes had been sparkling with amusement and you could tell she was pleased to be holding the upper hand. She’d only calmly asked if she might join you, but you’d already been muttering a sorry excuse about returning to the clinic to continue working. She allowed you to go, but you had the dreaded feeling that she enjoyed seeing you lose your composure, and you could feel her sharp eyes following you until you turned the corner out of sight.
Worse still, both women would be attending tonight. You couldn’t help but feel as though your time was up; the last few grains of sand trickling down into the waiting hourglass.
Out of excuses, and too embarrassed to consider hiding for yet another day, you’d concluded that it was time to face the music.
Following Elain’s departure you navigated your way towards the table of drinks, deciding that being pleasantly tipsy would undoubtedly make it easier to confront what had been brewing for longer than you’d like to admit. Pouring a generous glass of faerie wine, you bring the cup to your lips and drink deeply, taking a steadying breath before turning towards the throng of people filling the room.
You gravitate towards the inner circle, easy to pinpoint in a crowd courtesy of Cassian and Azriel’s large illyrian wings. After the initial astonishment of seeing people with real wings - intimidating and imposing warriors nonetheless - had worn off, you found them to be fascinating.
Cassian was the first to notice you and grace you with a bright smile, moving forwards to give you a clap on the shoulder and pull you into a familiar hug (never one for unnecessary formalities, but that was how you preferred it).
“Look who finally decided to join us! Looking as beautiful as ever, don’t you think Azriel?”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes, and you find yourself grateful for how quickly Cassian is able to put you at ease. During the first few months of your arrival, Cassian had been convinced that you and Azriel may be compatible as romantic companions, and made it his mission to engineer as many encounters as possible between you both.
That was, until you had both become outrageously drunk one night at Rita’s, and you had told him that - in no uncertain terms - you preferred women. He had been unwaveringly supportive, however never passed up the opportunity to tease you both about it. Judging by the look on Azriel’s face, he had long since settled on resigned amusement.
After pretending to ignore Cassian and greeting Azriel properly, you glance around the circle to find Rhysand, Feyre, and Amren in tow.
You note the absence of Mor and Nesta, tension seeping from your shoulders in relief. You try not to feel too bad for taking solace in their absence.
“Cassian is right. You do look beautiful tonight.” Feyre says warmly, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks under the scrutiny of others.
“Thank you Feyre, as do you. You’ve truly outdone yourself with the celebrations tonight.”
The High Lady of the Night Court is wearing an exquisite gown of sparkling, smooth fabric almost as dark as the midnight sky. You have no doubt, however, that she would shine just as brightly in the simplest of clothes. She smiles graciously.
“My sisters deserve most of the credit. Nesta organised the music and Elain coordinated the catering. I only arranged the decorations.”
“And what a wonderful job you did, Feyre darling.”
The High Lord of the Night Court - Feyre’s equal in every way - pulls her close as she smiles up at him. Wrapping his arms around her waist he tugs her in for a kiss, and you’re almost certain you hear Amren mutter “Get a room.” You have to smother a laugh.
“No need to be jealous, Amren. I’m sure Varian would be more than happy to partake in public displays of affection with you if that’s what you desire.” Rhysand says as he pulls away, not even bothering to look at the short, snippy fae.
Amren’s scowl - impossibly - deepens, and she sneers a comment about needing a drink before disappearing into the crowd of people.
“I hope Elain accounted for Amren’s specific tastes. Otherwise Amren might be off to find a victim for the night.” Cassian jokes.
“I’m sure she did.” Feyre replies, looking amused and only faintly worried. You shudder to think of Amren’s preferred diet of blood of unknown origin.
You aren’t sure you’ll ever get used to that.
Feyre turns to you and ask you about your work, and the conversation flows from there. It’s easy to discuss work you love with your entire being, and you in turn chat to Feyre about her painting classes - promising to attend one as soon as your schedule allows.
Azriel’s low voice permeates the lax conversation. You turn to look, and find you’re not alone. Most eyes have turned to trail Eris Vanserra as the crowd parts for him, walking with an air of confidence and surety, clad in autumn court colours.
