#rhysta fic

[foxglovethicket]

Wild Things

Summary:

Some Nesta x Rhysand for day 7 of @sjmromanceweek !

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta. 

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles. 

(AKA, the toxic Nesta x Rhys fic that has been rattling around in my brain for months)

Chapters: 1/1

Read on AO3

November 11th. The first snow of the year numbs Velaris like novacane. 

White snow, white sky, white salt on the roads. Clean and blank and pure for a new year—her twenty-fourth, as of sometime mid-morning. Upon waking, shivering under her dove-grey duvet, Nesta thinks: twenty-four is the year of not fucking things up. 

The kitchen is the fire to her hearth. The spray of small yellow rosebuds in a vase on the island, Gwyn’s flame-lick of hair, Emerie’s embrace, the round smiles that fill their cheeks, the pastry waiting at her seat in a white bag, spots translucent with grease. It’s all warm. it all makes her blood move, down to her fingertips, where they prickle with feeling. 

***

Want is a funny thing. The question—what do you want?—I want, I want, I want, like a black hole eating the stars. Nesta wants a lot of things: to be warm, awake, clean and untouched like the snow on her bedroom windowsill. 

Emerie and Gwyn had asked her months ago what she wanted to do today—today, she has some extra measure of choice, today she’s allowed to want a little harder. 

Today, Nesta wants to read and she wants to dance. And she wants—

No. No. So they tuck their feet up on the couch and pile on the blankets and Emerie makes her hot chocolate just the way Nesta likes it and the next few hours are pages whispering as they are turned, steam rising from half-empty mugs, snow curling down outside the window. 

***

It had ended just how it had started: cold wind whipping off the Sidra to slice their cheeks wide open. The first time, it made their mouths split into smiles; the last, into trebuchets of hurt. Neither of them is good at pulling punches. His coat was on her shoulders. He said something, then she, and it was suddenly a vile thing on her skin; she ripped it away and threw it down onto the rain-soaked cobblestones. She didn’t throw it over the bridge, into the river, because that would have been irreversible, but now, now, she wishes she had. 

That was September, the last long day before time jumped back and the evenings stopped clinging to the sun. 

You’re fucking mine, Nesta. 

I’m fucking gone.

She doesn’t think about it. She ruined everything, and it didn’t matter, and she doesn’t think about it. 

***

Anyways, she’s good at being fine. She’s twenty-four now and she’s going to be fine forever, starting now. Gwyn has a carefully curated getting-ready playlist blasting from her speaker as she curls her hair. Emerie bites her lip as she draws eyeliner across her lid. Nesta sips from a wine bottle as she stares at her jewelry box: there are the little pearl-drop earrings he gave her when they went to Adriata for a weekend in August. I know you already have a favorite pair of earrings, but I thought these could be nice for the Patron’s Gala, maybe. If you like them. 

Nesta fishes them out of the drawer and puts them in. She looks at herself in the mirror until her eyes turn red, and then she drops them back in the jewelry box, and stabs large silver hoops through her ears instead. 

She turns off the light in her room and goes to the kitchen. Carefully, she pours the rest of the bottle of wine into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle, sucking the spilled drops from her fingers like it’s precious, and not a fourteen-dollar bottle. She plucks her coat off the hook and her keys from the dish by the door. 

The three of them are laughing and chattering as they leave the apartment; Gwyn threatens to buy her a birthday girl sash, Emerie says, I think it’s too late for that, Gwyn says, The party store on East 12th is open until 11, I checked. Nesta says, I will strangle you with your own sash if you even think about it. They only laugh at her threat, and she can’t keep her face from smiling, and it doesn’t even bother her when the snow at the curb smears over her boots. She’s untouched. She’s new. She’s only started learning how to live. 

***

It doesn’t really matter how it ended. There one minute and gone the next. He was there and gone, there and gone, like seasons, like purity, like the flash of a camera imprinted on the back of your retinas, there, and there, and there, and gone. 

So he’s gone. And good riddance. 

She used to like to hold his hand. Liked the strong, slim bones of his fingers, the veins that crawled up the back of his hand; liked running her fingers over the scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, too, one she liked to press her lips to. I love you so, she would whisper. I’ll eat you whole. 

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta. 

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles. 

***

They step inside the club and check in their coats and the music is so heavy she can feel it pressing right through her muscles and into her bones. She tips her head back. Her spine is one long bass note. Yes, yes, yes. 

Bodies shift around her, swaying like stalks of kelp in a western current, and she, an otter twisting among them as she dances. Sleek and warm and with only one wild and carnal drive: hunger. 

She wants to devour this scene. The red lights. The upward-reaching limbs. The abandon. The singing mouths, the smell of vodka, the smell of perfume and cologne that surges  when pressed too closely among the others. 

“11:11,” says Gwyn, not long after they arrive. “Make a wish.” 

You already know what she wishes for. 

Emerie hands her a shot instead of a birthday candle. It sears her throat and then lights her aflame and she throws herself back into dancing and dancing and oh, when she tilts her head back like this, baring her throat, she feels knifelike and untouchable and violent, like she could strangle the whole world in her fists. 

She imagines it. Sinking her teeth in. Getting the snow banks messy. Starting everything over so she doesn’t have to make so many mistakes this time. Sometimes, when Nesta buys a new book, she’ll bring it on the train and accidentally bend a corner when she goes to shove it in her bag in her haste to get off at her stop. Later, she’ll look at the crease, run her finger over it as if she can smooth it away, and fight the urge to buy a whole new copy—one she hasn’t irrevocably marred. She never does buy a new one; she knows, on some level, that it’s ridiculous to even consider it. 

No creases this year, she reminds herself. She’s drunk now. Half of her blood is vodka. The music goes even louder, like a reminder or a threat. Emerie is grinding up against a striking blonde girl now; Gwyn is making eyes at someone across the room, sweeping her hair off her collarbones like a challenge; Nesta feels a drop of sweat run down her temples and sucks more swollen air into her lungs, her body greedy for it in the club’s heat. 

All the lights go gas-flame blue, and that’s when she sees him. 

***

So it ended. Fine. But it had started once, too. 

Nesta had been in ballet as a child—no surprise, considering her family: upper class in a pearl-necklaces-and-endive-salads way. Everything was satin slippers and hair slicked back too tightly into unforgiving buns, until her mother died when she was fifteen and her father didn’t care enough to make her continue taking classes. It left her with a lithe body, a hatred of the Nutcracker, and a severe case of perfectionism. 

Her favorite show to dance had been Sleeping Beauty, so last winter, when she heard the Velaris Ballet was showing it, she went to see it twice. Once, with Gwyn and Emerie, and again with Elain, except Elain canceled last-minute and Nesta thought about canceling both their tickets and staying home, but didn’t. 

So, of course. He picked up Elain’s ticket. 

During the show, she could drink up the colorful dresses, the masterful dancing, the beautiful shapes the dancers’ bodies made as they moved gently across the stage. When intermission came, she had no such distraction. There was only the stranger sitting next to her in his night-black suit, and of course he was devastatingly beautiful, how could she not notice? Admiring him was inexorable. 

She caught him admiring her right back—those dark blue eyes making a steady, unapologetic map of her face. 

It happened in textbook steps, alarming in its simplicity, really: He introduced himself. They talked throughout the rest of intermission. At some point during the third act, his knee made its way to press against hers, and he didn’t pull it away, and she didn’t pull away, either. When the lights flooded back on, the spell broke, or maybe it was cast?, and he asked her if she’d like to see the Balanchine performance with him the following week, and she wrote her number on the back of his hand with a sharpie she’d found in her purse. He had beautiful hands, like a piano player, and she asked if he played, and he said Tchaikovsky was his favorite to play, it was why he liked coming to the ballet. 

Several weeks later, she would lie with her head in his lap, those nimble fingers combing through her hair, and ask, Play for me?, and he would, and it would become her favorite sound. And after that, she would sometimes sit on the edge of the bench, or kneel beside it, or stand behind him as he played, and close her eyes and imagine herself moving to the sound. Pas de bourré, pirouette. 

But not yet. That would come later. 

***

She sees him and the world keeps moving, even though she feels like it shouldn’t. She sees him and the world doesn’t end. It should. It doesn’t. 

A current of blue bodies around her. He swims right through them. She doesn’t look at Gwyn or Emerie when he reaches her because she doesn’t have to see their faces to know their reproach.

