5 for the microstory prompt. I only know you from the ACOTAR fandom so I guess it'll be in that 😂
Thank you for the ask! I chose to write an angst piece for Nesta x Clare Beddor, I hope you like it ♡
From the Microstory Asks!
All the Words I Never Said : 5 - Help
The snow fell in eerie silence, muffling the sound of Nesta’s screams as if even the world could not bear to witness the depth of her grief. She was on her knees in the blood-stained frost, arms curled around Clare’s limp body as though she could hold her soul inside a little longer. Clare’s head lolled against her collarbone, curls darkened with blood, face pale as moonlight. Still. Unmoving. Gone.
“No—no, please someone—please help!” Nesta’s voice cracked on the last word, the scream unraveling into a sob so raw it fractured the air. “Clare, I’m here—I’m here now, love, it’s over. It’s over.”
But there was no heartbeat beneath her trembling fingers. No breath against her throat.
Only silence.
Nesta pressed her face into Clare’s hair, breathing in the last traces of honeysuckle and smoke. It had clung to Clare always—she was fire and sweetness and laughter in Nesta’s darkest days. A light Nesta had never deserved, and now would never again hold.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she whispered. “Gods, I didn’t get to tell you—” Her breath hitched. “I never told you how much I—how much you meant. You were everything. And I let you go without ever saying it.”
A soft wind stirred the snow, carrying the scent of frostbitten roses and ash. Nesta rocked forward, clutching Clare tighter, as if she could anchor her to the earth through grief alone.
“I should have come sooner,” she choked out. “I should have found you. I should’ve burned the world down to get to you.”
Clare’s blood soaked through Nesta’s leathers. It didn’t matter. Let it stain her. Let the world see what Nesta had lost.
Around her, the woods remained still. Not even the crows dared to cry.
She kissed Clare’s temple once—soft, reverent, a goodbye carved from sorrow—and whispered, “Wait for me in the next life, will you? And this time, I’ll run to you.”
[Send me a number, I’ll write a micro story using that word/phrase!]
Because I feel like it, this one’s actually in the One Siren’s Soul universe!
22. Nap
Sunlight grazed the tips of his fingers with a glowing warmth where they hung down below the sail’s cast shadow. George rocked slowly in the hammock to the rhythm of the waves shoving the ship’s hull, eyes half-lidded as he watched the clouds carrying the sunset’s colours above. He raised his hands in a stretch above his head, setting them crossed behind his neck as he finally settled into a well-deserved nap.
Or, well. He would’ve.
“GEORGE!!!”
If the rambunctious child known as Colin didn’t leap spinning into the hammock with him. George barely caught himself on his hands and knees as they both tumbled out of the bedding with a giant THUMP.
He sat up, rubbing the back of his head as he turned to see the gleeful excitement in Colin’s beaming face. George blinked tiredly, but that didn’t stop the smile from appearing on his own.
“… Aye, Colin?” The boy was near jumping out of his own skin, vibrating on the ship’s deck to a rattling of boards and lines and ratlines. Hm. Maybe that’s why they called them that.
He lifted his hands, his fingers cupped around something hidden away inside them. “I!! FOUND!! A THING!! YOU LIKE SEE IT?”
George chuckled. “And what did ye find, huh?”
“A—” Colin paused, lifting away one of his hands with a dramatic flourish to reveal a tiny green critter, the creature confused out of its mind. “A LIZARD!! I FOUND LIZARD!”
I went the Dom! Elain pegging Lucien route with this since I've wanted to write that for the longest time, I hope you like it <3
From the Microstory Asks!
Beneath Her - Dom Elain x Sub Lucien 35 - Filthy.
. . .
The night was quiet save for the crackling fire and the soft rustle of Elain’s movements. Moonlight poured through the tall windows, casting silver shadows across Lucien’s bare chest as he lay beneath her—breathless, flushed, and beautifully wrecked.
She stood over him, poised in nothing but the elegant lines of a dark leather harness, its straps hugging her hips like armor and power. A symbol of control. Of promise. The polished buckle glinted in the firelight, and Lucien’s golden eye tracked its every shift with reverence and hunger.
He was shaking slightly—whether from anticipation or sheer need, Elain didn’t know. Didn’t care. She stepped forward slowly, deliberately, until she stood between his parted thighs. Her fingers cupped his jaw, coaxing his face upward, and she leaned in, whispering, “Color?”
“Green,” he rasped, voice rough with want. “So green.”
“Good.” She pressed a slow kiss to his mouth, stealing the sound of his moan as she pushed him gently back against the pillows. “Then you’ll take everything I give you.”