“I think it’s time to greet our guest of the evening, Feyre darling. After you?”
Rhys is taking his mate’s hand, allowing her to take the lead over towards the Autumn Court heir.
You continue conversing with Cassian and Azriel for a while longer, allowing the wine to relax your muscles and laughter to escape with greater ease. You’re vaguely aware of Azriel glancing around the ballroom every few minutes, cataloguing the people present, and while this might have put you on edge a year ago, you find that now it only makes you feel safer.
With the alcohol winding its way through your veins and the pleasant company you almost forget to be worried.
hat is, until a soft hand with fingers tipped in red lacquer, slide smoothly around your waist. Light enough to look casual, firm enough for you to feel the warmth through your corset. It takes nearly every ounce of composure not to tense up, or pull away
When you turn to seek the offender, you wish you hadn’t. Mor looks striking, and when her eyes turn to yours her beauty hits you right between the ribs; sharp as lightning, lethal as a blade. Her long blonde hair is waved, falling loosely in a deceivingly casual manner. Her feline smile is punctuated by signature red lips, and long eyelashes frame those eyes as she turns to you. Brown and amber, like warm cinnamon honey, sharp as a cat’s and heartachingly soft.
She smiles down at you, and it’s like feeling the sun on your face for the first time after a long, cold winter. You want to drink it in. You never want her to look away. You want to be the only person possessing the privilege of that smile.
As if she can see the way your thoughts are ricocheting around the tangled web of your mind, she turns to greet Cassian and Azriel properly - giving you a few moments to collect your composure. Her hand slips from your waist, and you contend with the desire to both run away or pull her hand back where it belongs.
She saves you the trouble by turning to you to ask a question, and your addled mind manages to miss every word.
You can feel your cheeks burning already. Mother above. You pray Cassian and Azriel assume the embarrassment stems from your social anxiety, rather than hopeless infatuation. Mor’s smile widens, as if she knows exactly what her presence is doing to you.
“I said shall we go and get something to drink? You appeared to have finished yours.”
You glance down, and find you have indeed finished your wine.
“Sure. I mean, yes. That would be lovely.”
There’s no time to be embarrassed before Mor is sliding her hand into yours, and gently tugging you across the ballroom - weaving around the attendees to reach the table of drinks. She refills your glass first, and you mutter thanks as she turns to gather her own.
Mor leads you again by the hand to a quieter side of the ballroom, and it’s only as she leans back against the marble pillar that you can truly appreciate the outfit she has slsected tonight. True to form, deep cherry red is the chosen shade for the silk dress hugging her elegant figure. The silk plunges low between her breasts and wraps tightly at the waist, preceding a long skirt with a slit reaching dangerously high on one tanned thigh. Your gaze trails down her long legs to her precariously high heels. You drag your eyes back up her silhouette, and you decide you could stare at her all night.
“Like what you see, angel?” Mor drawls, sounding amused.
When your eyes flicker back up to hers in panic you’re surprised by how heated they are. You swallow hard, before accepting that you’ve been caught red handed, so settle on saying, quietly;
She looks startled for a second, as if you’ve truly caught her off guard for the first time since your impromptu arrival in her world. As if she wasn’t expecting you to be so direct without more encouragement; and to be fair, you’re usually not so direct. But you’ve been tense and wound up all week, and the words come tumbling out.
“You might be one of the most exquisite women i’ve ever laid eyes on, Mor.”
You’re sure she hears such praise constantly, but this time you’re the one that’s startled to see a blush rising high on her cheeks. Her red lips part.
You flinch, snatching your hand back from where it had been holding Morrigan’s. You miss the warmth instantaneously. Your heart rate has racketted up to a surely unhealthy beat, a flutter of nerves and shock and panic.
Steel. A familiar icy-grey gaze. Sharp cheekbones and a straight nose speckled with a faint dusting of freckles. Mauve lips, a ghost of a smile pulling at one corner of her mouth.
“Nesta.” You breathe as she circles around you to stop at Mor’s side.
