#TheGirl

[aawwuwu]

She’s teaching him how to play with dolls because she learnt he’s going to a father soon and Its important knowledge to have

[hiikyubi]

I finished the game yesterday!! and my boyfriend bought me termina <3

[duskandstarlight]

The Girl (Part One)

Notes: All I can do is write modern AU lately, so here is the first part of The Girl (see here for the prologue). Forgive me of any typos - I've glanced over it but I just wanted to get this out. Enjoy!

Part One: Nesta

It can’t be happening. That’s Nesta’s first thought as she sits at the large mahogany dining table at her sister’s birthday dinner and watches a man that’s horribly familiar duck beneath the doorframe. Yet… it’s undeniable. Same broad frame, same leather jacket, same rugged features. Same tattoos peeking over his collar and licking up his neck. Same shoulder-length black hair scraped back into a haphazard knot. 

Nesta manages to stop the shock that seizes her, catching it before it ever makes its way onto her expression. But the man isn’t as successful. It’s only a heartbeat, but it’s there as he sits down at the table, looks up as he’s mid-way between tucking in his chair and see’s… her. The girl he fucked on his sofa only two days prior. 

Then the shock and recognition is gone as swiftly as it arrived and that questionable beat where Nesta thinks she’s well and truly foiled vanishes.

It seems it’s not only her that wears masks.

They go through the necessary motions. The cordial civility Nesta despises. They pretend they have never met and Nesta tries not to flinch in surprise when he suddenly extends his hand to her over the table.

It’s an offering. It’s a ruse that Nesta is adamant on keeping.

So, she reaches across the table and clasps the same calloused hand that had cupped her ass a few nights before - as if they’re in some Cauldron-damn business meeting.

She tries not to remember that night the moment they touch. The molten heat that had burned between them. The way it had licked up her spine, all consuming.

“Nesta.” The man repeats after her slowly, as if he’s trying her name out on his tongue. Savouring it. His voice is so deep that it’s a delicious scrape across her skin and his eyes are a pool of hazel as he meets her gaze full on, unflinching - an amalgamation of brown, grey, green and gold. “I’ve not heard that name before.”

Nesta resists the urge to snap her hand back into her lap. Instead, she moves with careful deliberation. Tells him with an empty politeness that she hopes conveys that she's not a conversationalist and never will be, “It means fire.”

That, she knows, he believes. 

It’s only when Nesta pulls on her coat in the hallway of the house that Feyre shares with her fiancé Rhysand, that Nesta senses that their game of pretence is over.

His footsteps are barely detectable against the hardwood floor but there’s something that tells her that he’s near. A presence that’s carved out its own space in the small hallway, seeping into the woodwork, her pores. A caress at the back of her neck. Against her skin.

And somehow she knows that he’s leaning against the doorframe, waiting, watching. Even so, she makes a point of doing up the buttons of her coat as if she’s none the wiser. Pulls her hair out from under the material and winds a scarf around her neck.

Because never again does she want to be prey.

“We’ve never met,” she announces crisply when she’s finished, cleaving back the control she desperately needs before he tries to wrangle it from her. 

She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t give any indication that he’s worth her time. When Nesta started sleeping around she learnt quickly that unapologetic directness was the best approach. 

After all, Nesta doesn’t pick her men out at bars with repeat sessions in mind. And, in this case, it’s vital that Nesta sets the scene and lays the foundations.

The man - Cassian - is leaning against the doorframe, larger than life and observing her in a way that is also unapologetic. It’s not leering. It’s not overtly sexual (although Nesta knows that the attraction is there as surely as she knows her heart is beating). But it’s the sort of stare that burrows into you, deeper and deeper, as if it’s trying to get to the core of you and figure you out.

And when Cassian’s eyes glint, Nesta thinks he actually might have done it. Unlocked every iron-barred gate inside of her and found out every horrible truth.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep our dirty little secret.”

That’s all Nesta needs to hear. She ignores the way his voice has taken an even deeper turn than earlier. That the mere sound of it has stirred something inside of her, something that has long been sleeping. 

Instead, she yanks open the front door and steps outside. The cold is like a slap to the face but she’s done here. She needs to go home. Needs a drink. 

When Cassian dares to follow her out, Nesta pins him with a glare that should be like a dagger to the chest. But Cassian simply watches her, completely unbothered by the demeanour that usually has others scarpering with their tails between their legs.

She makes a point of raking her eyes from top to toe, scrutinising every wild inch of him, before she snares his gaze. “In case you hadn’t realised, we’re done here.”

Still, he watches her. Studying her, his gaze so astute that Nesta feels vulnerable.

And she hates it, detests it—

“I need to talk to you.”

Nesta actually snorts. The huff of breath comes out like steam, like she’s a dragon breathing a fire the colour of ice. “We fucked once. A five minute fumble does not requires us to talk.”

She starts walking. Her feet crunch on the gravel drive and for a moment all she feels is how cold she is. But then fingers are closing around her wrist and she’s not yanked backwards, exactly, but she’s forced to stop.

And that’s when her instincts kick in. There is no mask, no control of her expression or her body language as she jolts away from him like a mare that refuses to be reigned in. 

When she’s free, she whirls on him. And despite the freezing wind biting into her limbs, Nesta is burning so fiercely she could kill. “Do not touch me,” she hisses.

It amazes her how quickly he backs off, the surprise clear on his face. And then, in his eyes, something knowing. As if he understands.  

It makes Nesta want to run so badly but it’s too late. It’s happening: the constricted breath, the lump in her throat that’s clamped over her airways. The thing that has been happening so frequently recently that Nesta often finds it hard to leave the house.

He must see the sudden panic in her eyes, because he takes another deliberate step away from her, granting her space - air - so she can breathe. 

It takes too long for her lungs to kick back into action. For her heart to start thudding again. Her breath shudders in, in, in, until her chest has so much oxygen her skin wants to crack. 

