A fairly quick study from yesterday.
Sadly I am not sure anymore, where exactly I got the reference from. It was very likely from https://www.fatphotoref.com
I just really adore the regality and elegance of her pose.
Who Could Ask to be Unbroken or Be Brave Again? (i, ao3)
(Surprise!! It has been the biggest joy to be your Secret Santa for the @acotargiftexchange this year, @kale-theteaqueen and getting to write some angst for the undisputed angst QUEEN was an honour. I hope you enjoy this first chapter, and - if all goes to plan - I'll be posting the remaining two chapters later this week ❤️)
In the three years since Nesta Archeron had been thrown into the Cauldron by the King of Hybern, she had thought she'd done enough healing. Thought things were… better, now. But as Solstice rolls around once again, she finds herself struggling with both the weight of fae customs and the fact that she's never really found a place for herself in her sister's court. Determined not to let herself ruin her mate's favourite holiday, Nesta struggles through her third Solstice above the wall… but will this year be the year that Cassian steps up at last? (Set post-ACOSF)
It had started with a note.
One innocent enough, each word penned one of cheer and optimism; sparkling and lovely on the most luxurious magnolia paper. It was such a pretty thing, with its decorated edges and fading scent of roses— a stupid thing, to send her on such a downward spiral.
A ridiculous, cruel thing. To grab her by the throat and sink its claws, pulling - hauling - her back, right to the bottom of the mountain she’d climbed since being tipped out of that damned Cauldron.
Because Solstice neared, and Nesta Archeron was right back at square fucking one.
The note - the invitation - lay on the table where she had tossed it the night before, the seal cracked and splintered. She didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to be reminded of each and every way she was still failing.
Instead she stood alone in the House of Wind, looking out at the city and watching the snow fall idly beyond the windows. The mountains, reaching for the sky, the horizon a blend of grey and white that seemed to stretch forever. It was almost pretty, like something Feyre might have painted. A landscape of snow and ice, with frost that glittered like shards of broken diamonds. For days people in the city below had been stringing up lights in preparation for the Solstice celebrations, and Nesta knew that when night fell, Velaris would be a wonderland of colour and light, pricking the darkness like a hundred thousand stars.
And every one of them - each shard of light that broke through the black, each glittering faelight that pierced the night - every one of them filled her with dread.
Come down to the river house tomorrow, Elain had written on that damned invitation. Written— because it was easier to send a note than ask somebody to winnow her up to the House, and she couldn’t manage the stairs. Nobody could, because nobody else was expected to.
We’re baking gingerbread and decorating cookies. For Solstice!
The exclamation mark— a cheery piece of punctuation in night-dark ink.
But Nesta didn’t feel particularly cheery. Didn’t know how to, when inadequacy was a curse of its own, one that had plagued her since her earliest days. She hadn’t known how to respond— how to shape her dismay into something that even vaguely resembled joy. It was too unwieldy for that, too inflexible to ever be trimmed properly into something like a smile. The bitterness in her mouth too strong to ever be ignored completely. So she had ignored the invitation, pushed it to the side, and felt a long-familiar wave of insufficiency, maladaptive and cruel, rising to swallow her like it had so many times before.
She’d thought she was over it.
Thought she was past it.
Thought that in the three years since the Cauldron - with the two Solstices she’d already gritted her teeth through - that this year might be different. That part of her might understand, finally, what it was to celebrate a fae holiday, even though every beat of her heart still sounded mortal to her own ears.
But that’s the thing with grief, she supposed. It never leaves. Not really. It lessens and it lessens, but at some point, when you least expect it…
It all comes screaming back, with the rage of a thousand fires and a vengeance strong enough to bring you to your knees.
And Elain’s invitation was the catalyst.
Nesta let out a breath, closing her eyes and praying the damned thing would be gone when she opened them again.
Stupid, really.
It had been read and re-read a hundred times since it had arrived yesterday, and there it remained, sitting in its little patch of light when Nesta opened her eyes again. With a huff she dragged her eyes back to the windows, to the city blanketed with snow. Far below, the river was a frozen streak of silver, a ribbon of mercury that wound its way through streets glittering with frost. It was so idyllic Nesta was certain that this, too, would one day find a way onto Feyre’s walls, immortalised in paint and canvas. Memorialised the way she wasn’t. Not the way everybody else was, their likenesses hanging on the river house walls.
There was no portrait of Nesta hanging in her sister’s home.
And why would there be, she thought bitterly. She couldn’t even summon the will to go down into the city to join her sisters for an afternoon baking cookies. Like even the most basic things were still beyond her, too painful to even consider.
She looked to the invitation again. Knew what she would find if she opened it. The same words she’d memorised by now, in handwriting so similar to her own. Elegant and pretty, almost aristocratic. The same hand Elain had been taught by their mother, except Elain hadn’t learned it the hard way, with the sharp sting of a rod rapping at her knuckles when her letters didn’t come out perfect.
“Can you get rid of this for me?” Nesta asked quietly, barely louder than a breath in the silence of the House of Wind.
A soft breeze brushed against her cheek, like the ghost of a finger passing over her skin. When she blinked, the invitation was gone, and the air around her warmed, like the House was doing all it could to embrace her— a hug given in the only way it could.
It made her heart ache.
Only last week the House had strung up garlands in honour of the nearing Solstice celebrations, only to quietly take them down again when it realised that it didn’t inspire in her the kind of festive feeling it should. Nesta had wanted to look at the wreaths of ivy and winter greens and feel joy and hope and everything she ought to. But it was just… greenery, studded with berries and acorns, empty of meaning and devoid of anything substantial. She hadn’t said a word - hadn’t thought she should - but still the House had taken it all down before Cassian could return home, leaving everything as it was, like Solstice had never touched the House at all.
The sigh that left her seemed to shake in her throat as she pulled away from the windows, turning her face away from the city dusted with snow. A sour taste spread in her mouth, and she shook her head sharply as she set down her mug of tea - barely touched - on the table that had only recently been freed of Elain’s invitation.
It wasn’t a mortal tradition, Solstice.
They celebrated the harvest each autumn and danced around maypoles before each spring gave way to summer, but below the wall, there would be no gifts exchanged or families gathering before a roaring hearth tonight. No candles lit in honour of the dark. Mama had raised her - had raised all three of them - on horror stories of the fae. And now Nesta was expected to sit there and observe a tradition so fae in essence, so pagan, that she still struggled to endure it, and all whilst surrounded by the creatures that thanked and blessed the same entity that had stolen the life from her.
Thank the Cauldron— for what, exactly?
They worshipped the thing that destroyed her, and wondered why she found it hard to smile.
Something like anger kindled in her chest, something bitter and acidic as she let her eyes slide closed again.
They didn’t understand. Every step she took, every breath she drew— it wasn’t good enough. None of it ever felt good enough, even now. The smile on her face, never wide enough. The way she accepted invitations, never gracious enough. The lilt of her voice, never gentle enough and her thanks, never genuine enough. Like dying hadn’t been enough to earn a kernel of understanding; abduction not enough for Feyre and her family to understand why Nesta had wanted four locks on her door in the apartment they had taken from her.
Fucking gods— Nesta cursed under her breath and curled her hands into fists at her sides.
Why couldn’t she just let it go? Move on the way her sisters had?
Because how could she have faced them today? How could she ever have stood there decorating cookies, pretending like she didn’t feel like she was dying all over again on the inside? Like she wasn’t an imposter, failing to understand a tradition that had never been hers in the first place? Or like a fool for missing what had once been so familiar to her, for mourning the girl she had been before?
She couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Sniffing, she opened her eyes again. Looked to the ceiling as she felt the press of air against her shoulder— the House again. Softly, sadly, she smiled, as all of that lingering anger turned inward, burrowing into her bones as she thought of all the human traditions she’d been expected to forget as soon as she crossed the wall. The harvest festivals and the mayday parades; a manor beneath the wall with marble floors and urns overflowing with flowers. Ribbons tied in her hair, fluttering behind her in the wind as she danced, before her mother was cruel and her father was poor. Nostalgic as an oil painting and just as useless, now.
Because none of what she had now was hers, not really, and none of what she’d had before could be brought back.
Another breeze brushed her cheek, as if the House wanted to wipe away tears she hadn’t let fall. She let out a gentle huff, something caught halfway between a laugh and a cry.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, even though she knew the House couldn’t answer.
The breeze ruffled the loose ends of her braid as she fixed her implacable mask back into place, and Nesta’s eyes wandered back to the window, to the horizon that stretched across the city so many leagues below.
Not mine, she thought.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, echoing like clockwork, as definitive as a metronome. Each time she looked at the snow and the city and the lights— not mine, none of it mine. She clenched her fists, buried the anger, didn’t give it an inch because she knew that it would take a mile.
Breathe.
She just had to breathe.
And there—
Against the clouds limned with gold in the sunlight, a black shape against the horizon, pulling her out of her downward spiral. A familiar silhouette, one that made her heart ease a little and warmth fill her chest just enough to chase away the sting of everything else.
Cassian, returning home.
Despite the early hour, his arms were already laden with packages and parcels, the last-minute gifts he’d told her he was flying down to the city to fetch. He had already known exactly what he was getting, it seemed; like buying gifts was just another military operation for him, one he executed with as much lethal precision as a battlefield manoeuvre. He had wasted no time at all, and bitterly Nesta counted the number of parcels in his arms and thought of the singular box beneath their bed, one she’d hidden there, containing a sleek dagger and a beautiful leather sheath embossed with the three stars so sacred to the Illyrians. A gift for her mate, bought as she tried so hard to understand what got him so excited this time of year.
Even that didn’t seem like enough now, not as he approached the House with a truly innumerable amount of gifts.
She didn’t seem like enough.
But even as she cursed herself again - hating the way her mind couldn’t just let it be; couldn’t give her a fucking rest from it all - she refused to let him see it. No— it wasn’t Cassian’s fault that her inability to adapt had her floundering, feeling like she was stuck in quicksand and moments from being dragged under. She refused to let it chase the smile from his face for even a second, no matter how fractured and broken she felt inside.
And so, as Cassian landed smoothly on the terrace, with snow in his hair and the wind colouring his cheeks, Nesta forced her shoulders back and fixed her most practised expression of calm on her face. But even as she opened the door to meet him outside, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had ever been more false.
***
Cassian felt the grin spread manic across his face as he stood in the falling snow, watching his mate step outside to meet him.
Would he ever get used to it? Get over it? The sight of Nesta Archeron standing in the doorway, the snow falling on her braided hair and collecting on her eyelashes, like she was the most perfect thing the Mother had ever seen fit to create… Coming home to her was like slipping into a dream. One he didn’t ever want to wake up from. He grinned again, feeling the bond wrap warm around his ribs, and every bone in his body was screaming for him to reach for her, to catch her in his arms, but the gifts were too heavy and cumbersome in his hands, keeping him standing there when all he wanted to do was crush her to his chest and keep her there, like they’d been parted for far longer than a handful of hours.
He’d have thrown each and every one of those parcels over the side of the House balcony if they hadn’t mostly been for Nesta anyway.
“Somebody’s been busy,” she quipped dryly, and Cassian wondered if he was imagining it, the way her eyes seemed dark and flat. He tilted his head, but she continued smoothly enough to convince him it was nothing but a trick of the light. “Does Rhysand have any coins left in his coffers or have you spent it all?”
“Sweetheart,” Cassian tsked. “I know better than to buy you gifts with Rhys’ money.”
She rolled her eyes, and delight coursed through him so fierce he really did want to throw those gifts over the railings, if only to take her in his arms and kiss her the way he needed to.
“I hope those aren’t all for me,” she said flatly, and he sensed something then, something sharp hiding just beneath the surface of her words, and when his eyes narrowed a fraction in response, something flickered across her face that looked damnably like concern. But concern for what? Cassian beat back his frown as he stepped forward, shooting her a wink instead.
“Not all of them.”
Not a lie. There was one for Azriel in there, too.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Naturally.”
He grinned again, watching her stand there in the gently falling snow. Whatever emotion had briefly travelled across her face before was gone now, and she looked so godsdamned beautiful, even with the tip of her nose turning pink from the cold. Warmth spread through him, gathering in his chest as, softly, he said to her,
“Come on. Let’s get you inside before you freeze.”
Nesta nodded, holding out a hand to take some of the gifts from his arms— to help ease the burden any way she could. But Cassian shook his head, knowing that with one touch she’d probably manage to figure out exactly what was in every single one, and he’d be damned if anything was going to ruin the surprise.
So Cassian extended his wings, snow-covered and soaking, and shook them off, laughing as Nesta raised a hand to shield herself from the melting snow. She hissed, and Cassian laughed so loudly it echoed and bounced off the stone walls surrounding them.
“Beast,” she tossed over her shoulder as she retreated inside the House.
“Naturally,” he said again, following her inside.
***
“Here,” he said five minutes later, holding out a flat box that still held a little bit of warmth.
“What is it?” Nesta asked.
