#illyrian comfort pie

[wildlyglittering]

Illyrian Comfort Pie

I shared a post with some Christmas OTP prompts and asked if anyone wanted any for Nessian and @dustjacketmusings chose:

"Every country has different traditions for Christmas when it comes to food: trying something new when they have always eaten the same dishes for the holidays feels wrong at first. But when it’s cooked with love by their favourite person, it can sure taste like new traditions."

I don't know if this entirely fills the prompt and it's a lot rougher than I'd like but please enjoy!

Illyrian Comfort Pie

“Fuck you, Morrigan.” Nesta wiped her bare arm across her brow, spices and herbs transferring straight from her forehead onto her forearm, the little green and orange specks dusting her skin. “And fuck you Rhys come to that.”

The alarm on her phone screamed and Nesta whirled around in her small kitchen space. She’d put the device down earlier, stabbing at the timer with a flour covered fingertip whilst trying to shove her pie into the oven.

Where the hell had she put the damn thing?

On the counter stood an open cookbook entitled ‘Recipes from the Heartland of Illyria,’ a bottle of wine which doubled as a rolling pin and cooking motivation, and Nesta’s pathetic pastry attempts one, two, and three – each one slightly less gloopy than the last - until she finally made semi-successful attempt number four.

No phone.  

Nesta let out a noise halfway between a screech and a yell, her hands reaching either side of her head, ignoring whatever food stuff would end up in her hair.

“Shit!” At least she managed to remember what the phone alarm was for, swivelling behind her and yanking down the oven door, reaching for the mitts as she ducked a plume of smoke.

This one didn’t smell too bad. Nesta grabbed the pie and shoved it onto the trivet on the counter. The crust was a little singed on one side but, if she was careful, she’d be able to scrape that off.

Her movements jostled a reem of paper towels and as they fell to their side, they revealed the object of Nesta’s irritation. One phone.

“Thank you,” she muttered, her eyes drifting upwards to the ceiling as she turned off the alarm. Her thanks was to whatever cookery god was willing to listen and half to the smoke alarm not going off.

Three notifications waited for her. She took a breath in and hit open on the first one.

Hahaha. You agreed to what?! Even *I* run from making that dish. Pretty sure my *grandmother* ran from making that dish and she used to be a baker. Anyway, are you coming Thursday?

Emerie. Not providing the answers Nesta was so desperately hoping for, instead reminding Nesta she had yet to confirm drinks with her and Gwyn. Nesta typed out a quick response.

Yes to Thursday. Any chance your grandmother would attempt making this again if I paid her?

Sent. Nesta moved onto notification number two - Feyre.

Did you want me to see if the Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street will do a delivery? If you put it in the oven for a bit and burn the edges no one will know.

Nesta raised an eyebrow. The audacity of her sister to assume Nesta would need assistance and that she’d burn the pie. She had burnt the pie but still, the audacity.

She chose not to respond to that one and instead moved to the final notification. Cassian. Nesta took a deep breath and hit open.

Are you having as much fun as I am? Thinking I could do this as a side hustle.

There was a photo attached. Cassian had taken a selfie of himself standing in front of his obnoxiously large quartz kitchen counter. His dark hair was tied in a messy bun and he winked into the camera. He wore an apron Nesta had never seen before, deep red with candy cane striped ties and in Christmas style writing was embroidered ‘Kiss the Chef’ underneath a sprig of mistletoe.

Nesta squinted at the image, zooming past Cassian himself to the dishes behind him slightly out of frame. Was that a bowl of perfectly glazed parsnips? A tray of immaculate shortbreads?

She let out another noise and flung the phone back onto the counter so she could press her palms into her eyes. At this point she was covered in flour, meat juice, and soggy pastry pieces. Sweat gathered under her breasts and trickled down her back from the constant heat of the oven.

Nesta had been baking for over six hours now and though there was a small part of her which wanted to cry, she refused. Although she’d cursed Morrigan and Rhys the biggest ‘fuck you’ should have been delivered to Nesta herself.

She’d agreed to this when she should have declined, and now her pride would cause her to take a fall.

There had been five of them for drinks at Rita’s. Should have been two – only Nesta and Cassian for their quiet post theatre drinks, but Morrigan had been there with other friends who she swiftly abandoned as soon as she saw Cassian arrive.

Within minutes Morrigan had called Feyre and then before Nesta knew it, she was being squished into a booth, Cassian to her left and Feyre to her right, while she sipped her chilled white wine and counted the minutes until it was socially acceptable to say her goodbyes.

“Oh my god,” Morrigan had been saying. “That was the best dish I think I’d ever eaten. Do you remember it Rhys? The caramelised onions and gravy? What was it called again Cass?”

Cassian groaned and lolled his head back. “Illyrian Comfort Pie. My favourite.” He took a sip of his beer. “The Illyrian army did a version with off-cuts, almost ruined a perfect dish.”

“What’s this pie?” Feyre asked.

