#candle holder wall mounted | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theteasetwrites · 4 months

Text

Begin Again

Chapter 3: Éveil

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: none ❧ Word Count: 5.5k

❧ In This Chapter: You awaken in what seems to be a convent, crawling with nuns. When you find Daryl, you must come up with the next move in order to get home, but your current circumstances complicated things as your trust in the strange nuns proves thin.

❧ A/N: Hey there! Long time no see. So um I'm still doing this writing thing, believe it or not. And I'm working on this series slowly but surely. The second season of DD is supposedly coming out in September, so I have some more time to finish up season 1! Well, as much of it as I can. Anyway, enjoy this long-awaited third installment. Reader meets Isabelle... there's some tension there for sure. But who knows? Maybe they'll become friends <3

You woke with a start, your heart racing as soon as your eyes shot open. Above you, there was a thin drape of natural linen—a canopy. Underneath you, a rather firm bed.

Looking around, you tried to make sense of your surroundings, to assess your safety. No walkers, but the place was so different from the last you remembered. What stood out to you most was the crucifix, directly across the room and mounted high upon the wall. A less than welcoming motif.

At your right, a small wooden table, upon which sat a burning candle with wax beginning to drip down the iron holder. A glass of water was beckoning to you, so you sat up quickly, tearing the neatly tucked blankets off your body and reaching over to take it in your hands. The liquid soothed your sore, dry throat as you drank it greedily, letting it dribble down your chin and onto some fabric that adorned your body. You looked down—you weren’t in your own clothes, but a white woolen frock that reached your calves. You’d had an extensive collection of nighties and lingerie back at home, but this was much more… modest for your taste, with wool sleeves and a high neckline that threatened to cut off your breathing.

Without another moment’s hesitation, you raised yourself to your feet, bundled up in thick hand-knitted socks that protected them from the chill of the old wooden floor beneath you. You moved slowly, steadily, until your dizziness took over, causing you to grasp at the bedside table and shake the wobbly little structure until the glass fell to the floor, breaking into a hundred tiny shards.

But that was hardly noticeable to you as you came to, remembering everything you could before you had blacked out: the young French woman and her grandfather, the two paramilitary men, the mysterious blurred figure approaching as your eyesight faded to black… Your memory faded in and out after that, with only snippets of what must’ve happened since you passed out. You recalled what seemed to be… nuns. They were women dressed in long white gowns, their heads shrouded in hoods that framed their faces.

That wasn’t all you remembered, though. There was a faint memory of a scream echoing through your mind, a scream that you’d only heard a few times in your life, but you knew it. It was a scream of agony, which had riled you up in your stupor as the nuns had tried to restrain you last night. You recalled the panic, the fear as you heard him cry out in abject pain, the screams echoing through the walls from somewhere else, somewhere not too far away.

The memory made you move, your shaky but determined steps taking you towards the door of the room you’d been seemingly confined to, with several other unoccupied beds lining the walls. But your head was dizzied from the sudden movement as equilibrium took its time to set in. Your body careening swiftly towards the wall, you clung to the dark fabric of a curtain. The light of the window it draped over was enough to shock you into coherence, or at least some semblance of it. Pushing back the fabric, your eyes adjusted to the bright, cool light of the morning.

The window gave way to a new scene playing outside, in a courtyard. You made out old, pale bricks forming elaborate arches encircling a slightly overgrown, yet somehow cared for, garden. Tall cypress trees that seemed particularly well maintained reached up to the open air, where voices echoed between the walls of the courtyard. Speaking in French, of course, so you couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but a child’s voice chimed above the others.

As your eyes began to collaborate with your ears, you pinpointed the child in the courtyard—a boy. Or at least, you assumed to be a boy. You couldn’t make out his face, as he was wearing a… helmet. A silver knight’s helmet that must’ve compromised his vision as he stumbled around, two rusty tin cans strapped to the bottom of his feet to make him almost taller than the nuns that playfully chased him. In his hand, a small wooden sword.

Chickens scurried around as the boy wobbled on his tin cans, brandishing the sword at the veiled women chittering around him in amusement. The boy could not keep balanced, however, making a wrong step as he lunged towards the nuns, only to stumble onto the ground. A few of the nuns quickly swarmed him, doting on the boy with pitiful “aw’s” and other expressions of overbearing, smothering concern that you as a mother were not unfamiliar with.

But this scene was just a distraction, a pointless waste of time that could’ve been spent finding your other half. Pulling yourself away from the support of the wall, you pressed on towards the door. You stumbled forward, just about to reach for the doorknob when the doors were pushed open from the other side, startling you backwards momentarily.

A young nun, one you could vaguely recognize, stood in front of you, her dark brown eyes wide and her hands outstretched as if to usher you back to bed. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she exclaimed slightly, though you could not bother to even attempt to translate with what little you had picked up from your French-to-English dictionary.

The nun came forward as you tried to side-step around her, but her hands grabbed onto your shoulders, her worried face matched up with yours. This time, she spoke in English, “You must lie down. You need rest.”

Dizzied but determined, you shook your head so hard you swore you could feel your brain bouncing off the interior of your skull. “No.”

Despite a brief struggle, you pushed past her, limping slightly as you came into a narrow hallway that opened into a bright corridor of arched windows, letting in the nearly blinding sunlight that momentarily obscured your sensitive vision.

There was no time to ask questions, and no time to wonder how on Earth you ended up in a… convent. All that concerned you now was finding Daryl, whose cries of torture and pain still echoed inside your head. God only knew what they had done to him, and you didn’t trust a nun as far as you could throw one. Though you yourself hadn’t grown up Catholic, you’d had a childhood friend who did, and her horror stories of the corrupt church she grew up in were enough to keep you mostly guarded when it came to Catholicism and its most ardent practitioners.

You could feel the nun behind you, walking quickly to keep up with your pace. At one point, she grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to look at her again. You huffed in aggravation, combined with the irritability that accompanied your worry.

“You must rest,” she said, squeezing your hand gently.

But you yanked your hand away, too frustrated to even try to say anything back. You turned around again, making your way to the first door across the hall, in the hopes it would lead you to wherever Daryl might be.

The large wooden doors creaked as you pushed them open, into a room not unlike the one you’d woken up in. Much the same, actually, except for the bathtub at the far end of the room, on which your eyes set first, because Daryl’s soaking wet head turned around and looked your way, his face relaxing in relief, yet still cautious as the nun beside him looked up at you, dropping the wet rag in her hand into the water.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Your lips tightened as your back straightened to stand up a little taller, more rigidly. The wave of relief that washed over you was soon overpowered by combined confusion and embarrassment… with just maybe a tad bit of irrational resentment of the rather attractive French nun ostensibly bathing your naked and possibly disoriented husband. You supposed you had a right to be just a little skeptical.

“You’re awake,” said the nun, smiling at you in a way you could not quite find very comforting. Her intention seemed innocent, as did that of the other nun, but perhaps you just could not get past the habit, yours and hers. “I see you’ve met Sylvie.”

She nodded towards the nun behind you. You followed her gaze. The younger, shyer nun bowed her head, remaining silent before scurrying away. One less nun to deal with, you supposed.

“My name is Isabelle,” she said. Her English seemed more confident than that of Sylvie, her accent sounding almost more English than it did French. “You must be (Y/N).” Isabelle must’ve sensed your immediate discomfort at the fact that she seemed to already know your name. She perked up to say, “Daryl was quite concerned about you, asking where you were. Of course, you were asleep.”

“And now I’m awake,” you replied softly, but with a somewhat stern tone.

In your mind, you faced a very sudden dilemma, an almost amusingly irrational conflict of thoughts. What you knew in your head and your heart to be the most sensible belief was that these nuns seemed good-natured, taking in two injured strangers and providing them shelter. Perhaps they could even somehow aid in your journey home. After all, that was what you wanted: people who could help.

But there was that doubt that contradicted all your hopeful rhetoric. That possibility that these nuns could be some sort of a clandestine cabal of cannibals or a bloodthirsty band of brutes in disguise as meek servants of God. You’d seen stranger things before, heard of stranger things, too. It had to always be considered when approaching new groups, especially in a world where the likelihood of someone killing you was higher than the likelihood of them helping you with seemingly altruistic intent.

And then, of course, was the part of you that you were embarrassed to even think about. The part of you that was purely annoyed at this Isabelle for having the audacity to bathe your husband… But you had to repress that thought, because you knew it was just a very petty, irrational, ridiculously juvenile jealousy that was skewing your first impressions of this woman.

However, you figured you’d cut yourself a little slack and allow yourself the momentary annoyance, considering you’d never once in your relationship ever been jealous of another woman. You figured this one moment of weakness wouldn’t sully your track record, especially considering just how much your skull felt as though someone had reemed into it with a battering ram.

The silence did not become less awkward, of course, only more heavy, with you practically staring down this strange nun whose balance of gentleness and seriousness seemed to challenge yours, and with Daryl sitting naked in a bathtub, probably not very comfortable.

“Well,” sighed Isabelle, picking up a few towels in her arms as she walked by you, that small smile still on her face, “I’ll go fetch you some fresh clothes.”

Your eyes followed her as she shut the doors behind her. You couldn’t help but be suspicious, after all.

With a huff, you quickly moved to the large tin tub at the center of the room, where Daryl began to lift himself out, but you wordlessly stopped him, kneeling down and gently grabbing his shoulder with enough pressure to coerce him back into the soapy water.

You eyed his skin carefully, searching for any injuries you might’ve not seen, or ones that he might’ve gotten while you were asleep. The one that drew the most attention, though, was the hand-shaped burn on his left forearm, the one that worried you so much that you were sure you’d dreamt about it in your restless sleep.

It looked different now, much more healed, despite the clear indication that it had been through more trauma—more burning. In fact, you knew the look of it.

“They cauterized it,” you said to yourself, taking the cloth the nun had left floating in the cloudy lukewarm water. You rolled up your long sleeves and took his arm, carefully washing around the wound. “I heard you screaming last night. I thought they had you in some… medieval torture device.”

He watched you intently scrubbing further up his arm, your face concentrated on the task at hand, as if you were inspecting Isabelle’s ability to properly bathe him. Afterall, you were the world’s only authority on the subject.

“Was just a hot stick,” he said, the soft gravel in his voice offering immediate relief to your somewhat frazzled state. “Said it stopped it from spreading.”

The term spreading frightened you. Did that mean the burn would’ve covered his whole body? Or that the burn soon would’ve caused Daryl to turn? Everyday you learned more about a new walker variant, you missed the days when you assumed they were all the same basic dead people with a propensity for biting things.

“Well,” you said, “I’m glad they did it.” That was about the only courtesy you would offer those nuns.

