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sirendeepity · 3 years ago

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[ Nesand one-shot ]

A/N: before you come at me with pitchforks and torches, ready to burn me at the stake, I'd like to clarify that this is not a romatic/crackship fic. They're both more than happy with their own actual mates and so are we. Also, on this blog we stan and highly support healthy communication (given the characters and the canon events, I'd better say communication of any kind, bUT STILL). I know many would find it weird, but I've often headcanon(n)ed? this as their first step toward a real reconciliation. So there it is, black on white, hoping you'll enjoy reading this much more than I did, writing it (twice, actually, and we can thank my stupidity for that).

W/C: 3.7k

T/W: sexual assault, abuse

“We’re going to have guests very soon,” Feyre announced as soon as Cassian’s ass touched the velvet seat cushion of the couch, Nesta leaning over the arm to his left. When he’d looked at the free spot left in a silent request, she had just waved him off and found her own comfortable seat.

“We received a letter from the Human Queens: they wish to send here one of their newest courtiers to meet with us. They didn’t mention for what reason, exactly,” Rhysand went on, picking up where his mate had left off, “but we’ll take our chances, given the latest events.”

Given the war still looming over Prythian; given what happened with Briallyn, and the powers Nesta lost and found anew; given the threat Koschei and his Fourth Dread Trove represented. They couldn’t allow themselves any failure or misstep, nor miss any given opportunity to gather new information or forge possible alliances.

The unspoken words were everyone’s first thought, Cassian could tell it solely on the look on their faces, but the air was thick and heavy with something else, something more. Something his High Lord and Lady weren’t eager to share.

“What it is?” He asked, looking to the couple standing across the studio.

Rhysand’s gaze hold his own for a few breaths but remained quiet.

It was his High Lady who spoke, her eyes fixed on a pair the perfect reflection of her own, just colder, sharper, “It’s Tomas.”

Cassian could have sworn Nesta’s heart missed a beat. His surely did.

Predatory calm washed over him as every muscle in his body went taut.

He breathed in, then did it again, trying and failing to keep at bay the surging fury already warming his siphons and the whole room with them.

“He’s not setting foot into this fucking Court.” Cassian failed to recognize his own voice, so calm and low despite the rage he was feeling.

Tomas Mandray.

The name wasn’t new to him.

It had left Nesta’s lips only once, but the cold restrain in her voice, the stillness in her very being, and the swallow she had to take after the dismissing “ex-fiance” bullshit told him everything he needed to know. He lived on top of a library filled with priestesses in white robes, after all. Had spent many years there even before he could call it his home, their home. And had learned to read between the lines.

That day he’d seen red like never before. Rhysand’s and Feyre’s voices had snaked in his mind, one after the other, asking what was wrong. He’d ignored both, shutting abruptly his mental shields. Nesta, as it was to be expected, had matched his temper just fine - her cold resolution the only thing that kept him from flying all the way to the human lands to hunt down the son of a bitch and tear him apart with his own bare hands, as if he were nothing more than a mad beast foaming at the mouth, taking down whoever got in his way if necessary. They had never spoken of it again, but his name was inked in his brain like the tattoos on his very skin.

“Who is Tomas?” Mor asked carefully, trying to ease the tension and bringing the conversation back to a common ground - or at least a ground where more than three people understood what was going on.

But Cassian was having none of it. “Someone who’s going to be dead soon enough.” His gaze was fixed on Rhysand, daring him. The High Lord narrowed his eyes at the challenge and his mouth opened to throw back a retort. Nesta beat him to the punch.

“Let him come.” Were her only words, laced with cold indifference. As if it didn’t matter, as if she didn’t care. Fucking lies.

“Are you kidding me?” He turned his face, looking up at her. He knew the fight they had avoided weeks before would’ve come back sooner or later, and if it was going to happen right there and then, under everyone’s attention, then so be it. He wouldn’t back down this time. Nor ever again.

“Drop it, Cassian.” Nesta didn’t even look at him, insisting instead on keeping her eyes down, checking her nails. As if this -him- wasn’t worth the effort.