She’s chosen Night Court black for the velvety dress that clothes her - similar in style to Mor’s; if only slightly more modest. It does however, coupled with Nesta’s height, provide you with a clear view of her generous cleavage, and it takes fair amount of self-restraint to prevent your eyes from lingering there.
You blink as you take in both women, together. They are truly a sight to behold; a beauty unmatched. A sinking feeling pulls at the bottom of your stomach, close to the ache starting at the apex of your thighs, and you find yourself thinking oh.
“I must admit i’m surprised you showed up tonight. After an entire week of avoiding us both.”
Direct as ever, Nesta cuts straight to the bone. No more dancing around this, then.
“I haven’t been avoiding you! I’ve just been… busy.” You finish lamely, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Your eyes flick nervously between to two striking women, and you’re relieved to see neither look frustrated or angry - if anything, amused.
Nesta brushes straight over your words.
“I’m glad to see Mor has been keeping you entertained. I daresay you’ve made yourself useful for once, Morrigan. Keeping our birdie from flying away.”
The use of ‘our’ sends your stomach swooping.
Mor scowls and sends a halfhearted jab to Nesta’s side that the latter swiftly sidesteps. You know there’s no real aggression there anymore; however sometimes it seems they cannot help themselves.
“Yes, well, it wasn’t difficult. Considering she can’t keep her eyes off me.”
“I wasn’t-“ But get no further in your protest.
“I can see that.” Nesta agrees. You feel your face heat.
“It appears you’ve stolen some of my spotlight though, Nes. I was quite enjoying her undivided attention.”
Your throat dries and you struggle between feeling insulted at being spoken about as if you aren’t present, and a pleasant warmth at hearing them talk about you. Warmth blossoms in your chest as you realise they’ve been waiting to catch you tonight, and you aren’t sure if the feeling is closer to relief or anxiety.
“No matter. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for that later.”
Nesta holds out her glass of wine to Mor expectantly, who takes it with a dramatic eye-roll. She takes two steps that place her immediately before you, and holds out her hand, palm up.
And how could you ever deny her? The eldest Archeron sister, allure rivalled only by Morrigan’s. Wit sharper than a knife and beauty powerful enough to bring even the greatest of kings or queens to their knees.
“Of course.” You reply, somewhat nervously, and you’re rewarded with one of Nesta’s rare genuine smiles. So different from Morrigan’s casual grin, but debilitating all the same.
Nesta leads you to the ballroom floor, and you’re swept into an elegant dance surrounded by other court royals; one hand clasped in hers, and the other resting on her shoulder. Nesta has her free hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you taut against her, and your heart is pounding with such vigor you’re sure she must feel it against her chest.
Nesta is startlingly direct. Her eyes never leave yours, and she leads the dance with such confidence it leads you to believe she must have done so a million times before. One song bleeds into another, and as she twirls you around the dance floor you forget to feel nerves or embarrassment. You forget to avert your eyes to hide from her piercing stare and instead find yourself smiling up at her, rosy-cheeked and breathless.
That’s when she leans in close - close enough that a few stray hairs tickle your cheek and you feel her breath ghost across your ear, goosebumps prickling your skin.
Your instinct is to duck your head and shy away from her attention, but in such close proximity there is nowhere to go. Her hand holds firm at the curve of your waist.
“Thank you, Nes.” You whisper, too nervous to return the compliment.
No further words are exchanged but you think her expression softens slightly. The song comes to a conclusion and you pause naturally. Nesta looks relaxed - almost happy - something you would give almost anything to see every day.
Why had you been avoiding her, again?
You open your mouth to apologise for your absence the past week. To explain your cowardice, to plead for her forgiveness, or maybe her attention, or-
A hand clamps down on your shoulder. You flinch and tense, turning to find an autumn court noble stood to your right.
“May I have this next dance, my lady?” Your shock at his sudden appearance is only slightly overshadowed by the fact that he’s asking you instead of Nesta.