She’s been locked into those stunning eyes since she first caught them; in this blue light, they are so, so dark, like midnight, and just as devastating. And they devastate her, they do. 

Nesta thinks, You can’t unruin this. She thinks it so loudly that there’s no way he doesn’t hear it. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at her, and she just looks at him, and, light with drink, she sways with the other kelp, sways right into him. 

She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He’s holding a drink—a gin and tonic. He always liked gin. Elderflower gin, something that sounded fairy-like and ancient, something that smelled divine and didn’t hurt going down. She takes the cup from his hand and downs half. It’s cheap; burns like hell. He takes it back. Holds her stare as he drinks down the rest and drops the cup on the nearest flat surface. 

He’s already drunk; she can tell because his face is a little too devastated when he looks at her. 

His hands on her waist. Her waist in his hands. His hips pressed to her stomach. Her stomach burning gas-flame blue. 

Nesta, he mouths. His eyes drop to her lips. His forehead drops to touch her own, as if he could press a feeling straight from his mind into hers. 

Don’t, she says. Or maybe she thinks it.

He kisses her. 

She kisses him back. 

It’s inevitable, after that. 

Gwyn and Emerie don’t even bother to stop her. They know better. He leads her downstairs, to the front of the club. She collects her coat. She follows him out onto the snow-driven street. A fresh coat has fallen since she and her friends went inside those few hours ago. It makes her think of new slates and starting over. 

It makes her think of the way her boots crush the powdery snowflakes to grey slush. 

You can’t unruin this. 

He lives close—close enough that they can’t justify anything other than walking. She doesn’t look over at him and he doesn’t take her hand as they walk, and it’s almost as if they’re colleagues, with this space between them. Space enough for her ghosting breaths to dissipate entirely before they could ever reach his face. 

And then—the bridge. The quay. Inevitable, she knew it, knew they’d have to cross the slushy Sidra, but. But. 

She can feel him looking at her. 

They reach the middle of the bridge, and she can’t keep going anymore. She’s shaking, knees knocking together embarrassingly, like a child. Nesta stops and she turns and she looks at the snow on the bridge and hates it for how serene it seems. 

“I missed you, Nesta,” he says. 

Past tense. He doesn’t anymore. He has her now, is what he means. He won't let go again, not like last time. 

“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want my coat?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head, still looking down at the snow. His shoes scuff the snow as he steps closer. He takes her in his arms and he is just as warm and comforting and safe as he ever was, and it makes her want to cry, but she doesn’t. She does let him hold her. Even though it makes everything worse. 

Rhys tilts up her chin and she keeps her eyes closed. He kisses her, so gently at first that she shudders, and then her mouth opens to him like a rose, and she presses harder into him, and he isn’t gentle anymore. 

Her lips, cracked from the cold, split and bleed when he bites into them, and their kisses change to copper. 

***

Nesta threw up before their first date. She stood in front of her mirror, trying to like the grey dress she was wearing, but she started thinking that maybe a dress was too much, and then she envisioned herself sitting stiffly next to the man—Rhysand—for the whole two and a half hours, not looking at him, and the thought—the thought of the awkwardness made her physically ill. He wouldn’t like her anymore, and then she would never be able to go to the ballet again, and and and—

She threw up neatly into the toilet, flushed it, brushed her teeth, and left. 

By the time she was walking up the steps to the theater, she was trembling like a fawn, but she needn’t have worried. He was charming—his hand holding the door for her, his hand steering her respectfully from the small of her back, his hand alighting on her knee during intermission and lingering there, light and steady, until the lights began to dim again and he pulled it away. 

The second half of the performance, she watched him. The way his breath caught at the crescendo of a number. The way his fingers tapped on his thighs in time with the notes. The way the bare light that reached them from the stage cast a glowing outline around the beautiful parts of his face, which seemed to be all of them. 

The ballet ended, and he invited her to get a late-night coffee; he knew a cafe, one run by real Italians, so she should know it was good. By midnight, she’d made him laugh so hard he’d choked on a sip of his cappuccino, and he had made her feel coltish and new and brilliant, and finally, entirely at ease.

He was always very good with prey. 

***

Nesta isn’t prey. She has a mouth full of teeth and she uses them. He’d do well to remember that, for fuck’s sake. 

She bites down too hard and Rhys makes a noise in his throat. She pushes him away and they stand there, panting, staring at each other. 

“Nesta,” he says. 

They stand on the bridge. The snow numbs sound, numbs hurt, numbs everything. 

“Come home with me, Nesta,” he says. 

She goes home with him. 

***

He loved her too hard. Maybe that was the problem. 

Rhys wasn’t clingy, desperate—nothing so plebian as that. It was more authoritative. More intense, like a bruise. He always, always wanted her. Sex, of course, but more than that. 

When it was sex, it was hungry. It was always too much, and it was never enough. It hurt every time, but it was never painful. There was sweat and tangled hair and open mouths and tenderness, always, and gentleness, only sometimes, only after. His hands were always tight around some part of her flesh, as if he were afraid she’d disappear the moment he let go, as if he could have more of her if he held more tightly. 

She could never stop herself from sinking her teeth in, anyways. His shoulder, his neck, his arms, his side. She’d never made a habit of it before. It was something primal only he could bring out in her. 

When it wasn’t sex, it was a different kind of want. Uncontainable, devastating. He wanted her like it hurt him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure if he liked her. He just wanted her. 

One hot day that summer: billowing, gauzy curtains, Nesta in those lavender sleep shorts he liked so much, the hair around Rhys’s temples curling with sweat. Still, he held her close against him as they lay on the couch, her stomach to his stomach, her chest to his chest, her chin tucked against his shoulder. 

Nesta asked, “Why did you ask me out that day at the ballet?”

His arm banded around her more tightly. He said, “I liked the way you watched them. Hungrily. I wanted to make you look at me like that.” 

***

They step inside Rhys’s townhouse and the familiar smell hits her like a truck. It’s just the smell of a home—a home he’s lived in. Recently, without her. She wonders if his coffee machine still refuses to work unless he thumps the side of it as it gets going. She wonders if he ever got around to replacing the batteries in his TV remote. She wonders how many other women he’s brought here since everything ended. Maybe he fucks them in their own houses. Maybe he brings them here, has them on the couch, pushes the dove-grey pillows to the floor to make room for their bodies. She can’t imagine him fucking them in his bed, or she’ll throw up right here on his doormat. 

The door clicks behind her, shutting out the cold. The air inside is warm and still, waiting for something. His hand touches her waist, moves her until her back is against the wall, and she thinks this is it, this is the part where he kisses her and takes her apart—but not yet. 

Rhys kneels on the floor, takes her calf in his hands and slips off her boots, one by one, setting her feet down gently as if she were a child, or a queen. Something precious and vulnerable. 

His soft fingers, piano-player’s fingers, trail up her body as he rises, hitching her dress up with them. She knows how this ends and it hurts. He kisses her wet cheekbones, one and the other. 

“Nesta,” he says. He kisses her lips and she tastes salt. 

She sinks her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him closer. 

Their kisses get harder, serious. She hitches her leg around his hips, presses into him—his beautiful fingers are everywhere. They tangle in her hair and pull her head back so he can better lick her throat. They count her ribs, looking for a way in. They move over her hips, down, cleverly stroking the wet seam of her underwear, starting out gentle, just how he knows she likes it. 

She reaches for his belt. She wonders, where will he have her? Will he bring her to the couch? Will he have her right here, against the wall? Will he take her back to his bed, or would that mean to much? 

Rhys shudders into her touch, eyes rolling back. His mouth is saying things like Fuck, Nesta, I missed you, yes, harder, more, Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

He chokes on his own breaths and pulls her hands away. With a few tugs, her dress is over her head, and he sinks to his knees again. She looks off to the side, towards the door, not wanting to face the way he looks up at her. Devotion poisoned by possession. His hands are hot on the backs of her thighs. 

“Look at me, Nesta,” he orders. He pulls her underwear away—embarrassingly wet. The expression that flits across his face then—it’s a bit too relieved to be a smirk, but close. 

She puts her hands into the silky onyx strands before her. 

“Eat, then,” she says, unkindly. 

He does. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. Like he’s afraid she’ll stop him, take it away from him. She wishes she would, but she doesn’t. She’s too weak to give up something this good. Something that feels so inevitable—what’s the use?

Nesta comes right there, silently, except for one gasping breath that she immediately stifles. It’s horrible, it’s so, so horrible, how badly she misses him in that moment. It hits her, a pain so sharp she nearly flinches. It’s so horrible. So obvious, how he’s ruined her. 