“Only the best pie in the world,” Cassian replied, his eyes misting over. “Imagine thick tender beef soaked in its own juices for hours, drowned in rich gravy and embedded with caramelised onions all under a cover of hot crust pastry.”

“You need a room, Cass?” Rhys laughed.

Cassian raised his middle finger to Rhys but joined him in the laughter.

“Cassian’s ex made the best version,” Morrigan said, her eyes sliding to Nesta. “Honestly no one would be able to top it. Bri wasn’t even Illyrian but it was spot on.” She took a long sip from her own glass of red wine. “I guess it doesn’t need to be your own tradition if you care enough to put in the effort.”

There was a heavy silence which would have lingered if not for the clearing of Feyre’s throat. “Who’s got who for Secret Santa?”

“Oh, I’m sure if Nesta put in the effort it would be just as good. Right?” Nesta looked up and met Rhys’ eyes as he ignored Feyre’s question. He smirked as he finished speaking, cocking his own beer bottle to his mouth.

Three more pairs of eyes looked her way. Nesta felt the slight, almost imperceptible tensing from Cassian but it was Feyre’s eyes which widened the most. There was a kick against Nesta’s shin under the table.

“I’m sure it would,” Nesta said, “if I had the time.”

“Cassian was telling us at the bar you’re now on vacation. All your gifts already wrapped and under the tree. Sounds like you have time.”

“Rhys...” Feyre began but Morrigan jumped in.

“I think that would be a lovely Christmas present for Cass. You can start your own tradition now you’re official. Illyrian food is so hearty.”

There was a part of Nesta which was too stubborn for her own good. Rhys’ smirk and Morrigan’s too-wide grin opposite her, the meeting of the cousin’s eyes like this was some in-joke they had just started. Feyre kept kicking her under the table, the jostling movement irritating Nesta further.

The flash of irritation was the problem. That, and the second glass of wine she’d drunk on a half empty stomach fuelling it. Her temperature rose and her skin prickled and instead of counting to twenty like she’d been practicing in her apartment Nesta opened her mouth.

“Fine,” she said, “this whole thing sounds great. One Illyrian Comfort Pie it is. When do you want it? Day after next?” Nesta quickly grabbed her glass to take a swig of her drink before she agreed to anything else.

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t want to meet his eyes, he was probably thinking how Nesta wasn’t implementing those ‘take a moment’ techniques. But his hand reached down to clasp her free one under the table, giving it a squeeze.

“You know what?” he said, looking at the group. “I want in on this. New traditions sound great. You’re making mine so how about yours. What’s the Archeron family dish of choice?” He asked this looking at Nesta but she still had the wine glass clamped to her lips. No longer drinking, just holding it there to feel the cold.

“Ooh,” Feyre said, clapping her hands and jiggling a little on her seat. “Roasted venison, but that’s quite tricky. We haven’t eaten that since Elain went vegetarian. We also had roast potatoes and honey glazed parsnips. Green beans. There was a cheesy mash and – oh, oh, the shortbread biscuits with a chocolate drizzle and the Prythian Pavlova. That’s Nesta’s favourite.”

Cassian laughed. “You want to take a breath there, Feyre?”

In response, Feyre’s stomach grumbled. “No, but I think I need some dinner.”

Aside from Nesta, the table laughed. Her wine glass was now empty and back on the table, her fingers toying with the stem, her mind too preoccupied with the thought of this pie and how the hell she’d even find the recipe.

As the chatter resumed, now about where Rhys and Feyre were going for dinner, Cassian’s weight shifted against her, his arm casually slinging around her shoulders.

“You ok?”

She glanced up at him, plastering a smile on her face. “Absolutely fine.”

“Hmm. Is that genuine fine or Nesta fine?”

Cassian was staring at her intently, concern swimming in his dark eyes. She knew if she immediately conceded he’d let it go, their friendship group knew Nesta wasn’t known for her domestic pursuits and Cassian could whip up a mean dish filled with flavour.

If she really wanted to, Nesta could cheat her way out of this. Getting Elain to bake the pie for her would have once been a consideration until Elain and Lucien’s diet change. No meat, no dairy, no sugar.

No flavour, Lucien had added, ignoring Elain’s frown.

Still, there was something else shining in Cassian’s eyes. Excitement. He was pleased she’d agreed, he relished competition in all its forms and he seemed eager to do this with her.

Nesta’s smile melted in a more genuine one and she squeezed his hand back. “Honestly, it’s good. Dare I say I may even find it fun?”

That was two days ago. Two long days.

“Ha!” She now shouted to her cramped kitchen. “Two drink Nesta has no concept of what the fuck fun is.”

Everything was a mess, even the edges of the cookbook were singed and Nesta cringed at the sight. Gwyn had managed to track down the edition on her behalf and Nesta hated to see a book suffer.

She looked at the clock. Two hours to go – plenty of time to shower, dress up and cart the pie to Cassian’s where they would have a grand unveiling in front of their friends. Her phone pinged and Nesta glanced down to see a reply from Emerie.