Males are usually clamouring for a chance to seduce the eldest Archeron sister; to secure a foothold in the circle of Night Court elites or win the heart of the notoriously aloof and powerful fae, one of only two women blessed by the cauldron.
“Oh! Well, I’m flattered, but-” You scramble for a valid excuse. “I’m currently dancing with my friend, so I don’t think-“
“I’m sure she can wait.” He interrupts, not even sparing Nesta a glance, and you’re taken aback by his forwardness. You can tell this male is not going to accept any excuses you provide, but as a chronic people pleaser, being blunt or rude is not in your nature. You sigh internally; are you really going to have to suffer through multiple dances with a pompous, arrogant-
Your head whips back to Nesta. Her expression has hardened; her narrowed eyes have fixed that icy stare on the male in front of you both, and she is not pleased. You see the moment her gaze shifts to his hand, still clamped on your shoulder, and the displeasure sharpens.
The male does drop his hand, however clearly doesn’t view Nesta’s words for the threat that they are. He gives a patronising chuckle as if Nesta’s glare is nothing more than petty jealousy rather than something that should send him running for the hills.
“I’m sure the girl can speak for herself.”
An arrogant smile is still plastered on his face, and this time you recoil from his smarmy expression.
“Excuse me? ‘The girl?’ I’m not a child.”
You manage to find your backbone just in time for Nesta’s patience to run out.
“I suggest you crawl back to where you came from before you embarrass yourself further.” She snarls. “One would imagine you’d be accustomed to being turned down by beautiful women.”
The male scowls, turning towards Nesta and stretching to his full height as a means of intimidation, but Nesta meets him head-on, arms crossed.
“You’re the Archeron sister, aren’t you? Heard you’re a nasty piece of work. Looks like it’s true.”
Nesta’s scowl deepens and she opens her mouth to retort, but before she can, you see red. How dare he? How dare this male insult the woman that had guided you through valkyrie training with a firm yet gentle hand; the woman that shared your adoration for romance novels, who sat with you well into the night laughing and chatting about your favourite scenes and dialogue; the woman that had insisted on walking you home from work every single evening in the winter months, so that you wouldn’t be alone in the dark.
“How dare you?” You seethe quietly, rounding on the male and completely missing Nesta’s astonished face. “Who exactly do you think you are?”
The male looks taken aback by your sudden change of attitude, but recovers quickly, taking on an air of irritation. As though he’s above being chided by a woman decades or centuries younger than him.
“What? You haven’t heard the rumours about your friend? About the eldest Archeron sister being a complete whor-“
He doesn’t even get to finish, before you’re launching yourself in his direction. You only get a second to relish in the shocked expression that graces his face as your palm swings towards his cheek, before deceptively lithe arms are banding around your waist, pulling you backwards into a strong body.
Your fingers miss his face by centimetres, and the satisfaction is shattered, replaced by a cold fury so intense your vision tunnels. You tug and pull, trying to escape the hold, but a calm, melodious voice is speaking into your ear - and try as you might, the arms around your waist won’t budge. A large body with membranous wings is obscuring your view of the target of your ire, and the quiet words bleed into focus.
“Relax, angel. We wouldn’t any to cause any diplomatic affairs when the night has barely begun, would we?”
Her calming voice, and the lilting cadence of amusement in the sound is enough to douse the flames of your anger. Cauldron, had you really been about to start a fight at a formal diplomatic event? A fight you most definitely would not win?
The tension seeps from your figure almost immediately, and you relax back into Mor’s hold, feeling her grip relax slightly too.
“That’s it. Breathe with me.”
Fury is replaced by shame, and the only consolation is that your cheeks were already heated with anger, so embarrassment might not appear so stark on your face.
You hear Rhysand asking if there’s a problem a few meters away, and the scene is still obscured from you by Azriel’s silhouette. Cassian and Eris are present now too, looking deceptively calm as Nesta speaks in a quiet manner, too sharply and quickly for you to pick up on the words even with enhanced fae hearing. Your ears are still ringing with quiet anger. You hear a protest from the offending male, which is quickly cut off by sharp word from Eris. Then the two are walking away, and with a pointed look from Rhysand the curious onlookers are continuing on with the revelry as if nothing had occurred.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shame washing over you for causing such a disturbance in the first place.