Now dabbing the cloth along his collar bone, you began to reach his neck and face, where wet strands of his long dark hair clung like sinuous clumps of tangled seaweed. Your other hand carefully pulled back each piece of hair until you could properly see his face—the scar that ran over and under his left eye, and the new cut on his forehead that still worried you.

“I wonder if they have something to put on that.”

“She did,” he said, and for a moment, you had no idea who he meant. “The, uh, nun.”

Oh, her.

“Isabelle?”

Chewing his lower lip, in the way he often did, he grumbled a low, “Mhm.”

“She… put it on?”

“Yeah. Honey garlic, or somethin’.”

Honey garlic? What a bitch.

“That was nice of her.” You swallowed hard, annoyed by how annoyed you were. She did something nice, she helped your husband. Your sudden jealousy almost terrified even you.

Of course, Daryl could sense it, that odd feeling of distaste you had for her actions. He knew you well enough to know that, when it came to taking care of him, you were the only one qualified to do so. Anyone else stepping on your toes, albeit well-intentioned, was going to get you a little bit out-of-step.

It was almost amusing, though, he had to admit. Afterall, he’d never seen you like this. It was subtle, but he noticed it, and it was clear that you were, despite all your composure, a bit jealous.

Daryl knew jealousy very well. It was a silly emotion to have in the context of your relationship, considering there was no distrust nor betrayal in any sense, but sometimes, he simply couldn’t help his attitude when a man back in Alexandria or the Commonwealth or even back at the prison got a little too comfortable around you. He’d never do anything irrational, but his thoughts would run wild, mostly born of his own insecurity.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen ya jealous before,” he said, watching you lift his arm to scrub underneath.

You almost dropped his arm as you looked at him, wide-eyed, then broke out into a small laugh, as if to hide your embarrassment. “Jealous? Jealous of what?”

He tilted his head at your act. He knew you knew exactly what he meant. “The nun givin’ me a bath.”

Somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief, you stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a twitching smile, culminating in a dismissive scoff.

“Please. I have a lot more to worry about than some… French nun. She didn’t do a very good job, anyway.”

“Yeah,” agreed Daryl, watching you scrub his chest with uninhibited enthusiasm. “She didn’t get in all the nooks and crannies like you always do.”

You scoffed. “Well, I certainly hope not.”

He huffed out a laugh under his breath, which you quickly caught.

“What?”

“You’re jealous, angel.”

Despite the blush blooming upon your cheeks, your lips straightened into a tight line. Daryl flinched slightly as you half-heartedly whipped the wet rag against his chest.

“Stop it. I’m not jealous, that��s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you got nothin’ to be jealous of.”

A small smirk lifted your blushing cheeks. Only Daryl could flirt with you in a convent somewhere in France and still make you feel like a schoolgirl.

And only Daryl could flirt with such a straight face, his eyes doing most of the talking as he roamed your body, somewhere between checking you out and checking you for injuries.

But he couldn’t see much beyond the modest nightgown that covered most of your body, all the way up to your neck.

“Ain’t ever seen ya in a nightgown like that neither.”

Your eyes followed his as you looked down your chest, examining the large white cotton thing draped over your body.

“Mm, you like it?”

He straightened up in the bath, making the cloudy lukewarm water splash against the sides of the tub. Of course, he’d find you adorable even if you were dressed in a trash bag.

“Yeah. Real cute… Help me outta this thing, would ya?” He winced as he tried to lift himself out of the tub, his soaking wet arms straining hard. If you were at home, you might’ve taken the opportunity to admire his well-developed muscles, but the situation was much too unfamiliar for such a thing.

So you stood up, grabbing his forearms as he winced in pained soreness. His weight made you strain hard to help him, but soon he gained his footing and stepped out of the tub, dripping water all over the stone tile.

In a rush, you turned to grab a fresh towel, left by Isabelle, you presumed. Despite knowing he was more than capable of drying himself, perhaps a part of you wanted to make up for the attention that the nun had given him earlier, so you wrapped the towel snug around his shoulders, your hands running up and down his arms to dry them.

The room was silent for a while as you focused intently on towel-drying him. He watched in slight fascination at your diligence, his eyes never leaving your concentrated face despite your eyes never meeting his.

Cute, was indeed the word that came to his mind during this moment, a little pocket of intimacy and affection within the confusion and peril of the unfamiliar world in which you found yourselves now.

At least, he thought, you were with him, because he wasn’t quite sure he could get very far without you.

“We’re getting out of here, right?” you asked, reaching up to wrap the towel around his head and knead his hair dry as he scrunched up his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Soon as I get some clothes on.”

Indeed, the first step to getting out of here was getting Daryl dressed, lest he walk around naked in a French convent and scar a few nuns for life. You turned to look around you, until your eyes landed on a neatly folded stack of clothing, sitting on a wobbly wicker chair. As Daryl was left to dry himself, you lifted the first article—a sweater, made of charcoal colored wool. It looked just about Daryl’s size, and you always liked the rare occasions on which he wore the sweaters you picked out for him, so the outfit the nun had chosen for him was so far granted your stamp of fashion approval.

Next, a long pair of wool pants, black in color. The waist was quite wide, you reckoned. You were all too familiar with Daryl’s build—widest in the shoulders, slimmest at the waist. He’d lost some weight recently, too, on account of extensive traveling all over the east side of the States, and the fact that you weren’t able to make him cookies for the last several weeks. You were sure these pants would fall off him about as soon as he’d slip them on.

“These are way too big,” you sighed. “We’ll have to see if—”

But as soon as you lifted the pants, two more articles of clothing revealed themselves at the bottom of the neat little pile: a set of off-white cotton briefs, which amused you greatly, as Daryl’s usual underwear consisted of boxers, and a pair of… Suspenders?

A smile split your face as you held back a small chitter at the sight.

“Never mind,” you simply said, holding up the brown striped suspenders for him to see. “These will hold them up.”

He looked up at you as he dried his feet. His face was contorted in mild confusion, having never really paid much attention to such an old-fashioned accessory. “What the hell are those?”

“Suspenders. You know.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed, beginning to slide the briefs up his legs. “Yeah, think my grandpappy wore those. I’m not.”

“Why not?” you asked, a slightly disappointed pout to your lips. “You’d look cute.”

He tilted his head in lighthearted annoyance at the thought. “I’m not tryin’ to look cute.”

Of course, you knew that, and you knew that yours and Daryl’s mission was one of utmost seriousness. You couldn’t be distracted by moments of humor or amusement. However, you also knew that Daryl’s practical, survivalist nature would be more responsive to your persuasion if you took a new angle in this approach.

“Daryl,” you said, watching him pull up the pants that were, as you predicted, much too wide for his waist, even when he’d finished buttoning them. “Those pants are going to fall down. You don’t want to be constantly pulling up your pants while we’re trying to get home, do you? It would slow you down.”

As much as you found the image rather amusing, you didn’t want that either.

Without another sound, besides an aggravated huff that you knew to be his reluctant admit of defeat, he pulled on the sweater, then took the suspenders from your hands and started his attempt at putting them on himself.

He did not succeed.

“Here,” you laughed. “Let me.”

It took you a second to figure out the mechanics of the things, but within moments, you were securing the button fasteners to the corresponding holes on the inside of the waistline on his trousers. With a steady hand, your eyebrows knit together and your tongue slightly poking out between your lips in concentration, you adjusted the suspenders until they seemed to fit snug against his chest, but not too tight to cause discomfort. You flattened out any twists or kinks, then patted his shoulders in satisfaction at your tailoring.

“There.” Stepping back, you couldn’t hold back your smile. Your eyes roamed all over him, taking in his new look, courtesy of the nuns. Despite the lack of trust in them, you had to admit, they had provided you with a great source of amusement.

“Oh, cutie pie,” you teased with that old pet name you’d drunkenly bestowed upon him about ten years ago now, in a place far away from here. “You look positively adorable.”

Daryl huffed, but you saw a faint blush grace his cheeks. He could pretend all he wanted that he hated being called “adorable” or “cute” by you, but both of you knew the unspoken truth.

His eyes lingered on you for a while, and as usual, you couldn’t quite tear yourself away from them—those swirls of rain clouds tinting an otherwise blue sky, with the slight reflection of green that could be caught only at certain angles. At this point in your life, you’d recognized every minute shift in hue, and each one was like another reason to let yourself get too preoccupied with his eyes.

For his part, a bittersweet mood befell him. At once you were here with him, all he could ask for, and you were here because of him. Everything was because of him. He thought back to it now, how the choices he made this far somehow landed you oceans apart from your family. It killed him inside.

But you did not let him dwell in that state for long. You pressed your lips to his in a firm kiss, as if to forcibly derail his train of thought which you knew was entering the territory of a typical Daryl pity party.

Only a moment passed after your lips separated that the door to the washroom creaked open. It startled you back slightly, and both of you straightened with an acute alertness that came naturally after so long on the road. The nun, Isabelle, stepped towards you, with a neatly folded pile of beige-colored clothing in her arms. Upon that pile sat a pair of short lace-up boots, worn but practical.

“Here are your clothes,” she said before placing them upon a nearby chair. With each move you found yourself studying her, trying to see if there was something you could pick up on that would indicate deceit or some hidden agenda. The woman was difficult to read, however, and even Daryl couldn’t quite know what to make of her just yet.

Isabelle held a soft smile as she met your gaze for a few moments. Her eyes were clear blue and her skin was pale as a porcelain doll. Of course, being a nun, her hair was hidden, tucked neatly under the white veil atop her head. From what you knew of nuns, which wasn’t much, you understood that her veil signified her rank within the cloister. A veil of white meant the wearer was a novice, still yet to take her vows, whatever that means. Married to Christ, or something like that.

“Thank you,” you replied, your words quickly forming a new sentence: a question, of which you had many. “What happened to our clothes?” This was spoken with a tad bit of urgency, as not only had Daryl been wearing the angel-winged vest he’d prized above any other article of clothing in his possession, there was also a small assortment of polaroid photos zipped up securely in the pocket of your vest. You just hoped the nuns hadn’t disposed of your clothing, as most of it was tattered.

“All the possessions we found you with are beside the beds you awoke in,” she replied. Her voice was so… calm. Assured. Satisfied. You did not like it. Not one bit. She seemed all too pleased at your presence, as if she knew something you didn’t, but something that would ultimately benefit her. Whatever it was, you couldn’t place. “Dress yourself. I will show you both around.”

A quick exchange of looks with Daryl and the two of you were of one mind. “We’re not stayin’,” he said, much to your approval. Though you’d been eager to find people who could help you get home, you didn’t want to linger longer than needed. If you could get whatever help you needed here, you’d take it, and use it to get home. Besides, your trust was wavering. “We’re tryin’ to get back to America. Soon as possible.”

Isabelle’s face was unmoving, with that same indecipherable calmness that made you uneasy. There was more to her than she let on, and you had a feeling that Daryl could sense it, too.

