#I would have shut my goddamn mouth about getting a B in physics and dealt with it to prevent my life from becoming the shit show it is today

[yellobb]

If things could stop going in exactly the wrong wrong direction that would be excellent

[flowerflamestars]

Nesta Under the Mountain: acowar remix

The first thing Nesta hears when she wakes up, is Rhysand. 

Who is right by her bedside, waiting, apparently for this exact moment of her eyes opening and coherency on her face to say, with full High Lord gravitas: we would have gone with you. 

Cassian, who has given up any pretense, and is literally on the floor between Rhysand’s armchair and Nesta’s bed, kicks him. 

They didn’t know what happened to her- couldn’t find any wounds, any marks at all, but Nesta wouldn’t wake up. It’s Amren who insists, who sits perfectly still by her side for an hour and says- she did something. She did something like what I did.

Lucien, poisoned with faebane and stabbed in the heart, was lucky to be alive, in and out of consciousness. He’d been awake in the days that followed for just ten minutes. During which he used the hand Azriel was persistently holding to leverage himself out of bed, fallen, been caught by Azriel, and somehow dragged himself to Nesta’s side before passing out, stitches popped and bleeding.

There’s two beds in the room now. 

Cassian doesn’t have the room to process- but he’s noticed, how he’s noticed- that Azriel has spent these days more than not like he is now: Lucien’s hand in both of his. 

A frozen elegy, Lucien’s scarred knuckles, pressed to his mouth.

Nesta’s awake, and Azriel hasn’t dropped Luciens hand.

Listen, Cassian hasn’t slept in days. He thought, truly, Nesta was never waking up. That he was going to sit here and watch her slowly die. He’s absolutely not in his right mind. So he thinks: Oh. oh. 

All three of them.

It’s not unheard of. And Azriel is, of course, one of the absolute best males that Cassian knows. Honorable. Strong. Beautiful. Of course, they’ve worked this out- Nesta is the most unflinching, brutally honest person of all of them. Lucien she can be loud with- Azriel she can be quiet with- enough love to burn the world, why should she give it to just one person?

(a smaller, quieter, sadder part of him that isn’t zipping through thoughts at the speed of light can admit- if it was going to be an Illyrian, if that was even an option-  why couldn’t it be him?

...of course, it would be handsome Azriel over Cassian)

It’s too easy to picture- dark Azriel, vibrant Lucien, moon glow on the blackest night Nesta. 

But none of that matters. Because Nesta is sitting up, and glaring at Rhys and looking like a person again. Looking down and finding Cassian, there on the floor, with a tiny, savage smile. A hesitation- a second, that goes on and on, Nesta’s lovely mouth perked up, her eyes steady on his.

Alive, alive, alive. Cassians imagines- thinks he’s only imagining- that he can feel the steady beat of her heart alongside his.

But then of course eventually Nesta twists to sit up properly, already braiding away the rumpled cascade of her hair. (Cassian’s hands ache to help). Turning, to look at Lucien, grey-tinged and too still in bed.

Azriel answered without needing to be asked, looking at Nesta with weary eyes, Lucien’s limp hand pressed to his cheek. (Cassian’s heart is on fire). Explains that the poison is cleansed and now it will only take time, that Lucien had demanded to see her. The first expression on Azriel’s face in four days straight: a quirk of his full mouth, the ghost of a fond smile, telling Nesta Lucien tore his stitches to get to her.

(Cassian feels a little sick)

Stupid asshole, Nesta will grumble right back, but in that tone that says I love you.

But Nesta will turn away, straight to Cassian, to ask: My sisters?

(Cassian is Not Okay. Cassian’s self-esteem issues are literally going to cockblock him and despite not leaving in days for more than a few moments, Cassian is suddenly desperate to get out of this room. The city. His own skin)

Cassian can recognize trust when he sees it. Swallows. Tells her they’ve been here too, Morrigan just dragged them away to eat. They’re downstairs- he can get them- he can-

The youngest Archeron crashes through the door with Nesta’s own cataclysmic sense of timing, and throws herself at her sister. Elain, a step behind, walks around Cassian to curl up on Nesta’s other side, skirts tucked carefully around her. 

They want to know what happened- and Rhysand, with his usual grace, choses this moment to interject that he would like to too.