Nesta isn’t sure how long they stand there, her desperately trying to control her breath in a way that appears inconspicuous whilst he stands by, knowing. 

If Nesta was alone, she would sink to the floor and bury her head between her legs, curling in on herself, turning inwards until all she is is breath. But Nesta is not alone. So, she just tries to focus on the oxygen coming into her lungs, tries to make it measured and slow, all the while she wants to scream at him to disappear.  It takes everything she’s got to try and insert venom into her voice, but it just comes out weak - like a betrayal. “You’re still here.”

“On the couch,” he says quietly, slowly, as if she’s an animal in the underbrush about to scarper from a predator. “We didn’t use anything.”

Nesta knows she needs to claw back some control. She needs to say something cutting, but she still can’t think of anything besides getting air in her lungs in a way that doesn’t make it obvious that she’s struggling to breathe. “I take birth control.”

“Ok.”

She meets his eyes. “There won’t be a repeat.”

Cassian’s scar-slashed eyebrow cocks upwards and Nesta has the distinct impression he would be amused if it isn’t for the way that he’s studying her, concern tight across his brow. “There won’t?”

“There won’t,” she confirms.

The breathing gets easier, slowly, painfully. It’s no longer desperate to shudder in and out. Nesta is so busy focussing on her breath that she almost forgets where she is, until Cassian asks, “And does that extend beyond the couch to other locations, too?”

Nesta feels her eyes ignite into silver blue flames and suddenly she’s not thinking about breathing at all. “It does.”

“That’s a pity.”

Nesta actually snorts again. “For you, it is,” she says, as if the sex hadn’t been good for her.

Lies, all lies. 

Nesta turns, walks away. 

Does not turn back, even when Cassian calls after her, his voice somehow both rough and soft - and a little bit broken. “See you around, Nesta.”

***

They see each other around more than Nesta would have liked. 

Yet, for the first time in years, Nesta continues to try with her sisters. She tries, even as on the inside she drowns in oily waters she can’t share with anyone. Because how do you admit to your former estranged sisters that they were right all along when you can’t even admit it out loud to yourself? But Nesta knows. She knows that she’s so broken she doesn’t know how to move forward any more. Sometimes, Nesta sits in her apartment on her beat up sofa and stares at a wall for hours with nothing going through her brain. Just this dead emptiness, this numbness that she can’t control. 

More often than not, Nesta does not write. She ignores her agents calls. She ignores her deadlines. Because there’s nothing there. Nothing in her head apart from a depthless void that she doesn’t want to get rid of. Because when it disappears, unbidden and without warning, the cyclone of her thoughts, the intense, aching sadness she wakes up with every morning is all too much all too quickly. 

Drinking helps keep the void.

And that’s how Nesta finds herself at the same bar that she’d first met Cassian. Rita’s, it turns out, is the brothers local. And on Friday evenings there’s an open invitation.

The air is sticky with sweat when Nesta arrives and the scent of sugar, tequila, wood and hops turns her stomach. She’s already a bottle of wine down but she has no plans to stop. The last week has been particularly rough. Tonight’s shower was the equivalent of climbing a mountain, getting dressed even more so, but she’s here and she’s got that pleasant tingling numb that fills her with a spiky personality that usually takes far too much effort to conjure.

She’s only there a total of five minutes when Cassian approaches her at the bar. Nesta knows it’s him immediately. Not just because of the hands that rest against the sticky wooden counter, but because she can smell him: pine and fresh air and musk. A pleasant distraction from the general odour of the place.

For the most part, Nesta ignores Cassian when they see one another. 

But sometimes, she can’t.

“Hello, Nes.” The sound of his voice has something sitting up inside of her. Something that scarcely makes an appearance these days - an interest, a feeling that doesn’t feel terrifying but exciting. 

Mastering her voice, Nesta feigns indifference. “Hello brute.”

It’s pure instinct that tells Nesta that Cassian is studying her in that surprisingly quiet way he’s prone to. Nesta ignored it. Pretends to study the wine in the fridge behind the bar. 

“You’re looking as devastating as ever.”

Slowly, Nesta turns her head. 

Cassian is propped up against the bar on one elbow, but he still towers above her: all dark and dangerous with the cocky grin that’s only for her. Today, his hair is tousled half up and it makes her want to do things to him. She’s never felt this attraction to someone before, this delicious and devastating pull. 

She tucks away the sensation, pushing it down, down, down, and pretends that she didn’t choose this particular outfit with the pure intention of flooring him. “Didn’t find it in yourself to brush your hair?”

Cassian’s slow-spreading grin is wolfish and delighted. It didn’t take Nesta long to realise that whilst others found her thorny and disagreeable, Cassian relishes what she throws into the ring. 

He understands that it’s more play than spite. 

Cassian doesn't lean forward, doesn't move into her space at all, yet when he speaks it's as if he’s imparting with a secret. “Admit you like it this way, Nesta.”

She does like it this way, but Nesta only wrinkles her nose. “I like my men well-groomed.”

“No,” Cassian says, tapping the table to the beat of the music with one tan finger as if he’s distracted, “you don’t.”

Boldened by the alcohol buzzing through her veins, Nesta asks, “Are you here to buy me a drink?”

But he throws her question back at her. “Are you buying me one?”

“That depends,” Nesta replies, cocking her head so her long hair falls over her shoulder, “on whether you plan on leaving me alone afterwards.”

Cassian does leave her alone afterwards, and the relief that floods her is mixed with regret. 

Nesta spends the majority of her evening on the dance floor with Elain whilst Feyre hangs out with the dark-haired men in the corner. She drinks too much, until she doesn’t feel anything anymore and everything is numb - just the way she likes it. 

When she’s like this, men don’t scare her. 

When she’s like this, she feels powerful. 

Unstoppable.

When Nesta’s will finally breaks and she allows herself to glance Cassian’s way, she finds him leaning against the metal bar that partitions off the dance floor, talking to a long-legged girl with long braids that swing in time with her hips. 