His hand twitched and he felt his skin prickling like it was too tight for his body. “No, I don’t think I will.” He stood up, unintentionally shoving Nesta’s elbow in the process, and put as much distance as he could between him and- well, everyone.

“You’re making a scene for nothing.” Cassian turned to face her again, only this time she’d deigned to look at him. He almost wished she hadn’t, because what he saw in her eyes… They should’ve been over and done with it, yet there they were. Back on square one, apparently.

No, we’re not, he reminded himself.

“He’s not getting anywhere close to you.” His voice held resolution enough, but he still crossed his arms over his broad chest, ready to take whatever Nesta would throw at him.

If she rolled her eyes once more, Cassian could bet they would pop out of their orbits. He would have grinned at the reaction, at the slight sag of Nesta’s shoulder and the tension released from his own, if it weren’t for the decision yet to be made. How the hell did Tomas even manage to get the Queens’ favor? Not only that, he became their courtier as well.

Nesta’s exhale was loud and heavy as she stood, chin up and all, “We have to let him come here and play his stupid little game.”

“No, we fucking don’t. We refuse. We ask them to send someone else.”

“That’s the whole point! They’re doing it on purpose. They know, Cassian. There’s no other possible explanation. He must have sold them my-” she faltered, regret already shadowing her eyes at the realization of what she’d let slip from her mouth, quickly recovering from her mistake, “our past, and gained something from it. How do you think he caught the Queens’ attention otherwise? Chopping special wood for them? Please.” Nesta scoffed, the anticipation for what was to come painted on her face. “I gave him the power he thinks he has now, and by not agreeing on meeting with him we’re just proving his point: that he has something, that he’s worth something. I’d rather die than giving him the satisfaction.”

Gods.

She was standing a breath away from him now, and Cassian had to remind himself that he was, indeed, still mad about the whole Tomas situation and that they were, indeed, still in a room full of people.

That was the reason why their fights never lasted until the morning of the day after.

He’d taught her how to wield a sword, among many other weapons, but they did little compared to what her steel-will and that wicked mouth of hers were able to do. Places and situations like the one they were in - that was the battlefield she belonged to. And she was every inch a conquering Queen, posed and ready to guide her one-woman-army into war.

He forced his lips not to bend upward in a smirk, not to show his pride, the awe toward the female he had the honor to call mate and wife. Instead, Cassian dismissed her entirely, turning his attention toward Rhysand and Feyre instead, watching and listening intentionally like everyone else, clearly entertained. “Do you remember the days off I always refused to take? I do now. And so does she.”

Nesta tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. She was pissed. She was very, very pissed.

* * *

Nesta blinked away the recent memories of the day.

They managed to found an agreement - of which she was still bitter about - and moved on. The flight back home had been quiet, but as soon as they’d landed and she had glanced at Cassian’s expression, everything went downhill. Or uphill, it depended on the point of view.

He’d worn that insufferable smirk like a medal, and she’d wanted nothing more than to erase the smugness from his face. Either by fucking his brain out or kicking him in the balls. The second option, tho, would’ve given her immense but temporary joy, and it wouldn’t advantage her in the long run. So she’d gone for the first one instead.

They’d both ignored Azriel’s unnervingly kind request of keeping their business out of the dining room, at least. And the things Cassian had whispered against her ear, as she’d laid bare and writhing and begging-

Stop, Nesta.

Hours have passed since then, Cassian and Azriel both long gone - something was not quite right in Illyria if the Shadowsinger had to leave as well. She’d planned to ask Gwyn to keep her company but ended up doing otherwise, also because she knew a specific someone would have knocked at her door, sooner or later. Asking right away for an explanation, or pretending to “just talk” while trying to carve the truth out of her.

Who she sensed wasn’t exactly on her list of suspects.

She shut the book resting on her lap, standing and quickly reaching the door of the private library.

And there he was, the High Lord of the Night Court. In the middle of her hallway, his hands already tucked in the pockets of his finely made black pants and an expression she struggled to decipher on his face.

He just… Stood there, looking at her. She didn’t move, didn’t balk from his violet eyes, only stared back. And then she acted.