(The Cauldron, downstairs, cannot be moved. Reacts to nothing, unaffected by physical strength or magical inquiry. It is, in the end, creepy as fuck. The sisters like it.)

(Not to mention that Nesta- who has always had presence, even as a mortal- whose mean laugh and beautiful face and tendency to yell at him is absolutely some kind of catnip to Rhysie- Nesta now feels like danger. Not the kind you only have to look hard at her to see, that strength that is who she is. Like a High Lord. Something old. Something powerful.)

So Nesta tells them. The King, the Castle of Bone, the Cauldron, who would be a prisoner no longer. Of the reckless, insane thing she’d done when it seemed like they were doomed- of what the Cauldron gave.

(Cassian is glad he didn’t leave. Cassian might never leave her side again, no matter how much it will hurt. Nesta drowned herself in eternity on purpose.)

She doesn’t allow them to congratulate, to question- though Feyre does joke about Nesta seizing the crown.

Nesta looks past them all, to Rhysand. Tells him what she’d told Cassian, the words he’d been holding behind his teeth like succor: She wasn’t the only sister. Rhysand. 

Linnea, Amarantha, Clythia. 

Nesta Archeron had been dragged over the Wall to protect her sisters- been transformed against her will into a monster and chosen that life, in the end, to stop war from marching to mortal lands to them.

Amarantha was a monster. Clythia a mistake. Linnea, long locked away, the discarded eldest, would come to sow vengeance against Prythian’s Vengeance. Against Nesta Archeron and whole continent that had borne and made her.

The war was still coming.

The medical team arrives to do one more round of treatment for Lucien. Nesta, uninterested now that she can resist in being poked and prodded ever, stumbles off to her actual bedroom, deathgrip on Cassian’s arm she will absolutely not admit is keeping her upright. 

She puts herself together. Bathes. Finds clothes. Looks, this time, in the mirror. She looks the same- her face had never changed that much. The subtle glow of immortality, the stupid knifeblade ears. But it’s still her face: her mother’s lathe cheekbones, her father’s plush, lying mouth.

Nesta is a monster, but Nesta is Nesta.

She marches downstairs, and shuts herself in the study with Rhys. Crossed her arms. Stands there, spine straight, feet spread, like she’s going to battle.

Clenches her tattooed hand so hard it hurts. 

She tells him, I want to make a deal. You wanted me in your Court, to fight in the war for the Night. I’ll swear fealty. I’ll be your fucking weapon- just me, not Lucien- if you promise that no matter what happens, no matter who comes, you protect my sisters. To the last fucking breath, Rhysand. 

Rhys stands up. Brushes a hand over his face like he’s thinking and abruptly, laughs. 

Nes, he’ll drawl to the feverpitch of her temper that he definitely has an unhealthy fondness of. You don’t owe me shit. You freed Prythian. You killed Hybern. You tamed the Cauldron. 

Is Velaris suddenly not your home? It’s not a trap. Archeron, you’re one of us, whether you wanted it or not. That means they are too.

Nesta: I am a private contractor. 

Rhys: You’re so involved you’re basically my Third alongside Mor. We would have gone with you. 

And that, in the end, is what does it. Rhys is such a goddamn liar- but that doesn’t mean Nesta hasn’t learned when he’s telling the truth. And he is now.

They would have gone with her- to kill a King. To save her sisters. To enact bloody, reckless violence.

Nesta sits down, steals his teacup, and says: Fine. 

The problem is clear at once: Rhysand thought Linnea was dead. Everyone thought Linnea was dead. Information from when she did live is unclear at best- Amarantha’s half-sister, where Clythia and her had been born to the same unfortunate mother.

Half-mad, denied acknowledgment from her father. Clythia and Amarantha were generals, woman who dealt in violence. Linnea, when she’d lived- when she’d been known- was an alchemist.

What the hell is alchemy? Magic that isn’t ours, Rhysand says darkly. Magic that is unnatural, not quite real. Not the power inside you- the power you can steal from the world.

It usually doesn’t work. It usually kills the fae involved eventually. 

They need more information- they need Azriel, and no one is about to suggest he move a muscle until Lucien wakes back up.

There’s a family dinner, eaten sprawled around the sickroom. Elain, Nesta learns, has made quick work of befriending Morrigan. Feyre’s recklessness- the mirror of Nesta’s- has ensured, with fearless wonder, that she’s absolutely comfortable here. 