“You need rest,” she said, her eyes fixated on Daryl, then moving towards you. “Both of you. A day and you’ll be back on your feet.”

Though the thought of just one more day away from home killed you a little inside, you knew she was right. You were still exhausted, and Daryl would probably want to recalibrate in terms of geography. It would be wise to take a moment to get your bearings before setting out again, but one thing was certain: you weren’t taking your eyes off the nuns.

“In the meantime,” Isabelle continued with a slight huff to her voice, “get dressed and come out when you’re ready. I’ll take you to the courtyard. You could both use a bit of fresh air.”

With a smile she exited, closing the door behind her. Still, however, you were wary. What if she was eavesdropping on the other side? You stepped closer to each other, ready to speak in whispers. Even sign language, if necessary.

“I don’t like this,” you whispered. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Daryl chewed the inside of his bottom lip in thought. Deep thought. This threw you off a bit. Shouldn’t Daryl be agreeing with you? Not that he didn’t, at least from what you could glean from his facial expressions, but there was something going on in that head of his. Some… conflict?

“Daryl?”

Another few beats of heavy silence as he rubbed his chin in thought. “Think we should try to see if they can help us.”

For a moment, you were stunned, unable to speak except for an exasperated huff. “What? Daryl, they’re nuns. Something tells me they don’t get out much.”

Another pause. “Let's just… see,” he said. “They’ve made it this long, they gotta know their way around. Hell, maybe they’ve got a radio or somethin’. There’s gotta be other communities, like back home. Maybe they know some people who can get us back. All we need’s a boat.”

It drove you nuts when he was right and you weren’t. In this case, you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit it, but you knew it. All you could do was relent, and remind him that you weren’t staying. You knew he knew that, but just to be sure.

“Tomorrow we’re out of here,” you stated plainly. “We can see if they can help us, but we’re not staying longer than that. The sooner we get back on the road, the better.”

Daryl nodded in agreement, but his eyes scanned your face curiously. Your cautiousness and reluctance to trust the nuns was stronger than his, which both surprised him and intrigued him. He was usually the one who had his defenses up. Not that he didn’t in this case, of course, but it seemed you were more so than usual.

“I don’t trust ‘em anymore than you do, but let’s be smart about this. Just ‘cause you don’t like Isabelle doesn’t—”

Surprised at his words, you scoffed. “What?”

He huffed. “You don’t like her.”

“I never said that.”

He shook his head in slight amusement.

“Daryl.” Your arms crossed in front of your chest as your lip twitched in annoyance. At the very idea of Isabelle filling your head again, or at Daryl’s assumption, you weren’t sure. “I’m not jealous. I’m a grown woman, I don’t get jealous. Maybe… she annoys me, okay?”

“Okay.” He held up his hands as if in defense. “So I’m takin’ the lead when we get out there then, right?”

As you turned to begin removing your second-hand nightgown, you let out another scoff. “Oh, really? Daryl, I’m not going to fight with her, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know, I can be unemotional if the occasion calls for it.”

Daryl knew you well enough to know that indeed, you could suspend your feelings, despite the fact that you most often wore them on your sleeve, but he also knew you were a lot like him: stubborn.

“Just trust me,” he said, his hand curling over your now bare shoulder. Its warmth was like a gentle summer breeze caressing your skin. And now you were annoyed at him for knowing how you melted under his touch. Typical. “I’m gonna get us outta here. I’m gonna get us home…”

The rest was unspoken. He could’ve said more, could’ve gone on and on about how horrible he felt, how he felt this whole thing was his responsibility because of the chain of events that had brought you here in the first place. He couldn’t bring himself to vocalize it completely, though, for fear he might break down in a moment of weakness. As much as he knew you’d never judge him for his emotions, he still felt compelled to maintain his stoicism for as long as it could hold out under the weight of frustration under the surface.

The silence between you settled in uncomfortably for a moment, until you turned to face him, your eyes glassy and your lips curled slightly on one side in a smile that seemed heavy, like it was a burden on your visage. But you tried to hold it. You tried for him.

“I know that. But you’re not alone. We’re in this together, like we always are. And if you want to take the lead for now, that’s fine with me. Just don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he said, his expression softened under your gaze. “I might need ya to step in if I do somethin’ stupid.”

“Mm, well… If that nun touches you again, I might step in either way.”

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

#begin again series #begin again #the walking dead #the walking dead: daryl dixon #daryl dixon #daryl dixon spin-off #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead: daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

129 notes · View notes

mykneeshurt · 1 year

Text

Absolution

Image from wallpaper flare

Priest! Simon Riley x F! reader AU

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, explicit smut, religious themes, if you're interested in going to heaven this ain't the fic for you, this is incredibly blasphemous so if your easily offended by religious themes being used DNI

100% inspired by @dotcie - you let all your love rot inside you

Thank you to @luminousbeings-crudematter for encouraging this and helping me with multiple ideas and beta reading it for me!

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

The church was dark, the late evening sun shone through the stained-glass window above the altar. Hues of blue, red, green and purple descended into the empty church. Candles lined the walls, each mounted by a gold baroque style holder. The flames flickered as the warm summer air kissed them gently. Stone arches adorned the walls, each one intricately designed with faces of angels and demons. You walked along the aisle touching each of the pews with your fingertips, the wood was stained a deep walnut colour. Each seat perfectly imperfect, littered with the scars of the congregation who graced their presence.

Your eyes roamed along the paintings of different bible passages, all hung delicately along the sandstone walls. Each painting an abyss of pain and torment, each brush stroke a testament to the sheer emotion the artist must have felt.    As you reached the altar you once again questioned why you were here. You sunk to your knees seeking sanctuary, the maroon carpet offering some comfort to your aching joints. The weight of what you’d done pressed heavily on your heart. So much so silent tears fell, staining the carpet beneath you.    ‘Are you ok?’ A voice from behind you asked, it was gentle and calm. Gasping you spun around, stood before was a shadow of a man. He was tall, his broad physique clearly visible through the shadows. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry I didn’t know anyone else was here’ you stammered, your breath catching in your chest.    He stepped forward out of the shadows and into the light. As the sun rays illuminated him before you his divine beauty was slowly revealed. His jaw was sharp, his lips plump and soft with a small scar cutting through them. His hair was a sandy colour which was swept away from his face, bar a few strands which hung lazily on his forehead. He wore all black, his sleeves rolled up revealing a tattoo on his forearm.    You stayed kneeling, feeling unable to move, unable speak. He stood before you extending his hand to cup your chin, his touch was merciful, soft, all consuming. Slowly he caressed your cheek, his thumb wiping away the solitary tear that stained your skin. His gaze pierced through you, eyes dark and possessive, a foreboding presence lurking in the void.    ‘Tell me what’s bothering you?’ He asked, voice calm but thicker than molasses. You tried to find the words, tried to articulate the feelings deep within you, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘Use your words’ he cooed, still cupping your jaw. All moisture suddenly evaporated from your mouth as you opened your lips to speak. ‘I … I did something bad’ you stammered.    ‘Is it forgiveness you seek?’  ‘Yes Father’ your voice all but a whisper, yet still echoing in the empty church. He hummed to himself, dropping his gaze to your lips. ‘Stay’ he ordered as he removed his hand, a silent whimper falling from your lips as your cheek cooled from his touch.    He walked to the alter and despite his muscular stature he moved almost silently. Like a ghost. As he turned back to you, he held the Ciborium in his hands, the emerald colour contrasting perfectly against his porcelain skin. Towering over you he pulled the host from the cup ‘I have a passage I’d like you to read, but first, take the body of Christ.’    Holding out your hand you waited for him to place it in your hands, except he didn’t. ‘Open’ he said forcefully. Lowering your hand, you opened your mouth sticking out your tongue. A small smirk tugged at your lips as he placed the thin wafer onto it. The host slowly dissolved on the heat of your tongue, as did any remaining sanity. He pulled your lower lip with his thumb ‘good.’    He motioned for you to follow him to the lectern, a black bible with gold rimmed pages sat unassumingly on the shelf. Placing you in front of him he bent you over slightly, your body completely pliable in his hands. He gently skimmed the pages with his fingers, the tattoo now fully visible. Veins kissed the surface of his skin as the defined muscles danced with every movement.

Finally he stopped on the page he was looking for: Proverbs 28:13. His face was dangerously close to yours, so much so you could see the texture of his skin. A small amount of stubble littered his skin as his breath fanned over your neck. Lowering his lips to your ear he whispered ‘read, and no matter what don’t stop.’ His words vibrated down your spine straight to your aching pussy, taking a deep breath you began to read

‘Whoever conceals their sins …' his hand slipped to your lower back, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the text in front of you.

Gulping you tried to continue ‘... does not prosper …' his fingers grazed the back of your thighs, causing you to buck your hips slightly.

‘... but the one who confesses …' a whine exuded from the back of your throat, guttural and desperate. ‘Shhh, keep going’ he whispered in your ear. Swallowing hard you tried again.

‘… and renounces them …’ his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties, the sudden contact made you jump, you bit your lip trying to stifle a moan. ‘Good girl, keep going.’ ‘ … finds mercy.’ As the last word slipped past your lips, he sunk his finger into your wet cunt causing you to lurch forward onto the lectern, gripping the sides for balance. ‘Read it again’ he ordered. Taking a deep breath, you did as you were told, sounding out each word, each syllable laced with desire and pleasure. He slowly added another finger, stretching your pussy with his girth. Your whine rang out in the desolate church, ricocheting off the sandstone walls as he pumped his fingers. He pressed his thumb against your clit, once wet with your tears it was now wet with your arousal.

Soon enough you were tripping over your words, a stuttering mess under his touch. With his free hand he wrapped it around your throat pulling you close to him, his fingers still orchestrating a flurry of moans from you. You were completely lost in him, your jaw slack as whimpers and gasps seeped from your very soul. You were so lost in fact you didn’t even realise he’d manoeuvred you towards the altar, the cool granite kissed your skin as he pressed you against it.

Removing his fingers, he placed them on his tongue savouring your arousal, his gaze once again found yours ‘fuckin sinful’ he growled. Using his muscular arms, he trapped you against the altar the warmth of his skin seeping into yours like a virus. Reaching behind you he grabbed the gold chalice and took a sip of the wine, never once breaking eye contact with you. Gripping your chin, he tilted it, so you were looking directly up at him, slowly he placed his lips against yours allowing the wine to trickle into your mouth. A single drop trickled down your neck, his tongue was soon pressed against your skin lapping it up.

You pulled him by his shirt collar into another kiss, it was velocious and messy. He gripped at your thighs pulling you up onto the altar, tilting you backwards the wine fell causing the once pristine white cotton to turn red with your sins. He nipped at your collar bone as he raked his nails along your skin, moaning into his mouth it was too much but not enough all the same time. He kissed along your torso and onto your abdomen, his lips teased the sliver of skin which poked out between your top and skirt. Goosebumps trickled along your skin as he bit the sensitive skin.