She says no chance.

“That’s not a problem,” Nesta said, wiping her hands on her thighs and staining her jeans further. “Because I now have a half decent pie.” She picked up the sharp knife. “Just scrape some of the black bits off and we are good to go.”

The knife slid through the crust and Nesta lifted some of the burnt pastry off using the blade. Odd. What was a deep and crispy brown on the surface seemed pale and soft underneath. Almost as though the pastry hadn’t fully cooked all the way through.

“It’s just this bit,” Nesta told herself. “I’m sure the rest is just fine.” But as she gently lifted the pie-top she could see the same pale colour underneath. Worse was the distinct lack of steam rising from the filling. “No, no, no, no. You’ve been in the oven for almost two hours.”

Grabbing a fork, she stuck it into the dish and scooped out a lump of meat. Juice, which looked far too oily for her liking, dripped off the prongs. Nesta placed the meat on the counter and cut through it with a knife.

She was met with resistance. The beef was still cold. A noise left her throat unbidden, something akin to a half sob. Nesta had researched the best meat cuts for the pie, she’d made sure to go to the best butcher and spent no less than forty-five minutes asking the rather exasperated man behind the counter questions from her list.

Her eyes flew up to the clock. Less than two hours to go. The time she’d budgeted to get ready and go to Cassian’s now shrivelled up. Just like my hopes for this pie.

She peered into the dish, the caramelized onions bobbing in the gravy like some apple bobbing contest gone wrong. “You’re mocking me,” she said and then groaned. They wouldn’t be the only ones.  

Nesta sank down onto her floor, ignoring the drip of gravy she sat on and put her head on her knees. She could imagine it all now; Feyre, Rhys, and Morrigan all dressed up, swanning around Cassian’s apartment waiting to be served their multiple courses.

Feyre’s eyes would go wide at Nesta’s attempt but she’d try and make Nesta feel better and yet somehow by trying, she’d only make Nesta feel worse. Cassian would likely tuck the monstrosity – if she even bothered bringing it – behind some extravaganza he’d made and perform an elaborate distraction.

Rhys and Morrigan would probably just snigger behind their drinks and tell her that ‘at least she tried.’ Patronising fuckers.

A tear dripped from the corner of her eye down her chin.

Nesta had tried. Had really tried. She’d memorised the recipe from back to front before she even started, she’d gone out into Velaris Market with a clipboard, she’d called Elain early for pastry tips ignoring Lucien joining the call to ask Nesta if she could describe what real food tasted like because the memory of butter was fading fast.

She wiped her eyes with her fingers, knowing she must look even more of a state than before. But wait – there was an option open to her. Hope flared yet.

Nesta grabbed her phone from the counter. What had Feyre said? The Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street might be able to deliver. If anyone served an Illyrian Comfort Pie, it would be them. She scrolled through her favourites for the number. Her and Cassian had eaten there so often, she practically had them on speed dial.

The phone answered after the second ring.

“Hello? Hi. I know it’s late notice but I’m in a bit of a bind and hoping you could help.”

She explained the situation, confirming that yes, her pie request was for that Cassian, the one with the tattoos and arms.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Nesta said, eyeing up the clock and tapping her foot against the cupboard. “I’ll ask him. Some kind of protein shake, I think. Yeah, it’s really glossy hair. I’ll ask him that too. Anyway – the pie?”

They were regretful. Truly. Nesta could almost feel their sorrow down the phone. They didn’t have any pies pre-baked and they wouldn’t have one ready for the time she needed it by. They offered Nesta and Cassian a discount on their next visit and Nesta thanked them before hanging up.

“Well. Shit.”

Her eyes itched and she wanted to cry again but this wasn’t the Archeron way. She shook her shoulders and cleared her throat. There would be no pie but Nesta would be damned if she turned up without bringing anything and looking like a chaotic mess.

The kitchen horror show was a problem for future her, but in less than an hour, she had showered, dressed herself in her most confidence boosting little black dress and practiced her affirmations in front of the hallway mirror.

“You are a calm, confident, capable woman. You did not achieve the pie. Others have probably not achieved the pie. You have achieved other things. Like your best friends, two degrees, and this awesome looking pavlova.”

Nesta held the covered bowl to the mirror as though to show her reflection the cream and meringue evidence. Her lipstick red smile shook a little but the taxi driver was calling to say he was downstairs so there was no time for doubt to creep in.

On a usual night it took too long to get to Cassian’s. The drive was less than fifteen minutes from one end of the small city where Nesta lived to Cassian’s address and every second stretched out painfully slow.

Tonight, it was as though all roads had cleared especially for her just to say ‘look, you can get to your ritual humiliation even earlier.’

“It’s not like I’ve ever seen Rhys or Morrigan cook,” she mumbled to herself as she exited the cab and entered Cassian’s building. The porter nodded and buzzed her in and then Nesta was counting the too-quick numbers on the elevator.