She closed the door at her back and headed for the stairs, hoping he would understand her silent invitation. He did, thankfully, and they walked in silence for a few minutes, climbing step after step. Once she reached the upper level of the House, she went straight for the wider balcony, where two wooden lounge-chair awaited, each one with a thin wool blanket. It wasn’t so far into the night to be needing them yet, but Nesta had no idea how long her brother-in-law planned to stay.

She took a seat, looking up at the stars already visible in the darkness above their heads, waiting for Rhysand to join her.

That he did not, choosing to stand instead. She couldn’t see him from where she was without twisting, and that realization settled something restless in her chest. That told Nesta they’d both end up needing the covers sooner than expected, and not because of the chilly air of the night.

“I didn’t know you went to the Wall for Feyre,” Rhysand said, finally breaking the silence. He had asked, then.

“She’s my sister.” They’ve laid down their weapons since Nyx’s birth, yet Nesta still found it hard to keep the harshness at bay when speaking to certain members of the family. But she was trying, at least, at that was still something.

“Not many expected you to do so, given the risks.” His voice was low, distant, like that was not at all the reason why he was there.

Because it’s not, Nesta reminded herself.

“Not even Feyre , apparently.”

She knew where Rhysand wanted to carefully lead the conversation without any spiteful retort getting in the way, but she kinda missed his word games and provocations, all made just for her to expose her neck so he could hit, aiming straight for the jugular. So Nesta got in his way, making sure their current conversation came to an end, and waited for his next attack. But Rhysand didn’t reply, so she waited some more, and more, and more. To Hell with him.

“Say it,” Nesta snapped. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for playing games, so there was no point in keeping this one going.

“What’s with him?”

There it was.

She knew it was coming - she literally asked for it, yet she found no words, no answers.

It was like she didn’t want to find the answers. Because saying the words out loud, Nesta knew, was admitting once and for all that it had happened. That it had been real, and not just a very vivid nightmare. One of her worst.

Her stare was fixed on the golden capital, lit by fires she knew burned until the first lights of dawn - and sometimes even after. Yet it was not light what Nesta saw.

It was the brown and the green of the trees; the pale, dirty skin of the hands tightly wrapped around her wrists, tearing at her dress, greedy for something that wasn’t theirs. Nesta flinched at the creaking sound near her, from the lounge chair Rhysand was now sitting on. He took his time to make himself comfortable, legs sprawled before him and ankles crossed; one arm resting on his lap as the other went behind his head, to give support. She watched it all under furrowed brows.

“The 50 years I spent Under the Mountain had been the worst of my entire life - and I’d lived a very long life. I’d made a lot of mistakes in the past, hurt a lot of people. Amarantha… She made sure I paid for all of it.”

He wasn’t looking at her, but at the glittering sky above, counting the little dots piercing through the dark. The same ones, she supposed, he hadn’t been able to see for so many years. Nesta suspected it was not stars what his eyes were beholding, as well. She looked away, too.

“I had to please her, to warm her bed every night, to pretend I was enjoying myself just as much as she was. Only she was not. What she truly enjoyed was the pain she knew I was feeling. The disgust. Amarantha’s whore. That’s who I was, who I had to be. That was the punishment I deserved.” Rhysand fell silent again, not turning or looking for a reaction, an expression. Never meeting her gaze as less and less time passed between a blink and the next.

Nesta inhaled quietly, feeling the weight of what her brother-in-law just told her. She was supposed to say something, that she knew, but what? Did the right words even exist? She could try to find them, at least.

“Did Tomas… Is he your Amarantha?”

She should have tried faster.

Breathe in, then let it go.

“No-not really. But he got close.”

It was her turn to look up, the stars now way more than before, and let them hear her secret. “I asked him. I made up an excuse and asked him first - to come to the Wall. He said no, of course, and laughed at me, calling me crazy. He said that if Feyre had been stupid enough to get through the Wall, to the Fae, then she clearly wasn’t worth the risks. He wasn’t even done talking when I decided that it was over, so I let him know. And when it was my time to say no he just… He didn’t care. At all. I managed to run away before he could… ” The words died out, stuck in her throat.