“Don’t be. I heard what he said about Nesta. If we weren’t at a formal event surrounded by diplomats I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
You exhale a slow breath, relieved to know that Mor isn’t angry.
“However, as it stands I don’t think Rhys would appreciate appeasing Eris if you were to hit his second in command, in front of a crowd of people.”
You pale, panic beginning to take root in place of your anger.
Mor must hear the panic in your voice, because her thumb starts smoothing up and down your waist, and it calms you slightly.
“Of course not. If anything, he’ll be relieved it’s not me or Cassian causing the most trouble tonight. I’m not sure he believed you had it in you.”
“Neither did I. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
You turn to look at her. Something flashes across Mor’s expression, something conflicting and guilty, but it’s gone before it can take form.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart. You were defending somebody you care about. Nobody can fault you for that.”
Looking down, you let those words sink in, taking a deep breath.
“Still, I apologise. I wasn’t aware he was an important guest.”
“He’s not. Alaric has always had a chip on his shoulder. The only person he listens to is Eris, and he has no respect for anybody else. It’s not the firsts time i’ve had the displeasure of meeting him, and it won’t be the last. He may be second in command, but Eris only keeps him around under his father’s orders.”
You turn in Mor’s arms, gazing up at her face. The displeased expression melts into something softer the second her eyes fall to yours.
“I think it’s my turn for a dance now, angel. May I?”
You’re grateful for the distraction, and can’t stop the small smile that spreads across your face; Mor returns it in full force as you acquiesce. You notice Nesta has disappeared, and remind yourself to find her once you’ve danced with Mor.
Mor twirls you around the dance floor with the same finesse as Nesta, if slightly less rigid in her movements - but no less elegant.
Time whirls by and it’s almost an hour later before you stop, feet aching and your cheeks sore from smiling and laughing. Mor pulls you through the crowd of tipsy partygoers, artfully avoiding the inner circle and autumn court nobles. She managers to pilfer drinks before anybody has time to approach either of you, and she tugs you back into the throes of the dancing and merriment.
You allow yourself to be pulled outside onto one of the many balconies overlooking the sparkling city of Velaris. There’s crawling ivy and hanging wisteria, framing a stone bench at the centre. On it, sits Nesta.
She turns as you and Mor stumble outside, half-empty glasses of wine in hand, and you see she’s nursing her own. The corner of her mouth lifts and your heart picks up simultaneously.
“Finished causing trouble?” She says, and shifts on the bench to make room for you and Mor.
She needn’t have bothered, however, as Mor tugs you straight down onto her lap. You give a surprised yelp.
“You say that as if I had anything to do with the drama.” Mor responds, waving her hand flippantly. “I’ve been on my best behaviour tonight.”
Arms wind around your middle to keep you in place as you attempt to stand, cheeks burning.
Although you can’t see, you can hear the smirk on her face.
Your attempts to escape Mor’s steel embrace are fruitless once again, and eventually you slump back in defeat.
Nesta raises one sleek eyebrow, watching you both with faint amusement; the same way one might watch evening entertainment. Mor rests her chin on your shoulder in satisfaction, a pleased expression on her face; like a cat that caught a canary.
“Brat.” You snipe halfheartedly, and you feel Mor exhale a laugh behind you. You opt to ignore her in protest, before focusing your attention on Nesta.
“I apologise about earlier. I shouldn’t have lost it like that. I know you can look after yourself.”
Nesta’s expression sobers slightly, and you hold her gaze.
“No apology needed. I only wish Mor had been a few seconds too slow. I would’ve liked to see you wipe the smirk off his face.”
You giggle, and Mor’s thumbs smooth up your side in a rhythmic motion.
“And you had the audacity to call me the troublemaker.” Mor gripes, but her expression is fond.
Nesta doesn’t deign this with a response, focusing on you once more to say;
“Next time, use your fist. You’ll find it much more effective.”