“Cherry pie,” Cassian said as she flipped open the lid, revealing the pastry decorated with cut-out stars and tiny crescent moons to celebrate the longest night of the year. Her fingers curled around the edges as she breathed in the scent of the sugar, warm and sweet. “It’s tradition on Solstice Eve.”
A tradition born on the very first Solstice he’d spent in the city. When he and Rhys and Az were wandering the streets, and they passed a bakery laying out fresh slices of warm cherry pie, dusted with sugar and so fragrant and sweet the entire street seemed saturated with warmth. Ever since, every year, they’d had cherry pie on Solstice Eve. And this year, though he knew there would be one waiting at Feyre and Rhys’ later that night when they gathered for dinner, he hadn’t been able to resist bringing Nesta a pie of her own— one they could share together, just the two of them.
Cassian waited for the spark in those devastatingly blue eyes. There usually was one, whenever there was sugar involved. All the House had to do was present her with a slab of chocolate cake and Nesta melted, and so Cassian waited, watching her look down at that cherry pie, the scent of it filling the air so decadently it almost made his mouth water.
But Nesta didn’t smile.
She swallowed, tilted her head to look at him, and he swore she took a deep breath, like it was taking all her strength to stand there with her face blank. He frowned— but Nesta caught it, taking a step back.
“Later,” she said, turning her face away. He sidestepped her, chasing her eyes, trying to meet her gaze, but it was like trying to catch the wind, and he felt her slipping through his fingers as she rounded him easily, her fingers alighting on his arm for just a heartbeat as she turned away. The touch was soft— brief and fleeting, and somewhat fucking mournful as she drew her hand away. He wanted to beg her to stay, to clamp his hand on top of hers and keep her there, if only for a moment. Just so he could figure out what the fuck was happening. “I’ll have the House put it in the kitchen for later.”
Cassian felt his jaw grow slack. Already he was extending a hand to catch her, to stop her, words rising on his tongue that all sounded a lot like wait, stop, tell me what’s wrong—
But his mate only turned and offered him a tight smile over her shoulder, her fingers flexing around the box containing the pie as she watched his frown, his confusion. Swiftly she made her way back, rising onto her toes to press a single chaste kiss to his cheek.
And then she was gone, and Cassian could only watch her go, wondering what in the hell had just gone wrong.
Taglist: (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!) @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie
(Chapter thirty-three: In which Nesta Archeron *finally* snaps) (Side note: this fic turns two years old today!! 🎉 there's no birthday cake so here, have some angst instead)
(Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)
It was strange, feeling the sun on her skin.
Warmer than she remembered, too, when she extended a hand and dragged her fingers through the light, feeling that soft heat slowly wrap itself around her bones. Only a handful of weeks might have passed since Hybern, and yet when Nesta looked up at the sky and felt the sunlight on her face, somehow it felt like much longer. Like it had been an age since she had last breathed fresh air, a lifetime since she had stepped outside.
It might as well have been, she supposed.
This new body had shied away from every shaft of light at first, like it was was afraid it might burn her somehow, and in the aftermath of Hybern Nesta had convinced herself that she belonged in the darkness; that it was safer there.
Then Emerie had visited.
I think he’d love you anyway.
For hours they had shared stories over the pots of tea that the House had seemed to content to refill forever, and in the gentle ease that was Emerie’s company, Nesta found the part of herself she had locked away since Hybern reaching out a hand, breaking through the surface of the grave she had buried the old Nesta Archeron in. When Emerie had gone, Nesta had retreated to her bedroom and laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling, repeating that same sentence in her mind over and over and over until the sun rose.
I think he’d love you anyway.
She clung to it still, a day later, as she stood in the corner of the House rooftop, feeling fresh air on her face for the first time in weeks. From a distance she watched as Cassian trained, waiting for him to notice her, and although the fire inside her remained banked, some small voice at the back of her mind asked if she deserved it— to feel warmth when her blood ran so cold. With effort, Nesta ignored it. Forced herself to remain standing there, watching the sun line the warrior before her in gold.
When, exactly, Cassian had become aware of her, lingering at the edge of the roof with her back against the wall, she couldn’t say. But as he pummelled a punching bag strung up from a wooden frame with enough strength to rattle even her bones, something shifted.
Something that said he knew exactly where she was, and had done for some time now.
It was in the way he tilted his face just an inch to the side. Not turning, not yet, but angled just enough that even from over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the small smile playing on his lips. It was in the way he spread his wings until they were almost at full extension, stretching languorous as he flexed his fists.
Peacocking.
For a while, Nesta watched him. Studied the carved muscles of his stomach, the cords of his arms as he moved so smoothly through each combination of moves. Her eyes slid along the edge of his shoulders, glanced off his wings, travelled down. He moved with such simple precision, every powerful line of him taut, and her mouth suddenly felt dry as she took in that length of bronzed skin and realised that this was the man she had hanging on her every word— the one who looked at her like he’d lay the world at her feet if only she asked.
And yet when he stretched - raising his arms above his head and exposing the sheer breadth of his chest - Nesta couldn’t help but snort at the lack of subtlety.
Cassian turned to face her at last, a grin splitting his face. “I wondered how long you were going to stand there.”
Nesta stepped forward, letting the sun bathe her entirely as she blinked flatly, feigning nonchalance as she linked her fingers and held her clasped hands before her in a perfect picture of composure, detached and distant.
“Far be it from me to interrupt what was clearly an important part of your training regimen,” she countered smoothly. “Who knew showing off was so integral to fighting battles?”
Cassian’s smile turned wolfish. “Can you blame me?” he drawled, rolling his shoulders and shooting her a wink that made her forget, for a moment, what words were. “I had such a captivated audience.”
The way he smirked told her he knew exactly how she’d been watching him, and though a blush rose to her cheeks, Nesta snorted.
“I’m so glad your ego made it out of Hybern intact,” she said dryly. He quirked a brow, his eyes meeting hers with a clash, and for a moment Nesta worried she had gone too far— hit something too sensitive too soon with the tongue her mother had always warned her no man would be able to stand. But then those hazel eyes sparked, like her words had been kindling, and as he straightened, his perfectly healed wings rustled as they settled around his spine.
“Glad your sharp tongue did too, sweetheart.” He grinned again, the curve of his lips edged with something like mischief as his eyes raked across her, cataloguing each line of her face. “Where would I be without it?”
“Someone has to keep you in check, I suppose.”
He held a hand over his heart, dipping his head like a knight in a fairytale before looking up at her from beneath his eyelashes. “And how lucky I am that you decided to take up the mantle.”
Nesta rolled her eyes, and for a moment there was silence. Only the wind broke it as it stretched, and yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. Nesta lingered there, feeling Cassian’s attention on her as warm as the sunlight that kissed her face, and though his eyes were assessing when they travelled over her, the air between them was lighter than it had been in days.
It was almost easy— this, being with him in a space not crowded by grief and anguish. Almost like she could forget everything that had led them here in the first place.
Almost.
At length she cleared her throat.
“I came up here to see if you’d heard anything from Feyre yet.” Her voice faltered. “If Rhysand knew anything.”
Cassian’s smile fell as he shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “They can’t… speak to one another often. Feyre’s whole ruse rests on Tamlin thinking Rhys somehow forged the bond, so…” He trailed off, lifting his eyes to the sky for a beat before bringing them back down again. “She’s fine, though. The last time he spoke to her, she said she was fine.” Another shake of his head; another sigh that seemed weary beyond belief. “Not that it stops Rhys from going out of his mind, of course.”
“Because of the bond?” Nesta asked.
Cassian’s face was blank, unreadable, as he shrugged. “Because he loves her.”
Another silence followed— tighter this time, more jagged. Cassian turned his face away, like there was something he was skirting, and Nesta frowned as she watched him, wondering what troublesome water it was that he wanted to avoid.
“I’m not worried,” he continued, a change of subject about as subtle as a brick to the face. “I trained her, after all.” His eyes met hers for a minute, unblinking as he nodded to the training ring delineated in white paint on the stone floor. “I could train you too, you know.”
Nesta raised a dubious brow. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?” Cassian cocked his head to the side. “Because it’s not ladylike?”
With a scowl Nesta folded her arms across her chest, looking right past him and out over the horizon, refusing to let him know that yes— that was exactly why she would always refuse to step into that ring with him. It was bad enough that she’d already gone against everything that she had been raised to believe, to be. She didn’t need to add to it by bloodying her knuckles.
Cassian took a step closer.
“I could teach you to fight,” he continued, his eyes so searing she felt the heat right down in her soul. She tried to keep her eyes on his face, not letting her attention wander down to the broad span of his bare chest.
The air between them tightened, like a lute string ready - begging - to be plucked.
“I’m not my sister,” she countered. “You won’t be able to fix me by teaching me how to hit something.”
“You don’t need fixing,” he tossed back immediately, and then his voice turned rough, like gravel. “But I could teach you to defend yourself. To make sure nobody could ever take you away again. Not a king, not your husband.” His mouth curled into a sneer. “Not anybody.”
That made her take notice. But— no.
No.
She had spent far too long pushing down her anger in the name of civility to give up now.
She shoved down the allure, masked it with a scoff.
“Well, at least that’s something.” She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and called on every ounce of hauteur she had ever used as a crutch. “I won’t have to go back to him now.”
It was a blithe comment, one designed to mask an entire torrent of pain and anger, and yet as Cassian’s face darkened, Nesta realised she hadn’t masked anything. His brows lowered, like the mention of Tomas had something stirring in him that he’d kept leashed this entire time, and when he saw the way she avoided his gaze, the way all of that vaulting pride failed to hide much at all, a low growl ran through him that made Nesta think of sharp teeth and sharper claws; of blood about to be spilled.
“Never,” he said firmly. He tilted his head, a predator on the hunt. “Do you want me to kill him?”
Once more, she raised a brow. “What would be the point now?”
Cassian shrugged, a gesture of casual, quiet violence. A grim promise. His voice was cold and serious when he said,
“He deserves it. That would be the point.”
He took another step forward, the siphons on his hands gleaming. There was something in the way he moved - careful, deliberate, slow - that reminded Nesta of the immaculate control and restraint this man possessed. And yet his eyes—
His eyes were like twin flames, burning like a pyre.
“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about slaughtering him, princess?”
His voice was a whisper, but it pounded through her like a storm. There was no restraint in those eyes; nothing careful or controlled. There was anger there, a fury that burned when, slowly, he reached out a hand and traced her jaw, pressing his thumb to the soft skin beneath her chin.
“Right here,” he murmured. “I’ve thought about sliding my dagger right here, through his neck, more times than I care to count.” He pressed against her skin with a light pressure, enough to make her still. “I’d let him bleed out slowly. Painfully.”
Nesta didn’t react, didn’t move. Her heart was hammering for all the wrong reasons, and with every beat she felt his anger ricocheting through her chest— felt every echo of it, because after all, it was her own, too. Hadn’t she felt the same fury, burning riotous within her? Hadn’t she thought about spilling Tomas’ blood too? The only difference was that Cassian had an outlet for his anger, found some way to let it out; Nesta had kept hers smothered for so long it had become a part of her. Burrowed its way inside, woven itself through every nerve until she wasn’t sure who she was without it.
Cassian searched her face, as if he was waiting for fear to flicker in her eyes.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked slowly. “Knowing how often I’ve thought about your husband’s death? How thoroughly?”
Nesta shook her head, and his hand flattened against her neck, his fingers curling around her nape as his thumb stroked the edge of her jaw.
“I’ll cut out his tongue for every word he’s ever said to you. Every demand he’s ever made. I’ll break his fingers for having the nerve to touch you. Shatter the bones in his hands.”
Still, Nesta said nothing.
The fire in her chest seemed to surge at the thought, like his words were kindling and his touch was the match, the heat sinking into her bones and twining with the fire that pricked beneath the skin of her palms. With every breath he drew her out— drew out everything she had kept buried or locked away at the back of her mind. He didn’t give up; the warrior before her just kept trying, determined to find a way around the wall she had constructed between them.
She glanced down, her attention snagging on the space where her wedding ring had once sat so unhappily on her finger.
“Look at me,” Cassian urged, his voice softer than before. “Nes. Look at me.”
But Nesta shook her head. “No.”
Slowly, he tilted her face up, his touch lingering beneath her jaw as he forced her to meet his eyes. The sunlight glimmered, reflected in the hazel until those eyes were two pools of molten gold, and even when she tried to blink, to turn her face away, Cassian held fast.
“What do you want?” he asked, something raw cutting the softness of his voice as he chased her eyes with his own.
Again, Nesta shook her head.
Her eyes closed, the sun burning behind her lids, and in her chest a different heat gathered, licking at her bones as she kept her arms pinned to her sides, her fists clenched as tight as her jaw. She felt his touch still, felt the way his hand cradled her cheek, and yet still Nesta couldn’t find the words to shape what it was that she wanted.
She wanted—
“Nes,” Cassian pressed. “Tell me what you want.”