Lucien whimpered, arching up instinctively, only for Elain to place a firm hand on his hip—restraining, possessive.
“No. You wait for me,” she commanded, voice like velvet lined with steel. “You asked for this, didn’t you? Begged for it. And now I’m giving it to you.”
Lucien’s only response was a trembling nod, a whispered “please” that felt like a confession.
She took her time, aligning herself with careful, practiced grace. Her fingers gripped his thighs, anchoring him, and when she finally pushed forward—claiming him in a single, relentless glide—Lucien cried out, every muscle tightening beneath her.
“Look at me,” she said, voice low and commanding.
His gaze snapped to hers, wide and vulnerable, and she held it there—never breaking contact—as she began to move. Each thrust was precise, intentional, pulling gasps and broken whimpers from his lips. The sheer control in her movements contrasted the way Lucien crumbled beneath her—eyes blown wide, hands scrabbling for something to hold on to as pleasure twisted through him like fire.
“You’re doing so well,” Elain purred, leaning close, her breath hot against his ear. “So obedient. So good for me.”
Lucien’s response was a choked moan, his fingers finally finding purchase on her back, clutching her as though she were the only thing keeping him grounded. “Elain,” he gasped. “Please—I need—I need to—”
“Not yet,” she whispered, teeth grazing the edge of his jaw. “Not until I say.”
He obeyed. Gods, he obeyed. And when she finally did allow it, when she murmured the word like a reward—Lucien shattered with a cry so raw and grateful it made her shiver with satisfaction.
They stayed there in the aftermath, bodies tangled in sweat and silk, Elain stroking Lucien’s hair while he clung to her like she was both mercy and fire. And in a way, she was.
He tilted his head to press a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured, still trembling.
Okay, I was admittedly a bit confused at first- I'm assuming this was sent by mistake. That said, I refuse to pass up on an opportunity to demonstrate my range as a writer and prove to the fandom that I can write compellingly for ships I don't personally favor. Although I made it yuri.
From the Microstory Asks!
Her Muse - Feyre x Fem Rhysand - In Control
. . .
Moonlight pooled across the silk sheets like spilled starlight, pale and gleaming against the warm curves of the woman Feyre loved. Rhysand lay back against the pillows, her raven hair tumbling around her like shadows kissed by dusk, violet eyes aglow with quiet amusement and something deeper - something older than the stars themselves.
Feyre’s fingers traced the line of Rhys’s jaw, the slope of her collarbone, the soft press of her sternum where her heartbeat fluttered beneath skin like polished obsidian. She could paint her like this, Feyre thought. Could immortalize her in hues of indigo and pearl, the way her mouth quirked with mischief even as her lashes fluttered like moth wings, unsure where pleasure ended and devotion began.
“I could worship you,” Feyre murmured, lips brushing the hollow of Rhysand’s throat. “Not as High Lady. Not even as your mate. Just… as you.”
A soft exhale escaped Rhys, but her body trembled - whether from the cool air or Feyre’s touch, it didn’t matter. The world was narrowed down to skin and breath and the scent of jasmine and sea salt. Feyre’s kisses were reverent, like prayers spoken in the dark. Down her chest, across her stomach, along the sharp edge of a hipbone that jutted like a crescent moon through the shadows.
Rhysand sighed her name like it was both question and answer. Feyre’s hands framed her thighs with care, guiding, encouraging, worshiping with quiet confidence.
“I want to taste how stars are made,” Feyre said with a grin, and Rhys laughed - a quiet, breathless sound that melted into a moan when Feyre lowered her mouth.
What followed was not frantic, but slow—devoted. The kind of intimacy born not just from desire, but from trust honed through battle and heartbreak, forgiveness and fire. Rhysand’s hands curled in the sheets, her back arching as Feyre held her steady through the storm of sensation, never once relinquishing control. There was no rush, no pretense - only Feyre - in control - guiding Rhys to a place where pleasure and vulnerability intertwined, where power gave way to surrender.
Later, when Rhysand’s breathing calmed and the moonlight had shifted to slant across the floor, Feyre lay curled against her, pressing a kiss to the hollow beneath her jaw.
“I’m still painting you,” she whispered.
Rhys smiled, fingers combing through Feyre’s hair. “Then I’ll make sure you never run out of inspiration.”
if you are doing the ask game, I NEED 8 and 37 tamris and 1 and 46 Lucnes, because you are amazing and anything you write is awesome
Sending you lots of hugs, smooches and love
Ashdndjd thank you so much, I'm sending heaps of love your way 💗 ( this is not micro at all )
From the Microstory Asks!
The Art of Defiance - Tamlin x Eris - Defy and Sunbathing.
. . .