Nesta makes a point of leaving with someone else. As she exits the club, a well-groomed man trotting after her like some lovesick puppy, she feels Cassian’s dark eyes razor sharp on her back.

This time, she doesn’t bother taking the man home. She makes him take her against the wall in a dirty alleyway, her stomach turning at the soft fingers, the smooth shaven face, the overpowering scent of aftershave. He moans and praises but he doesn’t know how to please her and Nesta can’t find it in herself to take what she needs. 

So, she lets the pebbledash of the wall bite and scratch at her back until she’s sure she’s bleeding with it. 

Holds onto that pain as she turns her head away from him, closes her eyes and waits for it to be over. 

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @lovelynesta @melphss @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @fanboy7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @valkyriesupremacy @vidalinav @onceupona-chaos @inardour @thesunremembersyourface @teagoddess99 @misswonderflower @nessiantrashh​ @miamorganvel18 @kawaiteacup @nestaa-stan @castielspelvis

[voxaryart]

Kid named funger.

[posterboydidit]

Lorde didn’t wanna tell anyone that I’m the reason she made Solar, but it’s okay because we don’t talk about the people that changed us. Also she need ps to get out of my head.

[thegirlwholeftthefridgeopen]

Untitled by the half-blood prince

[diepriver18]

Hello people I'm Điệp from VietNam I want to share with you my lastest artwork i did follow amazing original concept art in 2023.Luckily done in very special day 31/12/2023. I've been doing 3D art for 3 years and I am looking for clients,3D commision…Please contact me and check my portfolio if you have 3D work. HAPPY NEW YEAR AND WELCOME DRAGON YEAR 2024 More in 4k image: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/YBdge3 Original concept: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nQBEnK Thank you everyone.

[sl333pingbeauty]

[coochiekrab]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KURI!! (literally never ever ever draw anthro so bear with me)

I am also japanese and when I was younger my mom used to buy me this fishball-on-a-stick snack (I think it’s called wanzi in some places but my mom called it gan-gan) and idk I think Kuri would like it

YYYAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYT

[strawberryraccoontails]

plsplspls gimme ur transfem five headcanons 🙏

< trans fem five headcanons >

omg you’ve unlocked the beast frfr

warnings: spoilers for seasons 1-4, she/her pronouns for five, talk of coming out & transiting

she keeps the name five but switches her pronouns to she/her

doesn’t figure it out til season 4 (probably started to really question it in season 3 when viktor came out)

having long hair makes her soooo happy and she gets offended anytime someone says she looked better with it short

only wears light makeup- mascara, eyeliner on her waterline, lip stain/lip gloss, maybe some nude shadows if she’s going out and a lil blush for color

keeps her nails long but natural and doesn’t like acrylics, the most she’ll do is press ons

told lila first & then sparrow ben surprisingly (it was less stressful than telling her siblings)

her & sparrow ben grow closer during the time that he knows but nobody else really does - and they stay close! five & sparrow ben is so important to me okay

she keeps her wardrobe pretty similar to before her transitions but she does invest in some feminine sweaters, cardigans & skirts

she only wears a skirt if she’s feeling particularly dysphoric and wants to look outwardly feminine Or if klaus & claire convince her to wear one with them

she lets allison & claire do her makeup/hair

her, claire & allison started having “girls nights” that Klaus said he had to be included in

luther does end up throwing a coming out party for five but she makes sure it’s split between her & viktor because she doesn’t want all that attention on her

lila gives her old boots & tops that she doesn’t use

allison also gives five some old clothes but it’s mostly nicer things so she only wears them on special occasions

she youtubes hair tutorials once she figures out how her phone works when they get back to 2019

she already knew how to sew but she starts making her own clothes & altering things to fit better (she may have started this just to avoid going to a tailor for her suits but she actually quite enjoys it)

indulges herself in girly music with luther’s encouragement (she likes raye a lot)

owns two pairs of heels - one black & one red, she finds excuses to wear them but would never admit it

eventually starts estrogen and is astounded by how smooth/soft her skin becomes

starts working out with diego to look a little more feminine

[duskandstarlight]

And more tags...

@thewayshedreamed @fangirlishwandering @moodymelanist @lordof-bloodshed @sunflowermoonshinewrites @loverofallbooks @booksandbread @sv0430 @valkyriewarriors @hellogoodbye14 @meher-sumedha @nesquik-arccheron @julemmaes @selfdestructionfetish @whereismycashew @simpingfornestaarcheron @that-little-red-head @brieq @generalnesta @starbornsinger @sugardoll22 @euclavender @vinylcryes @embersofwildfire @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @faeriebambula @thereadingrainbows @hereforthenessian @goddess-aelin @hiimheresworld @thesillyyogourt @wildflowers-in-the-snow @blondemiso @sannelovesreading @jmoonjones @helhjertet @eirini-thaleia @matchabiz @lady-winter-sunrise @latenighthazymusings @aktrain 

The Girl (Part Two)

Notes: Sorry for any typos or inconsistencies, I wrote this in sporadic bursts on the train and I can't be held accountable for a tired brain. I hope you enjoy!

The next time Nesta meets Cassian, it’s in a coffee shop a week later.

She’s in the midst of a rare writing urge, the itch in the tips of her fingertips even if her hands are unable to actually fly over the keyboard.

It had been the glimmer of that urge which had gotten Nesta out of bed this morning well before noon. And Nesta had seized the feeling with a useless sort of hope. Because whilst the inspiration Nesta experiences now is never what it used to be, it’s something. So, Nesta had clung on to it, digging her claws in as she’d rolled out of bed with a wince.

In the fear that time would erase her need to write, Nesta hadn’t showered or eaten. She had just pulled on the first clothes she could find, bleary eyed, stale and wincing at the still-healing scratches on her back. Then, she’d looped her laptop strap over her shoulder and left her apartment without so much as brushing her hair. 