Pulling at his hair you silently begged him to continue, silently pleading with him to taste you. Keeping his eyes on yours he lifted your leg onto his shoulder, he ripped your panties at the seam and placed his lips onto your weeping cunt. The sudden intrusion caused you to arch your back and moan into oblivion. His eyes pierced yours as he moved his tongue in languid motions, each swipe pulling another whimper from your chest. You gripped his hair digging your nails into his scalp, God rays cascaded around you encapsulating you both in this moment of pure sin. As the priest looked up you could have sworn it was Lucifer himself staring right back at you.

‘Fuck … don’t stop’ you whined, finally finding words to use, finally finding your voice. Kissing his way back up your body he hovered over you for a moment, his stare intense and dominating. ‘Simon’ he muttered. You hummed, not quite catching what he said. ‘My name … Simon’ he repeated, edging closer to your lips once more. Pulling your lips open he allowed a dribble of saliva to drop into your mouth, instinctively you swallowed allowing the ribbon of spilt to glide down your throat.

‘Please fuck me Simon’ you said as you placed your lips on his once more. Pulling away he unbuckled his trousers allowing his cock to spring free. Still staring at you intently he began to pump his hard cock ‘allow me this and I shall absolve you of all your sins.’ You could hear how breathless he was behind his stoic demeanour, a man on the edge of losing control.

‘Yes Father, please.’

Slowly he pushed into you, once again stretching your cunt, the sting was delicious. You both gasped as he filled you to the brim, bottoming out in one swift motion. He placed his forearms next to your head as strands of hair fell forward framing his face perfectly. The sun had moved slightly causing the coloured glass to reflect onto your bodies as you became one. He kissed you again, except this time you bit his lip causing it to bleed, ‘hmm, the blood of Christ’ you said smirking. Lowering his head to your neck he smiled into your skin ‘Amen.’

He began to move his hips back and forth, caressing the sweet spot within you. The sound of skin on skin reverberated in the church, filling the once silent, once holy place with the sin of lust. Placing his hand around your throat he hissed through his teeth ‘beg me for forgiveness, for I will be your absolution.’ Tears stung the corners of your eyes as he fucked you on the altar, each thrust took you to a new level of pleasure. You ran your nails along his shirt, desperately trying to imagine what his skin felt like. ‘Please, forgive me’ you whined as you rolled your hips into him ‘please father … please.’

Upping his pace, he held onto your hips as he dug his fingertips into your flesh. Small grunts and breathless whimpers filled the space between you as he allowed himself to give into his primal desires. Rolling his hips, he dragged his cock against your cunt making you feel every movement, every thrust, every inch of him. Pulling your hand off his back he placed it on your clit ‘show me’ he murmured ‘show me how you like it.’ Feeling yourself instantly tighten you began to play with your clit, you watched as he dropped his eyes to watch the show you were putting on for him, his mouth opening slightly before biting his lip.

Your breath began to catch in your throat as you felt yourself on the brink of orgasm, as your eyes rolled you caught sight of Mary looking down on you, watching you getting fucked within an inch of your life on the once pure altar. Wrapping your legs around him you pulled him closer, not wanting to let him go. ‘Faster’ you begged, ‘harder Father please.’ He let out a slight chuckle of disbelief, once again placing his hand around your throat ‘you’re insatiable.’ Biting your lip you giggled, but that giggle was soon replaced with a broken guttural moan as he slammed his hips into yours. This was enough to push you into the blinding light of your orgasm, your back arched off the wine-stained cloth as you came around his cock. Shockwaves of pleasure shot through every fiber of your body as rode out your high.

As the white noise from your orgasm finally dissipated your eyes met with his, his gaze was piercing, all knowing and consuming. His pace became sloppy, knowing he was close you sat up and pushed him away. Turning him round so his back was now against the altar you dropped to your knees, staring up at him like you did mere moments ago. You placed his cock on your tongue as the sweet bitterness of your combined arousal seeped over your tongue, ready to receive him. He looked down on you blocking out the sun, the light giving the illusion of a halo around him, but you knew when you were looking the devil in the face.

Slowly you took his cock to the back of your throat, the change in sensation causing him to throw his head back and hiss. He cradled the back of your head as you bobbed back and forth, humming a hymn softly to yourself, praising the man before you. The humming caused vibrations to travel down his thick cock adding a whole new layer of pleasure to this already wicked act. He became breathless as you worked his cock in your mouth, you could feel the change in him as you dragged your tongue along his shaft. ‘Yes’, he whispered softly, repeating it like a prayer. Looking up at him you pleased with him to let go, to finish what he’d started.

And that he did. You kept looking up at him as he came in your mouth, doe like eyes eager to please the man in front of you. His mouth was parted slightly as ragged breaths fell from his lips; he caressed your jaw as you swallowed. His touch just as soft and possessive as before.

-----------

LMAO see you in hell x

@cowyolks @strlingsav @ave661 @glitterypirateduck @soapyghost

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley #fan fic smut #simon riley au #simon riley smut #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #alternate universe #ghost cod smut

744 notes · View notes

kosmichippieccfinds · 1 year

Text

Caspian's Lakeside Cottage (Lot + CC List)

This lakeside peasant cottage belongs to Caspian Rosenthorn and his wife Mira who moved to the mainland of Windenburg from the Crumbling Isle to be closer to their family. Created for my side household as part of the ULTIMATE Decades Legacy.

Lot Download:

Gallery ID: KosmicHippie Lot Name: Caspians Lakeside Cottage Lot Size: 20 x 20 (Windenburg, Cottage Am See)

Mods/CC:

Mods:

Medieval Windenburg

Royalty Mod

Ye Olde Cookbook

Archery Skill

Blacksmithing Skill

Lute Skill

Build:

TSR Ye Medieval - Ligna Windows Set

TSR Ye Medieval - Timber Frame Walls

TSR Ye Medieval - Framework Walls

TSR - Broken Wood Door

TSR Ye Medieval - Soil Terrain

TSR Ye Medieval - Hay Ground Terrain

TSR Ye Medieval - Mud and Stone Terrain

TSR Ye Medieval - Castle Stone Walls

TSR Pralinesims - Old Wood Floor 13

TheSense4 - Auction House Windows

Birch Tree (2048x2048)

Objects:

Lili's Palace - Folklore Set No. 1

Linzlu's Frontier Items

TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 1

TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 2

TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 3

TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 4

TRS Ye Medieval - Tristan Bathroom

TSR Ye Medieval - Tavern Part 1

TSR Ye Medieval - Candle Holder

Fish Market Decor

Fish Rack

Fish Crate V1

Fish Crate V2

Bohrium Vegetables I

Rustic Chicken Coop

Rustic Bee Box

Bassinet + Infant Crib

Wall Mounted Bows

Severinka Rustic Sauna

Severinka Summer Garden (wood pile)

Old Witches Desk

Wall Shelf

Autumn Pantry

Larder (Refrigerator)

Dinner Bowls

Bread Basket

The Witcher 3 Common Furniture

Candles

Pirate Map Computer

Abandoned Wheel

Rustic Hammer

Marketplace Spices

Stable Set by Moriel

32 notes · View notes

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 years

Text

Begged & Borrowed Time (xiii, ao3)

(Chapter thirteen: Ahead of the human queens’ visit, both Nesta and the Inner Circle descend on the Archeron manor.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

Do you like to read?

As the moon began to dip towards the horizon, the night beyond deep and quiet and still, Nesta Archeron lay alone in her marriage bed, dreaming of another man as she turned the pages of her borrowed book.

Cassian had asked her the question days before, standing in a shaft of sunlight, surrounded by crumbling stone walls and the scent of hay and leather. It’s the only escape I have these days, she had answered. She had thought nothing of it, thought her words idle and innocuous right up until he’d turned up yesterday—watching her from the stable doorway, bearing a book in his hands. So much more than a bundle of pages and fabric and words— it was an escape of his own devising, a reprieve given in the only way he could, one heart to another.

And oh, it worked.

With the whisper of turning pages the only thing breaking the silence, Nesta thought of dark hair tousled by the wind, and hazel eyes shining gold and green and brown in the afternoon sun. She almost forgot that the mattress on her husband’s side of the bed was cold, untouched despite the lateness of the hour. The candle on her bedside table burned low, flickering as the wax dwindled, and Tomas had yet to return from the tavern. But Nesta was barely thinking of him at all, finding herself caught somewhere between the pages of her book and the memory of that one brief, exquisite, kiss.

She breathed a sigh, trailing a finger over the slim stack of pages she had yet to read. Barely thirty left, the story all but done. She wondered, as she tipped her head back to rest against the worn oak headboard, what would come after. What book would Cassian bring next? Another romance, or something new entirely? And— would he kiss her again? When he returned in a few days… Would he kiss her again?

A warm, gentle kind of hope blossomed in her chest, a blush rising to her cheeks as she wondered if he would let his hands trace that same path over her spine again, over her waist. Something inside her began to tighten, a pressure building, mounting in her blood. His kiss had stolen her breath yesterday, left her gasping and desperate and aching all over, and she cursed that door for slamming, for forcing her to pull away before she’d taken her fill of him.

Would he let her go, next time?

Would he let her pull back, pull away? Or would he keep kissing her until destruction found them both— until the world fell apart?

Turning her gaze to the window, Nesta rather hoped it would be the latter.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour or two until dawn, and as the wax of the candle began to overflow from the pan at the base of the holder - dripping, molten, onto the surface of her bedside table - Nesta heard, at last, the door downstairs open and close, ancient hinges creaking.

The memory of that kiss had coaxed her heart to warmth, but she felt the heat die as stumbling footsteps sounded on the groaning staircase. Voices, slowed and slurred by drink, ruptured the silence, the good-night Tomas called to his brother echoing in the bareness of the hallway beyond the closed bedroom door. Nesta set her book aside, feeling the memory of Cassian’s kiss slip through her fingers like water.

And then— there he was, the candlelight falling on the face of the man she had married. The low light cast shadows over his brow as he pushed the door open, the hallway at his back a yawning, dark void. For a minute, he lingered. Pupils blown wide, the smile on his face devolved into a grimace as his eyes met hers, as though returning to find his wife still awake dulled the edge of his high.

“No need to look so pleased to see me,” Tomas said, kicking the door shut behind him, causing it to rattle in the frame. His voice was hoarse from shouting over the noise of the tavern, his words honed by hours of drinking, and his lips— tinged with red, Nesta noted. A smear of lipstick he’d wiped away but failed to erase entirely, leaving his mouth stained by his infidelity.

“Well,” she answered flatly, revulsion spreading through her core as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders. “At this point I didn’t expect you back before sunrise.”