(This Rhysand, who knew and was in awe of Nesta first, might like Feyre...but Nesta is his contemporary. The idea that her baby, mortal, youngest sister might also be doesn’t occur to him. Not yet, anyway. There being three Archeron’s at all remains overwhelming.)

Cassian offers to fly Elain and Feyre back to the House. 

It’s Feyre, with the sort of straight forward confusion that can’t be feigned, who says, after Cassian has set them down and is walking into the warm halls with them: Aren’t you going back? Oh, is Nesta coming here?

Cassian’s heart: ground zero. Cassian’s brain: just far enough from the explosion to be burning, burning, burning. 

Elain, who is a lot more like Nesta now that she isn’t frozen in worry, frowning just a little. Not warning- something worse, abject disappointment: We can get settled on our own. Nesta told me she’s sleeping at the townhouse tonight, in case Lucien wakes.

Feyre, yawning: Oh right, bye Cassian.

And then Cassian is left alone, the doors shut. 

Let us return to Nesta: feet propped up on the blankets of Luciens bed, quietly drinking whiskey. Watching, with a pang in her chest she’ll ignore and ignore and ignore, while Azriel- now that it’s just them, Nesta, who Lucien had explained to Azriel like this: I’d die for her. She’s my...Cassian. I’m always going to choose her, and if we do this you can’t hate that. Nesta, who is family- is gently braiding the riot of bloodred hair off Lucien’s face.

She handed over the half-full glass when he was done, and Azriel tossed the whole thing back. Said, eventually, as they sat there watching Lucien breathe together: that’s the first time Cassian has left.

Nesta, leaning even further back in the chair: Oh?

Azriel, with humor, steady in his deep voice: Rhysand had to make him let go so the healers could check you. He’s been in this room for a week.

Nesta, who’s still looking at the braids. Nesta, who’d woke and known that Cassian would have made sure her sisters were okay: Will he ever say anything?

Az: Does he need to?

Nesta, with a scoff: For me, no. For himself, yes. And then, softer. Thank you. For taking care of him. 

They both know she isn’t talking about Cassian.

Azriel will just nod. Say, like it’s nothing, the bare truth: He’s all the light, in the entire world.

Nesta hears again Cassian, tearing through words like they hurt to say: you’re the whole world.

Nesta, aloud: And much too stubborn to die.

This, unfortunately, the last two sentences, are all Cassian hears, frozen outside the door.

He walks away.

The next day, Lucien awake, Rhysand will call them all together and divide up what must be done. Lucien and Az: information. Morrigan: the darkbringers. Cassian and Nesta: the Legions.

It’s time for Nesta Archeron to go to Ilyria.

@more-espresso-less-depresso-xx @rhaenystargaryn @morrkrii @just-a-starcrossed-writer @clolikescloquetas @did-you-miss-me221 @caotica-e-quieta

[sambukasam]

Burgers and Beartraps

Summary: A stupid mistake on John’s part had ended with you getting seriously injured on a hunt. Cut to a few years later and it’s your first time seeing him since the accident. 

AU Bingo Square Filled: A/B/O

ABO Bingo Square Filled: Bourbon/Leather/Sandalwood

Genre Bingo Square Filled: Salt ‘n Burn

Pairing: Alpha!John x Omega!Reader

Warnings: ABO, Mentioned injury, Beartrap

Word Count: 2202

Created for @spngenrebingo and @spnaubingo and @spnabobingo

Genre Bingo Masterlist ↔︎ AU Bingo Masterlist ↔︎ ABO Bingo Masterlist ↔︎ Normal Masterlist 

feedback is always appreciated

You rolled your eyes as a familiar black truck pulled up in front of the diner you were eating in. It parked right in front of the window where your booth was, its headlights practically blinding you before they were abruptly shut off. “Motherfucker,” you cursed around your mouth full of burger.

John hopped down from the driver side and looked right at you through the window, an easy smirk coming to his face when he saw you. You shot him the middle finger and you could see his shoulders shake with laughter before he started making his way in.

“Well well well, fancy seeing you here,” he greeted, sliding in across from you. What an asshole. Was he going to pretend that your last encounter had never happened?

“Seats taken,” you tried, taking a swig of your drink. You knew it wouldn’t get him to leave you alone, but it was worth a shot. You really weren’t in the mood to see him - now or ever again.