Nesta had arrived at the coffee shop just as Marta had been opening up. And that’s where she’s been ever since, at her usual table against the wall, her noise cancellation headphones jammed over her head. With the world blocked out, still halfway between dreams and waking, Nesta has forced her head down and done her best to write.

And it’s sort of worked. Her head, Nesta consoles herself, is at least down. But then a threaded magnetism in the mid-afternoon nags at Nesta enough that she finally tears her eyes away from the screen and looks up.

The first thing she notices is him. Not how busy the coffee shop has become, the toddlers running riot at the mother’s table by the wall or the teens flicking cream at one another with their straws. All she sees is Cassian, at the counter, looking so ordinary and so unordinary at the same time. As always, he’s dressed head-to-toe in black: a rain-spattered Northface jacket protecting him from the rain, clean trainers, slim-fit tracksuit bottoms that make it evident that he never misses leg day. Work attire, Nesta assumes. She knows that he owns a gym, a small start up in the same rough-around-the-edges part of town that Nesta’s currently in. 

The apologetic expression on Cassian’s face has Nesta automatically lowering her headphones. The world rushes back in as is someone’s flipped a switch, loud and assaulting and it takes her a moment to adjust to life going on around her, the chatter of conversation around the rammed coffee shop before she can actually focus again on Cassian. At the way he speaks to Marta behind the counter, his hands gesticulating as he pats his pockets for a wallet that clearly isn’t there. 

It’s the blush on his tan cheeks that does it, but Nesta pretends its the cellphone with the dark screen. She doesn’t think, she just acts. Stands, strides over to the counter and scans her loyalty card from the app.

The scanner chirps happily as it accepts payment and Marta dips her chin at Nesta before she bustles off to make whatever Cassian has ordered. 

But Cassian… he just stares at Nesta as if the superior opposition in the sparring ring has just thrown down their boxing gloves in defeat. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then, as if realising his mistake, he’s recovering, that complacent mask sliding over his face so he can fall into their usual role of push and pull. 

Hazel locks onto blue, and Nesta does her best to stand tall, to command the space even as she remembers that she hasn’t brushed her hair today.

She’s just planning a brutal retreat when Cassian opens his mouth and lays her plan to ruins. “And the ice princess does indeed have a beating heart.”

Nesta tilts her chin higher at his drawl. Sniffs. She knows his delivery was designed to be taunting, but her insides are bristling. “Don’t read too much into it, I had a full stamp card.”

Ignoring her cold reply, Cassian appraises her as Marta froths the milk, the steam billowing plumes to the ceiling. And Nesta wishes that he’d stop looking at her like that. She knows that people think her cruel, but she’d thought that he had read her at least. That he knew there was more to her than barbed words and a frosty delivery.

It’s that thought that has her finally following through on her escape plan. Nesta turns so abruptly on her heel that the floor squeaks. But she doesn’t care, because she’s in control as she walks away from him and back to her seat. Because as far as Nesta is concerned this conversation is over and she can go back to her quiet, lonely life.

She doesn’t allow herself to violently jam her headphones back onto her head like she wants to. Instead, Nesta feigns complete calm and control. Starts up the brown white noise she had been listening to in the hope that it would help her to think clearly and corrects a typo so obvious she’s surprised she didn’t spot it before. 

Despite her word count, today has been painstaking. Every word feels jarred and off-kilter. As if she’s slipped beneath a veil and can’t get back to the other side. Instead, she’s stuck staring through the gauze at what should be whilst being unable to access it. Essentially, she’s writing a different, far worse version of the story she’s supposed to be telling and she can’t do anything about it. 

This is what has been happening lately. On the rare day Nesta can bare to open her laptop, her writing is simply wrong. The words desperately grasping at something out of reach. 

But this is the first time in months that Nesta has been able to even think about writing and she can’t afford to stop just because things feel off - and especially not because Cassian is here, existing in this coffee shop with her, cruelly surprised by her act of kindness. After all, Nesta has got bills to pay, a dingy apartment to rent. Being a writer has never been glamorous, but it’s never been less glamorous when your ability to do the thing that brings you income is virtually impossible. 

Nesta hammers away at the keyboard, aggressively deletes a sentence. Tries again. Fails to find the right synonym. She’s so busy stifling a scream, turning it inward until it roars dully inside of her, that it takes her a few seconds for that awareness to pull at her again. 

For her to realise that he’s right in front of her. 

Cassian has the audacity to look sheepish when Nesta appraises him with the most vicious glare she can summon. It should be the equivalent of a bullet to the heart but the corner of Cassian’s mouth just ticks up with a tentative hopefulness that Nesta will never understand. 

He gestures to the seat on the opposite side of her table. Mouths, “Can I?”

Or, Nesta supposes that he asks, but she hasn’t deigned to lift her headphones. Quickly, she darts her attention to the busy coffee shop - the full tables and the long queue out the door that indicates that there is absolutely nowhere else he can sit.

Nesta doesn’t continue look at him - can’t. Instead, she fixes her gaze resolutely back to the traitorous bit of writing on the screen before her, the blinking accusatory cursor that’s waiting for her to type something, and gives an order that’s short, perfunctory, and absolutely not to be disobeyed. “Be quiet.” 

Cassian sits. He does not say anything. Does not try and interrupt her death stare which is very much focussed on the damned blinking cursor.

Nesta makes herself write, every button on the keyboard she taps an attempt to erase his presence. But after a few minutes, she caves. Pushes her charging cable across the table to him without so much as a glance up at him. 

She ignores the warmth of his fingers as he takes it from her and plugs in his phone. Just continues typing the absolute shit that she’s been writing all day. The shit that she knows in her core will end up deleted tomorrow. 

Even so, Nesta makes herself persevere, trudging on with her work until she simply can’t anymore. She has no idea how much time has passed, but what she does know is that her tea is cold and Cassian’s double espresso is abandoned on the table, drained to the dregs.