Tomas’ eyes flicked up, the shadows beneath his brow more pronounced now, darkening as the candle flame wavered, flickered, threatened to gutter.

“Considering the kind of welcome I get in this bed…” His lip curled as he dragged his gaze over her, lingering on her arms folded tight across her chest. “Who would blame me for going elsewhere?”

Something vicious sparked in his eyes, a sneer parting his lips as he remained standing by the bottom of the bed, half hidden in the shadows the candlelight couldn’t quite reach. Nesta felt her blood grow chilled, sluggish in her veins as she watched his hands rise to his shirt, his fingers steady despite the drink. From his breast pocket, he pulled free a small envelope and even in the dim light, Nesta could see her name inscribed upon it in an elegant, flowing hand.

Elain’s hand.

“Intercepted this on our way to the tavern,” he said, an acidic laugh slipping from the cruel slant of his mouth. Nesta lurched forward, her hands reaching, grasping, and yet failing to even come close to touching that little square of paper as Tomas took a step backwards, the footboard of the bed a barrier between them. “The boy that carried it was all too happy to leave it with me and save himself a journey, once I’d promised to give it to you.”

Nesta sat back on her heels, fisting her hands in the sheets. Her eyes focused on the letter he withheld, and finally she noted the seal. Cracked— the red wax was broken and split and her anger spiked, drowning her in currents and tides of raging animosity, almost too much to breathe against.

“That’s mine,” she ground out, her words slipping through a tightly clenched jaw.

He shrugged. “I promised to give it to you. I never promised I wouldn’t read it.”

His smirk turned vindictive as he took another step back, lifting the letter into the air as Nesta’s hand reached up. The movement set the candle flame shuddering, the shadows on the wall flickering, trembling violently, and suddenly Nesta was thinking of how Cassian had done the same. Reaching for another letter in another home, he had lifted it higher too, just beyond the reach of her fingers. And yet it had been so vastly different— it had been lighthearted, almost playful. Just another step in the game between them, the push and pull that had her so often warring to keep her heartbeat steady.

This was borne of spite, forged by contempt.

“You’re my wife,” Tomas said, dull eyes swallowing the light of the candle. “All of your belongings are mine by default— that’s how marriage works, darling.”

Darling.

Every part of her stiffened, cringed. The word fell from his lips without an ounce of affection— a term of endearment that morphed into something sharp enough to wound. It was patronising and almost mocking, a caricature of feeling, and Nesta longed to tear out his tongue if only to ensure she’d never have to hear him call her darling ever again. Abhorrent— it was abhorrent, the way he looked at her, the way he thought he owned her, and she wondered how she had ever endured it before, in the days before she knew what it was to be touched with tenderness, to be kissed with devotion rather than disdain. To be called sweetheart in a voice swollen with longing, heavy with feeling.

“Give me the letter,” she demanded.

Tomas only tsked, slipping a finger beneath the broken seal. He cleared his throat, sliding the paper from its sheath and unfolding it.

“A pathetic little thing really,” he shrugged. “I expected more from your sister, but alas, she only thought to spare you a few lines. Shall I read them to you?”

Nesta burned, felt the force of her anger tearing her apart from the inside out, so potent she could barely speak. Her tongue felt heavy, her throat felt tight, and she could only look darkly up at her husband, waiting for her sister’s letter to be read aloud.

“Nesta,” Tomas read. “The letter we’ve been waiting for has arrived at last. Feyre will arrive tomorrow, and I am determined to make an occasion of it, like a royal visit. Come tomorrow and stay the night. We can spend the day after making plans. It will be just like old times.”

He snorted, letting out a huff filled with scorn as he tossed the letter onto the bed, letting it lie on the rumpled sheets. Nesta grabbed it, letting out the breath she had been holding as she scanned the page. Her furious heart began to slow, her blood beginning to warm again. Slowly, Nesta blinked, holding Elain’s letter between her fingers.

It was as though she had known, somehow, that someone other than Nesta would read that letter. Elain had hidden the real message beneath and between the words she used, and Nesta understood. With a breathless laugh brewing in her gut, Nesta understood. Rhysand’s letters had been answered at last, and Feyre was coming tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Nesta bit her lip, forced down the bubble of elation that bloomed as she realised that Feyre was coming tomorrow, and with her…

She dipped her head to hide her smile.

With her would be Cassian, with his hazel eyes and messy hair, and that disarming smile and deep, rich laugh that made her ache. She thought of his warmth, his teasing and his flirting. Thought of the way he called her sweetheart— her husband’s darling utterly eclipsed, forgotten, as her heart steadied, bolstered by the thought of arms wound tight with muscle. Of hands that had ended lives and wielded blades, yet touched her with a softness that beggared belief.

Nesta tucked Elain’s letter under her pillow, her fingers drifting across it as her husband readied himself for bed. She marvelled at how that tiny piece of paper, those few brief lines, had made her feel so suddenly at peace in the wake of such devastating fury.

“I’ll be at my sister’s tomorrow then,” she announced as Tomas pulled back the covers on his side of the bed. She didn’t bother to wait for a response— didn’t care enough to hear his huff of acknowledgement. Before he had even set his head on the pillow, Nesta blew out the dwindling candle, plunging the room into darkness.

Only then, concealed by shadows, did she let herself smile. Let it spread, unfettered, where none could see. She closed her eyes, letting her mind wander north, as far north as she could imagine, as that single question begun to resound inside her once more.

Would he kiss her again?

***

One by one, Elain lit the candles in the gilded candelabras.

The dining table was soon bathed in a golden glow, warm and soft and buttery, turning the silverware a muted, burnished gold as Nesta laid out four more crystal glasses, four more porcelain plates. Three already sat, polished and shining, at one end of the great cherrywood table, set out by the maids before they had departed. As far as the staff were concerned, Feyre was visiting to spend time with her sisters, alone and uninterrupted, before Elain moved to the Nolan estate.

And so as Elain extinguished her match, the smoke mingling with the sweet smell of the beeswax candles, Nesta set about making that table for three accommodate seven.

“Won’t the staff notice the extra food is gone?” she asked, straightening a heavy silver knife beside one of the plates, her gaze catching on the covered silver trays in the middle. The maids had set them over a row of small candles to keep warm, but Nesta had taken one look at those two trays and doubted they would stretch to feed four more mouths, especially since two of those belonged to fully grown fae warriors. Finding some cold cuts of beef in the larder, she and Elain had set those out too, along with some hastily peeled and boiled carrots.

Elain shrugged now, shaking the trailing smoke from her match with a flick of her wrist.

“I already ordered more. It’s being delivered tomorrow, before the queens arrive. The staff aren’t due back until the day after, so when they return, they’ll find the stores exactly as they were when they left.”

Nesta’s hands stilled as she folded a napkin over a dinner plate. “When did you get to be so cunning?”

Elain smiled in response, her brown eyes glinting, turning russet in the golden light. “I suppose this is what happens when you invite fae into your home.”

Nesta hummed dryly, glancing down again at the table set for seven. On the other side of that heavily laden table, Elain dragged a finger over the top of a dining chair. The candlelight brought the carved grooves and patterns into stark relief, and even when standing the high back reached Elain’s shoulders. Nesta tilted her head as she studied the vines picked out in the cherrywood— decoration that was as solid and unwieldy as the table itself, uncomfortable for even mortal spines to lean against. The arm rests were solid wood too, rising high and carved with the same curling patterns, ostentatious and ornate. Beautiful, and yet brutally uncomfortable too. Suddenly, something occurred to her— a flash of understanding as she remembered how Cassian had looked that first night, the first time he had crossed her father’s threshold.

“Does father still have those Ravennian chairs in his parlour?”

Elain frowned. “Yes. They’re at his poker table. Why?”

“Two of them have wings, don’t they? These chairs can’t be comfortable.”

Both Cassian and Azriel had shifted in their seats that first night, adjusting their wings as though comfort was impossible. She hadn’t cared back then, had been too overcome by the sight of fae at her father’s table to notice that the arm rests were too high for wings to settle around, the back too high to allow for much movement. But the chairs their father had imported from Ravennia…

Low backed— extremely low backed, with velvet covering the equally low arm rests, practically made for wings to drape over them, to sit comfortably over the top.

Elain merely blinked, glancing down at the chair beneath her hand.

“No,” she said slowly, her lips parting in mild surprise as she looked at her elder sister over the spread of silver and crystal and porcelain. Her head tilted, some unknown expression crossing her face as she pressed her lips together to hide a smile. “No, they can’t be comfortable.”

“I won’t have it said that the Archerons are bad hosts,” Nesta insisted, clearing her throat and keeping her face blank as though that was all it was— just a matter of reputation. “That’s all.”

Elain pulled away from the table with a soft little hum, drifting past Nesta and towards the door in a cloud of rose-scented perfume and pale-pink chiffon.

“Of course,” she repeated breezily, a lightness in her step and a wry smile on her face as she looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Of course that’s all it is.”

Nesta blinked, and as Elain reached the dining room door and turned the gilded handle, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t convinced her at all.

***

It felt like hours before the knock at the door sounded.

It was barely half an hour, and yet it felt like an unholy amount of time. Every second stretched the limits of Nesta’s patience, her heartbeat growing wild and untameable and she waited and waited and waited for the knock to come.

It echoed through the marble hallway when it arrived at last, a sharp rap that Nesta felt reverberate right down to her toes. Standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, she watched as Elain pulled the emerald door open, fighting the urge to rush forward. Some unruly part of her, governed by her racing heart, searched over Feyre’s shoulder as her sister stepped inside, tried desperately to see beyond the shape of Rhysand as he followed on her heels.

Feyre stepped inside, wearing a dress of deep, dark blue— the shade of the night sky just before midnight. Diamonds glittered at her neck, and though there was no crown today, the glittering extravagance of it all reflected still in her brown eyes, like starlight caught in amber. She kissed Elain on the cheek before taking a step towards Nesta, tucking her hair behind one of her pointed ears.

“Nesta,” she said, holding out a hand and pulling Nesta’s attention away from the door and the figures still on the steps outside, waiting to cross the threshold. “It’s good to see you.”

Nesta hummed. Nodded, and took Feyre’s hand in her own. A polite greeting fell, almost unconsciously from her lips, but she couldn’t keep her eyes on Feyre— couldn’t stop them sliding to the door over her sister’s shoulder. Patience had never been Nesta’s strong suit, and she felt her restlessness grow frenetic now, thickening her blood, causing the world to slow. Rhysand stepped through the door next, and behind him, Nesta caught a glimpse of red. Her heart lurched, but—

“This is Mor,” Feyre said brightly. “Rhys’ cousin.”

Crimson, bright— not the deep and blazing garnet of Cassian’s siphons.

Nesta’s eyes widened as the blonde moved further into the hall. Her dress was plunging, a bright red that matched her painted lips, and her hair hung in long, shining curls. Her face split into a dazzling smile as she stepped forwards, but Nesta couldn’t bring herself to smile back. She could only blink, only grasp for composure as Mor’s movement finally cleared a path to the door.