You can’t stop the laugh that slips free, and Mor groans in exasperation. Nesta’s eyes sparkle.
Mor pinches your side playfully and you squirm away between giggles.
“Don’t encourage her.” Mor says.
While your laughter abates, you watch as Nesta looks out towards city below, a smirk playing at her lips. She takes a slow sip of wine. You follow the movement of her throat as she swallows; the long, pale expanse of her neck; down to her collarbones. You wonder if Mor’s focus is there too.
You wonder if Nesta knows what she’s doing.
The cool, evening air is pleasant on your heated skin. You hope the dim lighting is enough to conceal the pink tint to your cheeks. Hyperaware of Mor’s warm body beneath you; the strength in her frame, softened by feminine curves. Soft breasts press into your back where she holds you, and one hand moves from your waist to rest high on your thigh. You swallow hard.
“Thank you both.” You manage to say, resolutely ingnoring the feeling of Mor pressed up against you.
Nesta turns her gaze back towards you.
“For dancing with me tonight.” You clarify. “I had a wonderful evening.”
“The night isn’t finished yet.” Mor says, and there’s something underlying her playful tone. Something you’re afraid to read into.
Mor has you pinned in her embrace, and Nesta has you held equally as captive with her intense gaze. Powder blue eyes, stained navy under the midnight sky, fixate on your face, before dragging down and down. Sweeping over your breasts, cataloguing the dip of you waist and curve of your hips. The stretch of your legs visible only via the slit in your dress.
Her eyes darken as she takes in Mor’s hands, one stroking hand held firm at your waist and the other dancing dangerously close to the place where skirt fabric meets skin.
Nesta is shameless in her languid perusal of your appearance, and you stay quiet - unsure you could speak even if you wanted to. When her eyes reach yours again, there’s something new there - and this time you pick it out quickly because it’s mirrored in your own gaze.
“Tell me,” Nesta begins, “Have you considered our proposal yet?”
You shouldn’t be surprised by the question, but it still manages to catch you off guard. The tension in the air thickens; a charged energy that had been steadily increasing over the last week.
Long before the events of last week, if you were being completely honest with yourself.
Nesta always knows how to cut to the quick; no skirting around the crux of the issue - and it seems months of longing stares and lingering touches have worn her patience thin.
Not that you can fault her. You had hoped for more time, in all honesty. As if any amount of time or distance would be enough to cleanse their presence from your mind, or diminish the desire burning low in your stomach sparking with every touch or sly glance.
A week of avoiding both Mor and Nesta, and yet here you are; cornered.
Ensnared by the two women you crave more than anything. If Mor hadn’t wanted to release you earlier, she certainly won’t let you go now. Nerves crawl their way up your throat, an invisible hand clasping at your vocal cords and rendering them useless, the same way they had done one week ago. When Morrigan had said-
“We see the way you look at us, you know.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. If you spent as much time watching us as you do hiding from our affections, you’d see we look at you the same way.”
A hand cupping your face; Mor’s scarlet lips inches from yours.
Nesta’s piercing gaze, her quiet, pleased expression. Her warm hand on your thigh, where your legs are thrown over hers.
“Join us, if you desire. The offer extends beyond tonight, if you need time to think.”
And then you’d high-tailed it from their residence. Skin on fire, overwhelmed. Desperate to escape; desperate to return. To feel their hands and skin on yours, lips dragging down, down, down-
No. That couldn’t happen.
So, you’d decided avoiding them was the best course of action.
Mind too addled with cluttered thoughts, worries, and desires. You were too embarrassed to face them; too worried about what you’d do if they touched you again. Unsure if you had the resolve to deny them a second time.
“I can hear you thinking.” Mor ribs.
Her fingers are smoothing over the fabric of your dress in a calming manner, shifting you so she can see your face, and you find yourself facing Nesta.
“I know we might seem imposing and pushy, but we won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. I promise.”
You can’t even look at Mor, nerves returning full-force.
“If you truly aren’t interested in partaking in anything intimate with us, we won’t press the matter.” Nesta adds, and this time panic pushes your words unstuck.