Cassian’s apartment was one of two at the top of the building and though the sound-proofing was excellent, which they could attest to personally, Nesta was surprised at the distinct lack of any festivities sounding from behind his door when she approached.

He answered after one knock, hair freshly washed and dried. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons were undone, swathes of black swirling tattoos on display.

Cassian let out a low whistle and grinned like a wolf when he saw her. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite lady, in my favourite dress of hers, with my favourite dish.”

He leant in to kiss her and Nesta winced at the mention of food. Cassian’s lips met hers in a chaste kiss but he must have noticed her response as he was frowning when he pulled away.

��Come in,” he said with a light tone. “Let me take that.” He held his hands out for the bowl she was carrying but she clutched it tighter to her body.

“That’s ok, let me find a space to put it.”

“Sure.”

Nesta stepped further into the apartment. Everything was chrome, quartz, or wood but Cassian couldn’t help himself when it came to Christmas. What was once an interior designers dream for a ‘bachelor living’ magazine spread was now a grotto fit for the dreams of any eight-year-old girl.

A smile lifted the corner of her lips. She’d never begrudge him this. Foster care and ten endless churn of care homes hadn’t left Cassian with any sense of home and the orphanage tried their best but lacked the funds.

Cassian had told her that his best Christmas eventually came in the Illyrian military and all that involved was eating dry turkey from paper plates and reading stupid jokes from cheap crackers. But he was with people that felt like family and that’s what mattered the most.

Now, garlands hung from the oversized windows, a tree larger than Cassian himself stood by the fireplace decked with shining ornaments. A range of presents piled up under the tree to the point where they spilled across his floor.

Stockings on the mantel, rugs everywhere, gingerbread houses which increased in number each time Nesta was over. Candles on every surface.

“Wine?” Cassian asked as Nesta slid the bowl onto his counter. She nodded while taking a breath in. Ham and apricot, honey, a distinct scent of rich chocolate. All the food laid out but under coverings to keep them fresh.

Her stomach stank. She’d failed him so miserably.

Her face must have painted a picture because Cassian moved beside her. “Hey, what’s up.” His fingers tucked under her chin, tilting her face to his. Those deep eyes of his, again swimming in concern.

She hoped the best Christmas present she could get him was honesty.

“I fucked it.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“The pie, I completely fucked it up.”

His confused blank expression immediately melted and he laughed, his head thrown back and the column of his throat on display. His face in laughter was a delight, he was young and happy and in love with life. “Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“There is no pie. I botched it.”

He looked down at her, his expression softening, his smile gentle. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That pie is an art only the devil knows how to get right. Did you know Emerie’s grandmother won’t even make one and she won Illyrian baker of the year for fifteen years?”

Nesta coughed and reached for the wine poured out for her. “No, I didn’t know that.”

Cassian moved round the counter to Nesta’s dish. “So, what did you bring?”

“The only thing that didn’t involve my oven. The meringue isn’t even home-made. I’m such a sellout.”

He peeked under the covering and exhaled. “Oh, thank the Mother.” He stepped back, his hand over his heart. “I fucked it.”

Now, Nesta blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“The meringue for the Prythian Pavlova. It was the one thing I wanted to get perfect but do you know how hard meringue is to make? I couldn’t even make it to the store.”

He shook his head, grabbing his own glass of wine. “I even rang Elain to ask her for tips but Lucien answered and begged me to tell him in great detail how the filo wrapped parcels were smelling. He said, and I quote ‘go low and take your time’. I’m not sure how comfortable I am having them over for New Year.”

Nesta laughed, shaking her own head, glancing around the apartment. It had taken her long enough but something finally dawned on her. “Am I early? When are the others arriving?”

Cassian paused, swirling his glass. “Yeah, about that... I thought ‘fuck ‘em.’”

Nesta’s eyes bulged. “I think I’m missing something.”

Cassian put his glass down and leant back against the far counter.

“You know Bri’s pie wasn’t all that great. Mor was being...” he trailed off, scratching his eyebrow the way he did when he was uncomfortable. “Mor was being difficult and it was unfair. Rhys too. But I liked the idea of you and I doing our own holiday tradition so I guess I thought I’d see where we ended up.”

He gestured to his apartment and the dishes before them. “So, we ended up here. Just you and I, a bottle of wine, lots of delicious food and a very comfy rug we’re fucking on after dinner.”

“Is that right?” Nesta said, putting her glass down. She walked over to him. “Have you seen what you’ve made? We are not fucking after dinner.” She placed her hand on his chest, his heart beating a rhythm against her palm as she ignored his disappointed face. “We’re fucking before dinner.”

That wolf grin was back on his face and he leant forward to kiss her but Nesta stopped him. “I feel bad, everything here is an Archeron dish. You didn’t get your pie.”

“Oh, I’ll get to eat my pie.”

“Cassian!”

He laughed again, his broad arms wrapping around her body. “The fact that you tried means everything. I promise. This is a great start to our forever tradition.”

Nesta looked up at him; the hours of failed baking, the constant smoke alarms, the mess she had to clear up tomorrow. Worth it. All of it. “Forever you say?”