Her mother would have given her hell for her rudeness, and from her periphery she watched Mor’s smile falter, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking at the blonde or her dress or listening to Feyre’s detailed introduction. All of that faded, dulled to a hazy background noise as her traitorous heart finally won out— beating with abandon as Cassian finally crossed the threshold.

The air between them grew tight, taught enough that she half thought it might crackle and snap. Those endless seconds she had waited for him to step through the door suddenly fell away like the shedding of a cloak, the breath leaving her lungs as she watched him stand in her father’s marble hall, gilded by the light of the chandelier. Azriel followed in his wake, siphons like freshly cut sapphires, but Nesta couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the warrior before her.

“Hello, Nesta,” Cassian said and oh— Nesta could have sworn the hall fell silent for a moment. For just one heartbeat there was nothing but a ringing in her ears, a frantic pulsing as she heard him say her name. From across the small distance, she felt Azriel watching them— Rhysand, too.

And yet she could almost have convinced herself that they weren’t there at all, that they were entirely alone as she watched something flicker in Cassian’s eyes, some kind of ecstatic emotion that made her chest grow warm, her heartbeat humming as she took him in, from his windswept hair to his single ruby earring, from the smooth shine of his leathers to the dagger at his hip. She took in every inch of him, drinking him in as though she’d been starving without him in the two days they’d been apart.

Two days— just two days, and yet it felt like longer. Felt like a lifetime as she stood there, her gaze dropping to his hands, remembering how it felt to have his palms cradle her face.

A greeting of her own lingered on her tongue, but she didn’t have chance to voice it. Elain was shutting the door and drawing the bolts before turning on her heel and heading down the hallway, leading their guests to the dining room. Rhys and Feyre were following her, Mor and Azriel a step behind, but… Cassian didn’t move, barely even glanced at Elain and the others as they began to walk away.

Neither did Nesta.

Only Azriel looked back, glancing over his shoulder as he took a single step down that hallway. Shadows gathered at his neck as he turned, giving Cassian a pointed look that Nesta couldn’t decipher. A moment later, the spymaster raised his voice, asking Feyre about the paintings lining the hall, forcing their pace to slow as Feyre’s voice echoed on the marble, telling tales of the paintings that had decorated the walls of their childhood home— the ones that had been sold, lost, and bought back.

A distraction if ever there was one.

Cassian huffed a laugh, running a hand through his tangled hair. He looked almost sheepish, almost nervous.

“I…” he began, looking for all the world like he wanted to tell her something. Nesta felt the humming in her chest grow louder, tighter, and Cassian glanced at her ribs, as though he could feel it too. He almost looked like he was going to mention it, like the words were dancing on the edge of his tongue, but at length he swallowed. He grinned, an easy kind of confidence spreading over his face as the words he’d been about to say dissipated.

“I missed you,” he said instead. “How’s the book?”

Nesta bit back a smile, glancing down the hallway and finding Azriel pointing at one of the paintings, heard Feyre still talking.

“I hope you brought me another,” she said, feeling a warmth kindle in her blood, as though his presence alone were enough to chase away every chill she’d ever felt, enough to make her forget what it was to be cold.

“Naturally.” Cassian paused, his ruby earring catching the light and winking as he tilted his head. “Does that mean you’ve finished it already?”

“It was a very good book,” Nesta answered blandly as he fixed her with a stare that was tender and soft and entirely disarming, his eyes sparking as a smile curved those lips— the lips Nesta had spent days dreaming of, longing to feel against her own.

“Huh,” he murmured, those damned lips pressing together, driving her to madness as he looked her over, assessing. “At this rate, one book a week won’t nearly be enough for you.”

Nesta hummed. “No,” she agreed, her voice dropping. “Perhaps you’ll have to visit more frequently.”

Cassian dipped his head, tilting towards her, close enough to touch. A rakish smile graced his face as his hazel eyes darkened, his pupils widening, swallowing the myriad hues of gold and green and brown that reminded Nesta so much of a forest on the cusp of Autumn. Beautiful— he was beautiful, more beautiful than she’d ever care to admit. Raising her hand slowly, Nesta reached up to trace her fingers across the siphon over the centre of his chest, watching it flare the moment she touched its surface.

“Perhaps I will,” he answered, a hum of his own reverberating in his throat as that smile turned mischievous, turned scheming and Nesta knew, somehow, that his thoughts had turned to secret meetings, words spoken in whispers, kisses stolen behind turned backs.

Down the hall, Azriel cleared his throat loudly. The sound echoed, an unwelcome tether to the reality that lay beyond that little circle of candle-warmed marble and gold. Cassian swore under his breath, glaring as he turned his head to that hallway, to the spectre of Azriel standing at the end.

“We should go,” Nesta whispered, even though leaving was the very last thing in the world she wanted to do.

Cassian nodded, but before she could pull away, he placed his hand over hers— the one that still rested atop his glimmering, flickering siphon. His fingers threaded seamlessly through hers, his palm warm against her knuckles as he fitted their hands together. The tightness within her eased, as though she had spent her entire life with a weight on her chest— one that vanished when he touched her. Linked, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers, and Nesta could have sworn it was a precursor, that kiss.

A promise for later.

***

Cassian didn’t know how he was going to get through this.

How was he supposed to be in the same room as her, breathe the same air as her, and not touch her? Not tease her and rile her and bring out that godsdamned smile that almost sent him under every time it crossed her face?

She was his mate.

His mate— and he could have sworn she’d felt it, as he stepped into that entrance hall. He’d felt the bond between them, felt it tremble like a plucked harp string, and Cauldron damn him, Nesta had faltered as though she’d felt it too. Her heartbeat had stuttered, and he’d felt it, as though it were beating inside his own chest— like it was keeping him alive too, keeping him afloat.

Oh, he wanted to tell her.

Longed to say it out loud, to have her know the truth. He just needed to find the right moment, the right time… but he couldn’t think straight, not as he walked beside her, following the others into the dining room. He could barely fucking breathe as he watched her steps overtake his, pulling her forwards and leaving him a beat behind. She pulled away, and it was like the bond was snapping all over again, cracking his chest apart as the distance between them stretched and strained.

Mor gave Elain a dazzling smile as she ran her finger along the edge of the dining table, her eyes lingering on the fine details— the gilded candelabras, the fine place settings. The silk wallpaper and the wide sash windows, the heavy brocade curtains and the finely moulded plaster ceiling that housed two crystal chandeliers. It was elegant and refined, extravagant and excessive, the shine on the gold and silver almost enough to give him a headache.

Silent, he watched as Elain lowered herself into the seat at the head of the table, Nesta pulling out the chair to her left. Utterly entranced by the curve of her neck, by the way the candlelight danced across her cheekbones, he could do nothing but stare at the woman who was his mate, practically numb as she lowered herself into her seat without sparing him a single glance.

As Feyre took the seat opposite Nesta on Elain’s right, Rhys the one beside her, Cassian hesitated still, wondering whether it would be his undoing, to sit beside her at dinner. He wondered if he should take a seat on the other side of the table— wondered if he might choke, if he might lose his mind entirely if he had to go another moment without touching her.

Studying the table like it was a battlefield, Cassian suddenly noticed that not all of those seats were the same.

Laughable, really.

He was a general renowned, a warrior born. A strategist, through and through, and yet it had taken him a solid minute to even notice that the chair beside Rhys and the chair beside Nesta were different to the rest. Instead of the high, carved backs of the other chairs, these two were designed to rise no higher than the small of the back, the wood curved and planed, smooth. Perfect for a set of Illyrian wings.

Even Azriel blinked in surprise as he pulled out the seat beside Rhys, his shadows skittering along the low back, nestling along the arm rest as though content, comfortable. Cassian rested a hand on the other, his siphons glowing as he wondered whose idea this was— who had thought of his and Azriel’s comfort. As Nesta’s gaze alighted briefly on the chair Cassian sank into, he knew without her saying that it was her idea.

Of course it was.

His mate— his beautiful, brilliantly observant mate.

Gods, he wanted to kiss her.

Kiss her and kiss her and kiss her until the breath left his lungs, until he had nothing left— until he had handed over everything he was, everything he had ever been, to her, to let her take him over, body and soul until there wasn’t a part of him that she hadn’t laid claim to. He wanted to sit with her in his arms— to kiss a path of languid, lazy kisses to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw— right here, right now. Dryly, he figured that might break one or two human rules of etiquette, and resolved to ask her about it later.

Later.

There would be a later, when the house was dark and quiet and the rest of them slept… Yes, there would be a later.

So, for now, he settled for, “Thank you.”

He kept his voice low, so only Nesta could hear his murmured words of gratitude, and dipped his head to let his hair fall across his face, masking the movement of his lips. His wings settled around the low back of the chair, and it didn’t feel enough— thank you didn’t do enough to convey the pounding that was in his chest, the warmth spreading through him that threatened to bring him to his knees. It was only a chair— and yet, he had spent so long in the cold, desperate for even the barest crumbs of affection, that it made him feel suddenly raw and fragile, like freshly spun glass. That she had thought of his comfort, that she had bothered at all… He didn’t think he was more than half a moment from shattering entirely.

Nesta said nothing, but he caught the slight stumble of her heart, noted the infinitesimal colour that rose to her cheeks. And as the conversation around the table sparked, Cassian felt a featherlight touch drift across his thigh beneath the table, hidden from view. Nesta’s hand came to rest lightly atop his leathers, and as his wings spread, extending an inch or so behind her shoulders as if longing to pull her nearer, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw the briefest, the smallest, of smiles pull at her lips— a smile that was his alone, one that only he would notice or recognise or remember. He dropped his own hand beneath that table, bringing it to rest with hers and weaving their fingers together once more, hidden where none could see.

And with the presence of his family and hers preventing him from doing anything else, Cassian only plucked up his wine glass and drank deep, feeling it linger on his tongue as he relaxed further into the chair his mate had found for him. As Elain began to speak animatedly about her wedding - the flowers she’d ordered and the colours she’d picked - Cassian stopped listening, lost when she began to delve into the finer details and hidden meanings of the blooms in her bouquet. Instead, he felt that light touch against his thigh, found himself in the press of Nesta’s fingers. Feyre pulled the silver lid from a tray of roasted potatoes, setting steam, fragrant and sweet, rising in curls towards the moulded plaster ceiling, and all Cassian could think was: later.

***

“How is Tomas?”

Dinner done, Elain plucked a freshly-washed plate from the draining rack and dragged a cotton towel over its surface. With her hands buried in the warm water of the kitchen sink - washing whilst Elain dried - Nesta didn’t answer her sister’s question right away. She let it linger between them, let it drift. It had been voiced lightly, almost curiously, but Elain’s fingers twitched as she buried them in the dishtowel and when she reached for another plate to dry, she avoided Nesta’s eye completely.