“No! No- I mean, it’s not that- It’s not-“ You exhale in frustration, pulling a hand through the hair free from your partial up-do.
“Hey.” Morrigan covers your free hand with the one that had been resting on your leg, and shifts beneath you. “There’s no rush. Take a breath.”
You do as she says, wrapping your hand around her ring-clad fingers. Mor laces them together, continuing to stroke her thumb over yours.
You avert your eyes. Why is this so difficult? You’ve never felt so undone by a romantic prospect before. You had taken many women - and men, for that matter - to bed before, without feeling even an ounce of the anxiety that pulls at your chest around Mor and Nesta.
Suddenly every word holds more weight. Every touch possesses unexplainable meaning. Every moment feels tender; something rare and raw.
What happens if you say yes? You would undoubtedly experience the night of your dreams; something beyond what your imagination formulates late at night when the world is quiet and your hand slips between your thighs. Thoughts you would have taken to the grave, if not for their proposal.
But what would happen afterwards? You’d have to slip out before they wake - no doubt they would want you to pretend nothing had occurred. You would attend family dinners, valkyrie training, book club with Gwyn and Emerie, carrying around the knowledge of a priceless night; an unforgettable endeavour that would mark any future prospects in the bedroom.
Worse still, you’d have to see them; happy and content and fulfilled without you.
Because that’s all this would be, to them. Something new and exciting to try, and who better to ask than the person hopelessly infatuated with them both?
For a year you’d grown closer to Mor and Nesta, and they had quickly become the most important people in your life here. The thought of being discarded by one of them - or worse, both - after the fact, was unfathomable.
You wouldn’t be able to pretend any longer. If you gave in to their request, there would be no going back; the charade would be over. The blooming feeling in your chest every time you experienced one of Nesta’s rare smiles, or Mor’s warm hugs, would blossom into full-fledged longing; a desire to be close to them day and night, to share your most intimate thoughts and moments. The glowing happiness in your chest would force a name upon itself; a four letter word with more power to destroy than even the cauldron itself.
That was why you had hidden. Better to deny yourself now, than to break your own heart later. You had underestimated, however, how difficult it would be to say no Nesta and Mor. Every time you attempt to pull away, an unspeakable force drags you back into their orbit.
You’re tugged out of your anguished deliberation by a delicate hand taking hold of your chin - turning your face to meet Nesta’s unyielding gaze. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been lost in your own mind.
“Tell me why you’re scared.”
“Nes…” Mor starts warningly, but Nesta silences her with a sharp look. You see Mor frown in your periphery.
“I can f- see how anxious you are. Tell me why you’re worried.”
You don’t acknowledge the slip, too busy trying to string together an appropriate answer.
Nesta frowns. She gives a small tug to lift your face as you try to avert your eyes.
“Stop overthinking, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“What- what happens after?” You blurt out, without thinking. Nesta’s brows pull together.
“What do you mean, angel?” Mor asks. “After we take you to bed, you mean? Because the answer to that is whatever you desire.”
Nesta silently studies your expression, and you squirm under her scrutiny.
“That’s not what you meant, is it?” She concludes.
You close your eyes, face burning.
“Forget it. Forget I said that.” You backtrack as quickly as possible, hoping to brush over the entire encounter.
“You mean what comes next. After we sleep together.”
You shrink back into Mor, silently praying she takes pity and releases you soon. No such luck. She holds firm. The fingers holding your chin squeeze gently.
“Tell me why that worries you.”
“I don’t-“ You take a steadying breath, eyes still closed. “I can’t-“ How are you supposed to articulate every worry that clouds your mind? The terror that plagues you every time you envision them abandoning you?
The words escape only as a whisper, but you know they’re heard as clear as day by the way the air stills.
“Why would- why would you lose either of us?” Morrigan sounds genuinely perplexed, as if your words are not just confusing, but outright bizarre.
“You’re mates.” Both women flinch, and you almost feel bad for revealing that you know. “Don’t deny it. I know it’s true. The way you look at each other… I knew you weren’t just lovers from the beginning. You have each other, and I-“
“Angel…” Mor begins, but you cut her off.