“Forever.”

[shadowdarlings]

Blood Will Rain II

Azriel x Reader

Synopsis : After emerging victorious in the war with Hybern, you are learning to be a part of a family again. Your recovery after being captive is slow, but a certain shadowsinger makes it his responsibility to see that you get well again.

part one

Pairings : AzrielxReader , ReaderxInnerCircle!Platonic , ReaderxRhysand!Siblings

A/N : part two of idk. if you’d like to be tagged in any other series updates please comment!

Warnings : slight angst, mentions of captivity, az being sweetie pie hehe

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It had been weeks since you and your family had returned to the Night Court. After half a millennia you were thrilled to be back in the city of starlight. Velaris, your home, finally. You had taken up a semi-permanent residence in the House of Wind alongside Cassian and Azriel. Although the elation of returning woke something that had been long asleep within you, the scars of your captivity rang throughout your very bones. Rhysand made a habit of coming to check on you frequently. Sometimes under the guise of wanting to meet with his general or shadowsinger, but it was all to see you. You noted his efforts and appreciated his call to be your older brother, but you did not know how to be a sister anymore. You did not know how to be a friend. These titles had been forgotten, the only thing you knew how to do was be prisoner. You often caught yourself falling into old habits that had been developed during the 500 years you were Hybern’s pet. The chambers in which he kept you at the grey stone palace had changed throughout the years. The first 200 you spent confined to a small dungeon with little light or air. After much beguiling the King saw fit to move you into a room similar to what their servants were housed in. It was nothing compared to the space and lavishness of your quarters in the House.

This did not stop you from remaining mostly confined to that room. It was rare that you strode the halls or explored the libraries or training ring. Interactions with the rest of your brother’s court were kept short and polite. You did not want them to see that you now felt stranger to them, this world. Although you had grown up with the three Illyrian males they had become something you did not recognize. They too had gone through extensive changes during these years. Rhysand had become High Lord. Cassian a commanding General to the Night Court’s armies. Azriel had become something completely different than what you knew before. He was the same in some regards, still reserved and watchful, but his presence held a more powerful purpose than it did during those years in Illyria. These people were your family, yes, but they were also strangers. The Archeron sisters were also completely foreign to you. Feyre visited as Rhys did and made efforts to give you any comfort you requested. The other two sisters you hardly spoke to or saw at all. Strangers. They were all strangers. Except that this was their House, their family. There was a sickening realization that it was not them but you who was the stranger. So you kept to yourself, to your abominably large quarters, and to the small tasks you gave yourself each day.

You were up before dawn as you practiced each morning. The power that the Cauldron had bestowed on you was something that needed an outlet. These last hours of night were perfect, you would not disturb anyone as you released waves of magic. The stars winked at you from the lightening sky as you levitated each item in your room several inches then gently placed them back down. It was simple magic, not anything that could be used productively, but it was something to quell the ocean inside. One floor above you felt movement coming from Cassian’s rooms. The General was often awake early but typically not for at least another hour. The shock of it was enough that your bed landed with a dull thud instead of silent ease. Panic struck through you and it was an effort to control your breaths. “Relax,” you said to yourself, “he is not your enemy.” The footsteps and noises that came from the two Illyrians often sent your survival instincts into hyperdrive until you reminded yourself that they were not the guards. You were not prisoner. You were home. Loosing a calm breath you considered. His steps were no longer solitary but accompanied by a lighter pair, and they were making their way down to your floor. Then seconds later a soft knock sounded on the large wooden door to your sitting room just outside your sleeping quarters. You shouldered on the floor length robe that hung on your bedpost and pulled your midnight hair back from your face. Padding over gently you opened the door slightly to reveal a towering Azriel waiting to greet you.

“There’s breakfast,” he offered observing your entire figure. He seemed to note the thin sheen of sweat that adorned your forehead from your morning magic. He did not comment, but raised his palm slightly in invitation. “Let me change into something more appropriate and I’ll be ready,” you said assessing him in a similar manner. The shadowsinger was not in his usual Illyrian leathers, but instead he donned casual black pants and a loose fitting long black shirt. The swirls of ink on his chest peeking just above the neckline. Whispers of autumn were upon the northern territory, a slight chill had claimed the mornings while the sun still heated the afternoons. He bowed slightly, “Of course,” was all he said before you shut the door and turned to get yourself ready. The outfits you’d worn at the House had all been casual. Rhys did not deem it fit for you to take up any sort of fighting anytime soon, and you were inclined to agree with him. “Recovery,” is what he had said, “that is all I want you to focus on. If you need anything at all please let any one of us know.” You smiled slightly at the thought while pulling on a lightweight sweater that matched your violet eyes and a pair of black leggings accompanied by woolen socks. It had been longer than you could remember since such kindness had been extended to you. It was so foreign, but you welcomed it nonetheless. After tying your hair into a loose bun at the nape of your neck you strode to the double doors that entered the hallway. Upon opening them you were surprised to see Azriel still standing there waiting for you.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you said, willing the slight blush that threatened to climb up your cheeks to dissipate. “I know,” was all he said before gesturing towards the hall that led to the dining room. The two of you took the short walk in silence. Whether Azriel knew the silence was born by feeling like a stranger he did not let on, but silence with him felt different than with the others. With the rest of your family you were always searching for something to say, something to fill the emptiness that gave away your alienation from them. With Azriel the quiet did not seem so desperate. Perhaps it was just the nature of a shadowsinger, you thought.