—to wake up and find that all the years since her mother’s death had been a dream. Wanted to close her eyes and find peace and security waiting for her when she opened them again. Her nails dug into the palm of her hand as her fists tightened and her mind spun and her heart started to hammer with the steady kick of a drum, and still Nesta couldn’t find the words to say it out loud.
There was pain in her chest. Old pain; familiar grief she hadn’t been able to shake, yoked to her like a ball and chain.
And still Cassian stood there, an inch away, asking her with every swipe of his thumb over her cheekbone to let it go— to let it all go.
And after twenty-four years of carefully stifling every instinct and thought she’d ever had, burying every unladylike impulse, Nesta took a breath that raked its way down her throat, and with a silent scream that had been building and building since the day her mother had first taught her her worth…
Nesta Archeron snapped.
“I want it to hurt,” she hissed, eyes snapping open as the wave of her anger crested. She wondered if they were more silver now than blue, her eyes; wondered if there was anything mortal left in her at all. But Cassian’s face betrayed nothing as the flames in her bones writhed, begging to be set free. “I want everything - everyone - to hurt the way I have for so long.”
Even now it felt like the admission had been torn from her.
Even now she tried to claw it back, to bury it.
Because she could make it hurt— she knew it, when that flame coiled and curled in her veins. She felt the power of it yawning, stretching; destructive and terrible and potent enough that she might reduce the world to ashes.
It terrified her.
She waited for Cassian to pull away— for the fear or the anger or the disgust to show on his face. For his eyes to darken with just a grain of the same vast apprehension that Rhysand regarded her with.
But Cassian only smiled darkly, his hand falling away from her face only to rise before her as he held up his palm like an offering. Not afraid of her anger, but entirely willing to stoke it until it burned itself out. Like he’d known all along that this was exactly what she needed.
I think you need a good fight, sweetheart.
That’s what he had said to her, wasn’t it? The first time they’d walked together along that forest road into the village.
There’s an anger you can barely conceal. A ruthless streak.
Like he had always known that this was coming— understood that there was only so far she could go before she broke. And as he looked up at her from beneath his eyelashes, that hand still extended, Nesta knew with sudden clarity that Cassian had been waiting for this all along.
He raised a brow, cocked his head to the side. “Let it out, princess.”
Nesta scowled. Through gritted teeth she kept her hands firmly at her sides as she bit out a sharp, “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Do I look like a princess to you?”
Cassian shrugged. “I don’t really care what you look like.” He nodded to his hand. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“I said hit me.”
The siphons on the backs of his hands were burning so brightly they were almost blinding. Were they reacting solely to their master, she wondered, or could they sense her, too? Did the power that lurked beneath that burnished skin of his react to hers, like a call and an answer? Nesta hesitated as she cast her eyes over those crimson stones, her fists loosening as, unconsciously, she flexed her fingers before curling them back towards her palms.
An infuriating smile pulled at the edge of Cassian’s lips.
“Curl your fist. Thumb over your knuckles.”
Nesta didn’t move.
Her muscles seemed to burn, the fire inside her urging her forward. It would be so easy - so easy - to do as he said. To channel every ounce of fury she possessed into something as simple as throwing a punch at the open target he’d made of his hand.
“Unless you’re afraid, of course.”
Bastard.
He knew— knew exactly how to coax a reaction from her. Exactly what to say to get her throwing everything aside. And before the challenge could fade from his eyes, before that smirk could shift into something else, Nesta tightened her fist, keeping her thumb above her knuckles, just as he’d said. His eyes sparked as she pulled her arm back, his smile so deadly she was certain it would one day be the death of her, and when he opened his mouth to taunt her once again—
Nesta punched him hard in the centre of his palm, cutting him off before he could speak.
Cassian grinned.
Her knuckles burned, but there was no pain. Not yet.
“That’s it,” Cassian said, not letting his palm drop. His voice was low and almost soothing; a brutal purr of encouragement that had her drawing her fist back again. He nodded his approval.
Again— Nesta hit him again, feeling the strain in every damned line of her body, like she had been a bow wound too tight for so long, it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped earlier.
A miracle she had lasted this long.
Cassian hummed as her fist connected with his hand again, the sound a rumble in his throat.
“I know what it is, Nes,” he said, his voice low as her next punch went off course, hitting the heel of his hand instead. He tsked and tapped the centre of his palm. “I know what it is to feel that anger. I slaughtered an entire village for what they did to my mother.”
Even as he confessed to murder, Nesta didn’t slow her punches.
“And I’d do it again,” he continued, softer this time even as her hits grew harder. “I’d do it for you. I’ll kill him, without question.”
There wasn’t even a beat before he stepped forward, lessening the distance between his palm and her fist, forcing her to keep her attention on him and only him, on the way he kept his hand extended.
“Or you can do it,” he said in a whisper that was as ruthless as it was vicious. “I’ll take you. Coach you through it.” Something dark glimmered in his eyes when she looked up— an intensity that was almost enough to make her stumble. “I’ll tell you exactly where to cut for a slow death. Exactly where to make it hurt. You want him to hurt as much as you? Then I’ll either do it for you, or I’ll teach you how to hold the blade that slices his throat.”
It didn’t scare her, the cold-blooded violence in his words.
Instead the power inside her stirred as her temper flared, stoked to an inferno. Cassian had told her once, so long ago, that they were the same. Nesta saw it now. Recognised every line of her anger playing out on his face; every kernel of bitterness she’d ever harboured one that he knew intimately too. She gritted her teeth, her heart racing as all of it threatened to engulf her as she met his eyes— eyes that had never once failed to find her even in the most crowded of rooms.
And to think…
She had almost been robbed of this.
Of him.
Anger surged anew, her chest tightening until it felt like there was something wound tight around her ribs, some thin piece of thread constricting and tightening as she thought of the life she might have lived had Feyre not killed that damned wolf and crossed the wall. Had she married some foreign prince like her mother had planned, and been far, far from these shores when the Night Court descended on her father’s manor. It hurt, to know that her happiness was so damned fragile, and though she heard Cassian call her name, it felt like she was submerged in water, thrashing like she was back inside that damned Cauldron.
“Nes,” Cassian said slowly, his tone one laden with warning, pricked with concern.
She heard the sharp intake of his breath, the low curse he muttered, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the roaring inside her head.
“Nesta.”
For too long, she’d been told what to do. Who to be. How to live. Every choice she had ever made— everything she had ever done, all to please somebody else. And where had it gotten her? What had it given her?
Nothing.
“Slow down.”
She ignored it. Gave in to the anger that coursed through her, that had been eating her alive since the moment her mother had first scolded her for scraping her knees; since the day that Tomas had slipped a wedding ring onto her finger.
Too long— for too long she had been living her life by someone else’s rules.
She hit again, harder this time.
But as she threw all of her weight behind her fist, her foot slipped— she stumbled, her wrist barking with pain as it bent too far, her knuckles connecting with Cassian’s palm too hard at the wrong angle, and all of a sudden she was lurching forwards, falling, falling—
And then wrapped in his arms, cradled against his chest as he caught her. Cassian’s hand rose to the back of her head, holding her against him as the other arm banded around her waist, keeping her steady as she broke completely, dashed against the rocks of her own anguish. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her entire frame trembling, and for once in her life, Nesta couldn’t find the strength to hold it together anymore.
She hadn’t realised she’d been crying, but her cheeks were wet and cold, and when she reached up to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, her fingers were shaking. Tears she had smothered for years started to come thick and fast now, leaving her in a rush that had her curling her trembling fingers into Cassian’s skin, clinging to his shoulders like he was the rope she needed to get back onto familiar ground.
It hurt— everything hurt.
And yet…
Through each gasping breath and each stuttering cry, Nesta realised that perhaps this was exactly what she had needed; the fire to cleanse the ground— the purge before the new beginning.
“It’s alright,” Cassian whispered against her ear, stroking back the hair that had escaped her braid as she buried her face in his chest. His other hand held her so close she could feel his heart beating beneath her, and after a moment she felt his cheek rest against the crown of her head. A shudder ran through her, but Cassian only held her tighter, as if in silent promise that he’d never let her go again.
After what felt like an age, Nesta felt her breathing start to slow. The sobs that had racked her chest began to ease; the tension slipping from her shoulders as, little by little, she started to come back into herself. Through it all there was a steady stream of words whispered to her that she barely heard, and the steady beat of another heart that seemed to lend her strength when all of hers was spent. She counted the beats of that heart - his heart - until at last she felt stable enough to take a deep breath, lifting her head and unfurling her fingers from Cassian’s shoulders as she braced a palm flat against his chest.
Slowly he pulled back, his eyes roving her face as he scanned every inch.
His hand skated over her shoulder, the broad span of his palm sliding down her arm until he reached her wrist. When his fingers brushed it, there was a jolt of pain that had her remembering how hard she’d hit his palm. She flinched.
“We should wrap this,” he said softly. “You’ve probably sprained it.”
“It’s fine,” she insisted.
Cassian rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not. You don’t have to lie to me, Nes.”
His fingers were lithe and deft as they turned her injured wrist in hand, but Nesta felt the familiar prick of fire at her fingertips and didn’t care about her wrist or the damage she’d done. She remembered how she had barrelled her fists into his palms— how she had harboured that fire in her the whole time.
“Your hand,” she whispered, suddenly terrified that she might have burned him. “Let me see your hand.”
“Worry about your own, sweetheart,” Cassian countered dryly, but Nesta didn’t wait before grabbing his hand, uncurling his fingers and studying his palm, searching for a burn. For a mark. For anything that said she’d loosed the destructive power that lurked inside her on the only person who had never shied away from it.
There was nothing.
“You didn’t hurt me,” Cassian said gently, laying a hand atop her own.
“I could have,” she muttered.
He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you could.” His face turned contemplative as he hummed a little, and Nesta knew he wasn’t talking about her punches. “Not unless you really wanted to, anyway.”
She sniffed, turning her face away and letting the sun warm her skin as she took another deep breath. His skin was smooth and unharmed, like even though the flames inside her had revelled in her anger, she had kept it contained even when it felt like she couldn’t. She looked down at her own hands as Cassian resumed his inspection of her wrist, his touch softening as her fingers trembled.
“Rhysand said something yesterday,” she started slowly. “About the House.”
Cassian’s eyes slid up to meet hers. He said nothing.
“He said the magic is changing.”
She could have sworn he looked sheepish as he cleared his throat.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It isn’t… usual. The way the House anticipates what you need. What you want.” Ruefully, he shook his head. “It’s never done that before.”
“And it… shouldn’t?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated. His eyes burned when they met hers, like they were searching for something.
Nesta swallowed, looking away and breaking eye contact first. “He keeps asking me about the magic.”
“I’ve told him to leave it alone,” Cassian answered quickly, a grim undertone to his voice that echoed the growl rumbling through his chest. His brows lowered, eyes darkened.
And though Nesta had denied it every time the High Lord had asked…
Quietly, she admitted now,
“I made it give something back.”
Her voice was a whisper, and she didn’t look up as she spoke the truth aloud at last. She felt the fire in her veins— recalled the way her nails had scraped over ice-cold iron; the way she had felt the world cleave beneath her fingertips, something vital coming apart in her hands.
Cassian didn’t flinch. He only met her eyes once more. Nodded.
“I know,” he whispered.
And she felt the power gathering in her blood, but it wasn’t burning, not like before. It felt… warm, like a heat that was slowly, incrementally, sinking into her. Becoming a part of her she couldn’t resist or contradict; as much a part of her as her bones or her fingers. It didn’t feel as destructive as it did before, either. No— it bloomed in the centre of her palms, swirling as she truly acknowledged it for the first time. Like it was curious.
Somehow that made it worse.
“Do you want to train your powers?” Cassian asked quietly, his attention dropping back to her wrist as his fingers pressed at it, trying to ascertain exactly how much damage she’d done. It took her a long time to answer, but eventually Nesta found the strength to shake her head. Cassian didn’t miss a beat before he nodded, his eyes darting up to hers before pressing once again at her wrist. “It scares you,” he said gently. “I get it.”
She tried to pull away, but Cassian’s fingers closed around her hand before it could leave his grasp. Not firm enough to hurt, but strong enough to let her know that she didn’t need to pull away so readily.
“It doesn’t have to be something to fear, you know.” His voice was easy, as though they were discussing the weather and not whatever unnatural power it was that she’d torn free from the Cauldron’s innards. As if it didn’t bother him at all, the knowledge that she had something unnatural brewing in her veins even now. “If you change your mind…” He trailed off, offered her a smile as bright as the sun itself. “I’ll be here. Magic or no magic.”
“And what if I don’t?” Nesta asked flatly. “What if I never want to?”
He shrugged easily. “Then you never want to.” He paused, then shrugged again. “But for what it’s worth,” he added slowly, “I think you have more control over it than you think you do.”
He glanced pointedly down at his own hand before looking back up at her, one brow slightly raised. Her wrist was still balanced between his fingers, and his touch was warm when he stroked his thumb lightly over where her pulse had started to pound beneath her skin.