“By what, the air?”

“By anyone else’s ass but yours, Winchester.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still nursing that grudge,” he shook his head, a broad smile still on his face as he reached a hand out for your fries. You slapped it away and rolled your eyes. It’s been less than a minute of his company and you already wanted to pay and go, pretend that you had never seen him again.

“Damn right I’m holding a grudge!” You snapped. He reached for your fries again and you sighed passive-aggressively, pushing them over to him and knocking them onto the table in the process. You reached into your pocket to toss out some change for the food and grabbed your jacket, ready to get up and leave him there.

The grudge in question had first started up on a salt and burn you and John had worked a few years ago. You had only met him a few times by then, but you were both good friends with Bobby so you figured he was trustworthy enough to work with. Hell, you were even holding a torch for him. It never progressed further than a drunken make-out session between the two of you that was never mentioned again, but if you remembered it hard enough you could still smell the intoxicating mixture of bourbon, leather and sandalwood that had wafted off of him in waves that night.

It was easy to be attracted to a man like John, but goddamn did he make it hard to stay that way. Case in point the salt and burn; where he had decided it was a genius idea to lay a fucking beartrap down to catch a rumoured werewolf prowling the area. A beartrap. What sort of idiot works two different cases at once without telling their partner? What sort of idiot lays a beartrap down in the threshold of a building that someone else is in without telling them? John Winchester that’s who.

Cut to you walking backwards firing rounds of rock salt at a ghost while John was running off God knows where because he thought he heard a fucking howl, and bam, beartrap to the ankle.

It left you with a bad leg, months of resting up in Bobby’s spare room and an angry scar, a scar that matched the anger you felt at him.

You weren’t an idiot, you knew that hunters got hurt on the job, hell, you’d done worse to yourself. You were partly mad because of the fact that it all could have been easily avoided with a simple “Hey Y/N, there’s a beartrap all set up in that doorway, watch your step”. But no, your back up ran off in the height of the action because he was chasing a golden retriever, and now you were probably gonna be walking funny for the rest of your life.

You didn’t wanna admit the main reason you were so mad to yourself, let alone to him. But the real reason was that he never showed, never asked how you were, never apologised, never showed any sign that he gave a shit. He drove you to a hospital and was gone as soon as you were inside, and this is the first time you’ve seen him since. You knew he was a busy man, too focused on finding Azazel to find a second for himself to breathe, but a simple text explaining why he ducked off so quickly would have been nice.

“Now c’mon sweetheart, don’t be like that,” he tried, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to look at him. You scoffed and tugged your arm out of his grip angrily.

“You’re a damn shitty hunter,” you snapped, watching as he flinched. “You nearly had me killed. I had to draw a damn salt ring around myself while I was stuck to a beartrap because you weren’t there to burn the ghost's bones. I thought that you were off dead in a ditch somewhere and that I was gonna be stuck in that circle for the rest of my life. Or what if I got out of there alive, I’d have to be the one to tell your sons that you were dead, and that I didn’t know how it happened because I got myself stuck and wasn’t there to help you out. And then imagine my anger when you show up two hours later with some half-assed explanation of how it was your trap and that you laid it for a werewolf.”

John stayed quiet the whole time, letting you get the months of anger off your chest now that you could finally let it all rip at him rather than venting to Bobby.

“And hey, I heard you were with William Harvelle on the hunt that took him out as well. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out that one negligent hunter plus one dead hunter equals John Winchester’s handiwork.”

He stood up to his full height and you almost shrank back, your Omega instincts screaming at you to submit to the angry Alpha while your own stubbornness and anger kept you planted inches from him. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know shit about,” he growled at you, a warning look in his eyes.

“Why? Are you ashamed? Guilty? I can get over this, I live to limp another day. Harvelle can’t say the same.”

John raised his hand, and you were fully convinced he was going to hit you. You deserved it at this point, bringing up William Harvelle’s death crossed a line. Sure he’d hurt you, physically with the broken leg and then mentally by acting like he didn’t know you afterwards, but that didn’t mean you could bring something like that up.

You didn’t flinch this time either though, just clenched your own hands into fists at your sides and waited, waited for his hand to make contact with you.

You were left waiting, however, because he chose to slam his fist onto the table instead. Your glass knocked over onto its side, the last bit of drink in it spreading across the table and soaking the fries as you watched, not wanting to look back at the man.