The two of you entered into the grand dining room and the silence was broken by Cassian’s bellowing laughter and Mor’s palm thwacking against his bicep. Surely you did not want to know the words they had exchanged before your arrival. Rhysand and Feyre swooped into the main room not a second later, the two of them giving knowing glances as they strode in and joined the rabble. You were happy for your brother, and it was then you made a mental note to try and get to know his new mate better. When you halted a few feet from the group, Azriel stopped with you. Rhysand turned his attention from Feyre and his eyes landed on you and the towering Illyrian standing just to your side. “Good morning, Y/N. Good morning, Az,” he purred. Cassian and Mor paused their bickering to gaze over to you both as well. The sets of eyes that all laid upon you now had you toying with the sleeve of your sweater, but you simply replied “Good morning, everyone.” Feyre approached and wrapped her slender arms around your shoulders. “I hope you slept well,” she said pulling back after her short embrace. You nodded and plastered a cheery smile on your face. This was your family. They love you. “Good,” Rhysand stated, “because we have a long day ahead of us.” At your confused look Azriel leaned down to say gently “We’re going to celebrate your birthday.”

Taglist : @annamariereads16 @lilah-asteria @sidthedollface2 @todaywasafairytale07 @doodlebugg16-blog

[impossiblescissorspeachpaper]

Not Possible

A little February fluff because I felt like it

Elriel. 2k words

Elain sat in front of the vanity in her old room at the Town House, her chin heavily resting in a palm as her elbow lent against the walnut tabletop, scattered with all manner of books, blueprints for various gardens she was working on, empty cups of tea, and ribbons. She was bored and longing for company. But the boredom was welcomed if it meant she could avoid the alternative that awaited her at the manor.

She didn’t come here very often anymore but she had needed the space tonight. She had opted for the peace and quiet, the solitude. Needed to be away from busybodies and prying eyes and yearning glances. For Lucien was staying overnight in Velaris. He had come through the Night Court after a reconnaissance mission from the continent, reporting to Rhys findings from his travels, before continuing to the human realm. He hadn’t had the time to find accommodation, he’d said, so Feyre had offered him a room at the manor. Which was fine. They were friends, she supposed. But tonight, she couldn’t deal with it all. Didn’t want to deal with her sisters’ fretful glances, Lucien’s awkward attempts at small talk, Rhys’ politics. So, she feigned the excuse of early chores to warrant her stay in the city proper and had Rhys winnow her over just after dinner.

Perched on the tufted, blush-coloured velvet seat in front of the vanity, she removed the ribbon from her hair and set to working her fingers through the long strands, untangling the locks from their intricate braid. Bored as she may currently be, if she were being completely honest with herself, there was only one person’s company she wanted tonight. Only one person’s company she wanted any night, really. She reached the top of her braid, her hair finally loosening enough that she exhaled a content sigh, the pressure of the tight hairstyle causing a dull ache in her scalp. She reached for a comb and started on untangling the gnarls in her long tresses.

Through the reflection of the mirror, she thought she saw a flash of cobalt fly by outside. Whipping her head toward the window behind her, she craned her neck to look out into the night sky. Clear, and full of beautiful bright stars. But no Illyrian’s.

Her shoulders sagged slightly.

More disappointed than she cared to admit, she turned back to the mirror, her fingers running through her hair again when she heard a tapping at her window. Once again whirling around, she found Azriel, afloat mid-air, his wings beating in the night breeze, a sly little smirk painted across his handsome face.

She rushed over to the window and unlatched the lock, throwing it wide open so he could scramble inside.

“Az! You came. How did you know I would be here?”

She’d grown accustomed to his presence. In fact, she had grown to enjoy his company more than anyone else’s. Any spare time Azriel wasn’t on missions for Rhysand or assisting Cassian with the Valkyrie’s training, he was with her. Appearing just when she needed him; helping her haul rich, fresh soil across the manor grounds to fertilise her roses, chopping up apples to bake into a pie, flying her across the city so she could aid a young family who lost their father in the war with their garden, babysitting Nyx so Feyre and Rhys could spend a night out at the theatre. Nothing was ever too boring, or menial, or inane. His stone-cold manners remained intact throughout it all and he seemed genuinely happy to be assisting her.