A tug on the backs of her knees, and her body falls obediently to straddle him where he kneels on the floor, her lips coming to meet his, hungrily taking the taste of herself from his tongue. He pulls her back, back, until he’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway, and she’s sitting over him, fumbling to yank off his shirt, to shove down his pants. Her body remembers how to move with him, remembers the steps to this. It remembers, even if her mind feels heavy and watered-down. 

There is a bright spark of pain as she sinks down onto him. Rhys looks up at her from the floor. His eyes glint like a country sky at night, his sin-dark hair splays across the floor like a sunburst, his mouth parts like submission. 

Nesta takes his throat in her hands and squeezes. “I hate you,” she tells him, and he lets her. Her knees press into the hardwood. He jerks his hips up with a groan. She says, “I hate you, Rhys.” 

She feels a tightness in her throat that means tears. She won’t cry. She lets go of his neck and bites into her palm to hold them at bay. She won’t cry, she won’t cry. Her fingerprints fade whitely from his skin. 

Rhys flips them over and settles his body over hers, between her knees. He fits in her body like he’s made for her. Her head fits just so in the space between his neck and his shoulder. She breathes him in through her nose, out through her mouth, as he begins to fuck her. He had always smelled so good, like something she shouldn’t eat. Sweet and rich, with some kind of spicy undertone, like pepper or ginger. Achingly sweet with a stinger. 

Rhys takes her hand away from her mouth and pulls her wrists over her head. 

“You love me, Nesta, you love me so,” he says. He threads his fingers in between hers. “You love me so.” 

***

Nesta closes her eyes as he washes her hair in the shower. 

“Nesta,” he says, smoothing soap away from her brow. “Stay.” 

She tilts her head up, but doesn’t open her eyes. “You keep saying my name,” she says.

She can feel the sigh come out of his chest. He says, “I’m afraid I’ll forget how it sounds.”

In spite of her will, her body begins to tremble. Anger and fear and rage and desperation all well up at once, and her eyes fly open, lashes dripping under the stream of the shower, and she means to say a hundred things—a hundred accusations and castigations—but only a single word comes out, choked in steam. “Please.” 

His face changes into a shape she doesn’t know well. “Nesta,” he breathes, pulling her body into his. 

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks. But she lets him towel her dry and brush out her hair and braid it down her back with his nimble fingers, the way she taught him, once. He pulls one of his t-shirts over her head—her favorite one, god, she hates that she has a favorite—and tucks her close to him under the covers. His sheets smell like his detergent and him, and it’s miserable, knowing he’s letting her go after this, even though that’s what she wanted in the first place. Catch and release. You can’t uncrease a paperback cover. You can only buy a whole new book. 

God. Twenty-four hours as a twenty-four year old and she’s already fucked everything up. She’s already let him ruin her. 

They lie there in his bed in his sheets in his townhouse on the river. She’s still drunk. She’s still here. His heart is still beating just a few ribs away from hers. She counts those beats, those bloodier sheep. One-one. One-one. One-one. One-one. 

She’s not entirely sure if she’s dreaming when he says it. She hopes she is. She wishes so badly that she is. 

I won’t go, he promises into the dark, into the sweet warmth. Just eat me whole. 

***

Snow falls overnight. 

In the morning, when Nesta looks out Rhys’s window, her eyes hurt to touch anything at all, it’s so bright. 

He is behind her, suddenly. His arms come around her, his chest pressing to her back. He fits. It is suddenly, terrifyingly, as if she never left. 

“Nesta,” he says, one last time. 

She turns in his arms, fitting herself into the crooks of his body. She is real, she is new, she is blinding like the pure fallen snow. 

Nesta makes a decision. 

“Rhys,” she answers, speaking against his heartbeat. 

When she smiles up at him, secretive and small, her ribcage opens up and curls around him like the legs of a spider.

[bittermuire]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Rhysand, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra Characters: Nesta Archeron, Rhysand (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Elain Archeron, Feyre Archeron, Lucien Vanserra, Clare Beddor, and a greek chorus of background ocs Additional Tags: Light Angst, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Secret Relationship, disclaimer elucien is very much in the background i'm just obsessed with them in this fic, clare is an underrated but reputable genius, going to seven thirty am mass together as a love language, the archeron sisters were raised catholic i will die on this hill, rhys is generally annoying but i still like him so what can we do really? Summary:

Nesta and Rhys went to high school together and graduated together and went their separate ways. Ten years later, for whatever reason, they cross paths again.

[uukipi]

this ship is so funny to me get it rhysta stans

[ennawrite]

just wait until those Rhysta antis hear about Tamsand. Rhysta is a fun idea that we know could never, ever happen in canon text.

But Tamsand? That’s a ship I really do think could have been plausible in a pre book one world. Like the possibilities are endless when it comes to Tamlin & Rhysand (prior to the murdering each other’s family fiasco, ofc). Even now, they have the energy of past scorned lovers.

You’ll have to pry these ships from my cold, dead hands.

[the-lonelybarricade]

I am begging, begging, the acotar fandom to become familiar with the concept of ship and let ship. If a ship isn't your cup of tea, no one is making you drink it. No one is making you consume content for it. Leave people alone for enjoying the things that scratch their brain. Life is too short and the world is too mean to ridicule people for trying to squeeze a little joy out of silly "what-if" scenarios. These characters aren't real, they're just little dolls whose faces we're smushing together and some of y'all take it way too seriously

[praetorqueenreyna]

For Rhysand Week Day 7: Free Day, I give you: romcom Rhysta AU. I have to give credit to @beansidhebumbling, who shared a snippet of a "10 Things I Hate About You" Rhysta fic that changed me at a molecular level. In that vein, I give you: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days Rhysta!

@officialrhysandweek

Nesta is a journalist for a woman's magazine that's always wanted to write things that matter. Her boss has promised her that she'll be able to write whatever she wants after one more article: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. She has to find a guy, start dating him, then convince him to break up with her within 10 days. The problem? Her target is Rhysand, a playboy advertising executive who needs to make a woman fall in love with him within 10 days to be his company's liason for a lucrative diamond marketing campaign.

*****************************************

Rhys leaned against the railing on his balcony, eyes glued to the gorgeous woman sashaying towards a taxi with a tantalizing sway of her hips. His lips still stung from their kiss; the little minx had bitten him. He had to admit, he had almost gotten carried away, on the verge of careening off the edge from first base all the way home. But he had to stay focused. His entire career was on the line. He had ten days to win this bet and get Nesta Archeron to fall for him, head over heels. 

There were worse people to seduce, he mused as Nesta opened the door to her cab. She was hot, smart, and just a little mean in a sexy way. The kind of woman who prided herself on being able to sniff out bullshit a mile away. Still, she had succumbed to his charm already. He wouldn’t need the full ten days.

Nesta turned just before getting into the cab, giving him a flirtatious wiggle of her fingers. Rhys blew her a kiss, causing her to roll her eyes and laugh. “Oh, you are already falling in love with me,” he murmured to himself. 

Her mark was cute, she had to give him that. And a good kisser. Unsurprising, considering Nesta could practically smell the playboy sleeze coming off him in waves. It was a shame she couldn’t actually sleep with him, but that wasn’t part of the plan. 

She could feel his eyes on her ass as she walked away. Rhysand was easy, and Nesta felt like she already knew everything about him. It had been laughably simple to get an invite over to his place. Men like that loved tittering docile women, but they craved someone with a little bit of a bite. Just a few minutes of flirty sarcasm and he was putty in her hands. The stage was perfectly set. She had ten days to drive him insane. Rhysand would lose it and break up with her. She’d write her article, and then her obnoxious boss would lighten up and let Nesta write whatever she wanted. 

In the open doorway of the taxi she glanced back, displaying the gleaming arch of her neck. She waggled her fingers in farewell, and Rhys blew her a kiss from the balcony. It was so cheesy it prompted a real laugh, and she rolled her eyes. She looked up at him again once the cab door was closed and her face was shielded behind the window. Her coy grin shifted into a wicked smirk.

“I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.” 

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain): Part Three

A/N: (banging pots and pans) Come get your Rhysta smut! It's all under the cut because we're starting with the NSFW right away 😈 But we're also getting into the plot and the messy messy drama! Hope everyone enjoys and as always, don't like, don't read.