But he’s still here, sitting back in his chair, his long legs like a table in themselves. But Nesta’s thoughts are dragged swiftly from his thighs the moment she spies the book in his large hands. The familiar cover. Her name. Her book.

The emotion comes so swift, so fast, Nesta feels almost breathless with it. She doesn’t know when she’s last felt this fiercely, this viscerally. 

She yanks her headphones off her head. The facade of boredom and indifference on her expression is eradicated as swiftly as someone snuffing out a candle. “What are you doing?”

Cassian does not lift his eyes to meet hers - and it’s not out of fear. Nothing changes on his expression as he turns the page of her latest book with the deliberation of someone hanging onto every word. If anything, he seems distracted by her - as if she’s bothering him from something important. “What does it look like?”

“Give me that,” she spits, but snatches the book from his hands before he has the opportunity and snaps it closed.

Finally, a reaction crawls across Cassian’s face. A slow grin, a light in his eyes pulsing like the beat of a heart. “Is now the time to tell you that I’ve read everything else that you’ve published?”

“It is not,” she snaps..

To Nesta’s surprise, Cassian does not laugh. Instead, his smile fades and he looks her dead in the eye, waiting until her fire stops spitting. Waiting until she’s really paying attention. “You write beautifully.”

It is nothing but sincere. Nesta knows, because she can read everyone. Usually she finds it exhausting, reading every tell, the smallest shift in facial expression. But with Cassian, she finds herself wanting to know - greedy. 

Heat floods to her cheeks before she can stop it. She looks away from him. “Thank you,” she mutters - without thinking. Then, because it feels like a crack in her armour, she sniffs, “I didn’t think you knew how to read.”

This time, Cassian does laugh, the sound rough and lovely - warm. “Then it turns out I’m full of surprises, Nesta Archeron.”

They leave together in some unspoken agreement that Nesta can’t explain. All she knows is that when she finally scans her writing for the day, truly acknowledges to herself that it’s absolutely useless and that her career is over, the snap of laptop as it closed shut has Cassian shouldering on his rucksack. 

It’s raining outside, the sort of fine drizzle that coats your hair and clothes like fuzz. At the street corner, beneath the weak lamplight, Nesta’s phone starts to buzz. Her laptop bag is only looped over one shoulder to stop the strap rubbing at the scabs on her back, and Nesta tries to juggle the weight of it to free the phone trapped in her pocket, only for it to clatter to the floor. 

Cassian swoops down at the same time that she does, and she’s already thrown off by dropping her phone that the fast movement has her startling, jumping away from him, creating that distance her body needs to feel safe. 

Slowly, Cassian straightens. When he holds out her phone, his arm stretching across the distance between them, it’s with such deliberation that Nesta would pray for the pavement to swallow her up if her heart didn’t feel as if it’s fluttering in her mouth, trying to get out.

For a moment, Nesta studies his outstretched arm. Tries to dull the skittering tempo of her heart before she snatches the phone from him.

She can’t help the additional step she takes away from him.

And it’s not him that’s the threat - it’s the one specific ghost that shadows her every step - but Cassian’s eyes harden. “Who hurt you?”

His question sets Nesta’s heart clamouring even harder. And Nesta feels sick that not only he knows, but that he’s trying to talk to her about it when nobody else dares. It makes her angry again. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Snorting with derision, Nesta pockets her phone. “What so you can be a knight in shining armour? Ride in on a stallion decked out ready for war? What’s in the past is in the past.”

“You believe that?”

At her look of confusion Cassian continues. He does not step towards her, but it feels like it. The distance between them suddenly feels as intimate as the sudden dip in his voice. “You flinch if someone touches you without permission. When someone makes a sudden movement you’re not expecting, you rear back. Last week at the club, when that guy you left with touched the small of your back, you jumped out of your skin.”

Nesta begins to walk because she can’t do it, she can’t look at him and have this conversation that she won’t have with anyone - including herself. “Sounds to me like you’re possessing some stalker-like qualities that you might want to address in your next therapy session, sweetheart.”

Her feet start to eat up the wet pavement, but Cassian keeps up with her as if he’s merely taking a stroll. Nesta doesn’t have to look at him to understand how dark his eyes have become, how they are dissecting her. Ripping her apart, her mask nothing but tattered and bloody ribbons.

“Sounds to me like you don’t know how to deal with someone who actually pays attention to you.”

Nesta’s nostrils flare. “I don’t want someone to pay attention to me. What I want is to live a male-free life unless its on my terms on a wine-fuelled Friday night.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She stops so abruptly anyone would bump into her. But not Cassian. He halts in tandem with her. Merely watches her in a way that has her hackles cresting like a wave. 

Her eyes turn to slits and that fated finger she uses on the rarest of occasions comes out, wielded like a weapon. “Are you judging me?”

“Nesta,” Cassian starts, before he stops. Sighs. “Despite what you might think about me, I’m not  a dick. Your body is your body — one that I greatly enjoyed by the way—”

Before he can continue, Nesta cuts him off. “I don’t look at anyone twice.”

Cassian’s head tilts, just slightly, but the movement is there. “Well, that’s simply not true, is it?”

Nesta actually snorts at the audacity of him. “You’re delusional.”

“What’s delusional is you pretending that our midnight tryst isn’t some of the best sex you’ve ever had.”

“Stop it.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“I said stop it.”

And her words are so sharp that Cassian raises his hands in surrender. Lowers them slowly, as if she’s a spooked animal - which she is.

“All right,” he concedes softly and she can tell from his pained expression that he regrets pushing her this far. “Can I walk you home at least?”

Nesta doesn’t deny him that. She can’t.

They walk in a silence that is as heavy as the swollen clouds overhead, bursting with words that will never be said. 

Only when they draw up beside the gate to her block of flats, does Cassian speak. “Consider my gentlemanly duties complete.”