The atmosphere between them seemed to shift, and with every pass of his thumb over her, she swore the air started to thin. She watched him swallow, tracked the movement of his throat as it bobbed, and she didn’t pull back when he leaned forward, closing the distance between them inch by agonising inch. Slowly, he leaned into her, pressing a kiss to her forehead that was so gentle, it was as though he thought she might shatter if he moved too quickly.
Nesta felt her breath hitch in her chest, and something like desperation rose within her— like his touch was the first thaw after a long winter, and she craved more of it. When his eyes travelled down to meet hers, she wondered if he could see the tears that had gathered behind her own, if he noticed the way that they burned.
Cassian’s hand left her wrist at last, only to rise to her face. With both hands he cradled her, his attention sliding to her mouth and lingering there, like he couldn’t pull himself away, and gods, Nesta didn’t want him to pull away. She had wanted distance before - needed it - but when his hands were on her and his chest was but an inch away from hers, she scorned the distance and everything it had brought with it.
The moment seemed to stretch. Time itself seemed to still. And after a minute - a long pause where Cassian waited for her to pull back - he let out a breath, his thumb skating across her cheekbone in a single languid touch that made her weak.
“Nesta,” he breathed, “would you run away if I kissed you?”
She let out a gentle huff, a soft echo of a laugh as she shook her head, made mute by the way he looked at her.
Her lips parted, and Cassian lowered his face to hers, swallowing the distance until his mouth was but a breath from hers. His fingers were light, grazing her cheeks as he leaned into her, his brow resting against hers as he breathed her in, like he had all the time in the world. Softly, he captured her lips with his own, swallowing Nesta’s sigh as her eyes closed and his hands fell to her waist. His moved his thumb in a long swipe across her ribs, his fingers climbing up her spine, and every part of Nesta suddenly felt more alive than ever before, like all those new senses she’d acquired in the Cauldron were being tested in a hundred different ways. He was sweet and warm, and Nesta couldn’t help but fall right back into it, like they’d never really stopped kissing at all. Like all the days since the Cauldron had been nothing but a dream, a nightmare she was pulled from as soon as he claimed her mouth as his own.
But there was no heat. Not really. His kiss was soft and wistful, slow as he reacquainted himself with the taste and feel of her, and tentatively Nesta lifted her hands to his hair, weaving strands of it through her fingers and holding him against her as he deepened the kiss, stealing her breath and making her heart pound so hard she wondered if he could hear it hammering.
A rumble went through his chest— travelled through hers. He smiled against her, his hands squeezing her waist. And oh— she had missed this. Missed his hands circling her, missed the way he chased her lips and missed the way he kissed like he saw every part of her and still wanted it to devour him.
His fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress, splayed across her spine. She melted into him, his hands the only thing keeping her steady, keeping her upright, and she swore the world could have ended in that moment and she’d be none the wiser. There was nothing else but him— the way he tilted her face back to grant him better access to her mouth, the way he pulled back to let her breathe, only to drag his lips along her jaw.
He might have whispered her name; she might have murmured his. She wasn’t sure. All she knew with any certainty was that she never wanted his kiss to end.
Only when it seemed like there was no air left in the entire world did Cassian lift his head, forcing distance between them that made Nesta’s head spin. She could hear his heart beating as furiously as her own, and Cassian closed his eyes as he rested his brow against hers, breathing her in like she was all he needed to keep himself alive. At her waist, his hands remained firm and steady.
“Can we just…” he began, faltering as his chest rose in an uneven rhythm. He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips that Nesta wanted to treasure. “Can we just start all over again?”
She lifted onto her toes, pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“I think I’d like that,” she whispered.
Cassian nudged her cheek with his nose, that smile lighting up his face to the point where Nesta’s heart ached to look at him. It was like staring at the sun for too long— she was blinded by him, by the sheer depth of what it was that she felt for him. His smile was one of pure devotion, and as his head fell into the crook of her neck, peppering soft kisses along her skin, she felt him whisper her name against her like it had somehow become a prayer to him.
“Cassian,” Nesta said after a moment, dragging her fingers through his hair. He hummed, the sound skittering across her collarbone and sending a jolt down her spine that made her shiver. With one hand she curled her fingers beneath his chin and lifted his face to her own. “Kiss me again.”
His grin was that of a man starved as he looked at her.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he winked, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Does Cassian know that after the battle at Adriata, Nesta had been pacing in the foyer with worry, that she asks where Cassian is? And Mor responds: “When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.”
That she offers to cut up bandages - nobody asked her to do it - and distributes them among the war camp so her hair is falling loose and mud is splattered up her usually pristine dress. That after she bandages Cassian's wrist and he drops her hand when Mor appears, Nesta continues helping with the wounded long into the night?
That Nesta spent her day fetching buckets of water, plastered with mud and rain in the war camp when he is gravely injured, and that when she hears that Cassian is fine, her shoulders sag with relief, but Mor only says "Shouldn’t you be refilling that bucket?” rather than giving her the opportunity to see him
Does Cassian know how wonderful and kind Nesta is?
A little one-shot set during the first week when Nesta is in Velaris after entering the Cauldron. It shows the Mor that I wished we saw, the care that I wished Nesta received, and a friendship that was never allowed to grow <3
It scratched at the windowsill, a never ending scrape-scrape. Nesta pulled the pillow over her head, wishing the bird would make the dive from its nest and splatter below rather than having to endure another moment of it thrashing and cheeping from the nest. Even the feathers in the pillow were too loud to her ears, the scrunch of the sheets too much. She took a respite in the bathroom, glad for the cool water that she splashed on her face and neck.
Velaris was a hell. Being fae was a nightmare. Her body was alien to her, the movements foreign and lumbering like a newborn lamb. Nesta moved quicker now as evidenced by the number of times she’d overbalanced with her steps. It was not only speed. Her body was stronger. The soaked nightgown that she’d been brought here in had ripped in two when she tried to pull it off her body, so she’d been left naked and crying in the bedroom whilst searching for the promised robes that were within.
Maybe another might be glad for the speed and strength, but Nesta hated it. Her senses were amplified; the colours brighter, her hearing tuning in to every slight sound, she could smell when one of them was cooking at the other end of the house – and that always had a far richer taste than she was used to. For the first couple of days, all Nesta could stomach was dry toast. It was all too rich, too heavy for her new-found palette.
A soft knock at the door came as it did every morning around this time. The others left them alone, which Nesta was glad for. Hopefully, the blonde one would get the hint soon enough.
Morrigan never did.
The key in the door was useless because she used her magic to turn it back around, so Nesta had to wonder why they even bothered with locks in Prythian if people came and went as they pleased.
‘Good morning. How do you feel today?’
Nesta pressed her hands to her temples, the noise shooting through her.
‘Do you have a headache again?’ Mor took a step forwards. She tilted her head so blonde hair cascaded across her face. ‘Shall I send for Madja?’
‘I do not want that woman anywhere near me,’ declared Nesta.
That rotten healer had smiled at her and said everything was perfect. It was not perfect. It was far from perfect. It was long limbs and pointed ears and everything too damn loud.
She clutched her head, voice rising, ‘Will that bird leap to its death or leave me the hell alone?’
Morrigan’s eyes widened then she held up a finger. ‘One moment.’
While she departed, Nesta perched on a sliver of the mattress. Buried beneath layers of blankets, despite the warm spring morning, Elain slept soundly. She reminded Nesta of a girl from a story who pricked her finger and slept for a thousand years. To the fae, that was probably nothing. A blink of an eye and they welcomed a new millennium. She ran a hand against Elain’s face then shivered at the sound of her hair sliding over itself.
‘Ta-da!’
Mor held out a mass of fluffy, white fur.
‘What am I meant to do with that?’
The woman had no bearings on propriety. She crowded Nesta’s space as she placed the two balls of fur against her ears. Her fingers were warm on the points of Nesta’s ears, but she still felt revulsed by somebody touching them. They were a reminder of what she was.
When Morrigan stepped away, it was… better. The sound was muffled. Less intense.
‘Ear muffs! I forgot to give them back to Viviane last time I visited her, but if they work then they work.’
Nesta could finally breathe. The brightness and taste, she could manage. The bombardment of sound had been a constant battle that had been wearing her down.
‘Does that feel better, Nesta?’
She didn’t know why but she felt heat building in her face as tears prickled her eyes. ‘Yes.’
Mor touched her hand. ‘This is new ground for us too. We don’t know the ways in which you’re struggling so I’ll need you to be vocal.’ Her fingers slipped into Nesta’s. ‘You're not a burden for telling us what you need. I know it’s scary. I can’t imagine how you feel. But I’m here. We are all here for you – and Elain – for as long as it takes.’
The final portion of the dam collapsed and a flood of tears broke through. She was not one for weeping or embraces. Tears were to be briefly shed alone then forgotten about. Servants were forbidden from coddling them – and her mother was not the sort to do it either. Yet, when Mor instinctively moved forwards and wrapped her arms around Nesta, she was so grateful for that touch. To not be the one having to hold it all together. To have a moment where she didn’t need to worry about Elain.
‘Let’s go for a chat,’ the woman said against her cheek.
‘Elain,’ began Nesta.
‘Elain is asleep. We won’t be far.’
It was against her better judgement, but Nesta followed. In the week since they had been taken from their beds, Nesta had barely seen beyond the four walls of the bedroom. She’d cloistered herself in there, unable to take any more change. It was a prison. A prison to fester.
‘We’re quite high up in the house, so we won’t winnow yet if the noise is too much. Velaris can be… loud,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Do you paint like Feyre?’
‘No.’
‘A shame,’ said Mor as they walked through a red-walled corridor with brightly coloured rugs strewn about haphazardly as if they had too many that they didn’t know what to do with them. ‘Velaris is known for its artists’ quarter. We’ve got lots of markets too if you’re a food lover.’
Disappointment grew in her. ‘Not particularly.’
‘No matter. What do you like to do, Nesta?’
Upset my sisters. Ruin my future.
‘Read.’
Could nothing dim Morrigan’s cheery disposition? Her eyes had blown wide with delight. ‘Oh, do I have the perfect place. Wait. Maybe not today,’ she pondered aloud. ‘Lots of priestesses. Lots of noise. But,’ Mor took her by the hand like she was a child’s plaything. ‘Yes! Let’s go.’
Nesta tried not to frown as she was tugged along the corridor then down a set of steps. Something sweet was baking in the oven, the smell wafting towards them. But it was not the kitchen that Mor towed her towards. They reached a set of double doors where Mor gave her a knowing look.
‘Behold,’ she whispered, pushing open a door.
Rows and rows of books filled her vision. It was a library. A personal library stacked with shelves, each one begging Nesta to run her eyes along it and choose a title.
She moved to take a step then held herself back.
‘It’s okay,’ Mor reassured her, touching her arm. ‘Go in. Have a look. Take as much time as you need. I need to get something – unless you want me to stay?’
‘I can be alone,’ Nesta replied.
The library was warm with wedges of sunlight pouring in through the tall windows. The books in its path had spines damaged by sunlight so the leather was fading. Nesta stood in the light, letting it soak into her bones. Her finger trailed along one shelf, tracking each book and wondering which to read. There were sections on the arts, history, geography, poetry, foreign books – and even a whole section dedicated to fiction. Father always said it was a waste of time. Nothing could be learnt from a story. Mother despised reading entirely.
Why must your head be filled with words? A husband will not take to being outwitted by his wife.
Their scoldings could never staunch her desire. Nesta had read in secret, had stolen books from father’s collection at night and returned them in the morning. She’d begged the housekeeper to buy her them and she’d find the money from somewhere.
When Nesta was already a chapter deep into a heavy, ancient book about the history of the Night Court, Morrigan returned.
‘I bring snacks,’ she announced.
A handful of cakes had been artfully arranged on a plate, their icing colourful and appetising.
Mor caught her gazing at them. ‘Take one. I brought them for you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’
Why did it feel like a weakness to admit the ways in which she was struggling? It wasn’t Nesta’s fault that she was in this life. Not her fault that it was new and scary.
‘Everything tastes so strong.’
Morrigan gave a murmur of understanding. ‘Feyre suffered with that. She just had to push through and get used to it, I think. I wish she was here. She’d be a better help.’ Mor just shrugged, letting the words roll away. ‘What about tea? Can you manage that?’
One of the strange women appeared from the shadows, as if she had always been there. Nesta was sure that sometimes she blurred at the edges as though not quite real.
‘Is that alright, Cerridwen?’
The woman nodded then vanished again.
Mor leaned forwards and rested her chin on a closed fist. ‘What are you reading?’
‘A history of this court.’ Nesta swallowed. This woman was trying to make conversation, trying to help. Being prickly would only push away the help. ‘All I’ve ever been told is that faeries cannot lie and they will enjoy hurting us. I don’t know anything. I don’t know how long you live, who are your enemies – if you can lie.’
‘We can lie. We can touch iron. We can step across a circle.’
‘What a list of talents you have,’ came a drawling man’s voice.
Oh. It was him.