Read on AO3 // Previous Part

Rhys strokes his cock lazily, daring to drag his thumb across the head, across the dribble of arousal leaking there. He smears it along his length as he slides his hand back down, swallowing down the groan trapped in his throat and squeezing the base. Pleasure and heat skitter down his spine, both a balm and an accelerant to the beast purring deep in his chest, growling with a gleeful sort of pleasure all its own at the sight presented before him.

Nesta lays splayed out on the rumbled sheets of her bed. Her clothes have long been discarded, a crumpled heap of fabric somewhere on the floor that Rhys doesn’t even care about, leaving her fully bare and exposed to him.

Nowhere for her to escape to.

Rhys allows his gaze to leer and peruse her, giving his cock another lazy stroke. Her lips are bitten and pink, a shade that almost matches the flush coloring the apples of her cheeks. That almost matches the pretty color of her chest, her breasts swelling with each heaving, whimpered breath that tumbles from her throat.

That almost matches the pink of her cunt.

Rhys’s gaze dips to between her spread thighs, to where Nesta has two fingers buried deep, hips rocking up against her own hand desperately. He tracks the way she fucks herself, the way her fingers are a sticky, glistening mess of her arousal. She’s already dripping, and every time she pulls her fingers out just to stuff them back in, the heady scent of her swirls heavier around him.

It cloys up his throat and coats the back of his tongue, and Rhys’s nostrils flare in response. The sweetness of it goes right to his head, making him dizzy and threatening to pull him straight down into the abyss. It’s a dangerous precipice to find himself perched on, but it’s undeniably thrilling too. Those dark waters crashing below singing to the darkness that just as surely pulses in his veins.

His cock twitches in his hand as though agreeing with the notion, offering its own sign of approval, and Rhys squeezes the base again. Not yet. He finally has Nesta right where he wants her, has her fully ensnared in his trap for him and the beast to have their fun for the whole night with no interruptions.

And he intends to make the most of it.

Intends to keep her stuffed full of his cock and his seed until there will be no being able to tell where her scent ends and his begins. Intends to dominate those silver flames as much as he does the female beneath him. Intends to wield that Cauldron-blessed power as much as he wields her body.

And her mind.

Her mind that rests so pretty in the palm of his hand, dark talons cradled around it. It would be so easy to shatter it, to curl those talons in until they pierced, until Nesta broke into nothing. He swears the beast within him huffs a laugh at the idea, lips pulled back in a gleeful snarl. Swears he can feel the cold kiss of his shadows against his cheek, egging him on, daring him to release the magic that made him the most powerful High Lord. Daring him to do it.

Nesta whimpers quietly, drawing his attention back to her. Her thighs twitch, trying desperately to close against the shadows currently holding her open and exposed just for him. Those starry tendrils of night seem to wink in time with every noise that falls past Nesta’s lips, in time with every wet sound of her fingers disappearing into her cunt. It’s the perfect complement to the milky skin those shadows are curled around.

A flick of his fingers, and Rhys sends one of those shadows slinking further up, a cool caress of a touch against Nesta’s clit. Her hips jump at the sensation, and she lets out a broken moan. She tilts her wrist, trying to press her fingers in deeper, but it’s not enough. Rhys knows that it’s not enough. That it’s nothing compared to the stretch of his cock.

With her mind still held in his grasp, it’s easy enough to find and draw forward the memories of their last coupling. To remind Nesta of the feeling of her face pressed into the sheets of this very bed, her ass up in the air. To remind her of the feeling of his cock splitting her open, his hand pressed to her lower stomach so he too could feel how her body took him, yielded to him completely.

“Don’t you like what you see?” Nesta rasps, looking up at him with wide, blue eyes. She removes her fingers, lifting her hips so he can perfectly see the mess she’s made of herself. “We both know you do. We both know that you want to take me, so do it. Take me.”

Rhys hums, tilting his head. “Is that what you want, Nesta?”

“Yes,” Nesta moans, sliding her clean hand up her chest to roughly palm at her breast, clearly keyed up and desperate from his toying with her. “Please. Rhysand, please. I need it. Need you.”

“I think we both know you can do better than that.”

“I need your cock. Need you filling me. Need you to fuck me. Need to be stuffed full and dripping with my High Lord.”

Rhys groans at her words, at the power he holds over her. Gone is the defiant female from their first lesson, and in her place is this one begging for him, begging for her High Lord, begging to be broken and used. It’s what makes the sight before him all the better, makes his magic swell in response, flaring through his chest, the beast drunk off its prey being so defenseless.

He kneels up onto the mattress, knocking Nesta’s hand away from her breast and replacing it with his own. He kneads at the flesh, relishing the weight and size of them in his hands, the way they spill between his fingers when he tightens his grip. He focuses his attention on her nipples, already peaked and hard, pinching and plucking them until Nesta arches up off the bed, until a broken sob is torn from her throat.

“I’d rather fuck these first, instead.”

Nesta’s teeth sink into her bottom lip as her hands find her breasts again, pushing them up and together. Peering up at Rhys from beneath her lashes, the sight is obscene. He shifts forward on his knees until he can guide his cock along her sternum, watching with rapt attention as it slips between her breasts. He repeats the motion again and again, snapping his hips until her skin is a slippery mess of precum, until her breasts are bouncing within her grip.

Nesta tips her chin down, her tongue pushing out from between her lips so that with every forward thrust, she’s able to lick the head of his cock. It has him slowing his pace, and on his next thrust, she opens her mouth wider, sucking the head between her lips.

“So well behaved,” Rhys comments, pressing his hips further forward so that more of his cock is buried in the warm heat of her mouth. “And I didn’t even have to ask. You’re just always gagging for it, aren’t you?”

With her mouth stuffed full of his cock, she can’t exactly answer, but her eyes flutter at his words. She swirls her tongue around the head of his cock, moaning around him and the taste of him he’s sure is blooming across her tongue. She readjusts her grip on her breasts, moving them up and down on the part of his cock still exposed.

“Oh, fuck,” Rhys groans under his breath.

The dual sensation has heat blazing through his veins almost unbidden. His magic swells in his chest like a tidal wave, spurred on by the female pinned beneath him, drawn out by her own flames. That darkness cords down his arms and swirls around his wrists. It sinks its talons in as surely as the beast still prowling within him.

With a snarl, Rhys buries a hand in the brassy strands of Nesta’s hair, fingers curling against her scalp. He tugs her head further forward and starts to snap his hips again, fucking his cock properly down her throat. Nesta gags around him, tears springing to her eyes and streaking down her pinked cheeks, but she hollows her cheeks, sweeping her tongue and bobbing her head as best she can to match his movements.

He slides his hand out of her hair and down until his fingers can curl around her throat. Until he can feel the way her pulse thrums and skips just beneath her skin. Until he can feel how her throat flutters and works to take his cock. Until he can feel every gag and spasm as she swallows him deep.

Too soon that heat burns white hot in Rhys’s veins. His hips stutter, and he shoves his cock hard into Nesta’s mouth, groaning through his release. When he pulls his softening cock from between her lips, Nesta turns her head, coughing into the sheets. A dribble of drool and his come slips free, but Rhys is quick to catch it with his thumb, pressing it firmly back into her mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Rhys coos, using his free hand to swipe at her cheek, at the tear tracks there. “We’ll make sure you get my come where it really belongs too.”

Nesta whimpers, trying to buck her hips up against him. Rhys chuckles darkly at the reaction, at the sight of the female beneath him. He’s certainly made a mess of her. Her cheeks are flushed bright red, blue eyes hazy and foggy. Across her chest is a mix of sweat, of drool, of the remnants from fucking her tits.

It’s satisfying, but it’s not enough.

Rhys shifts until he’s standing at the end of the bed again. He fists his cock, his blood still simmering and arousal already building again. Whether it’s instinctually or willingly, Nesta spreads her legs wider, pulling her knees up closer toward her chest.

“So desperate,” Rhys comments, swiping two fingers of his free hand across her cunt, through the wetness pooled there. “Did sucking your High Lord’s cock get you even more drenched?”

He doesn't even wait for her to respond before he shoves those two fingers forward, not meeting a lick of resistance. Instead, her cunt only seems to draw his fingers in deeper, welcoming them into the wet warmth of her fluttering walls. He scissors and curls his fingers roughly, the wet sound of her sex ringing in his ears and mixing with the moans of the writhing female.

“So wet, but still so empty, aren't you?”

“Please,” Nesta whimpers, a sound that's long since become one of his favorites.

“Please, what?” Rhys mocks, his fingers curling and prodding until her thighs start to shake.