“I haven’t told anybody- I wouldn’t betray your trust like that. But I couldn’t help but notice, and I know you might be interested in me for one night, but beyond that… I’m not naive. I know how much the fae value mates, and there’s no place for me to expect anything from either of you, but I can’t help but care about both of you- and If I allow you to take me to bed, I know I won’t be able to- I won’t-“
“Hey, hey, breathe-“ Mor tries, but the seal has been broken and you have to get the words out before you run out of air. When did it become so difficult to fill your lungs with oxygen?
“You’ll be finished with me, and you’ll leave- or you’ll- I’ll lose-“
A firm, cool hand grasps the back of your neck, and you’re suddenly being pulled forwards.
You become increasingly aware of your shallow breathing, and the world spins, narrowed down only to Mor’s arm holding you steady and the unyielding hand that has pulled you to rest your forehead at the juncture between Nesta’s neck and shoulder. A cool hand smoothes up and down your back, and Nesta is pulling your free hand to her chest.
“Feel me breathe. Copy my movements.”
It takes a few tries, a couple of stuttered breaths, but after a minute or two you manage to match your breathing to hers. You’re unsure how long you sit there, safe in the embrace of the two women who comprise everything you hold most dear in this still unfamiliar world.
When the tingling feeling in your fingers fades away, and you’re able to match Nesta’s breathing for at least five minutes - a valkyrie technique, your clumsy mind supplies - you pull back, embarrassment replacing panic.
It’s not the first panic attack they’ve walked you through, but you feel shame nonetheless - amplified by the embarrassment of panicking over a simple conversation.
“Don’t be silly. We’ve spoken about this, no apologies.”
“Better?” Nesta asks, and you can see the genuine concern in her eyes, the way her brows pull together and her mouth pinches to one side.
“Yes. Much.” You take a deep, steadying breath. “Thank you, Nes.” You barely manage to meet her eyes.
“I would’ve hoped by now you would’ve realised that neither of us are going anywhere. But I see now that we haven’t made our intentions clear enough.” Nesta starts.
Mor has started smoothing her fingers through your hair, body still held securely against her own.
“We asked you to join us in the bedroom, not because we desired you for sex.”
You frown at Nesta’s words.
“Obviously, we would both love nothing more than to explore that with you, however that was not why we asked. You fled before we had the chance to elaborate last week.”
You’re struggling to catch the meaning between Nesta’s words. If not for sex, what else would they need from you in the bedroom?
“What Nesta means,” Mor says, “Is that we would like you in our bed, along with everything else that comes with it. We want to wake up next to you the morning after. We want you to steal our clothes, and not return them as you do now. We want you to fall asleep while Nesta reads you one of her smutty romances, and not leave the moment you wake. We want you to stay. Do you understand?”
“But… but you already have that with each other? Why would you need me?” You say almost desperately.
Surely they cannot mean what you think they do. You look to Nesta for clarification; a dose of reality. However, her expression leaves you taken aback before you can ask. She looks as unguarded as you’ve ever seen her, something vulnerable lingering beneath the surface of her usually placid features.
“We do have each other.” Mor concedes, glancing at Nesta briefly. “But recently we realised… that when we’re with you, we feel- for lack of a better word, complete.”
You’re not entirely sure you’re breathing.
“And I know this may be a lot to take in, but we think you might want that too. You might want to… stay. With us.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen the Morrigan nervous before, but there’s no mistaking the raw apprehension in her expression. As if she expects you to run - the same way you did one week ago.
You chance a look at Nesta.
“Is that… is that something you want too?”
You need to hear it from her. From both of them. Before you risk believing their words are genuine; not borne of pity
“Yes. We- I, would like you to stay. To be with us.”
Nesta’s gaze never leaves yours.
“If that isn’t something you want, nothing has to change.”
You swallow, weighing your options. A futile practice, because you’ve known from the beginning that there was only ever one answer you could give them.
“Yes. I want you both. I want to stay.”