As Cassian approached, carrying a tray of tea, Nesta’s body coiled tight like a snake ready to strike if he came too close.
Mor gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘I’m helping Nesta to understand how fantastic we are.’
‘Oh, you’re a historian? When did I miss that?’ Cassian came around the back of Nesta’s chair, taking a deliberately longer route to get to the space on the table, before putting down the tray.
‘And you’re a waiter now?’
Cassian threw Mor a wink as he poured the tea for the two of them. ‘A male of many talents.’
His eyes slid to Nesta, cataloguing all of the changes in her. She’d not seen him since he was bleeding out on the floor in Hybern’s castle. She remembered the twitch of his fingers, the jerk of his bloody wings.
‘Your wings have healed,’ she stated.
Cassian slowly – ever so slowly – dipped his chin like he was in disbelief that she’d noticed they were not ruined ribbons hanging behind him. ‘They’re not as they were. I need to practise flying. I’ll, uh, be flying here often to strengthen them.’
His eyes dipped to her lips as she brought the scalding cup to her lips only to have something to do with her hands.
Those words hung there. An offer if she wanted to take it. He’d come here again if she wanted to see him?
‘Shoo,’ said Mor. ‘I have an in-depth history of the Hewn City to tell Nesta and I won't have you spoiling it with stories of how amazing you are.’
Cassian held up his hands. ‘Nes, if you want to know about brave warriors, I’m waiting.’
Long after Cassian departed, Nesta was still on a cloud somewhere. Mor’s words hardly registered although at any other time, Nesta would have been riveted with the history of Morrigan’s family. Her mind was caught on a pair of hazel eyes and a teasing grin. Cassian hadn’t commented on the ear muffs she wore or that she was even out of the bedroom.
For hours they talked, conversation swirling from serious discussions about the political alignment of the Night Court to the best boutiques for clothing and embarrassing stories about Cassian – of which Morrigan had plenty. When Nesta finally gave in to the squirming guilt that encouraged her to check in on Elain and be with her, Mor insisted she take a few library books with her and also insisted that Nuala and Cerridwen would be happy to make her whatever food she wanted as long as she asked them.
‘I’m really glad you came out of the room,’ said Mor, linking her arm with Nesta’s on the walk back. ‘Same again tomorrow?’
Tomorrow. Tomorrow meant a future. It meant no longer hiding. It meant accepting that this was her life.
You Love Our Permanent Chase (And the Bite of Our Bark)
A/N: Down to the literal wire, but a very happy holidays to @freakingata! It is I, your Secret Santa! It has been so lovely getting to know you these past few months, and I've loved writing this fun Nessian fic for you 🥰 I hope you enjoy soccer star Cassian and the holidays shenanigans he gets up to with his work rival Nesta 😉 (cc: @acotargiftexchange)
Word Count: 9,337
Read on AO3
Nesta hates Cassian Valdarez.
She doesn’t care that his play helped carry Velaris FC to the top of the league standings year after year. She doesn’t care that his save against Hybern during penalty kicks sent Prythian to the World Cup final. She doesn’t care that he’s beloved by the nation, and she certainly doesn’t care that he was considered one of the best goalkeepers in the world before a shattered knee ended his career.
Because when Nesta looks at Cassian Valdarez, she doesn’t see the friendly, likable soccer superstar that everyone else seems to see. Instead, all Nesta sees is a cocky, arrogant, insufferable man who’s had everything handed to him on a silver platter.
Nesta worked hard for years to get where she is. She worked hard in high school to earn a scholarship to one of the best universities for journalism. She worked hard to graduate top of her class for her degree. And she worked damn hard interning with barely two pennies to rub together until she was finally promoted to reporter and anchor. She thought she had finally done it. Thought she’d finally made a name for herself and achieved her dream.
Thought.
But then Cassian Valdarez had all but strolled in, the network more than happy to pant at his feet and offer him the job.
So now Nesta is stuck being a co-reporter, a co-anchor to the former soccer star. She’s forced to sit beside him and force a smile while they talk through the biggest plays and the biggest games of the week, the top news in soccer from around the world. She’s forced to listen to his deep timbre, to his drawl as he calls her sweetheart. It’s infuriating.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
Speak of the devil. It takes everything within Nesta to swallow down her annoyed groan. At least with Cassian standing over her shoulder, she’s able to roll her eyes in peace without him clocking the expression. She doesn’t even bother turning to greet him, to even lift her head and meet his gaze. Instead, she keeps her focus on the papers on the desk in front of her, organizing her notes until she’s happy with them. She hopes the blatant dismissal grates his nerves as much as his presence grates hers.
“Did you have a good weekend?” Cassian asks anyways, sliding into his seat beside her.
“Certainly not as good as yours.”
Nesta remembers the pictures, the headlines that took over social media like a blazing fire. Cassian with his curls disheveled around his face, his hazel eyes bright but hazy, a pretty blonde all but hanging off his arm while they stumbled out of a bar called Rita’s downtown. With bright red lipstick pressed against the golden skin of his cheek in a perfect mark, the photos painted quite the picture, and almost every headline included a cheeky play on words over the fact a former goalkeeper was scoring now.
“Jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”
“Jealous?” Nesta scoffs, snapping her attention to Cassian and his stupid smirking face. “I just feel bad for the poor girl, that she had to spend a whole night with you. Must have been terrible.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that message along to Mor,” Cassian tells her, his eyes practically glinting in amusement despite the fake solemn tone he puts on. “Platonically, of course. In case you were curious.”
Nesta rolls her eyes again, turning back to her notes. “I don’t care.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Cassian chuckles, the sound low and warm, and Nesta clenches her jaw against it. But before either of them can say anything more, the floor manager, Balthazar, steps over to the news desk. He quickly runs through some high level notes from the director, the makeup staff stepping over halfway through to touch up both their faces.
The routine of it all helps Nesta to focus, to center herself. She focuses on the words Balthazar is saying, on the brush skating across the skin of her face. She glances back down to her notes, and for a moment, the rest of the studio fades away. No longer is there the chatter of the camera crew, the movement of coworkers as everything is readied, the blaring stage lights overhead. It is merely the steady thrum of her heart within her chest, the air through her lungs with each breath.
It is merely Nesta in her element as they're counted in.
“Welcome to Velaris Sports and the Football Show,” Cassian begins, shooting a winning smile toward the camera. “I’m Cassian, here with Nesta, and it certainly was an interesting week for the world of soccer. Wouldn’t you say so, Nes?”
It takes everything within Nesta to swallow down her reaction at the stupid nickname, to keep her face smiling toward the camera, even as her fingers flex against her notes. “It certainly was, and I think we’d both agree that one of the top things to happen this week was the Women’s National team’s showing against Hybern. It was clear that though the match was just an early qualifier for next year’s World Cup, those women are here to play. Emerie Marciano’s sipping tea celebration after her goal early in the second half will live in infamy.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Let’s check out that and other highlights from that game in case you missed it.”
~ * * * ~
When the call to cut finally echoes across the sound stage, that red recording light finally flickering off and the stage lights dimming to nothing, Nesta lets out a quiet breath. She takes a moment to close her eyes, relaxing fully back into her seat, back into herself, and lets her television smile drop away.
“Great show today, sweetheart.”
“Thanks,” Nesta mutters, pushing up and to her feet and straightening out her skirt. Whether Cassian notices the distinct lack of offering a ‘you too’ or not, she doesn’t know or care, gathering up her papers.
“I especially liked those extra tidbits about the Vanserra family you threw in. Great tie-in for that segment on Lucien Vanserra.”
Nesta doesn’t even bother swallowing down her eye roll. One day, she's sure her eyes are going to fall out of her head, and it's all going to be working with this man’s fault. She turns back toward him, offering a bland, mocking smile. “That’s what happens when some of us actually do our research.”
“Exactly,” Cassian agrees easily with a wide smile of his own, his hazel glinting. He leans back casually in his seat, stretching an arm back and across Nesta’s now vacated one. “That’s what I have you for. You be the brains, and I'll be the beauty.”
Nesta scoffs, settling Cassian with a final scowl before she turns on her heel and stalks off the sound stage. At least now she can settle back at her desk, put on her favorite podcast, and spend the rest of the day peacefully in her bubble away from Cassian while she prepares for their next episode. She needs a drink, a stiff one ideally, but it’s only the afternoon. She decides to settle for something sweet instead to help her through the rest of the day, beelining for the refreshments table set up back near the kitchen.
She grabs one of the mugs at the end of the table first, carefully filling it about three quarters of the way with coffee. She adds creamer next before grabbing a handful of sugar packets, tearing them all and dumping them at the same time. Snagging one of the wooden stirrers, she brings her coffee to the perfect shade, lifting the mug to her lips and taking a small sip. Just how she likes it, the taste blooming on her tongue and warming her all the way down.
“You made me coffee, sweetheart? You shouldn’t have.”
Before Nesta can even react, before she can even turn or say something or roll her eyes for the twentieth time today, a large hand reaches over her shoulder. Dark swirls of ink twist and curl down toward the wrist, and long fingers curve around the top of her mug, plucking it straight from her grip. She whips around, an annoyed scowl already twisting across her face, a raging fire burning in her narrowed gaze. She swears Cassian’s eyes glint at her expression, his smile twitching up that little bit higher as he brings the mug to his lips and takes a sip.
Cassian pulls the mug away with a grimace, peering down into the coffee. “Cauldron, you don’t want to add some coffee to your sugar?”
Nesta smirks triumphantly, even as she blinks innocently up at him. “It’s sweet. Like me.”
“I think you got your ratio off, Nes. It’s clearly not bitter enough.”
“Nesta,” Nesta snaps, jabbing a finger at his chest as she enunciates. “Nes-ta.”
“Isn’t that what I said?” Cassian fires back, his ever present cocksure smirk betraying his faux innocence.
“Perhaps you’ve taken too many balls to the head over your career because clearly you must be deaf.”
Cassian chuckles lightly at the quip, but he doesn’t disagree. Instead, he brings the pastry in his other hand up to his mouth, taking a bite. Nesta can’t help but track the chocolate that begins to ooze between his fingers, the way his tongue darts out to catch the sweetness. Her gaze snaps back down to the platter of pastries, excited at the prospect, but all she sees are regular croissants and jam filled scones.
Of course.
Of course, Cassian took the last chocolate pastry. Because taking her job, taking her sanity each and every work day clearly isn’t enough. The audacity of this man. Nesta’s chest feels tight with the heat and rage bubbling between her ribs. It boils over and scrapes beneath her skin, fueling her inner fire and goading her on. Harsh words sit heavy on her tongue, poised and ready to strike, but a quiet throat clear to her left has her swallowing them back down.
Nesta and Cassian both turn their heads and their attention at the same time, finding one of the production assistants, Diedre, standing beside them. Nesta has always noticed she’s a bit on the shy side, and even now, as her eyes glance back and forth between them, Nesta spies the barest hint of pink beginning to spill across her cheeks.
“Sorry,” Diedre mumbles, reaching between them to grab one of the jam filled scones. The color on her cheeks deepens with the attention still on her, her shoulders pinching upwards. “Are either of you planning to participate in the Solstice Week events?”
“Solstice Week events?”
“Don’t you read the company emails?” Nesta sneers with a scoff.
“It’s um… it’s just different events to build excitement for Solstice,” Diedre explains, answering Cassian’s question. “Desk decorating. A cookie exchange. Ugly sweaters. And a Solstice inspired scavenger hunt.”
“So a contest, then? And what prize do I get if I win?”
“What makes you assume you're going to win?”
“I…” Diedre stutters slightly, glancing between them again. “I don’t think there’s any sort of prize.”
“That’s alright,” Cassian offers, turning his gaze back to Nesta and daring to shoot her a wink. “I’ll still win anyways.”
Nesta will admit that when the email came in for her earlier in the week, she merely skimmed it before ultimately deleting it. She’ll admit that she didn’t care about something as silly as the company’s attempt at team building and morale. But, now, she knows. She knows that she will not let Cassian Valdarez get another thing over her, even something as stupid as Solstice Week events. She will not let him bask in another victory that’s all but handed to him because no one else even tries.
Determination has her spine hardening like steel, her chin raising just slightly as she holds Cassian’s gaze firmly. She refuses to let him have this. She’ll show him and this whole production company, the whole network, and she’ll do it in such a way that it wipes that stupid, smug look right off Cassian’s face.
No, this time, Nesta Archeron is going to win.
~ * * * ~
Nesta squints down at the piece of paper she has laid across her desk, running her fingertip over the drawing there. She had stayed up late with Gwyn at the rickety kitchen table that’s been with them since their college apartment. The redhead had always had an affinity for Solstice and the celebrations. And a creative eye. She always ensured their apartment was decked out for the season as early as socially acceptable, and Nesta intended to use her friend’s talent to her full advantage.
Tapping her finger against the page in confirmation, Nesta turns in place. She crouches down toward the bags she brought into the office with her this morning, rooting around until she finds the package of stuffing. She stretches out the stuffing and lays it across her desk, crumbling up pieces of paper and shoving it beneath to create little hills just as Gwyn suggested.