“I’m sorry.”

It didn’t come from you, and that surprised you. Not like you were gonna apologise, that wasn’t in your nature even when lines were crossed. But it sure as hell wasn’t in John’s nature either, which caused your head to snap up to look at him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

“I’m sorry, okay!” He repeated, staring intensely into your eyes. His voice was quiet but passionate as he tried to get you to see his side of things. “I got distracted that night. It was a full moon, I was convinced there was a werewolf in the area, I thought it was smart to kill two birds with one stone. You told me before that you’d never dealt with a werewolf since the one that took out your parents, and I didn’t wanna scare you or put you off the ghost case. So I kept quiet about it, and that led to you nearly bleeding out. So I’m done keeping quiet.”

His chest was heaving, and it sounded like his speech was leading up to something, so you stayed silent and waited for him to continue.

“I’m done keeping quiet,” he repeated softly, but this time it sounded like he was just talking to himself.

“John-”

You were cut off by his lips crashing against yours right there in the middle of the diner. Shock filled you as you stood still until he cupped your face and deepened the kiss frantically, reawakening the part of you that had daydreamed about this happening since the second the last kiss ended.

Your hands rose to his shoulders, holding them tight to steel yourself as John overwhelmed your senses. There was his heady smell of sandalwood and leather and bourbon and it was all so John. There was a taste of coffee lingering on his tongue and it felt so similar to the first time you had kissed but so much better because this time no one was drunk. This was full of purpose and intent and months of sexual tension all coming to a climax and you would never admit it but it was the best kiss of your life.

And then you remembered that you were in public so you pulled back, a deep red blush sprouting up along your face as your ears burned. Your eyes quickly scanned around the room and although it wasn’t exactly busy at this time of night, the five or six patrons that were there were all blatantly staring at you. John grabbed your elbow and brought you back to the moment, and when you looked into his eyes they were kinder than you had ever seen, full of raw emotion.

“Y/N, every time we meet you make me either wanna throw my fist or my head against a wall.”

You frowned and opened your mouth, ready to make a comment about how he wasn’t such a joy to be around either but he held up a hand and kept going.

“Before you say anything sweetheart, that ain’t a bad thing. I have never felt this crazy about a woman before,” you narrowed your eyes at him but didn’t interrupt him, deciding to let him have the save. “I tried to go visit you at Bobby’s actually, when you were resting up after I accidentally... maimed you. Brought a bouquet of flowers and some fancy chocolates and everything. He wouldn’t let me see you,” John broke off to chuckle and rub the back of his neck sheepishly.

You hadn’t known that John actually tried to make up for it, you had assumed he’d forgotten about it once he crossed over to the next state. Because really, in the grand scheme of things, how important could a hurt hunter be to him when he was off on some revenge mission that lasted longer than your entire hunting career.

“I didn’t know that,” you said softly.

“Yeah, I uh, I asked Bobby to tell you that I came and he out straight told me he wouldn’t. Then he threatened to sic his dog on me if I didn’t leave you alone, so I took the hint that you probably didn’t wanna see me and left.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. This wasn’t the man you thought you had known, he seemed to have a thoughtful side buried deep down. You couldn’t get over that he had tried to bring you flowers. Fat load of good they would have done, but the thought of John Winchester showing up to your bedside vigil with some roses was a picture.

“Look, I know things haven’t exactly been smooth sailing between the two of us, but is there any chance you’d be willing to start over?”

“After that kiss? Not likely.” He looked disappointed by your response so you hurried to correct yourself. “I meant that I don’t wanna go back to square one after giving you the kiss of your life. I can get over my leg and your general idiocy if you promise you’ll kiss me like that again. A lot.”

“Well that can be arranged,” he smirked, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of your jeans and pulling you in close ready to go for round two. Your hands flattened against his chest as he began leaning down before the clearing of someone's throat interrupted you. A disgruntled trucker was glaring at the two of you from his seat in the booth beside yours.

“Take it outside you horndogs, some of us are trying to hold down a meal here.”

You and John laughed it off but obliged the man, heading outside all the while giggling like two lovesick teenagers. He walked you over to where his truck was and pinned you against the door, smiling down at you. It felt right, being so close to him, and you gave him your own sappy smile.

“Now, I believe we left off right before I was about to kiss you?”

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