And although he seemed comfortable enough to be spending these moments with her, she never let herself spiral too far in her fantasies. So often, during their time together she would find herself lost in daydream after ridiculous daydream. Wondering what his beautiful hands tangled up in her hair would be like, the feel of his full lips brushed across her skin as he worshiped her, the weight of his strong body pressed against hers in the throes of passion. But no, he didn’t see her like that. He didn’t harbour any romantic feelings towards her. She was sure of it. So, she kept a tight lid on those thoughts, and tampered them down, down, down.  Stubbornly stuffing them into a secret little part of her soul she had carved out especially for him whenever they seemed to be bubbling to the surface again.

“I wouldn’t be much of a Spymaster if I didn’t know where you would be now, would I Ellie?”

Ellie. Mother help her. She wouldn’t ever admit to another living soul what that nickname uttered from his lips did to her.

She huffed a little laugh. “So much for not keeping tabs,” she teased.

He struggled to amble his large body through the open window of her second story bedroom and she snickered at his expense. “Is the front door too ordinary?”

“Wards,” he grumbled, attempting to snap his magnificent wings even tighter into his body so they would stop catching on the frame. “It’s been a couple centuries since I’ve had to sneak in through a females window,” he groused.

She ignored the tinge of jealousy she felt at that admission.

“Oh? Well considering you’ve done it so many times before, you should no doubt be an expert by now, no?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about, lady.” He finally managed to heave his massive body safely into her room and shot her a smirk that was pure male arrogance, causing a dimple to pop in his smooth, tanned cheek.

“Rogue!” she countered, swatting at his chest and turning to stalk hautily away.

Azriel threw his head back and laughed, the sound so joyous she had to bite the inside of her cheek to not join him, maintaining her feigned contemptuousness. He lurched forwards and gently grabbed her wrist, preventing her withdrawal, and pulled her back toward his chest, Elain turning obediently into his embrace as if he was a courtier leading her in a waltz. She let him envelope her back into his warmth, coming to a halt when they were standing chest to chest. He smiled down at her, mischief still shining in his hazel eyes, and she swore her poor heart stuttered several beats at the sight.

Elain’s eyes widened as she beheld his handsome face, set in an easy smile so few ever saw. She sucked in a breath, her gaze lost in the depth of his eyes, the ribbons of green and brown and gold etching themselves on her soul, cursing herself for not having Feyre’s talents. For in that moment all she wanted to do was capture the colours of his irises and immortalise them in a piece of art she could look at forever. What a pathetic way to wile away the time, she thought. When had she become so tragically infatuated with him?

“You can’t do that,” Elain breathed, still transfixed by his beauty. With her hands resting upon his chest, she could feel his steady heartbeat beneath them. Strong, unfaltering. Just like he was.

The corner of his mouth lifted, that dimple in his cheek popping again and all she wanted to do was dip her pinkie finger into it. “Do what, Ellie?”

That nickname! She almost groaned.

“Look at me like that,” she sighed. “It’s… it’s not fair.”

Azriel considered her for a moment, before his expression softened and his hands came to rest on either side of her waist, the heavy weight of his palms making her positively lightheaded. A daring shadow curled around his ear, down his neck, and she found herself envious of those coils of darkness, envious they had the luxury of whispering across his golden-brown skin at all hours of the day.

Something flickered in his expression, his eyes darting back and forth across her face, as if he was drawing some sort of conclusion. She vaguely wondered what it could be. He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing with the motion, before his fingers dug imperceptibly tighter into her waist.

“I can’t help it,” he began, his deep gravely voice a sinful whisper on the night breeze, skittering along her bones and causing goosebumps to erupt across her creamy flesh from the reverence she heard in it. “How else am I supposed to look at the female I love?”

She startled, her doe eyes widening, before lamely rambling, “You-- what? I don’t—you jest. Az…what?”

Her mind scrambled, short circuited and ultimately went quiet. So utterly quiet. Was this real? A dream? A cruel, sadistic vision the Cauldron had pushed upon her mind?

He chuckled, a blush blooming across his cheeks. “Ellie… you can’t be that surprised. I seek you out every spare minute I get.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“The gardening?”

“You were just being helpful—”

He cut her off, “And helping you bake, I can’t bake!”

She sputtered “I thought you just couldn’t wait to eat everything!”

“And babysitting Nyx with you…”

“He’s your nephew, you love him—” she exasperated.

“Elain,” he griped, tipping his face towards the heavens as if preaching for sanity. “You and I both know you can handle Nyx better than almost anyone else. You never needed my help. I love him, of course I love him,” he chuckled at the memory of his mischievous little nephew, “but I have fallen in love…with you,” he finished nervously.

“Az…” she whispered, still not believing it. She buried her face into his muscular chest, burrowing into his warmth as she hugged him tightly around his trim waist. She breathed in deeply, soaking in his cedar and mist scent, the delicious perfume sweeping over her very soul, soothing it, like crystal clear waters washing over river stones.