Nesta adds various random figurines and mini fake Solstice trees, and she steps back to admire her work, happy with the winter wonderland she’s created. She returns to her bags and grabs the green streamers next. She maneuvers her desk chair until it aligns to her liking, carefully stepping up onto it. Even with the added height boost, she has to press up onto her toes to get close enough to the ceiling. She jams a hook into the material of the ceiling tiles, draping the first streamer across it.
“You’re in already? What did you do? Sleep here overnight?”
The sudden voice has Nesta jumping in surprise, her balance on the chair wobbling. Two hands shoot out to help steady her, fingers spanning across her entire waist and heat seeping beneath her blouse and skittering across her skin.
“Careful, Nes,” Cassian chuckles quietly. “Don’t want to break that pretty little head of yours.”
Nesta makes a fake gagging noise at the comment. “Don’t try to be cute.”
“You think I’m cute?”
Nesta turns her head enough to glare at the hands still at her waist, but Cassian doesn’t seem deterred. In fact, his telltale smirk only seems to grow at her reaction. With an annoyed huff, Nesta turns back to the task at hand. She hangs the other streamer over the hook, adding the large, red ribbon tied in a bow as the final touch. She steps down off the chair and out of Cassian’s grip, carefully placing the ends of the streamers so it gives the illusion of a tree.
“Looks great,” Cassian comments. Nesta snaps her attention back to him, but the teasing smirk she expects to find is decidedly missing. In fact, there’s nothing but genuineness painted across his expression. “You certainly went all out.”
“Well, it is a desk decorating contest,” Nesta reminds him. She can feel pride bubbling up in her chest, blooming and taking root between her ribs. She doesn’t even bother swallowing it down, doesn’t bother biting back the victorious smirk that tugs up her lips. “What did you expect?”
For a moment, Nesta swears that Cassian’s smile grows at her expression, an emotion she can’t quite pinpoint flaring in his hazel eyes. But then that all too familiar cocksure smirk takes over his face again. His attention dances back toward Nesta’s desk, taking in the different decorations she’s arranged, before he meets her gaze again.
“I honestly assumed you’d be more of a grinch.”
Nesta’s nostrils flare at the remark and she crosses her arms across her chest. “Fuck you.”
Cassian laughs again as though the insult delights him, the sound prickling across Nesta’s skin. Her blood sparks just as much as Cassian’s gaze seems to. She rolls her eyes and turns on her heel, stalking away and toward the coffee, Cassian’s voice following after her.
“Game on, sweetheart.”
~ * * * ~
Nesta lets out a quiet breath as she steps out of her car. She swears that she can still feel flour in her hair. No matter how hard she scrubbed in the shower, it’s as if the cookie dough is now embedded within her from where the beaters sent it all flying. Almost as badly as it's embedded in her apartment. She's still not sure how cookie dough got on the ceiling.
Another soft sigh and Nesta grabs her bag and the tupperware full of cookies from her passenger seat. She can’t help but wince as she peers at her cookies. They spread more than she had anticipated, losing their shape, and the edges and bottoms are crispier than she’s sure they’re meant to be. She had followed the recipe to what she thought was a T, but something went wrong somewhere along the way.
At least they’re made with love.
That’s what Gwyn had said the previous night, and Nesta hopes that counts for enough. It should count for enough in her opinion, that at least hers are homemade. She’s sure that most of her coworkers will just be bringing in store-bought for the cookie exchange today. Including a certain former soccer superstar that Nesta is confident has never stepped foot inside a kitchen before in his life. He probably used his money to have a private chef that prepared all his food for him.
Nesta steps inside the studio kitchen, finding the area that’s been set up for the cookie exchange. Already, there are various cookies out and on display, including the cakey icing heavy ones that the grocery stores sell for every holiday, still in the plastic case. Cassian’s contribution if Nesta had to guess. With a roll of her eyes, she opens up her own tupperware and adds her cookies.
“Morning, sweetheart. What kind of cookies did you make?”
Nesta takes a moment to breathe before turning toward the voice. Cassian leans casually against the counter near the refrigerator, wearing a soft looking, deep red henley shirt since they aren’t filming today. His hair is pulled away from his face in a bun, the lights of the kitchen casting shadows across his jawline. He has a cookie in his hand, perfectly shaped and iced to look like a soccer player, and he offers Nesta a cheeky smirk as he pointedly takes a bite.
“Sugar cookies,” Nesta grinds out from between her clenched teeth.
She turns back to her tupperware of cookies, spying a stack of sticky notes and a sharpie set to the side. She grabs both, quickly scrawling her cookie type on the purple paper to match the other cookies on display. She feels more than she hears Cassian sidle up behind her, heat prickling up her spine as it radiates off him. His breath skates across her cheek as he leans forward to peer over her shoulder.
“Are they… snowmen?”
“They’re meant to be gingerbread men and Solstice trees,” Nesta explains, trying desperately to swallow down her annoyance.
“Really? Are you sure?”
The annoyance burns into full blown anger, fire raging through Nesta’s veins. She whirls around, but almost instantly regrets it. It puts her chest to chest with Cassian, and she has to tilt her head back slightly to keep meeting his gaze. His hazel eyes practically seem to spark, all green vines and golden specks, and that smirk of his grows slowly but surely across his face.
“You know, you’re supposed to chill the dough after you cut them,” Cassian continues, not even bothering to take a step back to give her space, leaving Nesta caged in. “That’s the trick to getting them to keep their shape and not spread so much.”
“I don’t recall asking,” Nesta seethes. She settles a hand against his chest, shoving gently, but Cassian’s large frame is unmoving.
“The other trick is to use your hands, to really knead the dough to the right consistency.” Cassian’s voice dips lower as he speaks the word, holding a hand up between them and curling then flexing his fingers. “I’d be more than happy to give you a demonstration some time.”
“Yeah, right. You really expect me to believe you’re some great baker?”
“Try for yourself,” Cassian offers, reaching back behind Nesta and producing a tupperware of his own.
Nesta eyes the cookies, the perfectly shaped and iced soccer players, and scoffs. “You did not make those.”
Cassian presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “You wound me, sweetheart. I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent cook. And an excellent baker. In fact, this is my own recipe.”
Nesta scowls as Cassian shakes the tupperware toward her encouragingly. She snatches up one of the cookies and makes a big show of taking a bite. She hates it. She hates that the cookie is actually delicious. She hates that it's buttery sweet and melts perfectly in her mouth, the perfect mix of crispy edge and a soft center with icing that's not too overpowering.
It takes everything within her to swallow down a moan of delight, to not give Cassian that sort of satisfaction, but from the way Cassian’s smirk only seems to grow, it’s clear he already knows. With a huff that she pushes out between clenched teeth, Nesta knocks her shoulder against Cassian’s and shoves past him. Hard. She stalks back toward her desk, mind already reeling with ways for her to win the Solstice Week event tomorrow, to ensure victory after today’s misstep.
And if Nesta sneaks back to the kitchen throughout the day to grab more of Cassian’s cookies to help fuel her? Well, no one has to know.
~ * * * ~
“That has got to be the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen.”
Nesta tugs at the hem of the fabric at her hips. The pink color probably wouldn’t be half bad if it wasn’t practically neon, and the two toned green fringes of yarn clustered across the front only seem to add to the charm. That and the clumps of yellow yarn with lopsided faces. Nesta has to bite her lip around the smile threatening to break free across her face. It’s exactly the type of response she was hoping for.
Schooling her features, Nesta finally raises her face to Balthazar. “Thank you.”
“Not usually the response you’d expect to that,” Balthazar chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Today only I’ll allow it.”
“Well, you definitely have my vote.”
With that, Balthazar vanishes back toward his own desk and his own work, so Nesta finishes mixing her own coffee to her taste before doing the same. She pulls up her notes she’s been working through these past few days, quickly skimming through what she already has written. Nodding to herself, she pulls up the game clips from the last World Cup, finding where she left off.
“Hope you’ve been working on your gracious loser speech, sweetheart.”
For once, Nesta doesn’t roll her eyes at that all too familiar drawl. In fact, her grin is wide as she turns in her seat and comes face to face with Cassian. He has his arms spread wide, showing off his own sweater. A fake, felt fire has been glued to the center of the sweater, various small stockings pinned in a line along the shoulders, and tinsel loops around the collar.
It’s certainly ugly.
Almost in slow motion Nesta watches as Cassian takes in her own sweater. His brows start to furrow low over his eyes, his arms dropping limply back to his side. But the true victory comes from watching Cassian’s cocksure smile slip from his lips and be taken over by a confused frown.
“What the hell is that?” Cassian asks, gesturing toward her attire.
Nesta tugs at the fabric, smiling down fondly at her attire. “My sweater for today’s contest. It’s meant to be solstice trees and kittens. Allegedly at least. But it’s perfectly ugly, don’t you think?”
Cassian crosses his arms across his chest, raising a practically sardonic brow. “What possible store could you have found that in?”
No longer wanting him towering over her, Nesta rises from her seat, truly going toe to toe to him. She narrows her eyes at him, the scowl familiar and easy. She lets a slow smirk tug up her lips, keeping her voice the picture perfect of innocence as she tells him, “Jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”
Cassian chuckles softly, shaking his head. “What are you going to tell me next? That you knit it yourself?”
“Unfortunately not. My great aunt did,” Nesta explains, peering down at her sweater again. “She’s half blind.”
“That sounds like cheating.”
“Since when are there rules for an ugly sweater contest?” Cassian huffs quietly, but he doesn’t say anything, and Nesta knows that she’s won, knows that he doesn’t have an argument for that. She offers a condescending hum, tilting her head in mock innocence. “Guess someone’s a sore loser.”
Cassian leans in closer still, and Nesta raises her chin higher in defiance, unwilling to back down from his attempts to cow her, back down from his gaze pinning her in place. With the little space between them, Nesta realizes his eyes are more green than brown, specks of gold seeming to glint amongst those swirling vines. This close, she can feel the heat that radiates off him, can feel his breath skate across her cheeks. She can watch in slow motion as that smirk returns.
“Until tomorrow’s contest then. Nes.”
~ * * * ~
Nesta leans forward in her seat, squinting at her computer screen and the image displayed there. She currently has two wins for this week’s contests to Cassian’s one, and she’s determined to win today’s challenge too, to claim her victory for the whole week.
A scavenger hunt.
According to the email sent around to everyone, various small, plastic penguins have been hidden around the studio and offices to be found. Each one is worth a different amount of points, and whomever has the most at the end of the day, wins. It seems simple enough, and if Nesta plays it strategically, it’s practically in the bag.
Nodding to herself, ensuring she’s memorized the image and what exactly she’s looking for, Nesta closes her laptop and pushes up to her feet. She glances around at the other desks around her, hoping to spy one of the penguin figurines. The ones with the top hat are worth two hundred fifty points, but she’d accept any to begin the search.
Nesta heads for the studio kitchen next. She opens up the refrigerator, and there, beside all the packed lunches, is a penguin, no taller than an inch, with a pink bobble hat on. Only ten points, but Nesta snatches it up all the same and continues her search. She finds another ten point penguin amongst the mugs, a penguin with yellow earmuffs worth twenty five points between tea pouches, and a penguin on skis worth fifty points in the freezer.
She continues her search across the soundstage, winding through the desks, and even checking in the production control room. By the end, she has an entire paper cup full of various penguins. Plenty of the ones worth ten and twenty five points, and she’s even found a few of the penguins in a blue coat worth one hundred points.
Still no top hat penguins though.
“And how many penguins have you found, sweetheart?”
Nesta doesn’t even bother turning around, doesn’t bother stopping her search, as she pulls open the bottom tray of the printer and locates a blue coat penguin. “I’m already at eleven seventy five.”
“Not bad,” Cassian comments, and when there’s silence after, Nesta hopes that means he’s decided to leave her alone. “Aren’t you going to ask how many I’ve found?”
Nesta scoffs, straightening and turning to face Cassian and lift a sardonic brow. “No.”
“Well, I’m at a thousand and ten.”
Cassian steps closer, right up into Nesta’s space until the heat radiating off him prickles across her skin. His hand reaches out, stretching back behind her. Nesta can’t help but hold her breath, Cassian not even breaking eye contact while he lifts the document cover on the copier at her back. When he pulls his hand back, a penguin with yellow earmuffs sits in the center of his palm.
“A thousand thirty five,” Cassian offers with a smirk.
With a roll of her eyes, Nesta side-steps away from Cassian. She can hear him trailing behind her as she makes her way down the hall, but she pointedly ignores him. The sound of a door opening draws her attention, and when she whirls around, she spots Cassian opening what appears to be a janitor’s closet of some kind. Nesta rushes forward, slipping in quickly before he can, determined to find whatever penguins might be hiding in there first.
“Who knew you were so competitive, Nes.”
“Nesta,” Nesta snaps, whirling around to watch Cassian step inside behind her.