Nesta has the impression that he wanted to deliver an over-flourished bow but didn’t want to risk her wrath. But Nesta has a lump in her throat from earlier that she can’t get rid of, so she questions, “Gentlemanly?”

One dark eyebrow rises in surprises, quickly playing along. “Knight in shining armour?”

“No,” Nesta tells him bluntly and when a laugh breaks out of Cassian, Nesta thinks it might be one of the loveliest things she’s ever seen. On her first impression in that shadowy bar, Cassian had been dark, rugged and mysterious. And he’s still all of those things. But when he laughs, his face comes alive in a way that allows Nesta to glimpse something softer. Something kind.

Nesta doesn’t know the last time a man treated her kindly. 

The sound of the gate clicking open when Nesta swipes her fob against the keypad is so loud its intrusive. It cuts through Nesta’s thoughts. Reminds her what’s important.

“Don’t talk to Feyre.”

The intensity on Cassian’s expression deepens. “About the amazing sex we had or the fact you’ve clearly been assaulted?”

“Both.”

Cassian’s arm twitches and Nesta has the distinct impression he had intended to lay his hand upon her arm before deciding against it. Instead, he snares her gaze and it feels like falling, being drawn in, reeled so close that the distance between them is suddenly nothing but intimate.

“I would never, Nesta.”

The words are so solemn, so sincere, that something twists inside of Nesta - like a rag being wrung of water.

The feeling hurts, like that ache before you cry, because he knows that despite the fact she’s been nothing but horrible to him, he cares about her. 

But Nesta doesn’t deserve his empathy, so her nod is curt and perfunctory. 

“Good,” she tells him. 

The cold metal of the gate bites through her gloves as she pushes it open. She waits until it clangs closed before, on spontaneity, she turns back to look at him. Separated by the metal bars Nesta feels safe and it’s that protection which has her guard dropping. 

And for a moment, Nesta feels as if she’s just a girl talking to a guy. No past to haunt her, no ghosts. Just them.

“Don’t forget your wallet next time.”

There’s a beat of silence. And Nesta knows it to be surprise, but then one corner of Cassian’s mouth ticks upwards again and with it, the world keeps turning. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @lovelynesta @melphss @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @fanboy7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @valkyriesupremacy @vidalinav @onceupona-chaos @inardour @thesunremembersyourface @teagoddess99 @misswonderflower @nessiantrashh​ @miamorganvel18 @kawaiteacup @nestaa-stan @castielspelvis @haigrr @dont-take-life-to-seriously @dontgetsalmonella 

[needsmoreknives]

this really does place a big obstacle in the way of the "Osha joins Qimir and Mae teams up with Sol" theory though. If I was Mae and Sol was narrating this shit to me I would pick up a brick and not stop smashing till he stopped twitching. the moment homegirls hands are free Sol better dodge

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

post canon evildead is trying to rip my heart out

[wordsmithwhumpsandfluff]

Can I please request a concussion story. A bad concussion and a character that just refuses to go to the hospital even though they feel and are soooo sick:)

This took a lil longer than I thought it would🥲.

!emeto warning!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Who brought chips?” Eliana asked, shouting so everyone who was scattered around Jordan’s apartment could hear.

“Not me,” Birdie said from across Jordan’s huge living room. “I brought the cookies.”

“I brought the charcuterie board,” Amberlynn shouted from Jordan’s guest room where she was collecting all the pillows and blankets she could. “I brought facemasks, too, by the way.”

“I think Oliver’s bringing chips,” Jordan said, hugging El from behind and kissing her cheek. “But if he’s not, we’re screwed.”

Spirit was in the kitchen, music blaring on her headphones and chopping tomatoes and basil. She was the only one who hadn’t brought anything since they’d all agreed to put her in charge of cooking. The apartment smelled incredible, filled with the scent of the five small pizzas she was making, one for each of them. Except one for Birdie who hated pizza, and Spirit was making pasta for her.

Amberlynn came out of the guest bedroom, carrying a mountain of pillows and blankets to the couch that she couldn’t even see. She was going in the wrong direction, towards the kitchen, and Birdie laughed as she helped to guide the poor girl.

Suddenly, the front door opened and Oliver came in, a few grocery bags in hand. “Hey,” he said, smiling as he went to the kitchen with the bags.

“Did you bring chips?” Eliana asked, walking over to her phone on the coffee table so she could put on some music.

“Yeah,” Oliver answered.

Eliana let out a dramatic sigh, loudly groaning, “Thank God!”

Oliver chuckled. “I’ve got Salt & Vinegar, Cheetos, kettle chips, Doritos, and tortilla chips with salsa.”

Spirit, for the first time since she started cooking, lifted one of her headphones to focus on Oliver. “You brought salsa?” she asked, and Birdie cackled because of all things, it was salsa that got Spirit’s attention.

All the chips were put into bowls, the salsa in a little dip dish, the cookies on a plate, and all of the stuff was put on Jordan’s coffee table along with the charcuterie board. Spirit took the pizzas out of the oven to cool, and the fun began.

Jordan had a hoard of boardgames—they were kind of an obsession of hers—and they played one after the other. Jordan won Monopoly. Spirit won Trouble. The game UNO became intense, and Amberlynn won that one. As for Birdie, she won everything else—Clue, Connect 4, Guess Who, etc…

Oliver and Eliana won nothing, but Eliana was fine with that since she was having fun styling and un-styling her girlfriend’s hair over and over, and Oliver was enjoying himself too much to care about winning or losing.

When they ate the pizzas that Spirit made—and Birdie ate her pasta—they put on The Devil Wears Prada and watched that until the movie ended around midnight.

Facemasks came after that, and all six of them took selfies in the bathroom mirror.

For over an hour, they all just talked about whatever they could think of. Spirit ate more than half of the tortilla chips with salsa—mainly because it was the hot kind of salsa and not the mild kind—and Amberlynn suggested that they should make hot chocolate, even though she ate the most out of all of them.