The sun hung low over Spring, the last burnished rays filtering through the canopy in slats of molten gold. Tamlin lay sprawled on the soft grass beside the lily-dappled pond near the manor, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the glare, the other idly curled against the curve of his chest. His tunic was discarded somewhere behind him, abandoned in favor of the lazy warmth of late afternoon sunbathing. He looked, Eris thought, as if he belonged to the earth—etched from oak and sunlight, carved by ancient winds.
Eris remained standing in the shade of a cypress tree, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His armor gleamed faintly, but he hadn’t bothered with a cloak. Spring’s weather was kinder than Autumn’s bitter winds. And Tamlin—well, Tamlin wasn’t exactly doing much to preserve propriety.
“I assume there’s a reason I was summoned to witness your sun-drenched display of decadence,” Eris said dryly.
Tamlin shifted, just slightly. “You didn’t have to come.”
Eris scoffed. “Oh, please. If I defied a direct invitation to Spring, you’d start brooding in a field somewhere and everyone would be forced to suffer through the resulting weather patterns.”
Tamlin chuckled low in his throat, the sound muffled by his forearm. “You say that like I haven’t already brooded in every field within five leagues.”
Eris rolled his eyes and finally approached, stepping over fallen petals and letting the sun lick his skin with reluctant admiration. He crouched beside Tamlin, arching a brow as he took in the relaxed, open sprawl of the High Lord’s body. Tamlin peeked at him through sun-golden lashes.
“Take off your armor,” Tamlin said, voice too casual.
“Are you giving orders now?” Eris replied, one brow still raised.
“Consider it a suggestion. Or a challenge.” Tamlin stretched with feline satisfaction, muscles rippling in a way that was very nearly smug. “I dare you to defy it.”
And damn him, he would frame it that way.
With an exaggerated sigh, Eris unfastened the clasps of his armor, shedding the chest plate and bracers with sharp, efficient movements. When he settled down beside Tamlin, still half-dressed but significantly more at ease, the sun immediately warmed his skin. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
A few moments passed in silence, save for the gentle buzzing of bees and the occasional rustle of the breeze through high branches.
Then, quietly: “He’d have hated this.”
Eris opened his eyes. Tamlin was staring at the sky, unreadable.
“Beron,” Tamlin clarified, after a beat. “He’d have hated seeing you like this. At peace.”
Eris didn’t answer for a long while. He simply breathed in the Spring air, which smelled of hyacinths and earth and faintly of Tamlin.
“That’s why I’m here,” he said finally. “To defy him. Even now.”
Tamlin turned his head toward him, their faces close enough for the sunlight to bridge the gap like a kiss.
“Then stay,” Tamlin murmured. “Defy him with me.”
And for once, Eris didn’t make a joke. He simply reached out, laced his fingers through Tamlin’s, and lay back against the grass.
Neither of them moved, except to breathe.
The sun bore witness as the sons of cruel fathers learned, inch by inch, how to reclaim the world together.
. . .
What Burns Beneath - Lucien x Nesta - Don't leave and Defy.
. . .
The fire crackled in the hearth, a soft roar swallowed by the storm raging outside the small manor house. Nesta stood at the window, arms folded tightly over her chest, chin lifted as if daring the wind to shatter the glass. Her spine was rigid with a practiced defiance—sharp, unforgiving. But her eyes betrayed her. Always, it was the eyes.
Lucien leaned against the edge of the doorframe, quiet, watching. The silver of moonlight caught the strands of her hair, turning them to molten steel. He could sense the war within her even before she turned her face to him—half-shadowed, utterly unreadable.
“You’re not going to say goodbye?” she asked coolly, not quite turning. Her voice trembled—only slightly.
Lucien hesitated, the weight of a thousand unspoken things pressing against the back of his throat. “Would it matter if I did?”
That made her spin, eyes flashing. “Of course it would.”
He stepped forward, slow, measured. “You told me I wasn’t allowed to matter.”
“And you listened,” she spat, bitterness coiled in her voice like a whip. “You always listen when it comes to leaving.”
He reached her then, close enough to feel the fury rolling off her like heat from a forge. Close enough to see the fear behind it.
“Nesta,” he said softly, “don’t leave me behind in your silence.”
Her breath caught.
“I have never asked you to yield,” he continued, voice low, raw with truth. “I’ve never asked you to be less. But I’m standing here, asking you not to make me the casualty of whatever war you’re still fighting with yourself.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
“I’m not Rhysand. I’m not Cassian,” he said, eyes locked to hers. “You don’t have to defy me to survive.”
Something cracked in her then—something quiet but deep. Her shoulders fell an inch. Her mask, that familiar iron-wrought thing, slipped slightly.