The door closes behind him with a soft snick, and Nesta realizes too late just how small the space is. She and Cassian are practically standing chest to chest, and the wide set of his shoulders and his tall frame makes it seem even smaller still. Nesta tries to take a step back, but the metal of the shelves in this closet merely digs into her spine.
“That’s what I said,” Cassian tells her with an easy shrug.
“Do you enjoy riling me up?”
“Oh, there are many things I enjoy when it comes to you, sweetheart.”
Just like at the printer, Cassian’s hand reaches up between their bodies. Only this time, his hand reaches toward her face. For a moment, his fingers brush along the strands of her hair that hang loosely around her temples. For a moment, Nesta swears she can feel the barest whisper of a touch across her cheek. She can feel heat creeping up her neck, threatening to spill beneath her skin, threatening to send goosebumps skittering down her spine.
Cassian pulls his hand back, showing off a penguin in a blue coat pinched between his fingers. “Eleven thirty five.”
Nesta lets out a growl of frustration, both at the fact that Cassian is now only forty points behind her, and at the fact she allowed herself to be distracted by him. She whips her attention back toward the shelves, moving around the rolls of paper towels and cleaning bottles. She lets out an excited noise when she looks between the stack of microfiber towels, pulling out one of the coveted penguins in a top hat.
“Would you look at that,” Nesta declares, turning back around and holding up the penguin for Cassian to see. “I’m at fourteen twenty five now.”
“The day is still young.”
“Whatever. I doubt they hid that many in here so just get out of the way so we can leave.”
Cassian offers an eyeroll of his own, but he turns toward the door at least. Nesta waits for the light of the hall to spill back into the small space, for Cassian to step out so she can follow behind him, but instead his entire body tenses, shoulders raising slightly.
“So… bad news,” Cassian starts, turning his head enough that Nesta can see the grimace that’s taken over his face. “The door is locked.”
“Don’t fuck around, Cassian. It’s not funny,” Nesta snaps, smacking his arm in annoyance. “Open the door.”
“You think I’m lying to you?” Cassian jingles the handle of the door in emphasis. “It’s locked.”
“You’re probably just doing it wrong. Move out of the way.”
Nesta elbows past Cassian, reaching out and trying the handle for herself. It barely moves, so she tries again, more aggressive, but it’s definitely locked. She lets out a noise somewhere between a frustrated scream and an annoyed huff, slapping her hand against the wood.
“I told you it was locked.”
Nesta nearly jumps out of her skin at how close Cassian’s voice is. She realizes too late that when she elbowed past him that Cassian didn’t move, that she’s now practically pressed up against him. She can feel every hard line of him, every muscle built from years of playing soccer. Can feel the way his heart seems to skip and beat between his ribs.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, to swallow down the shiver threatening to skitter up her spine at the proximity, Nesta pounds her fist against the door. “Help! Someone help! We’re locked in here!”
“Really, sweetheart?”
“Can anyone hear me? Unlock the door! Help!”
“You know, we could always just—”
The sound of the door clicking echoes in the small space and cuts Cassian off. Balthazar’s face comes blinking into view, his eyebrows dipping low in confusion as his gaze darts between the two of them.
“Um…”
“Don’t ask,” Nesta pushes out between gritted teeth, shoving past Balthazar and stalking down the hall and back toward her desk.
By the end of the work day, Nesta’s collection of penguin figurines comes to a total of one thousand, eight hundred, thirty-five. She takes a photo and sends it to the email for all the Solstice Week events, her submission. It doesn’t take long before the email comes in, announcing the winner for the scavenger hunt, but Nesta frowns as she reads the name, as she eyes the photo of the winning penguin collection. The figurines practically overflowing to the point they don't fit in the frame.
Jumping to her feet, Nesta stomps her way down the line of desks. “How did you do it?”
Cassian leans back casually in his seat, his easy smile not fooling Nesta for a second. “Do what?”
“Two thousand seven hundred five?” Nesta demands, glaring down at him. “How is that even possible?”
Cassian’s smile turns into a full blown smirk, lifting his hands back behind his head until the sleeves of his shirt ride up his biceps. “Someone’s a sore loser.”
“You cheated. You had to have cheated.”
“I’m offended that you’d make such an accusation. It’s not my fault I’m charming.”
Nesta snorts, rolling her eyes. “Charming? That is not a word I would use to describe you.”
“Clearly others find me charming,” Cassian tells her with a shrug, that infuriating cocksure smirk unmoving. “Charming enough to share the penguins they found with me.”
Nesta’s jaw slackens at the admission. She steps forward, in between Cassian’s legs, so that she can glower down at him. “That’s. Cheating.”
“I prefer the words charming and resourceful,” Cassian fires back, his hazel eyes practically sparking even under the fluorescent lights. “That means two wins for me, and two wins for you. We’ll have to call it a draw, Nes.”
“It is not a draw. You forfeit because you cheated.”
“Nowhere in the rules of the scavenger hunt did it say I had to find all the penguins myself. It just said whoever had the most points at the end of the day. And I did. It’s a technicality.”
Nesta huffs and crosses her arms across her chest. “Then we do another challenge to settle the score and determine a true winner.”
“It’s a Friday and the end of the day,” Cassian chuckles, shaking his head. “What possible work challenge could you come up with?”
“We’ll stick with the Solstice theme like it’s been all week to be fair. It snowed last night. You, me, snowball fight.”
“Fine,” Cassian concedes surprisingly easily, reaching forward enough that he can close his computer. “But when I win, and I will, I want you to remember this moment and how you begged me for this.”
“I am not begging,” Nesta snaps, stepping back enough that Cassian can stand up from his seat.
“Is that another challenge? More than up for rectifying that one, sweetheart.”
“Just meet me outside.”
Nesta turns on her heel and storms off back to her desk. She quickly shuts down her own computer for the day and packs up her work bag. She tugs on her gloves and hat, winding her scarf around her neck. She zips up her coat and heads for the door, following around the building to the grassy area now blanketed in white waves of snow.
Nesta lets out a yelp of surprise as a snowball hits her straight in the chest, wet snow streaking down her jacket and dripping to her feet. A deep, booming laughter follows the assault, and Nesta raises her gaze to glare at Cassian, another snowball already balanced in the palm of his hand.
“Does this mean I win now?”
“No,” Nesta snaps, crouching down to scoop snow into her own hands.
She packs the snow down until it’s a ball, stretching her arm back and lobbing it at Cassian’s head. Cassian is quick to jump out of the way with another deep laugh. He tosses his own snowball toward Nesta, but she ducks before it can hit her, using the motion to scoop more snow into her hands.
Cassian starts to charge toward Nesta, and with a yelp, she makes a break toward the right, quickly tossing her half formed snowball at him. She skitters slightly as she stumbles away, but she crouches down again to gather more snow. She straightens and presses her hands together, packing down the snow until it forms a ball. She whirls around again just as cold wetness settles on her head, dripping down her temple and the back of her neck.
Her jaw drops open, staring with wide eyes at Cassian’s own shocked face, his hands held above her head. For a moment, they merely stare at one another, but then Cassian’s lips start to twitch. His hazel eyes light up and he gives in to the laugh he’s clearly trying to hold back, the sound surprisingly warm despite the cold now settling deep within Nesta’s bones.
“You look like a wet, angry cat, sweetheart.”
“You’re such a shit,” Nesta seethes, shoving hard at Cassian’s chest in retaliation.
With the snow and ice slippery beneath their feet, Cassian’s balance wobbles, and before Nesta knows it, he goes tumbling to the ground. Unfortunately for her, his hand latches around her wrist, almost out of instinct, and she falls half on top of him with a quiet oof. She quickly shoves off, but that just leaves her in the snow, her entire back now cold and wet.
“So,” Cassian starts, propping up onto his elbow so he can smile down at her. “When are you finally going to go out on a date with me? Does tomorrow work for you?”
Nesta blinks a few times in surprise, her mind trying to wrap around Cassian’s words. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Nes. Isn’t it about time we finally put an end to all this sexual tension?”
It takes everything within Nesta to keep in her startled laugh. She can’t believe this turn in the conversation. This notion. The absolute absurdity of this man. A date with him. With Cassian Valdarez. The bane of her existence. The man who’s the reason she has to share her job. The man who is all endless cocky smiles and looming over her with his large frame and those hazel eyes that practically pierce through her in a way that’s almost unnerving.
“What are you talking about? I hate you. I’m pretty sure I’ve made it very clear that I hate you.”
“Oh… um…” Cassian clears his throat a bit awkwardly, pushing a hand up and through his hair. “I thought that was just how you and I flirt. Our back and forth. Like a game.”
“I hate you,” Nesta repeats, not even bothering to swallow down her scoff. “In what world would I ever agree to date you?”
Cassian’s smile slips fully off his face, the hazel of his eyes dimming before he drops his gaze away from Nesta. He pushes up to his feet, still not quite looking at her as he brushes the snow off his pants.
“Well,” Cassian finally says, his voice suddenly hollow and lacking any of his usual warmth. “Clearly I read this whole situation wrong. Sorry.”
Nesta opens her mouth, but words die in the back of her throat, thoughts a tangled mess of vines. She can do nothing but gape dumbly, can do nothing but watch as Cassian lets out a quiet, self deprecating breath and shakes his head, turning on his heel and stalking away.
~ * * * ~
By the time Monday rolls around, Nesta’s reeling mind still hasn’t calmed since the events of Friday. She spent the entire weekend replaying that moment in the snow with Cassian on loop, the look on his face before he walked away. She kept replaying every moment she ever had with Cassian. All the smirks and easy laughs. All the quips and jabs. Every sweetheart and Nes. It started to all make sense, that look he would get on his face, the way the golds of his hazel eyes would glint.
The worst part was that the more Nesta thought about those moments, thought about those looks, thought about him, her chest got that little bit tighter, emotions running rampant and kicking up a swirling storm. Only one thought broke through the raging seas in the end: what was wrong with her? She hated Cassian Valdarez.
Or did she?
Cassian who never balked at her fire, who never belittled her or told her to bring down those flames. Cassian who always goes toe to toe with her, practically lighting up in amusement at every quip or remark. Cassian who never questioned her knowledge or skill, never commented or joked about her being a woman working in sports journalism. Cassian with his delicious baking and gorgeous eyes and warm laugh and—
With a soft sigh, Nesta tries to shake her head of those thoughts. She focuses on her notes and today’s show, mentally running through the stories and the points she wants to discuss. Even still, the words on the page start to blur together, and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, the skin already ragged from the same tick chasing her all weekend.
“Good morning, Nesta.”
Nesta’s head snaps up at the greeting, turning to find Cassian standing in front of his chair. For the first time, it feels like he's not smiling or smirking. Instead, his lips are pressed into a neutral line, a dullness clinging to the hazel of his eyes that’s almost unsettling. It certainly sends a crack ricocheting through Nesta's chest. It takes her a moment too long to realize he said her name, her proper name. No teasing nickname to be found. It almost sounds strange hearing it fall past his lips. It almost sounds wrong.
“Morning,” Nesta murmurs back.
Cassian settles into his seat beside her, not quite meeting her gaze. Nesta opens her mouth, but she’s not even sure what to say. Does she mention what happened last week? Does she pretend that nothing happened and ask how his weekend was? Before her mind can settle on the best approach, Balthazar steps over and begins his pre-show spiel and notes.
As the show kicks off, Nesta just hopes any awkward air between herself and Cassian doesn’t show through on camera. It’s certainly the most professional show they’ve ever filmed, sticking firmly to their talking points, the segments. But with each passing minute, Nesta’s spine straightens that bit more, her fists clenching that little bit harder against the table. By the time the shout of cut echoes across the sound stage, the air around her feels stifling, a tightness pinching between her ribs like twisting vines.
“I wanted to apologize,” Cassian starts quietly once it’s just them again, and when Nesta turns to meet his gaze, there’s a burning to his hazel eyes that has her breath catching. “For what happened on Friday, but mostly for all the teasing and everything with Solstice Week. I… I shouldn’t have assumed that it was flirting for you or that you felt what I did, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It won’t happen again. Have a great rest of your week, Nesta.”
With a nod of his head, clearly having said his piece, Cassian pushes up and to his feet, heading toward his desk. His name presses against the back of Nesta’s throat, desperate to be released and call after him. An emotion she’s been unwilling to name all weekend, one she’s been running away from since Friday, swirls in her gut. It twines and squeezes around her heart, tugging like a thread wrapped tight through her chest.
Watching Cassian walk away from her for the second time is like that thread going with him, yanking hard. It leaves Nesta swallowing hard, and she realizes one simple fact with a stark clarity that would knock her on her ass if she wasn’t already sitting down.
She misses Cassian Valdarez.
~ * * * ~
“And everything is good and ready?”
Emerie sighs, flopping back against the pile of pillows on Nesta’s bed. “For the fourth time, yes. All you need is the code I texted you and you’re good.”
“Okay okay,” Nesta concedes, turning away from the mirror where she was fixing her hair. “I just want to be sure.”