Nesta reaches her own hand down, fingers circling his wrist. She tugs until his fingers slip free, tilting her hips up toward him. For a moment, Rhys is enraptured, watching the way her cunt clenches around nothing.

Begging to be filled.

“Fuck me,” Nesta whispers, just her plea drawing him closer into the cradle of her hips, daring him to drag the head of his cock across her. “Breed me.”

With a growl, Rhys snaps his hips forward, burying his cock in her cunt. Nesta lets out a cry at the sudden intrusion, the intensity, but the beast has already been unleashed. He's half aware of the dark claws elongating his fingers, the way they pierce skin where he's holding her hips pinned in place. Half aware of the wings unfurling over his shoulder unbidden. But there's no stopping the way his magic sings at the tight heat enveloping him with every thrust of his cock.

He supposes that he shouldn't be surprised, that after the way she's been so keyed-up, after the way he's kept her right on the edge this whole time, that it doesn't take long for Nesta’s entire body to seize up. She screams his name as her walls clench so hard around his cock he sees stars, but Rhys doesn't let it deter him. He continues to rock his hips against the way her cunt squeezes him, the drag against his cock making him even more delirious.

Take take take. Breed breed breed.

His Court. His female. His magic to take and mold into something this world has never seen.

Nesta is a whimpering mess beneath him, but Rhys merely works his hips harder, pressing his cock deeper and chasing his own release. He can feel it building in the base of his spine, feel it swirling and twining with those dark tendrils and shadows. The growl that tears from his throat is all beast as he shoves his cock as deep as he can, all but sighing at the way it pulses within her, the way his seed floods her aching cunt.

But still, it's not enough.

His need is still a thrumming heat in his blood, his magic still writhing in his chest. The beast still wants blood. So rather than pull his softening cock free, Rhys keeps his hips pressed flush to hers, keeps his cock and his seed buried deep where not a drop can be lost. He dares to circle his hips, reveling in the way her cunt gives and grips him.

“Rhysand…” Nesta whines, clearing over-sensitive from her own release.

“I thought this is what you wanted. Stuffed full and dripping with your High Lord.”

He presses down hard on her clit, Nesta crying out even as her back arches up off the bed. It pulls a groan from Rhys's chest, the way the walls of her cunt spasm around him, and his cock twitches in renewed interest. He starts to rock his hips, building back up to a punishing, brutal pace, Nesta’s body jostling with every harsh thrust.

“This is what you were Made for. Made to take your High Lord's cock. Made to be bred full.”

Rhys shifts his hand down to where they’re joined, where his come and her arousal leaks around his cock and makes a mess of them both. Their combined scents swirls heavy and heady in the air around them, flooding his nose and pushing him to fuck her harder, faster. Nesta claws at the sheets, silver flames sparking at her fingers, and Rhys’s own magic roars and swells to meet it.

Shadows spill around him, crashing against the bed, the floor, Nesta. They slither across her skin, and when they brush across her chest, over her peaked nipples, Nesta comes with a high pitched shout. Her cunt clamps down tight enough that Rhys is unable to hold back. He tumbles over the edge right along with her, filling her once again and groaning at the way her cunt milks his cock through his release.

Nesta slumps back against the mattress, her eyes falling shut and chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. When Rhys dares to rock his hips again, she lets out a sound somewhere between a broken sob and a whimper, her entire body twitching as though mimicking the aftershocks that have the walls of her cunt fluttering.

“You’re not tired already, are you?” Rhys asks cooly, his hand reaching up to curl around her throat and force her eyes back on him. “We have all night, after all, and I’m just getting started.” ~ * * * ~

Mornings have always been Cassian’s favorite.

He’s sure there’s something to be said about mornings being drilled into him since he was a youth in Windhaven, about rising with the sun and making the most of the daylight to train before darkness overtook the mountains again. But there’s a peacefulness to mornings too, in the way the world is still quiet and asleep, in the pinks and pale blues that take over the sky, in the soft morning breeze.

It’s that very breeze that Cassian rides over Velaris, more than happy to stretch his wings. He flies low just over the roofs of the buildings, taking in a deep breath and allowing it to fill his lungs. He tries to tell himself his flight path is aimless, but he knows that’s a lie. The golden thread buried deep in his chest, between his ribs, has always been drawing him back to the same location.

As the building comes into view, Cassian is surprised to see a cloaked figure slip out the front door at this early hour. He’s surprised as the cloaked figure hurries down the empty streets of Velaris, looking over their shoulder, and he catches sight of a pair of familiar stormy blue eyes. He watches curiously, trailing just above, but when Nesta looks over her shoulder for the third time, concern gets the better of him, and he lands on the cobblestones just a few paces behind her.

“Nesta,” Cassian breathes, frowning at the way her entire body tenses. “Going somewhere, sweetheart?”

“That’s none of your business,” Nesta seethes, whirling around on him.

Her words are clipped, her tone icy, but Cassian has always been able to read her in a way no one else can. He’s always seen right through every mask, every layer of armor she tries to shield herself with. Even when she was still human and snapping at the fae at her front door. And especially now. Everyone else may see the cold, vicious, eldest Archeron, but not Cassian.

All he’s ever seen is just Nesta.

And he sees what’s hiding beneath her harsh words and glares now. Fear.

“Is everything alright, Nes?”

“What do you care?”

Cassian takes a few tentative steps closer to her, opening his mouth to respond, but whatever words of reassurance he planned to offer die in the back of throat when the morning breeze blows past them, carrying her scent to him. Her scent is something that Cassian has memorized, something that’s been wrapped firmly around his heart and his soul since the day he met her. He would happily bury his face in her hair and breathe it in forever if she'd only let him.

But it's different now.

It's faint, but it's there. Anyone else might miss it, might not notice the shift, but not Cassian. He knows her scent too well not to detect that new scent budding just beneath. It has his blood running cold in his veins at the implication.

Pregnant.

Nesta is pregnant. And he knows that he’s certainly not the father. The thought makes Cassian sick, bile clawing up his throat until it burns. Anger follows hot on its heels, blazing through his veins and making him clench his fists. He wants to scoff, wants to laugh, wants to unleash his temper with barbed words as cruel as the female before him has slung his way.

But he can’t stop thinking about the fear hiding in her gaze. His instincts claw at his insides, tear his chest to ribbons as they snarl and scream. Protect protect protect.

So he pushes his own feelings down, swallowing hard and finding his voice again. “Can I buy you a cup of tea?”

Nesta blinks at him a few times, confusion flitting across her expression. “What?”

“There’s a bakery that’s open this early not too far from here. Wherever you’re going will still be there, so why not let me get you a cup of tea. Maybe a pastry?”

Nesta glances back over her shoulder, and Cassian finds himself waiting with bated breath. She could say no. It would be so easy for her to brush him aside and walk away. She’s certainly done it before. Would he follow her, drop to his knees and beg the way he wanted to from the very first moment he saw her?

“Alright,” Nesta answers quietly, turning back around to face him.

“Alright,” Cassian repeats, trying and failing to keep the way his chest expands off his expression.

He leads the way to the small bakery along the Sidra, holding the door open for Nesta to step inside first. She settles at one of the small tables along the back wall while Cassian steps up to the counter and the fae waiting behind it. It’s easy enough to order, Cassian still remembering how Nesta likes to take her tea.

But any ease vanishes when Cassian settles into the seat beside her, awkward air clinging around them. It scrapes across his skin like nails, cloying down his throat until he fears he may actually choke on it. He can’t stop watching Nesta, watching the way she sighs softly at the first sip of her tea, watching the way she picks apart the chocolate pastry in front of her.

“Do you know, then?” Cassian dares to ask, unable to hold back any longer. “The father.”

Nesta’s fingers still, her attention finally snapping to him. Her eyes widen, and Cassian can see every thought that flits and dashes through the blue of them. Whether she should deny it or not. How he figured it out. In the end, she swallows, turning back to stare at the dark swirls of her tea.

“Yes. I know.”

Cassian reaches a hand out toward her before thinking better of it, curling his fingers into his palm. “Do you need help, Nesta?”

Nesta snorts, the sound devoid of any humor. “You can’t help me.”

“Whoever the male is, it’s clear you’re afraid of him, but it’s okay. I can help. He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”

Before he even finishes speaking, Nesta is shaking her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll kill you.”