Nesta frowned. “Why?”

Colour rose to Elain’s cheeks, a pale blush spreading across her cheekbones as her eyes remained downward.

“Just curious, that’s all.” Elain forced a smile. “Can I not ask about my brother-in-law?”

Nesta snorted. Elain had always been polite, but she never exactly made a habit of asking after Nesta’s husband. She didn’t think Elain had ever really spoken with Tomas, not even at their damned wedding. Her eyes narrowed as Elain sniffed, setting the dried plate down atop the other, stacking them neatly— the golden, cursive A’s that decorated the centre of the plates all aligned. When she bit her lip, Nesta’s frown deepened.

It had always been her most obvious tell, her biggest give away when something bothered her.

“What?” she asked, her fingers slackening in the sink, the water suddenly feeling chilled as she watched Elain shift uneasily on her feet. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Elain shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“No,” Nesta pressed. “Clearly it isn’t. Tell me.”

Elain only swallowed. “I just— I heard one of the maids talking, that’s all.”

“About?” Nesta asked archly, turning her attention back to the plates in the sink, to the water and the bubbles that reached her wrists.

“She said she saw him at the tavern the other night,” Elain whispered, as though afraid of being overheard even here, in the kitchens buried below the rest of the house. “He was with one of the barmaids. She was… sitting in his lap.”

Beneath the water, a heavy silver fork slipped between Nesta’s fingers, giving a muted clatter as it hit the bottom of the ceramic sink. Elain shook her head, as though wishing she hadn’t spoken, her brown eyes widened with some mixture of reluctance and regret.

“What do you want me to say, Elain?” Nesta asked flatly, taking a handful of silver cutlery and scrubbing— harder than she needed too, her nails screaming in protest. “He doesn’t exactly come home and tell me all about his affairs.”

Elain sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, I just— I heard them talking about how he had his hands all over some girl in the village and...” She trailed off, dipped her head until it was eclipsed by shadow, concealing her face. “You have a right to be upset and… Well, I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

Nesta didn’t even blink. “You think I didn’t know?”

Elain lifted her head. Her eyes grew wide, filled to the brim with surprise and a thousand different shades of sympathy— more than a flicker of pity as her lips parted, a breath of anguish slipping free.

“Oh, Nesta.”

Nesta watched Elain’s mouth tug downwards, her eyebrows raise in an expression of despondency and despair. It was unbearable, incendiary, and Nesta felt her heart crack in the wake of Elain’s pity, split open like a crevice in a rock face.

“No,” Nesta bit, her hands rising suddenly from the sink, ribbons of dishwater falling, scattering, dripping onto the counter and soaking the sleeves of her dress. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

Elain pressed a hand to her heart, still clutching her dishtowel, creased by her grip.

“It’s not pity,” she insisted, but Nesta didn’t believe her, couldn’t, not when her head was tilted to the side and her words had grown soft, as though Nesta were breakable, a tiny bird too fragile to lift its own wings. “I’m sorry,” Elain continued. “Sorry that you have to endure it, that he—”

“Gods, Elain,” Nesta interjected, her raised voice echoing on the tiles as she felt her last thread of patience snap. Her last bit of restraint, her last piece of control broken. “Did you really think I married him because I loved him?”

Unravelling— she felt herself unravelling, unspooling until there was nothing left. Her lip curled as she thought of her wedding day and all of the lies between then and now, all of them like brambles on a forest path, treacherous and snarled and just waiting to trip her up, bring her to her knees.

Elain stilled.

“What?” She dropped her towel at last, letting it flutter to the floor and lie there. “What do you mean?”

Nesta plunged her hands back into the water. “I did it for you. For Feyre. Pointless really, wasn’t it.”

“You lied to me,” Elain said, her voice slow and somewhat numbed by surprise. She took a step back, bracing her palm on the counter as her fingers clenched, as fury flitted across her face. “All this time… All this time you lied to me.”

“And what else was I to do?” Nesta countered sharply, her heart echoing inside her chest as it ratcheted. “We were starving, you were starving—”

Elain shook her head. “You should have told me!”

Her face cracked as her fury melted, devolved into something much more sorrowful, much more pained.

“For months, you’ve lied to me with every breath when I… I thought we told each other everything.”

“We did,” Nesta answered, feeling the weight of tears unshed lining her eyes, burning. “But if you knew— if Feyre knew— You’d have put a stop to it and it was all I could do to help, to ease the burden in that cottage since Father wasn’t about to do anything and—”

“And after?” Elain challenged, her voice hard. “Why didn’t you tell me after?”

“Because,” Nesta bristled. “Because I didn’t want to see the pity in your face. I can’t bear it. It was easier to let you think I wanted this, that I was happy.” She sighed, exasperated as every bone in her body suddenly felt tired, suddenly ached, as though they had been relieved of some great burden and now longed to rest. “There’s no point arguing over it. It’s done, there’s no changing it now.”

Elain let out a breath too, one that rasped in her throat. She swallowed as she leaned against the counter, biting her lip as the fight left her. Her cheeks were flushed as indignation faded, replaced by regret and sorrow. She bent to retrieve her fallen dishtowel, shaking her head as her curls tumbled free of her hairpin, and as she rose Nesta saw unshed tears threatening to spill. Elain sighed again, a soft sound slipping between her lips as one hand darted into the sink, grasping Nesta’s fingers beneath the water.

“Let me help. Let me do something.”

“Like what?” Nesta asked wryly. “You can’t help.” She shook her head again, gave her sister a small smile, clutching her hand in the bubbles. “I only ever wanted you to be happy, anyway.”

“What about you?” Elain asked, eyes wide, voice fraught. “You deserve to be happy too, Nesta.”

She only shrugged, letting the silence grow heavy as words failed her. She didn’t know what to say— it was as though every lie she had ever told had just been burned away, like some kind of trial by fire, leaving her standing in ashes. But there was no wreckage, no destruction— only air that felt clearer as the truth settled between them.

Nesta’s eyes flicked to the door, her mind wandering to the hallway beyond and the floor above, to wings and hazel eyes and glowing red siphons. Elain followed her gaze, a watery smile pushing at her lips as the last pieces of her anger dissolved entirely.

“There’s nobody?” she asked wryly, nudging Nesta with her shoulder. “Nobody you… care for?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Nesta answered tartly, lifting her chin in an expression of determined nonchalance, entirely manufactured ignorance.

“Nobody under this roof?”

Nesta couldn’t hold back the laugh that left her then— one that was incredulous and breathless, light.

“Nobody but you, Elain,” she insisted.

Elain raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless took up her towel and began to dry the dishes that remained dripping on the rack. She hummed lightly and cut a sideways glance to Nesta as she polished another porcelain plate, her smile turning tart.

“I don’t believe you,” she said simply, and Nesta could only roll her eyes. She pressed her lips together, keeping the truth trapped inside— a truth she wasn’t yet ready to voice aloud. Not fully, anyway. She wouldn’t speak his name, wouldn’t share that much, but Nesta looked to Elain, back to the door, and smiled.

Lifting her hands from the water, Nesta sent soapy water splashing across Elain’s apron with a flick of her fingers. Her sister squeaked before descending into laughter, the sound echoing as Elain wiped the bubbles away. And as a smile bloomed on Elain’s face, Nesta shrugged again and whispered,

“There might be a someone.”

***

That night, Cassian let the bedroom door close silently behind him.

In bare feet, he crossed the hallway of the Archeron manor, keeping his tread light, inaudible even to fae ears. Only the moonlight kept the darkness at bay, glancing off the gilded portrait frames and crystal vases scattered along the hallway. Cassian hadn’t dared light a candle, and so, illumined only by the moon, he slipped along that corridor like a ghost.

His ears strained for any sound— any sign of awakening from Mor’s bedroom, or Rhys and Feyre’s. There was nothing, the silence almost crushing as he looked at the long expanse of doors that trailed ahead, a seemingly endless line of white wood and gold handles stretching all the way to the landing, to the top of the grand, curving staircase. There was a second hallway beyond that, a second wing, and it was there that Cassian knew Elain slept. He’d put every penny he owned on Nesta’s room being on that side of the house, too.

So, tucking his wings in tight so as not to knock over something priceless, Cassian made his way to the east wing, hoping with each step that Nesta was still awake.

He needn’t have bothered.

He’d barely taken five steps down that hallway when he saw a flicker in the darkness, a shadow moving ahead of him. As she stepped into a patch of moonlight, Cassian felt a grin spread easily over his face, splitting his lips as he drank her in.

Even dressed in a nightgown and a velvet robe, Nesta took his breath away.

Her hair was down, flowing past her shoulders, and in the silver light she almost appeared to be a spectre— a dream Cassian wasn’t certain was real. The colour in her cheeks was rosy, her eyes more silver than blue in the shining grey light, and she seemed almost ethereal, liminal, a graceful beauty illuminating the dead of the night.

“What are you doing?” she whispered as she neared him.

Cassian grinned. “Coming to find you, of course.”

Nesta gave him a wry smile, a slow blink. In her hands, she held Emerie’s book, and Cassian almost bit out a laugh that he knew would echo as he lifted up the book he carried in his own hand.

He’d gone to Illyria right after training Feyre the other day. Whilst the others had been making preparations to go below the wall, he’d been flying like the hounds of hell were on his heels, making the trip to Illyria and back in record time. His wings had ached for hours after, and it had taken more than a little bit of begging to get Emerie to hand over a second book, but it was worth it to see that smile on Nesta’s face, soft and secret, lit by the light of the moon alone.

“Great minds think alike,” he whispered.

Nesta raised an eyebrow.

“Is that what you call the thing between those bat ears? A mind?”

Cassian let out a huff, a breath of a laugh swallowed by the darkness. The bond between them seemed to thrum, to vibrate with every smirk, every look shared in that silvered hallway. The single siphon he wore began to glow, scattering crimson across the plush carpet, bathing the painted faces of Nesta’s long-dead relatives in Illyrian light, casting shadows on the gilded frames. Nesta gave him a look of practiced indifference, the kind of haughty expression he suspected she knew damn well undid him, and as she turned and walked away, drifting down that hallway, Cassian flipped the book in hand— a casual gesture as she lead him through the dark.

“Do you want this book or not, princess?” he asked as Nesta reached the landing. His voice was smooth on the marble of the stairs, a taunting whisper that didn’t exactly echo, but rather hung in the air between them.

Nesta’s hand curled around the banister, looking over her shoulder. Imperiously, she raised an eyebrow, and Cassian felt his grin grow manic even as his knees threatened to buckle.

“Of course I do,” she shrugged. “But not if you’re going to be cocky about it.”

“You like me cocky,” he countered. “Admit it.”