Almost five years had passed and yet she couldn’t bring herself to say his name without feeling sick. Maybe, one day, when she stopped pretending not to be affected by all that had happened, she would. She would say his name loud and clear, without fear, or nausea, or cold sweat. But for now, she would keep it hidden in the darkest part of her mind, hoping to just forget about it - about him.

“Who knows about it?” Rhysand asked, his voice leading her back to the present moment.

“You, me, him, and the stars.” Her answer was vague enough that, if she were him, she would’ve been fairly annoyed by it. Rhysand, apparently, was not. He was surprised by something else. “Wait- You didn’t tell Cassian?”

“I did not. The thing is: he knows, yet he doesn’t.”

In that moment, Nesta swore she could hear the gears turning in Rhysand’s mind as he said, “I think you lost me here.”

“When he first came into my house, back into the human lands, to dispatch the letters to the Queens, it took him all of one look at me to know that something -someone- had happened to me,” she said, recalling the memories of that day. How he had tempted and teased her; how she had played along, convincing herself she didn’t want to know how warm and soft and sure his skin felt under her touch, how tight his arms could held her. Ah, that damned day. “We never had an open conversation about him, but by now he must’ve already connected the dots and came to the same conclusion on his own.”

“You should tell him nonetheless,” Rhys went on. His tone was no longer the low, deep rumble of words it was before. Now it was even, at least. “He’s your mate, your husband. He cares about you more than life itself.”

“I know.” She really did. He made sure never to miss the chance to remind her, that tongue of his working its way around her in more ways than one. Yet, no matter how sure and light her heart felt, Nesta couldn’t bring herself to do it. “But I also know that it would destroy him - the rage, and the grief. The guilt. And I don’t think I can survive the look in his eyes, knowing that I’m the cause of his pain.”

Many times now she had debated whether to tell him or not. Every scenario ended the same moment she started picturing the shift in his eyes, the hazel turning dark and hard as rock, the predatory stillness of his form.

Many times now she hadn’t been able to look at his husband’s face for more than a few seconds.

Nesta’s voice had created a veil of silence between them, and Nesta’s voice had also been the knife that cut it open, as she shared her curiosity by asking, “Did you? Told them about what happened, I mean.”

The High Lord took a deep breath, “No, I didn’t, either.”

The eyebrow raise had been an automatic reflex. The pointed look? Not so much.

“You should, they’re your family.” Her words were honest, but she knew the turn the conversation was taking would end with both of them running toward the end of a cliff, jumping face-first into what awaited underneath.

Amusement shone in Rhysand’s eyes when he turned to face her. “How the tables have turned. Correct me if I’m wrong, but they’re your family, too.”

End reached.

“It’s not the same thing,” she huffed out, a loud exhale covering and muffling her words. Nesta knew the words she was willingly cutting out were a hard pill to swallow, but they still rang true to her heart.

They were not her family. Not in the way she imagined or wanted her family to be.

In her head, she wouldn’t have to hide or be ashamed of who she truly was; in her head, she wouldn’t have to give herself a pep-talk before meeting them for more than the brief, occasional rendezvous; in her head, she wouldn’t have to beg on her knees or save multiple lives at once to be forgiven.

Still, it didn’t mean they could never become one, someday. She was sure as hell willing to try. “They’ve been your family for 500 years. I can call them that since just a few months.”

Rhysand stared at her for very, very long seconds. She almost believed he was reading her soul. Almost.

One more and we’ll find out if red and violet are a match after I’ve stuck my fingers in your eyes, she thought.

You’re funny, Archeron.

She’d opened her mental shields just long enough for him to read her thought and give it an answer. A sarcastic one, even better. They were closed shut the second after.

“Still,” he stated, maybe a bit too loudly than necessary, bringing the conversation back outside their minds, “They are. We are.”

It was like they were switching turns, because this time it was Nesta who stared, head slightly tilted, letting the daemati in front of her picking up her train of thought even without strolling around in her mind. The slightest twitch of his dark brows told her he knew.

“So, you mean to tell me, that you find just and fair for me to tell them about what happened with Tomas, but not you opening up about Amarantha?”