“I’m hurt, sweetheart,” Cassian offers, pressing a hand solemnly to his chest. “Did you forget I’m a General? There are very few people in this Court who can even land a blow, let alone kill me. And honestly, the only one who could kill me is because he cheats with his fancy magic.”

He waits for his joke to land, waits for Nesta to hopefully, finally, crack a smile, but she continues to stare resolutely at her tea. His teasing smile slips away with each second of silence that passes, as Nesta’s shoulders continue to stay tensed, her lips pursed.

“No…” Cassian whispers.

The way Nesta’s eyes shutter, her hands tightening around her cup of tea, is confirmation enough.

“That fucking bastard.”

He supposes now he knows why Rhys kept sending him to Illyria, kept sending him away to deal with alleged war bands and rebels. Kept him out of Velaris. All while he had easy access to Nesta, while he was fucking her behind his back. Cassian feels like he’s a youth again, feels like that first time he saw a pompous High Lord’s son in Windhaven and wanted nothing more than to punch him square in the nose.

“Now you understand why I have to leave,” Nesta tells him. “I heard there are ships at the docks that go to the Continent.”

“He’ll know. Even if not right away, he can figure it out. Every ship has to hand in their manifest to the High Lord.”

“So I’ll use a fake name.”

“You think anyone won’t recognize the High Lady’s sister?” Cassian finally gives in to the desire thrumming just beneath his skin, covering Nesta’s hand with his own and squeezing. “Let me help you. I know a place we can go.”

Cassian swears that it’s not just him but the Mother herself holding her breath while he waits for Nesta’s answer. He tries to keep his face open, prays that she can see the truth in his gaze as her own flits over his face. At least, she doesn’t pull her hand away from his. Maybe, she finds the touch as grounding as he does, finds that simple brush settles something deep all the way down to the bones.

His entire chest feels like it’s caving in, desperation flaring hot enough that his siphons pulse, that a snarl threatens to spill free from his throat. He wonders what she would do if he begged. If he wrapped her in his arms and flew her far away from here anyways. If he ripped Rhys’s throat out for ever laying a finger on her.

Protect. Protect. Protect. Ma–

“Alright.”

[seleneprince]

A COURT OF SHADOWS AND BLOOD PART 2

If there's really a Mother up there, she definitely has a twisted sense of humour.

He still doesn't know whether to laugh or punch a wall at his discovery. Laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Rage because he should've known much sooner.

No humans cross the Wall and live to tell. The natural Fae essence devours them eventually, their fragile mortal bodies unable to resist it. Unless they're not normal humans, unless they have some special ability that gives them an advantage.

Now he knows why his little pet managed to pass the Wall despite her obvious weakness.

She has the Sight. Or the True Eye, according to ancient references.

It's a rare gift. Humans born with an innate immunity against Fae magic, allowing them to see through glamours and spells as they're not affected by them.

It also makes them immune against daemati.

He lays against a wall, his head down as he chuckles silently, humourlessly.

Curse his luck. And curse his own foolishness. He should've known from their first meeting. He should've realized her mind was eerily silent. Normally, he can hear people's minds from a mile away, even more if they're humans. But he didn't hear anything back then, and it didn't catch up to him until he finally tried to enter her mind back at his chambers.

Instead of images and feelings, he encountered a solid wall. And silence. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't even cause a small crack in her shield, to catch a glimpse of her mind. Just darkness and silence.

What was she said back there?

'You'll get nothing from me. I'll never give you anything'

She was right.

He inhales deeply through his nose, the realization leaving a bitter taste. It’s laughable how he’d thought she was just a feisty human with no sense of self-preservation. But turns out she's so much more—a rare gem hidden behind the stain of mortality. The answer had been in front of his eyes and he missed it, distracted by her sharp tongue and burning eyes.

The Sight, a gift so uncommon it's nearly a myth, granting her immunity from all Fae influence. He can’t unravel her with his usual methods. No amount of pushing and twisting would break her shield.

His gaze flickers toward the room where she's bound, chained in his bed, a slight grin of resignation crossing his face. This little twist supposes a change in his original plans, but certainly not an obstacle. She’s an enigma, and he can't wait to peel her layers back, find what else she's hiding from him.

There’s still tension, a frustration he can’t fully shake. After all, this turns the game on its head. He is no longer in complete control here. He can't keep her in check the way he's used to. Can't just make her play along easily.

No. This is going to be harder than he imagined. He'll have to take a different approach this time around.

The idea excites him more than it should.

We're going to have fun, little thing.

Ever since he brought the human to his chambers, he's been waiting for the shoe to drop. To be questioned about his intentions, and maybe bring his new pet to her, to judge whether she's worthy of staying in her court.

But nothing.

Amarantha hasn't asked him anything, just expecting the same usual 'service' from him. The Attor, that annoying pest of hers, tries to get under his skin here and there, but overall he hasn't let on any hint that he knows something. If anyone is aware of the human in his chambers, they've keeping the information to themselves.

He's being actively concealing her scent with the wards he set on his quarters, but it's not permanent. His magic is not what it used to be. If she so much takes a step outside the room, anyone within a ten-milius radius would smell her. And then it'll be only a matter of minutes until she knows.

Maybe it's for the best, he thinks. It was a pain to bring the fiesty creature here, in the utmost secrecy. The bitch's security is sharp, and while his loyal shadows helped him, he knows he wouldn't do it a second time.

Then why does he still bother? What's stopping him from letting the truth out?

'Because it's my first chance in fifty years to have something that's entirely mine. My own, untainted secret.'

Everything he's loved has been taken from him or ruined while he's been here. All that surrounds him is her property, her domain. Even the privileges he enjoys above the others are only thanks to her authority. It's the rule.

But this human, this mortal creature with fire in her eyes, will belong to him. As long as no one else sees her, she's his.

The thought both thrills and haunts him. He's taking a huge risk by keeping her hidden like this, perhaps the greatest he's ever taken in fifty years. It’s foolish, bordering on suicidal. Yet the satisfaction he feels at knowing she's beyond her grasp is something he hadn’t felt in a long while—a small, defiant act of control.

The shadows swirl around him, shifting and almost restless. It's like they know him, understand the stakes even without words. The shadows don’t question, don’t judge. They’re the only things he can trust in this wretched place. But keeping this secret requires something even they can’t provide—carefulness, patience. Traits that he's always possessed in abundance, yet have been stretched to their limit since she appeared.

He casts a glance toward the hall that leads to his quarters. According to Cerridwen and Nuala, she has fallen asleep already, her exhaustion finally taking over her fragile body.

Her life hangs by a thread every moment she’s here. If anyone found out… it would be over in an instant. It'll be harsh punishment for him, and gruesome death for her.

Still, he can’t bring himself to regret his choice.

He sends a message to their minds, a new order regarding his little pet. As much as it amuses him seeing her thrash in that wild, messy state of hers, he can't allow his toys to remain so dreadfully...unkempt.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he imagines her reaction. His new gift is intended to placate her a bit, but it's mostly for his own personal enjoyment. She's clearly someone who holds her pride above all else, so she’ll undoubtedly reject his present with all her might, despite the honor it represents

But there’s nothing she can do against the wraith sisters. Cerridwen and Nuala have been given permission to use force if his human proves too stubborn—not that she’ll get the chance. His maids’ shadowy hands are impossible to repel or escape from, even for other Fae.

How he wishes he could be there to witness it.

His thoughts are interrupted when the familiar, off-kilter music reached his ears as he stands in front of a well-known door. His body tenses in anticipated disgust, fully aware of what's expecting him on the other side.

With a sigh, he fixes his clothes again and hides his hatred with the usual mask. The doors open before him without his hands touching them, and he strides in with a confident smirk as they close behind him again with a loud bang.

The music comes to a halt as soon as his presence is noticed. The assembled crowd take up most of the space, and most have stopped whatever they've been doing to stare at him. He can't help but find some delight in their attention, the fear that shines in their eyes at the sight of him. It gives him life.

He walks with purpose, barely sparing them a glance. Some bow to him, others just stare in silence. They all make sure to step out of his way, creating a wide path just for him. It only takes him a few minutes to reach his destination.

There, lounging on her black throne, is his punishment. His nightmare. The reason he endures all of this in the first place.

Amarantha. The High Queen of Prythian. Self-proclaimed, which only makes it more ridiculous in his mind—but only a suicidal fool would dare say so aloud.

She taps a long, red nail against the stone.

“There you are. I was worried you got lost along the way.”