He loved her? How could someone as wonderful as Azriel love her? He was so kind, and gentle, and thoughtful. He loved her. He saw her for all she was…and he remained by her side. He didn’t run. He loved her. He had looked, and listened, when no one else had. Through her darkest days and the seemingly endless abyss of her trauma, he never let her drown in the darkness. He loved her. He had offered her a hand, kept reaching out to her and never faltered. A steady, resolute, stoic presence in her life. He loved her.

“Elain? Please, say something… so I know whether I should go drown myself in the Sidra and never emerge, or…” his words died in his throat as she finally peeled her face from his chest and raised herself up on her tiptoes.

She nuzzled her nose against his before gazing into his stunning eyes. Surer of the next words she was about to confess more than anything else in her life, she breathed, “I love you too, Az.”

The relief and veneration she saw cascade across his handsome face broke her heart in the most achingly delicious of ways as she carded her fingers in the silky black hair at the nape of his neck. The pads of her digits pressed into his skin, and she nudged him down, desperate to get him closer. She saw the question in his expression, her eyes fluttering closed in answer, angling her face just right, as she felt Azriel’s plush lips softly brush hers in the sweetest of kisses.

His mouth melted against hers and she felt herself become pliant in his arms. His tongue swept across her lips, and she opened for him, allowing Azriel to deepen the kiss. Finally, finally, tasting each other. It was like a puzzle piece snapping resolutely in place with a satisfying click. She whimpered in his embrace, tugging on his lower lip gently with her teeth.

Azriel pulled away, something like awe lining his features, his swollen lips slightly parted as he peered down at her. “You love me?” he asked softly.

She nodded, her golden-brown curls bouncing down her back. “I do.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked back and forth across hers, letting the declaration wash over his body, his heart, his soul, before he dipped his face back towards hers and crashed his sensuous lips against her mouth in a bruising, desperate kiss. He knocked the very air from her lungs, rendering her breathless, a boneless golden puddle, limp in his arms. Her head spun and her chest swelled with a sensation she wasn’t familiar with but made her feel as if some intrinsic, elemental part of her was irrevocably being awoken.

He broke away again, delicately cradling her face between his palms as if he held the most precious of treasures there, “I love you more.”

She smiled brightly back up at him. “Not possible.”

*******

tagging: @offtorivendell

[ratabrasileira]

I have this... question and theory (although I'm afraid it doesn't make so much sense)

Why did Rhys suggest the intervation for Nesta?

Firstly, I think to be really odd how ACOSF described that Rhys was there and *plimm* a PowerPoint presentation about "How to Deal With My Sister-In-Law Behavior?":

Rhys had laid a comforting hand on Feyre’s, squeezing gently before he looked at Azriel, and then Cassian, and laid out his plan. As if he’d had it waiting a long, long while.

OMG, did he spend the night awake to plain about this?? I think that he secretly cared for Nesta, even if a little! And I'll explain why:

We have Rhys' POV in ACOFAS:

Not that anything was happening on that front. Not anytime soon. Nesta had made it clear enough she had no interest in Cassian—not even in being in the same room as him. I knew why. I’d seen it happen, had felt that way plenty.

I'll admit that I got lost in the interpretation... Firstly I though that Rhys understood Nesta in trauma's regards. And now I'm confunsed, is he saying about romantice/mate bond or the trauma indeed? lmao I'm sorry this will ruin the fundament of my theory.

Anyways, if it's about trauma, then I'm "right" to say that... He passed through the same that Nesta did. He saw himself in her, not just about the trauma, but also the power (here is the part where I may be delusional)

Here Mor says:

“We got sent up here for ‘reflection’ when we were younger,” Mor said. “Rhys used to smuggle in books and booze for me.”

Reflection= Isolation.

This is how Mor and Rhys learned how to deal with their bad behaviors. And Nesta was having a bad behavior.

Anyways, here, I'm afraid to say, may have a headcanon...

“It seems like you have a great deal of magic constantly in use at once.” A shrug. “It helps me work off the strain of my power. The magic needs release—draining—or else it’ll build up and drive me insane. That’s why we call the Illyrian stones Siphons—they help them channel the power, empty it when necessary.” “Actually insane?” I set aside the empty stew bowl and removed the lid from the meat pie. “Actually insane. Or so I was warned. I can feel it, though—the pull of it, if I go too long without releasing it.”

We know that Rhys is the most powerful High Lord in the history and that Nesta is 3847298347x more powerful than him. We also know that Nesta used Sex and Drugs (not rock in roll I guess, but music [Rhys likes music too]) to calm down her powers. Tell me.. Why didn't Rhys do the same?

This post says how simillar Rhys and Nesta can be and I trully believe that in power regard, they can act alike.

Also, Rhys is very thankfull to Amren teaching him how to control the power. This only leads me that boy wasn't good at controlling it, and as Nesta said, drinking and fucking was good to calm the power down —I believe that this is personal, tho, look to Elain (unless... 👀), but still, they may cope in the same way.

Anyways, I wrote this fic about Rhys dealing with his power when young and I used Nesta's behaviour as... inspiration (not the best word).

In the end, Rhys may see himself (and acknowledge that) in Nesta.