Nesta didn’t need an answer. His hardly repressed eye-roll and the way he had to dart his eyes around, just enough to hide the annoyance at her -very fair, if she may add- point, were more than enough. “That’s what I thought, too.”

“Okay,” all Rhysand’s attentions were on her in an instant, a new intent lighting up his eyes,” let’s make a deal, then.”

Fuck.

“I will tell them about Amarantha,” Rhysand went on, clearly pleased with himself for the discomfort he was causing to her, “Only if you do the same about Tomas. With your sisters, at least.”

And Cassian.

The name never left his lips, yet it couldn’t have been louder.

Nesta added him to the list, anyway - in fact, she put him first.

What caught her attention the most, tho, had been the fact that Rhysand had been ready to put so much of himself, of what he’d been through, at stake. For her.

Nesta shifted in her seat, not stomaching the starlight violet any longer. She felt Night caressing her mental shields, purring, asking to get in. She let it.

You’re worth the risks.

She turned, the bones in her neck cracking with the fast motion, and stared speechless at Rhysand. She’d let him in her mind, yet the voice wasn’t there.

He’d said those words out loud, had made sure the stars heard them too.

Nesta filled her lungs with cold air, trying to recollect herself at best as she could and displaying self-control, or at least pretending she still had some.

“They’re going to send us their therapists’ receipt,” Nesta finally commented with a newfound lightness in her tone. She surprised herself with the swiftness with which she’d jumped between emotions that seemed so far away from one another.

The soft chuckle he gave in return was as much as she would get. That night was not for deep, belly laughs. That night was for healing what others had broken. To build anew.

taglist: @thewayshedreamed @bookstantrash @letstakethedawn @sayosdreams @starksravings @julemmaes @moodymelanist @duskandstarlight @iddragyouwithme @perseusannabeth

#dee writes #nesand #nesta archeron #nesta x rhysand #rhysand #broship #nesand broship #post acosf

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thewayshedreamed · 3 years ago

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This was so amazing!! Your world building is so beautiful ♥️

Nesand one-shot:

[ metanoia ]

A/N: before you come at me with pitchforks and torches, ready to burn me at the stake, I'd like to clarify that this is not a romatic/crackship fic. They're both more than happy with their own actual mates and so are we. Also, on this blog we stan and highly support healthy communication (given the characters and the canon events, I'd better say communication in any kind, bUT STILL). I know many would find it weird, but I've often headcanon(n)ed? this as their first step toward a real reconciliation. So there it is, black on white, hoping you'll enjoy reading this much more than I did, writing it (twice, actually, and we can thank my stupidity for that).

W/C: 3.7K

“What it is?” He asked, looking to the couple standing across the studio.

Rhysand’s gaze hold his own for a few breaths but remained quiet.

It was his High Lady who spoke, her eyes fixed on a pair the perfect reflection of her own, just colder, sharper, “It’s Tomas.”

Cassian could have sworn Nesta’s heart missed a beat. His surely did.

Predatory calm washed over him as every muscle in his body went taut.

He breathed in, then did it again, trying and failing to keep at bay the surging fury already warming his siphons and the whole room with them.

“He’s not setting foot into this fucking Court.” Cassian failed to recognize his own voice, so calm and low despite the rage he was feeling.

Tomas Mandray.

The name wasn’t new to him.

“Let him come.” Were her only words, laced with cold indifference. As if it didn’t matter, as if she didn’t care. Fucking lies.

“Drop it, Cassian.” Nesta didn’t even look at him, insisting instead on keeping her eyes down, checking her nails. As if this -him- wasn’t worth the effort.

No, we’re not, he reminded himself.

“He’s not getting anywhere close to you.” His voice held resolution enough, but he still crossed his arms over his broad chest, ready to take whatever Nesta would throw at him.

Nesta’s exhale was loud and heavy as she stood, chin up and all, “We have to let him come here and play his stupid little game.”

“No, we fucking don’t. We refuse. We ask them to send someone else.”

Gods.

That was the reason why their fights never lasted until the morning of the day after.