Emerie’s lips part, and Nesta can see the retort sitting primed and ready on the tip of her best friend’s tongue, but then her eyes sweep over Nesta’s frame. She takes in the deep blue velvety fabric that hits Nesta mid-thigh, the sweetheart neckline that sweeps low across her collarbones. The way Nesta’s styled her hair so it falls in loose waves down around her shoulders and along her spine, her makeup drawing attention to her eyes.
“Well damn,” Emerie comments with a smirk. “You’re definitely looking hot as shit.”
Nesta smoothes down the skirt of her dress, not even bothering to bite back her own smirk. “Thanks. Now, I just need the rest of my plan to work.”
Turning back toward the mirror, Nesta gives herself one last look over and dabs the lipstick painted across her lips. She grabs her heels and slips them off, rolling her eyes at Emerie’s hooting and teasing that follows her out the door. When she finally settles in her car, she takes a moment to breathe deeply, to steady her thundering heart, and then she’s off.
The event space that the network has rented for the evening is almost unrecognizable as Nesta steps through the doors. Golden streamers decorate almost all the walls, colored balloons clustered about and structured into a balloon arch over the doors at the far end. Small, tall tables dot the space, covered in white tablecloths, and workers dressed all in black weave between them with various hors d'oeuvres balanced on trays.
A bar has been set up along the back wall, and Nesta spies Cassian standing there. He has an arm slung across Balthazar’s shoulders and a beer in his other hand, his head thrown back as he laughs easily at whatever is being said. His hair falls in soft curls around his face, some sort of product making the dark strands shine beneath the lights, and the dark green sweater he wears looks especially soft even as it clings perfectly to his wide shoulders and chest.
Swallowing hard, Nesta steps over to the bar. “Happy Solstice.”
“Happy Solstice,” Balthazar echoes, raising his beer in a cheers.
Cassian turns to her, and sparks ricochet through Nesta’s nerve endings at finally having his gaze on her again. She doesn’t miss the way his hazel eyes flare, doesn’t miss the way his lips part and his throat bobs as his attention sweeps over her. It sends her own blood heating, her heart stuttering for a moment.
“Nesta, you look…” Cassian breathes before he seems to catch himself, clearing his throat and looking away again. “Sorry. Happy Solstice.”
“I was wondering if we could talk?” Nesta asks, darting a quick glance toward Balthazar who wastes no time making himself scarce.
Cassian is quiet, and for a moment, Nesta is afraid he’ll say no, but then he’s nodding his head. He downs the rest of his drink and looks to her expectantly, so Nesta begins to lead the way. She weaves between their coworkers and toward one of the halls that stretches through the rest of the building.
“So, who’s the gift for?” Cassian asks, breaking the awkward silence between them.
Nesta pauses her steps, glancing down at the gift bag in her hand before looking up at Cassian again. “It’s for you, actually.”
“You got me a Solstice gift?”
“You sound so shocked.”
“You hate me, remember?”
Nesta winces at his words, looking up and into his eyes, praying to the Mother that he can see the sincerity in her gaze. “I don't actually hate you. I thought I did but I…” She lets out a soft sigh and holds the gift out to him. “Just open it, will you?”
Cassian lets out a quiet breath of his own, but he reaches out and takes the gift, his fingers brushing against Nesta’s with the movement. He shifts through the tissue paper until he reaches the gift inside, lifting it out with a confused frown.
“A… soccer ball?”
“Yes,” Nesta answers, her voice more short than she intends. “It will all make sense in a moment.”
With a determined huff, Nesta whirls back around and continues stalking down the hall. It takes a few seconds, but soon she hears Cassian’s steps falling in behind her. At the end of the hall, she finds the double doors exactly as she expects. She digs her phone out and pulls up her text chain with Emerie, quickly punching in the code to the lock. She pulls open the door and looks back to Cassian expectantly, but he merely raises an eyebrow.
“Is this the part where you lead me away from the party to murder me?”
“If it was, do you really think I’d tell you?”
Cassian chuckles, shaking his head. “Touche, sweetheart.”
Nesta gestures with her arm, and finally Cassian steps inside. She follows behind him and allows the door to fall shut behind them both. As promised, the lights have been left on, but from the looks of it, it’s only half the lights, casting everything in a dimmed, yellow glow. The domed roof stretches high overhead, and an almost eerie quiet has settled over the rows and rows of seats, over the grass, over the crisply painted white lines.
“How’d you get the keys to this place?” Cassian asks, stepping forward and spinning in a slow circle, taking it all in.
“I know people.”
Cassian hums quietly and cranes his head back, his eyes falling closed as he takes a deep breath in and then out. “And not that I’m complaining, but what exactly are we doing here?”
“We never determined a winner for Solstice Week,” Nesta reminds him, stepping forward and taking the soccer ball from his arms.
Cassian watches as Nesta steps up onto the grass and makes her way toward the box at one end of the field, the hint of that all too familiar smirk beginning to peek through. “And this is how you want to do that?”
“If you’re scared of losing, just say that,” Nesta taunts, bending down enough that she can place the soccer ball on the dot in the grass.
“I never said that,” Cassian offers, stepping across the grass himself and making his way toward the goal. “Did you forget who you were talking to?”
“Good.”
Nesta bends one of her legs back, slipping a finger beneath the strap of her heel and tugging it off. She does the same with her other heel, allowing both to dangle from her fingers before dropping them unceremoniously against the grass. Cassian tracks every movement she makes, and even with the space between them, Nesta swears his eyes darken.
Nesta resets her stance, offering a smirk of her own. “I thought we could make things interesting.”
Cassian licks his lips. “Interesting how?”
“If I make this goal, you have to take me out on a date.”
Cassian’s expression shifts to shock, and Nesta waits with bated breath for him to say something, for him to do something. Even after what happened last week, it feels like a shot in the dark, like a leap right off the ledge without knowing what waits beneath. What if he’s changed his mind? What if after telling him she hates him, he decided he wants nothing to do with her any longer? What if this is the stupidest thing she’s ever done?
The thoughts swirl like dark, churning waves inside Nesta’s mind. They leave her heart skipping nervously between her ribs, the blood pounding in her ears with each second that ticks by like an eternity. Her stomach flips over itself, and the urge to take the words back and swallow them back down, to backtrack, digs sharp claws into the back of her throat.
Nesta isn’t sure how much time has passed, but Cassian seems to come back to himself. He shakes his head and starts to bounce on the balls of his feet, stretching his arms out wide and tapping each of the goal posts.
“Take your shot then,” Cassian calls out to her.
Taking a steady breath, Nesta backs up a few steps. She glances down at the ball then back at the goal, eyeing up the space between, thinking through where she wants to aim. Running forward, she kicks the ball hard. Cassian doesn’t even bother moving. He stands firmly in place, his eyes never leaving Nesta’s face as the ball sails right past him and into the netting. Warmth floods through Nesta’s chest as they continue to stare at one another, a smile tugging up the corners of her lips.
“You know,” Cassian starts, turning around to retrieve the ball and walking back toward Nesta, bending down to place it back on the white dot. “Usually, it’s best two out of three.”
“Is that so?” Nesta asks, her voice breathless even to her own ears at the way Cassian is looking up at her.
Cassian straightens, slowly backing up toward the goal again. “I was thinking this time, if I make this save, I get to kiss you.”
“Feeling confident?”
“Are you? I was one of the best goalkeepers Velaris FC ever had after all.”
Nesta hums, feigning disagreement, but they both know it’s true. Just like before, Nesta takes a few steps back, eyeing up Cassian and the goal. She makes a big show of glancing to the right just before she runs forward and kicks the ball hard toward the left side. It doesn’t fool Cassian for a second. He goes sprawling across the grass, knocking away the ball with ease.
Nesta doesn’t even care where it rolls off to, and it’s clear Cassian doesn’t either. He’s barely made the save before he’s jumping back to his feet, long strides swallowing the space between them. His hands come up, framing Nesta’s jaw and tilting her face up, and then he’s crashing his mouth down against hers. Nesta doesn’t waste a moment. She surges up onto her toes, meeting him stroke for stroke. She buries one hand in the soft, dark curls of his hair, the other clutching into the fabric of his sweater, as one of his arms drops to around her waist, pulling her closer still until any space between their bodies vanishes.
When Cassian finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His nose bumps against Nesta’s, breath skating across her skin. She can feel the heat of him everywhere they’re pressed together, can count every green vine and gold fleck of his hazel eyes. And for once, it’s not one of his cocksure, teasing smirks greeting her, but a soft, wide smile. One that she suspects might be just for her. One that has her breath catching. One that she knows is echoed across her own face.
And in that moment, Nesta realizes that she doesn't hate Cassian Valdarez at all.
—
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Cassian can't sleep because he's too busy simping over Nesta. A drabble partially inspired by Hozier's Take Me To Church. (Happy day 5 of @sjmromanceweek! The trope here is just... Cassian being a simp. That's it. That's the trope. Absolutely no plot.)
~~~~
The light was a glint of silver moonlight, dawn a still far-off whisper lurking beyond the edges of the horizon. And in that comfortable darkness interrupted only by the shaft of moonlight slipping between the gap in the curtains, Cassian lay awake, unable to sleep.
But he didn’t mind.
Even though he needed to be up with the dawn to leave this bed, the thought of how tired he would be tomorrow simply wasn’t enough to make him close his eyes. How could it be, when to fall asleep was to abandon this— the sight of his mate, sleeping peacefully in his arms.
Nesta’s heart was steady, an even beat that would have lulled him to sleep had he wished, but the moon turned her golden-brown hair to silver, her pale skin to porcelain— his north star, nestled against the pillows and pressed tight against his side. He wanted to savour it, this moment, not waste it by closing his eyes.
There was nothing in the world he could ever have wanted more than this— the woman he loved asleep against his chest, the whisper of cotton sheets as she shifted in concert with the steady rhythm of her breathing.
The most perfect thing in the world.
In centuries past, Cassian used to stand on the House roof and watch the sun set, or wake up at dawn to see it break above the horizon. He’d always thought it the most beautiful thing in the world, to watch the moment the day yielded to the night, the sun to the moon. He’d thought that the glitter of the stars, pinpricks in the gathering black, were the most wondrous thing the world had to offer, a sight so humbling it could bring him to his knees.
How wrong he had been.
He knew now that there was only one thing that could ever truly bring him to his knees, and her eyelashes fluttered now with her dreams, her fingers curling gently against his bare chest. Softly Cassian’s hand smoothed down Nesta’s shoulder, skating across her arm as his other hand wrapped itself more firmly around her waist.
All the wonders of this world paled, now.
The sun was at its most beautiful only when it danced across her face, its most wondrous when its light gilded her skin. The stars were their most glittering only when they were reflected in her eyes, and though the night still held so many myriad wonders and beauties untold, it was in her arms that Cassian found he loved the night best.
And it wasn’t in the skies that he now looked for that once-breathless sense of awe. Instead, he found it every when he opened his eyes and found hers, silver-blue, looking up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes that he, every damned day, wanted to brush with his lips. Every day he woke and every day he asked himself how he gotten this lucky— how the Mother had seen fit to give him to Nesta fucking Archeron as a mate.
How he got to be the one curling around her in the dark, his body cradling hers as sleep took them both.
In those moments, quiet and serene, when there was nothing but a tired, peaceful kind of silence, Cassian often found himself linking his fingers through hers, feeling her palm brush his as sleep began to beckon. The cool brush of the ring on her finger - the one he had put there the day of their mating ceremony - always made his heart kick, and in the quiet now, Cassian reached for her hand, the one she had resting above his heart, fingers searching until he found that ring, the silver glinting.
Together, they were a fire. Blazing and burning, a love that scorched him right down to the bone. He loved it, loved her, exactly as they were— a tempest of emotion. But there were moments like this - quiet, peaceful, comfortable - that he loved too. When there was not a soul to disturb them, when they could lie together in the silence and find comfort in one another. When he could hold his sleeping mate in his arms and forget about the world outside.
Lady Death and the Lord of Bloodshed, wrapped in cotton, sheathed in the dark, clinging to one another as they slept.
It was the purest kind of peace Cassian could ever have imagined.
And as Nesta shifted once more in her sleep, Cassian dropped a kiss to the crown of her head, smiling at the murmur it elicited from her lips. Her eyelashes fluttered, close to waking, and Cassian drew her closer to his chest, his wing extending and curling around them both.
“Sleep,” he whispered.
A mumble was his only response. A sound of untold softness from the woman who had endured so much horror, who had once cut the head from the shoulders of a king.
Cassian smiled, his heart swelling to the point of pain. His thumb brushed the band of the ring he had given her before he linked his fingers with hers— fingers that had held countless blades over the centuries, and spilled so much blood they could never be clean again. And yet somehow Cassian felt all of it diminish in her presence, like each and every one of his sins was absolved by her touch alone.
Silent, he squeezed her hand.
“Sleep,” he murmured again, feeling his own eyes grow heavy.
And there, in the place that they had made their home, Cassian closed his eyes at last, knowing he’d never need anything more than this— the peace found in his mate’s embrace.
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