Her voice is soft, almost tender, but he’s memorized every angle of her to read between the lines. He detects the underlying disdain beneath her words; she’s not pleased with his lateness.

He bows to his waist in a show of devotion. It makes his skin crawl, but he's already used to it.

"Apologies, my queen," he knows how much she likes the title. Appealing to her ego is his tried-and-true method to keep her at bay. "I got held up by some last-minute affairs."

She hums but doesn't inquire.

"Be more careful next time, Rhys. It's not polite to make a female wait."

A sense of déjà vu hits him at her words. They don’t sound nearly as charming from her lips as they did from the human’s, but the irony of it makes him want to laugh.

He clicks his tongue, masking his reaction.

"Believe me, I know it," lowering his head just enough to hide the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.

He's not sure how to feel about his pet sharing some similiarities with the person he hates most in the world, but there's no denying the terrible humor in it.

Amarantha waves her hand lazily, and the music resumes. The crowd gradually returns to the party, trying their best to ignore them both. She beckons him to come closer, aand he has to steel himself to keep from snarling at her.

Of all the hells he’s endured over fifty years, this is the one he still can’t stomach. Being reduced to a mere servant, a slave, for this wretched female. He, the strongest High Lord in all of Prythian, turned into a harlot for a delusional tyrant's entertainment.

Just thinking about it makes him blood boil in pure, murderous rage.

The only thing keeping him from lashing out completely is the comforting fantasy of tearing this usurper apart with his own hands and warming himself by the fire of her burning remains.

But now he has something better than fantasies. Waiting prettily in his room, locked away from Amarantha’s corrupting hands, surely cursing him with all her might in her sleep.

The thought of seeing her again gives him the motivation to endure whatever Amarantha wants from him now.

"What can I do for you, my queen?" he asks, standing beside her with his hands clasped behind him. She looks up at him from her throne, not bothering to adjust her posture.

Everything about this is wrong. He should be the one sitting on a throne, and she should be on a leash, draped over his fist, begging for her worthless life. But now is not the time.

She regards him with a smile that would make a weaker male’s skin crawl. In truth, it’s not so different from expressions he himself uses regularly. Curious how this particular detail about her has never really bothered him.

"I have a job for you, Rhys."

"I’m always at your service, my queen."

She chuckles.

"Of course, you are. Such a good boy." She twirls the cup in her hand, red liquid spilling as richly as the color of her lips. "Tell me, how do you feel about paying a visit to an old friend?"

He knows exactly who she means before she even says it. The smirk that spreads across his face is entirely genuine this time.

"Oh? May I know the details?"

Amarantha’s expression shifts into one so similar to his own that it could almost be a reflection.

"Go to Spring and bring me the human filth that Tamlin is hiding from us."

Seems like the fun is about to start.

After another long, excruciating party to satisfy Amarantha's ego, she doesn't waste time in bringing him to her chambers as soon as everyone leaves.

He knows his part. Fifty years playing this role has given him the steel to hide his shame and resentment so deep into him that she can't notice it. His mind turns off, letting his body follow what's expected of him.

She's as brutal in bed as she's in the battlefield. And today she's in a rather enthusiastic mood. Probably at the idea of torturing the pitiful human Tamlin has found at last.

By the time he leaves, his body carries the scratches and bruises of Amarantha's favouritism under his clothes.

At least he's not tormented by the humiliation and self-hatred as he was the first times. Now, he can only feel a mild sense of relief and exasperation that it's over.

He straightens his clothes, leaving the top button undone. Now it’s only him striding down the hallways, aside from the occasional servant. Moving through the shadows, he’s intent on reaching his quarters as quickly as possible.

He’s eager to see his little pet, to tease her until she bares her cute claws and tries to bite him. Right now, she’s the only thing he has even a remote measure of control over—and he plans to savor it. Besides, he’s curious to see how she liked his latest gift.

As his door comes into view, he steps out of the shadows. He briefly considers slipping in silently, like last time, just to feel her fear spike again—but he decides it won’t be as amusing a second time.

Once more, the door opens for him without so much as a gesture, and he steps inside.

"I’m back, my dear. I hope you didn’t miss me too much this time?"

She’s right where he left her: on his bed, unmoving, glaring up at him through her lashes. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, chin resting stiffly on her crossed arms.

Like a curled up cat ready to pounce. Adorable.

But it's hard to appreciate his gift in that posture.

"Now, don't you have anything to say? I took the time to choose this design just for you. Do you like it?"

She doesn't respond. Not even a huff. If only he could get a peek of her mind, just a little bit. It annoys him not know what it's going through her head.

He clicks his tongue.

"Show me. I want to see how it looks on you."

"You're already seeing it."

"Ah, there she is. I was worrying you lost your voice."

Her glare intensifies, which only makes his smile widen. He grabs a cozy armchair from its spot near the fireplace and moves it closer to the bed, taking a seat directly in front of her.

Crossing one ankle over his knee, he rests his chin on his fist and stares at her intently. A quiet laugh exhales from his nose when she frowns, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

Her discomfort is a delight he savors, though he keeps his expression masked behind a lazy smirk. Every small twitch, every subtle hardening of her glare, only deepens his amusement. She’s resisting him, but her unease is a victory all its own.

"Your silence does little to hide your thoughts, you know," he says, voice low. "There’s only so much I can ignore when it’s written all over your face."

"You can read how much I want to kill you written on my face?, she says, her voice sounding low and dripping with venom.

Cauldron bless him, she's such a joy.

"Charming," he coos. "I actually meant your thoughts about my present. I've been eager to see your reaction all day."

"Is that why you're sitting there like an idiot?" she mutters, raising her chin. "To rejoice in my misery? Or is it just that you don’t have anything better to do with your time?"

He laughs, soft and slow, as if savoring a rare vintage. He wouldn't tolerare this kind of talk from anyone else. He’s torn heads from bodies for words more respectful than hers. But with her, he only wants more of it. It’s like watching a puppy bark and bare its teeth at him—a futile effort, but amusing all the same.

"It’s not every day I get a creature with such spirit gracing my quarters. It was getting lonely here, you know? I simply want to make the most of this opportunity."

She rolls her eyes and turns her head away. "Right. As if you couldn't summon other people to keep you company."

That catches his attention.

"What do you mean?"

"Those...beings from before. They're yours, right? Why don't you ask them to help you with your loneliness instead of pestering me?"

He's genuinely perplexed for a moment. She means Nuala and Cerridwen? They serve him, sure, but it has never crossed his mind to rely on them for...those kind of needs. They're beautiful, skilled, and wouldn't dare to deny their High Lord anything, but they're still mere servants at the end of the day. Below him and his bed.

"They're not nearly as charming as you," he replies, leaning forward. "You'll warm up to me soon enough, dear. And then you'll finally realize how incredibly lucky you are."

He lets the silence stretch between them, thick with an unspoken challenge. For a moment, her face is still, but then, her brows lower, her lips pressing into a defiant line. She meets his eyes again, her glare sharper than before.

"You’ve taken my freedom, maybe my dignity as well," she says evenly, "but that's all you'll get from me. No loyalty, no obedience, and certainly not my respect."

He holds her gaze, feeling the familiar thrill rising as her words sink in. A part of him expected this—relished it, even. He could break her down, push until she yielded, but another part of him wonders: How long will this fire last? How much can she endure before she crumbles?

"Well," he says, grinning, "we’ll see just how long you hold onto that resolve, won’t we?"

He stands up, walking to the side of the bed. He reachs out and plucks a stray curl that had fallen over her face, tucking it behind her ear. She stiffens, her eyes narrowing as he studied the sisters' creation.

She looks much cleaner than when he first brought her. Gone is the dirt and sweat from her face, now replaced by a graceful touch of makeup. Her eyes are accented with shadow, her lips painted a sparkling pink, and a soft blush colors her cheeks, accentuating her cheekbones. Though her position makes it difficult to fully appreciate the dress, he notices how it cascades over her shoulders and waist in black folds.

His gaze follows the chain peeking out from beneath her long, dark blue skirt, where the fabric drapes down to cover her feet.

"Sit up straight. Don't hide yourself."

She huffs, turning her gaze to the fireplace in a show of stubborn defiance, completely ignoring him. Her stupid pride is really starting to piss him off. If only he had access to her mind, he’d make her move with a mere thought. Curse the Cauldron yet again for giving humans the Sight.

He’s tempted to drag her to her feet himself, but just then, she stretches out on the bed, leaning back on her hands and showing off the dress in a much better light.