Nesta tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. She was pissed. She was very, very pissed.

* * *

Nesta blinked away the recent memories of the day.

Stop, Nesta.

Who she sensed wasn’t exactly on her list of suspects.

She shut the book resting on her lap, standing and quickly reaching the door of the private library.

He just… Stood there, looking at her. She didn’t move, didn’t balk from his violet eyes, only stared back. And then she acted.

She took a seat, looking up at the stars already visible in the darkness above their heads, waiting for Rhysand to join her.

“I didn’t know you went to the Wall for Feyre,” Rhysand said, finally breaking the silence. He had asked, then.

“Not many expected you to do so, given the risks.” His voice was low, distant, like that was not at all the reason why he was there.

Because it’s not, Nesta reminded herself.

“Not even Feyre , apparently.”

“Say it,” Nesta snapped. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for playing games, so there was no point in keeping this one going.

“What’s with him?”

There it was.

She knew it was coming - she literally asked for it, yet she found no words, no answers.

Her stare was fixed on the golden capital, lit by fires she knew burned until the first lights of dawn - and sometimes even after. Yet it was not light what Nesta saw.

“Did Tomas… Is he your Amarantha?”

She should have tried faster.

Breathe in, then let it go.

“No-not really. But he got close.”

“Who knows about it?” Rhysand asked, his voice leading her back to the present moment.

“I did not. The thing is: he knows, yet he doesn’t.”

In that moment, Nesta swore she could hear the gears turning in Rhysand’s mind as he said, “I think you lost me here.”

Many times now she hadn’t been able to look at his husband’s face for more than a few seconds.

The High Lord took a deep breath, “No, I didn’t, either.”

The eyebrow raise had been an automatic reflex. The pointed look? Not so much.

Amusement shone in Rhysand’s eyes when he turned to face her. “How the tables have turned. Correct me if I’m wrong, but they’re your family, too.”

End reached.

They were not her family. Not in the way she imagined or wanted her family to be.

Still, it didn’t mean they could never become one, someday. She was sure as hell willing to try. “They’ve been your family for 500 years. I can call them that since just a few months.”

Rhysand stared at her for very, very long seconds. She almost believed he was reading her soul. Almost.

One more and we’ll find out if red and violet are a match after I’ve stuck my fingers in your eyes, she thought.

You’re funny, Archeron.

She’d opened her mental shields just long enough for him to read her thought and give it an answer. A sarcastic one, even better. They were closed shut the second after.

“Still,” he stated, maybe a bit too loudly than necessary, bringing the conversation back outside their minds, “They are. We are.”

“So, you mean to tell me, that you find just and fair for me to tell them about what happened with Tomas, but not you opening up about Amarantha?”

“Okay,” all Rhysand’s attentions were on her in an instant, a new intent lighting up his eyes,” let’s make a deal, then.”

Fuck.

“I will tell them about Amarantha,” Rhysand went on, clearly pleased with himself for the discomfort he was causing to her, “Only if you do the same about Tomas. With your sisters, at least.”

And Cassian.

The name never left his lips, yet it couldn’t have been louder.

Nesta added him to the list, anyway - in fact, she put him first.

What caught her attention the most, tho, had been the fact that Rhysand had been ready to put so much of himself, of what he’d been through, at stake. For her.

Nesta shifted in her seat, not stomaching the starlight violet any longer. She felt Night caressing her mental shields, purring, asking to get in. She let it.

You’re worth the risks.

She turned, the bones in her neck cracking with the fast motion, and stared speechless at Rhysand. She’d let him in her mind, yet the voice wasn’t there.

He’d said those words out loud, had made sure the stars heard them too.

Nesta filled her lungs with cold air, trying to recollect herself at best as she could and displaying self-control, or at least pretending she still had some.

The soft chuckle he gave in return was as much as she would get. That night was not for deep, belly laughs. That night was for healing what others had broken. To build anew.

taglist: @thewayshedreamed @bookstantrash @letstakethedawn @sayosdreams @starksravings @julemmaes @moodymelanist @duskandstarlight @iddragyouwithme @perseusannabeth

#dee writes #nesand #nesand broship

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