“Then what do you want from me?” she whispered.
Lucien reached out, brushing his fingers against hers. Not a demand—an offering.
“Just this. You. Here. With me.”
Nesta stared at him. At the outstretched hand. At the scarred fingers that had seen too much and offered anyway.
Hii, thank you for the ask <3 I have joined the Hamlin bandwagon :)
From the Microstory Asks!
The Emissary and the Hamster - Tamlin X Lucien - Pet
. . .
The trade delegates from the Dawn Court prided themselves on poise. On ancient dialects, scented scrolls, and tea that shimmered faintly gold in the right light. Which was precisely why Lucien made a point of dragging the meeting to the crumbling sun-drenched veranda of Spring’s old eastern wing, where the ivy was plotting rebellion and a family of wrens had nested in a marble fruit bowl.
And where, perched contentedly in his lap, a plump, cinnamon-colored hamster was nibbling on a piece of dried fig.
"Is that your new pet, Lord Vanserra?" asked a Dawn delegate—one of the younger ones, with ink-stained fingers and the unfortunate optimism of youth.
Lucien didn’t miss a beat. He stroked the creature gently between its tiny ears. “Very dear to me,” he said solemnly, as the hamster squeaked in what could almost pass for agreement. “Follows me everywhere.”
Another delegate—one of the older, squintier ones with a face like a dried apricot—adjusted her spectacles and peered at the creature. “Where is High Lord Tamlin, if I may ask? We were under the impression he’d be presiding.”
Lucien sighed, artfully. “Unfortunately, Tamlin had to attend to a minor skirmish near the western border. Urgent, of course. He entrusted me to handle the meeting in his stead.”
The hamster made a noise—somewhere between a chirp and a huff—and nudged Lucien’s hand impatiently for another treat.
Lucien didn’t look down as he offered it a sugared almond. “He should be grateful,” he murmured, almost to himself, “that I’m keeping him from flinging someone into a hedge.”
A pause.
The delegates nodded with the careful diplomacy of people who very much suspected something strange was going on but had long since learned not to ask.
Lucien smiled faintly, eyes gleaming with mischief as the hamster climbed onto his forearm and chattered indignantly. “Patience,” he whispered, petting the creature like a beloved lapdog. “You owe me, High Lord.”
Ty for the ask <3. I refuse to be held responsible for the pain I cause, Remember anon you asked for this. Also this got much longer than I thought it would.
From the Microstory Asks!
Tides of Ruin - Tarquin - Sea Change
. . .
There are some things the sea cannot carry away.
The grave was smaller than it should have been.
Tarquin stood before it as if he'd only just realized that fact, as if the size of it could somehow diminish the enormity of what lay beneath. A slab of pale stone - weathered by salt and wind and time - marked the spot where Calen had been buried. No title. No flourish. Just a name carved in trembling hands: Calen Theros. And the date the world ended.
The sea behind him roared as if in mourning, waves crashing against jagged rock with the fury of a god spurned, they hurled themselves at the cliffside, teeth bared, tideblood rising with rage it hadn’t yet released. The sky was the same bruised gray as that morning - sunless, breathless, heavy with grief. It was always storming when Tarquin came here. As if the sea remembered too.
He sank to his knees. The cold bled through the fabric of his clothes, sank into his bones. He didn’t care. He deserved it. He should have frozen a thousand times over.
“I don’t know why I keep coming here,” he whispered. His voice cracked like ice. “You’re not in the ground. You’re not… anywhere, anymore.”
The wind howled in response, ripping through the cypress trees like grief through a chest.
Tarquin let his hand rest on the stone. It was rough under his fingers. Coarse, uncaring. “You should have run,” he said. “You promised me you would.”
The memory flared sharp and violent. The Hybern ambush. The spear. Calen turning- choosing - to stay behind. Tarquin had screamed his name, magic already gathering like a tidal wave behind his ribs. But by the time the sea answered, it was too late. The wave had come crashing down, but it had not been fast enough.
Tarquin had cradled his broken body in the mud, sobbing so violently he’d retched. No power could fix what had been pierced. No healing could mend a heart that had stopped for him.
Tarquin could still see him - lying in the dirt, a red bloom spilling from his chest. His golden hair soaked in mud and blood. His lips slightly parted, as if he’d been about to say something. Something he never got the chance to.
“I should have died,” Tarquin said again, voice shredded. “You were never supposed to - You weren’t meant to -”
His breath caught. He pressed his forehead to the stone. “You died saving me. And I don’t know how to forgive you for that. I don’t want to forgive you for that.”