By two in the morning, Jordan had literally fallen asleep on the living room rug, and instead of waking her up to move her, Eliana just threw a blanket on top of the girl.

“Can I shower first?” Oliver asked, holding his PJs that he’d quickly gotten from his car.

“Go ahead,” Eliana said, focused on painting an elaborate starry design on Amberlynn’s nails.

“Fine with me,” Spirit said, watching Demon Slayer on her phone while Birdie began to also doze off with her head on Spirit’s lap.

Oliver went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel from a closet on his way there.

The music in the living room was still playing. He was quietly singing along to Light Switch by Charlie Puth—the song currently playing—as he stepped into the shower. Jordan had a habit of taking all of the tiny shampoos, conditioners and mini-soaps from hotels, so Oliver was using some of those.

The song in the living room changed, and suddenly TongueTied by Grouplove was playing, and Oliver couldn’t help but bounce on his heels a bit to the beat of the song while mouthing along to the lyrics.

He quickly regretted that decision when, suddenly, he slipped because of the soapy water and fell back, too quick for him to even react. He didn’t even yelp, but he did grunt when his head hit the wall, hard.

He opened his eyes, blinking heavily, and then closed them again. After five minutes or so, he opened them again, confused for a second. There was a ringing in his ears, and he felt dizzy.

He sat up, groaning and planting a hand on the back of his head, massaging the sore spot there. The hot water still rushing over him made the spot sting a bit.

He stayed sitting for a second before he felt steady enough to stand and get out of the shower. He got in his PJs, and left the bathroom, the back of his head still throbbing.

No one mentioned hearing any kind of thud from the bathroom, and Oliver realized they must not have heard it with the music still playing, and he was thankful because he honestly felt a little embarrassed about it.

Birdie was zonked out on the couch, so Spirit showered next. Then El, and then Amber.

Later, Eliana and Amberlynn were playing a round of Connect 4 by themselves, and Spirit was still watching anime when Oliver suddenly felt really exhausted.

He grabbed one of the many pillows and blankets, curled up on a sofa chair, and fell asleep.

— — —

At four in the morning, Oliver woke up with his head pounding. Not just hurting like a headache, but absolutely throbbing!

He groaned, pressing a hand to his temple as he blinked dizzily, trying to remember where he was. Suddenly, he noticed that in the dark room, Spirit was still awake on the couch, on her phone with her headphones on. Everyone else was asleep now.

Oliver uncurled, on the sofa chair, resting his elbows on his knees and clutching his head in his hands. He could feel saliva pooling in his mouth. The floor was swaying beneath him—

“Oliver?”

The voice was too loud.

“You okay?” Spirit asked, her voice actually pretty quiet since everyone else was asleep.

Oliver looked up at her tiredly. “I’m fine,” he whispered, yawning and then wincing when that caused a spike of pain in his head. Then he asked her, “Why’re you still awake?”

She stayed quiet, saying nothing for a minute before shrugging and saying, “Not tired.”

Oliver was in too much pain to notice if there was something off about Spirit’s answer.

Dizzily, he halfheartedly mumbled something about going to the bathroom and stood, only to immediately sway on his feet and almost fall back down. His head felt detached from his body and all too heavy at the same time. . . if that made any sense at all?

Spirit noticed his slight stumble and looked up from her phone, taking out her headphones. She watched as Oliver stumbled weirdly over to the bathroom. But maybe he was just still half-asleep?

Spirit was about to put her headphones back on when she heard Oliver let out a pained yell that startled her. “Oliver?” she asked, her alarmed voice loud enough to have the others stir and to have Birdie groan and blink awake.

Birdie rubbed her eyes and mumbled, “Spirit, why’re you awake?”

Spirit didn’t answer, standing and all but jogging over to the bathroom. The door was open, the light was on, and Oliver wasn’t even all the way inside, curled up on his knees in the doorway with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clutching his head, fingers pulling at his hair.

“Shit,” Spirit cursed, crouching beside him and putting a hand on his back. “Oliver, what’s wrong?” She wasn’t whispering, and the loudness of her voice caused Oliver to whimper and making his face screw with pain. Tears even began to roll from his eyes, and Spirit had no idea what to do.

Just as she was about to go wake up the others, Oliver gagged, and the force was enough to make the pain double in his head.

“Crap. Okay, let’s go to the toilet,” Spirit said, softening her voice to try and sound comforting, not because she realized that she was being too loud earlier. “Just a few steps.”

Oliver groaned as Spirit made him stand up, taking on almost all of his weight, and brought him over to the toilet.

He hovered over it, eyes still squeezed shut in agony. “Thh’lit,” he murmured quietly, and Spirit had to lean forward a bit to hear him try again and mumble, “The light. . . h-hurts.”

Eyes widening, Spirit stood and quickly turned the lights off. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, and she crouched beside Oliver again. “What’s going on? Is this a migraine or something?” Oliver didn’t get migraines though. Right?

His eyes were still closed, but not squeezed shut so tightly anymore. He didn’t answer though, and he gagged before bringing up a stream of half-digested puke into the toilet, sobbing from the pain that the force of puking brought to his skull.

Spirit’s eyes widened even more. “Shit. Why are you crying, Oliver? What’s wrong?” Spirit wasn’t a soft person, but Oliver was literally the sweetest person alive, and seeing him crying and in pain brought out this very very rare side of Spirit.

“Head. . . hurrrts,” he groaned before gagging again.

“Spirit? What’s going on?”

Spirit turned her head and saw Birdie standing in the doorway, looking confused and stunned.

“Bird,” Spirit, sighed, sounding relieved. “Something’s wrong with Oliver. Wake the others up, and then call Keiko. I don’t know what—”

Suddenly, Oliver threw up again. The sound of liquid hitting liquid made Birdie gag, and Spirit whisper-yelled, “Go!”

Birdie went back to the living room, and Oliver groaned, coughing and spitting up a small stream of bile.