He let his wings flare behind him, let the moonlight shine through the membrane. Silhouetted in silver, the starlight glimmered at the edges of his wings, and Nesta’s eyes widened. Her hand tightened around the bannister as she swallowed, and when her eyes moved from his wings to his arms, corded with muscle, over his chest, broad and lean and firm to touch… Cassian swore he glimpsed hunger. The same kind of breathless desire that he felt pounding through his own veins was mirrored in Nesta’s face, and even though an effortless, easy smirk curved his lips… His heart was beating so fast he was surprised she couldn’t hear it.

A moment— a beat, and then Nesta sniffed and turned back to the stairs, descending smoothly and leaving Cassian to follow, helpless, in her wake.

Down another darkened hallway, to another closed door, she led him and when she turned the handle… Cassian was greeted by the smell of leather and ink, books and whiskey. In the dim, he could make out shelves lining the room, a large desk, and two armchairs before an empty hearth. They were in an office, and he felt his eyebrows knit together as he glanced around, confusion flitting across his face. Even in the darkness, Nesta saw it, rolling her eyes as she closed the door behind them.

“It’s the room furthest away from any of the occupied bedrooms,” she explained, her voice no longer a whisper, but still kept low.

Cassian let out a gentle ah, watching as Nesta found a candle and reached for a match. The wick caught, crackling softly as it began to burn, flickering as she set it down on a nearby table. All of his senses grew dull, muffled as he took a step closer, letting the scent of her soothe his ragged breathing. He reached out, and with deft hands slipped the book Nesta carried from her grip. Placing it atop his own, he set both down next to the candle and with his hands empty, with hers unoccupied—

Before he could think twice, before he could take a breath, his lips were on hers. At last, his lips were on hers, as though it had been months since they last kissed— years. As though he had been half a man with half a soul, half a heart, in the days they’d been parted and only now, only with the distance between them nought, was he made whole.

In the dark, Cassian kissed her.

His mate.

***

Nesta didn’t know who had moved first— she knew only that his hands were in her unbound hair, and hers were grasping at his shoulders, skating over the thin cotton of his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath her fingers tense as his hands moved to her waist, rounding her middle and pulling her against his chest. She didn’t know if he’d started it or her, all she knew was that he was kissing her, and she couldn’t breathe, and his chest was heaving, and he was warm and firm against her and, and, and…

She stumbled backwards, hitting the back of her father’s desk. She could feel the heat of Cassian’s hands through the velvet of her robe, through the thin fabric of her nightgown, could feel it burning right down to her bones as his palms skirted the contour of her waist, curved around it, holding her as though this was where she was always meant to be, always meant to fit, right in his hands, in his arms.

He let out a breath against her lips, a soft groan slipping free of him as he pushed her back more firmly against the desk, as he lifted her up until she was sitting on top of it. One of his hands braced against the wooden surface, the other tilting her face up with a finger curled beneath her chin, granting him better access, letting him deepen the kiss until Nesta wasn’t certain which way was up anymore, until she barely knew anything except that he was kissing her as though the world was ending, as though nothing else mattered.

Her hands wandered across his shoulders as his lips moved, dropping to her neck. She felt the muscles beneath her hands shift, moving as he leaned down further, trailing kisses along her collarbone, atop her nightgown as though the fabric were no barrier. Up— up her neck, his lips moving to her ear.

“Bat ears?” he whispered, and the low kick of his voice, the dark edge to it, was almost enough to make her dizzy. His teeth grazed her, nipping her earlobe as he braced both hands on the desk now, pushing forwards, leaning into her even more fully.

Dazed, Nesta nodded.

“I don’t think bats have ears like mine, sweetheart,” he murmured, his laugh skittering over her neck, making her shiver. His teeth grazed the shell of her ear now, a low hum resounding in his chest.

“In fact,” he continued, moving one hand back to her waist, his thumb moving in patterns over her middle. “My ears are almost identical to yours.” He pressed a kiss to the rounded tip of her ear. “So if I have bat ears, then so do you.”

Nesta could only turn her head, forcing his next kiss to land on her cheekbone instead. She felt him smile against her, felt the curve of his lips against her skin. She let her hands wander, let her fingers move across his shoulders, burying themselves in his hair, the waves of it soft and thick beneath her hands. He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers as her fingers moved to the nape of his neck, his eyes closing in something like contentment as he swallowed.

“Gods, I missed you,” he whispered.

“It’s been two days,” Nesta countered.

Cassian cracked one eye open, grinned. “What, you didn’t miss me too?”

Nesta blinked. Oh, she’d missed him too. Missed him like she’d never missed anything before in her life, but she wouldn’t admit it. Instead she cleared her throat, blinked away the haze that had settled over her when he kissed her, and straightened on her father’s desk.

She wouldn’t admit that she’d thought of kissing him for days now. Wouldn’t tell him how much she had dreamed of his touch. Instead, she only shrugged coyly and said,

“Maybe.”

He laughed, the sound of it fluttering against her senses, making her lightheaded. He stepped back, and the cold air was sharp against her skin, the absence of his warmth jarring. He reached for the books on the table, plucking up the one she had already finished. He flicked through the pages, and Nesta couldn’t help the blush that rose to her cheeks as she watched him pause.

Her blush grew deeper, and Cassian lifted an eyebrow. He looked pointedly down at the pages, clearing his throat.

“I didn’t know I’d brought you smut,” he laughed.

Nesta scowled, folding her arms over her chest. She had almost slammed the book shut at first. The first time the lord dipped his hand under the skirts of the main female character… she’d been convinced it had been some joke, some trick to give her something so scandalous. She’d resolved to hit Cassian over the head with the book the next time she saw him, but then she’d begun to read, and she’d been drawn in, and she’d pictured him doing those things, pictured his hands doing that kind of touching, and—

He laughed again, continuing to rifle through, letting out a soft huh, contemplative, as though he were taking it all in, saving the information for later.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“What, the story or the smut?” she asked tartly.

“Either,” he shrugged. “Both.”

“It was very good,” Nesta answered with a shrug of her own.

Cassian smirked, keeping the book in hand as he stepped forwards again. He held the pages splayed open with his thumb, his eyes dancing as he hummed again, tilting his head and leaning forwards, enough for his lips to brush her cheeks as he said, in a voice that was dark and devilish and made her shiver,

“Shall we see then, the kinds of things you’ve been reading?”

Nesta began to burn.

Her cheeks grew hot, her blood pounding, a punishing rhythm beating through her veins as her toes curled, as she began to ache all over. Mutely, she shook her head but Cassian’s grin only widened, his head turning from her cheek to glance at the book held open in his hand.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said with a laugh trapped in his throat, his voice practically dripping with promise. “This is filthy.”

“You’re the one that brought it to me,” she answered curtly, gripping the edge of the desk tight, her fingers digging into the bevelled edge hard enough to bruise.

“Mhm, but I had no idea what was in these pages. It’s enough to make a sailor blush, princess, and yet you read it till the end.” His smirk turned devious, a flash of teeth in the dark. “Look at this, for example. With expert hands she reached for Sol’s laces - the High Lord of Day and they’ve named him Sol? How predictable - and pulled him free, her hand slipping down the considerable length of his—”

His last words were muffled, swallowed as Nesta hauled him to her, cutting him off with a kiss that was furious in its intensity, ravenous and frantic. The book dropped from his grip, hitting her father’s desk with a dull thud as both of his hands came to her waist, gripping her tight as one hand skated up her spine, reached the nape of her neck and held her there, firm against him and oh, Nesta never wanted to leave the warmth of his embrace, never again wanted to feel the absence of him by her side. He kissed her until she was breathless, and only when her lungs were heaving, protesting, did she turn her head and gasp, feeling the air rush down her throat as her head spun.

Cassian was heaving too, his breath coming in jagged pants as he swallowed, dropping his head to her collarbone. His wings quivered behind him, almost trembling as his breathing aligned with hers. Nesta dragged her fingers through his hair, trying to calm her heart and neither of them spoke— as though they could neither of them find words, had both forgotten how to speak.

She smiled wryly as his hair passed through her knuckles, his wings shuddering as he let out a soft breath that skittered along her skin. Her hand fell, came to rest on his shoulder.

“Elain knows,” she whispered in the darkness.

“About what?” Cassian asked, pulling back and lifting his head so that they were eye-to-eye.

“About Tomas. She knows.”

He brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “And? Does it bother you?”

Nesta shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.” Her hand slipped from his shoulder, came to rest over his heart. She felt it beating beneath her fingers, felt it hammering. “We argued but it’s alright now. We’re alright.” She paused, bit her lip as she leaned into his touch. “I think she knows about you, too.”

He barked a laugh, one that echoed in the silence. “Of course she does.”

And then— his eyes grew soft, grew depthless. “Come away with me,” he breathed.

It was a question he’d asked before, but it seemed more urgent now, more desperate. His fingers ghosted against her cheek once more as he let his eyes drift closed, as if he were losing himself in some fantasy, a dream of what could be if she said yes, if she let him take her somewhere far away. Nesta almost did too— almost let herself think of long nights above the wall, in lands not governed by the seasons. She thought of an expanse of starry skies, stretching over the horizon and running forever, further than the eye could see. She thought of strong arms holding her as she scanned that horizon, a hand at her waist and a warmth at her back. But—

“No,” she said, her heart cracking as she opened her mouth.

Cassian frowned. “Give me one good reason why not.”

“I won’t leave, not before Elain’s wedding.”

“Haven’t you sacrificed your own happiness enough?” he said incredulously, pulling away an inch, his hand slipping from her waist. Her skin grew cold as his touch left her, gooseflesh erupting on her arms.

“I want to see my sister get married,” Nesta countered flatly, sliding from the edge of her father’s desk. “That’s not a sacrifice.”

His eyes drifted closed, and when he opened them again, Nesta saw depthless emotion burning in the hazel. Desperate— he looked desperate, as though he needed her more than he needed air. He swallowed, reaching out again and letting a hand brush the side of her ribs. Her heart keened, her centre of gravity seeming to be pulled forwards, to be tied to him somehow. His touch defied everything she thought she knew, her entire world reducing until it was contained in that space between his fingers, in the press of them against her skin. She felt that dream rearing again, the promise of days when they wouldn’t have to meet in secret, sequestered in the shadows.

“Ask me again,” she breathed. “After her wedding— after the war. Ask me again.”

His hand rounded her middle, pulling her closer. He gathered her in his arms, let his wings encase them both. Nesta rested her cheek against the fabric of his shirt, a hand flat over his chest. Cassian pressed a kiss to her crown, his lips lingering on her hair.

“The minute the ring is on her finger. The second Hybern is dealt with,” he promised.

Nesta closed her eyes, felt his heart beat steady beneath her palm.

“The minute the ring is on her finger,” she echoed.

Tagging: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

69 notes · View notes