He shook as he sobbed. Not the elegant sorrow of poems or songs - but guttural, ruinous weeping. The kind that emptied lungs and left scars in its wake. His magic crackled in the air, fraying the edges of the sea itself, the tides surging in answer to the tempest of grief in his chest.
“I loved you,” he choked. “I would have burned every kingdom to keep you alive. And you - you threw yourself into death like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”
The waves below crashed higher. Spray stung his face like salt rubbed into open wounds.
“I wake up with your name in my throat. I sleep with your voice echoing in my head. I can't breathe without you - do you understand that?” he cried. “You were everything. My anchor, my sun, my north. And now there’s nothing.”
His hands fisted on the cold stone. “I begged the Mother. I offered anything. Everything. And there was no answer.”
The wind screamed.
His magic pulsed outward, lashing the sea into a frenzy of whitecaps and foam. But the grave remained still. Unyielding. Silent.
Tarquin curled forward, broken beneath the sky. “You always said I was too gentle. That I loved too hard.”
He laughed, hoarse and wet. “I hope you were right. I hope it hurts you, wherever you are, to know how badly you ruined me.”
Silence.
Only the ocean remained. Wild, endless, merciless.
He sat there as darkness crept in, as the chill of evening blanketed the cliffside. The stars blinked above like distant gods too far to care. And Tarquin stayed - unmoving, unhealed.
When he finally stood, his legs ached and his spine protested. But still he did not turn away. Not yet.
“I miss you every moment,” he said, quieter now. “And I would trade the sea. The sun. This crown. I would give it all back. Just to hear you laugh again.”
He placed a seashell on the grave. A small thing. Iridescent, blue and silver.
It was all he had left to give.
Then, without another word, he walked into the storm. And the sea howled behind him, as if it, too, mourned the boy who had once made a High Lord believe in love.
I am so so sorry anon, but I had to. Continuation of this fic. Also I would've written acosf much better than sjm ever could.
From the Microstory Asks!
Splintered - Nesta x Clare Beddor - Trembling Hands
. . .
The restroom reeked of cheap perfume, spilled liquor, and something sharper—something blood-warm and metallic. Nesta slumped against the marble sink, knuckles white around the edge, breathing too fast through her nose as the bass from the club thudded like a second heartbeat behind the walls.
Her hand bled steadily. Crimson dripped in lazy arcs onto the white tile, a grotesque kind of artistry. The glass had shattered when she’d slammed it down—too hard, too fast, too full of fury that had nowhere to go. Of course, the liquor had done nothing. Fae metabolism was merciless like that. You could drink until your throat went raw and still feel everything.
Everything.
Nesta bit down on a sob, her vision swaying. She looked down at her hand, at the shards glinting beneath her skin, at the red pooling in her palm. And it wasn’t the blood she saw—it was memory.
She was human again. Mortal. Fragile. Sitting cross-legged on Clare Beddor’s bed in a golden shaft of summer light. Her hand stung from a splinter she couldn’t quite reach. And Clare—laughing softly, gently—had taken her hand and cradled it in her own. No hesitation. No revulsion.
“I’ve got you,” Clare had murmured, brushing her thumb over Nesta’s wrist. “You fight too hard. Even wood gets defensive around you.”
It had made Nesta smile. Gods, she remembered that—the ease. The warmth. Clare’s fingers, steady and capable, coaxing the shard out with patient care. Blood had welled up. Nothing serious. And Clare had kissed the wound once it was bandaged. A soft, reverent press of lips that had made Nesta feel... seen.
Loved.
She was shaking now. The bathroom blurred again and Clare was gone—had been gone for years—but Nesta’s blood still stained her skin.
“What would you think of me now?” she whispered aloud.
She was the thing that killed her. A High Fae. A creature forged in war and violence and power. The kind of monster that had dragged Clare from her home, that had burned her alive beneath a mountain for sport.
Nesta sank to the floor, the tiles cool against the backs of her thighs. Her shoulders caved in, and she pressed her bleeding hand to her chest like it could anchor her. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.
“I didn’t want this,” she breathed. “I never wanted this.”
Her voice cracked. A single sob tore out of her, hoarse and helpless.
“I should have died,” she whispered. “I should’ve gone with you. Or followed. Or burned, too.”
Tears spilled hot and unchecked down her cheeks. Her other hand fisted against her leg. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “Please. Forgive me.”
No answer came.
Only the slow trickle of blood. The throb of music on the other side of the wall. And the weight of a grief that had not lessened with time but had only deepened—become a wound she kept reopening, again and again.
She bowed her head, pressing her brow to her knees.
“Forgive me,” she said again, quieter. “Forgive me.”