Suddenly, Amberlynn and Eliana came to the bathroom, and Spirit heard Jordan on the phone in the living room.

“What’s going on?” Amberlynn asked, crouching down next to Spirit. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Spirit said, rubbing Oliver’s back. “I was awake and he went to the bathroom, and he says that his head—”

Spirit was cut off when Eliana suddenly turned on the lights and the sudden brightness made Oliver cry out in pain, once again clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Turn off the fucking light!” Spirit whisper-yelled at Eliana, and the girl quickly shut the light back off, whispering, “sorry sorry sorry!”

Oliver threw up again, chocking on his sick a bit and Spirit thumped his back lightly to help.

“His head hurts,” Spirit said. “I don’t know why though. He doesn’t get migraines, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Amberlynn said, reaching a hand forward to cup Oliver’s forehead. He didn’t have a fever.

Oliver groaned, spitting into the toilet and murmuring, “I don’ffffeel good.”

Jordan came to the bathroom then, her phone still pressed to her ear. “Keiko’s on his way. He asked what’s wrong with him.” Her voice was alarmed and too loud, and Oliver let out a whine, wincing.

“Lower your voice,” Amberlynn said, her voice soft. “He has a headache and he’s throwing up a lot.”

Spirit looked away from Oliver, focusing on Jordan. “Tell Kei that Oliver’s sensitive to light and loud sounds. He’s in a lot of pain.”

Jordan repeated the words to her brother, her voice now quieter. After a second, Jordan said to Spirit, “Kei says to feel through his hair to check if there’s some kind of bump or something.”

Check for a concussion? Spirit was a bit unsure that a concussion would be the case, but she began gently feeling through Oliver’s hair anyway. Lo and behold, she felt a bump on the back of his scalp that made him grimace and whimper when she touched it.

“Shit,” she sighed. “Kei’s right. I think he’s concussed.”

El’s and Amberlynn’s eyes both widened.

“How the hell did he get concussed?” El asked, looking shocked. “He was fine earlier.”

“I don’t know, but that’s not important right now.” Spirit squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “Are you done?” she asked in a voice that shocked the other girls in the bathroom. Spirit noticed their surprise and her cheeks flushed a bit with embarrassment, but she ignored them and focused on Oliver.

He spat one more time in the toilet before nodding.

“Okay.” Spirit looked at Amberlynn. “Help me get him up.”

Jordan was still talking to Keiko on the phone while they half-dragged Oliver out of the bathroom.

Birdie—not wanting to deal with the puking—had instead helped by bringing some pillows and blankets back to the guest room and setting it up for them to bring Oliver there.

By the time Oliver was lying on the bed, he was almost completely out of it because of the pain.

“Should we take him to the hospital?” Birdie whispered from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the blankets up to Oliver’s chin and gently rubbing a hand on his forehead. Birdie had naturally cold hands, and her cool skin was a comforting feeling to Oliver.

“Maybe,” Eliana shrugged, sounding unsure.

Oliver frowned. “I don’need a ‘sspital. I’mfffine.”

Spirit scoffed at his slurred disagreement, and Jordan repeated Birdie’s question to Keiko. After a second, she said, “Keiko says that taking him to the hospital would be the best idea. He’ll meet us there.”

“Noooo,” Oliver whined, shifting on the bed. “Mmmm’fine. I’m okay. Jusss’ a lil’dizzy.”

Amberlynn frowned at him. “Oliver, you can barely speak.” She looked at the others. “Should we call an ambulance, or should we just drive him there?”

“I can drive,” Spirit said, leaving the room to grab her keys.

Oliver was pouting while blinking dizzily at his friends. Despite the fact that the world felt like it was spinning and his head was pounding, he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not for any particular reason other than he just didn’t want to. “I don’nneed t’go to the ‘spital.”

Amberlynn and Jordan got shoes and a jacket on Oliver before trying to get him on his feet again.

He whined as soon as he was upright, knees buckling and almost taking the girls down. His feet were nearly dragging as they took him out of the apartment.

When they got out to the parking lot, Spirit had gotten her car and pulled it up so they didn’t have to walk far.

“Get him lying down in the back,” Spirit instructed. “We can’t all fit in my car. “Jor, you come with us. The rest of you, follow in Amberlynn’s car.”

Spirit’s tone had all of them listening. Once Oliver was in the back seat, Jordan got in the passenger side with Keiko still on the phone. The rest of the girls went straight to Amberlynn’s car since Birdie had grabbed all of their phones, wallets and keys beforehand.

Spirit was a fast but safe driver, and made sure they were going quick while being smooth enough to not rattle Oliver in the back seat.

Jordan looked at Spirit and noticed her grip on the wheel was so tight that her knuckles were pale. “Hey,” Jordan whispered, making Spirit jump slightly; a show of how tense she was. “Everything’s fine,” Jordan assured her.

Spirit nodded, letting out a deep breath. “So much for sleepover night,” she grumbled.

Jordan let out her own sigh before whispering, this time more for her own sake than Spirit’s, “Everything’s fine.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 2?????

[3katanas]

@levixthxn-thegirl liked for a starter for Ambrosine!

"I don't give a shit who she is, you attacked her while she was under our protection." Arms folded over his chest he stood in front of her smaller frame, a solid wall blocking her from the bounty hunters that had tried to claim her. The two of them deep in the woods looking for the herbs that Chopper required to heal a strange sickness that had overcome half of the crew. It was curable....if they could find an herb. One that he'd guessed would be difficult to locate even without a time crunch.

Which was why he'd asked the owner of the apothecary to assist, guessing that she'd know where different herbs and ingredients could be found. Thus, until she was done helping their crew, in his opinion, she was under their protection. Meaning these assholes weren't touching her no matter how fucking high her bounty apparently was.

[scatterbrainedcoree]

Are you a Character.Ai user?

I don’t have an account on it but yeah (I mostly just use the web version of it)