He chose the dress with her specifically in mind, but it looks even better than he’d imagined. The fabric clings to her torso before flowing down in soft waves to her feet, creating a shape that cups her figure elegantly. The cloth is a blend of black and deep blue, with sparkling gems resembling stars embroidered throughout, like a recreation of the night sky. The neckline grazes the valley of her chest, leaving her collarbones and part of her shoulders exposed.

Her hair has been brushed off her face, pulled back with a silver comb and the rest drapping down her back. She almost looks like a different person, if it wasn't for the permanent scowl on her face.

Cerridwen and Nuala have done a brilliant job, as usual.

"Well, what do you think?" her voice takes his attention off her shoulders, dripping with disdain. "Does it meet yout expectations, sir?"

Fuck, there's something about her calling him sir while dressed like that, laying in his bed. It only amused him the first time, and pleased his ego a bit. Why is it different now?

Maybe because she's laying there so prettily, drapped in his court's colors in an obvious claim of his ownership, and when she moves a little the slit in the skirt reveals part of her thigh, making his fingers twitch to trace over the pristine skin.

A low growl escapes his throat before he can stop it.

She widens her eyes at him, fear flashing in them for a second. He coughs and composes himself, chastising himself for losing his self-control.

He sits at the hem of the bed, schooling his features into a mask of casual indifference, though his pulse still beats thickly in his throat. His fingers brush against the fabric of the dress as he settles. She makes a show of moving away from him with furious eyes, as if his mere touch offended her.

Her defiance, cloaked in elegant silk and starlit jewels, unsettles him far more than he’ll ever admit. It irks him, how her insolence remains unyielding even when he’s draped her in the finest dress this wretched court could provide, marking her as his.

"Oh, it exceeds my expectations," he says, his voice a touch darker, unable to resist letting her see a hint of the effect the dress has on him. "You look… magnificient." He smirks, gesturing to her as though she were a painting, a work of art on display just for him.

Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she lifts her chin, the hatred simmering behind her eyes unmistakable. "Good to know. I’d hate for all this"—she gestures to herself, her hand lingering over the exposed skin of her thigh—"to be wasted on you."

The comment lands, hitting a part of him that both resents and respects her tenacity. He finds himself leaning forward without thinking, the intensity in his gaze causing her to shrink back just the slightest bit.

"Oh, make no mistake. Nothing about you will go to waste here, darling. I’ll make certain of that."

She glares at him, but something shifts in her expression, a flicker of trepidation quickly masked by steely determination. It sends a thrill through him, a potent mix of irritation and attraction. How satisfying it will be, one day, to see that unbreakable resolve bend, to see her finally yield beneath him.

"Now," he murmurs, straightening. "Behave yourself, and I might surprise you with more gifts in the future."

"And if I don’t?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper, but he catches the challenge there, hanging in the air between them.

He chuckles, low and menacing, running his thumb along her round earlobe thoughtfully. "Oh, I wouldn’t test that, if I were you." His voice drops, a hint of a threat lacing his words. "I’d hate to ruin that pretty dress."

She blinks at him, her expression suddenly going blank. Her heart is beating too rapidly for him to believe she’s truly indifferent to the situation, but the way she so quickly masks her feelings and thoughts is worthy of some admiration.

Then, she does something that catches him entirely off guard.

Her hands grip his shoulders and pull him down, right on top of her. He feels the outline of her breasts press against his chest, and his nose grazes her collarbones for a brief moment. His mind goes blank. But before he can say anything, she maneuvers herself out and shoves his face down against the bed, throwing her weight onto his back.

"What in the world are you doing now, little thing?" he grunts, but then he hears a familiar metallic clicking as she moves frantically.

The realization hits him when he feels something cold binding his wrists together in a very tight knot.

His mind snaps back into focus with a jolt. For the briefest moment, he’s caught off guard, tangled in the suddenness of how everything has happened. She’s quick, too quick for a mortal in her state. His body stiffens beneath her, the sharp tug of the cold metal biting into his wrists—binding him to the bed.

The chain. She's using the chain against him. The same chain supposedly keeping her locked in place.

When, and how the fuck did she got out of it? Without anyone noticing?

The wood of the headboard creaks when he pulls. It’s a ridiculous move, the kind of desperate attempt he’s seen from lesser beings, yet somehow... it feels different. Her strength, the way she pushed him down with such determination, it unnerves him. No human should be able to think this quickly, to turn the tables on him in such a bold way.

He growls in frustration, trying to pull his wrists free, but the chain hold fast. This situation feels too disgustingly familiar, making his skin crawl. His first instinct is to use his magic and break the damn metal, but there’s a brief, agonizing moment of uncertainty. He hasn’t lost his power entirely, but it still feels drained, distant. The realization sends a deep sense of frustration through his chest.

When he lifts his head, she’s already standing by the edge of the bed, breathing hard but calm, her eyes alight with that familiar, fiery glint. She watches him, studying him like an experiment, her lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

"You... chained me?" He can barely mask the disbelief and fury in his voice. It's absurd. She shouldn’t have the knowledge, the courage, to even consider something so reckless.

She doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a satisfied gleam in her eyes. Her hands, still trembling slightly from the rush of adrenaline, clutch the fabric of the skirt. "I’d say it’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you?" Her voice is like cold fire, biting yet controlled, a mirror of his own in certain moments.

He glares at her, the intensity of his gaze locking with hers. His body tenses as he tests the chains again. "Oh, you have some fucking nerve, you filthy, worthless thing. You seriously think you can contain me?" His growl is low, dangerous, the tone he reserves for those he's about to torture endlessly.

She just shrugs, stepping away from the bed and almost relaxed. "You got me chained here like an animal since I arrived," she says softly, almost teasingly. "I thought you might like a taste of it."

The words sting more than they should. He shifts his weight, anger mounting, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

He’s going to kill her for this. No. He’ll hand her over to Amarantha first, in front of the entire court, and let her be turned into a plaything for the sadistic bitch. And when the ungrateful thing is too broken to move, he’ll drag her back to this room, tie her down from head to toe, and watch as she writhes in agony from the mind-blowing pain he inflicts. He won’t lift a finger to heal her. Let her suffer and learn her lesson.

He's clearly understimated her all this time.

She doesn’t spare him another glance as she runs to grab the pocket from the fireplace and then straight for the door. He lets out a low, dark chuckle at the sight.

"Oh, yes, Run, little thing. Run as fast as you can. Because once I get out of here, I'll find you."

"And I won't be gentle anymore."

She freezes for a moment, hand already on the door handle. The hand holding the iron rod grip it hard enough for her knuckles to grow white.

The door opens and she slams it close behind her.

[ae-neon]

The House of Mirrors

Chapter 10

The Rainbow Gala was divided into two, the first portion consisted of opening speeches, initial presentations – including the debut of student artwork selected specifically for the night – and a serving of appetizers. 

During the intermission preceding the second half, which consisted mostly of bootlicking and ass-kissing the city’s benevolent benefactors; Nesta followed along as Feyre descended to the second floor to survey the pieces that would be auctioned off before the main course was served. 

All around them people chattered, champagne glasses in hand, either too used to fine art to care, or too obviously intent on proving they could identify the style, artist and intent of every piece they came across. 

Nesta paused as Feyre did, in a quieter corner, before a glass display table. The artwork inside too precious to be exposed to the elements but still not protected from the reach of affluence. 

“Did you know? Before the war, Ressina had woven about two dozen tapestries - about only half of which survived - but after the war, after losing her husband, she only ever wove one. The chemicals used to create it eventually blinded her but she insisted she didn't regret it.” Feyre paused before a tapestry woven with thread so dark, Nesta felt like she could reach into it.

It’s plaque read: Void. 

The corner of Feyre's mouth lifted in a cynical smile, "Is it bad I can't imagine loving someone that much? Like, does that mean I'll never make anything this impactful?"

Nesta lifted her grey eyes to the cloth. Black. A consumption. An inescapable pull. The colour of death. And after tonight, no longer something that marked her.

She wasn’t what made her speak but she couldn't seem to hold back any longer, “You don't have to. You don't have to live or die for anyone. And…you don't have to get married.” 

Feyre turned to her, tall and beautiful, dressed in a suit painted with her own design, blue eyes searching, “...what?”

“You have a future, Fey, and so much talent. You don't have to go through with any of this.” it felt like the words were clogging her throat, "You should leave, spend a year in some commune on the Continent, travel, paint, whatever you it is you want."

Feyre stepped closer, already a little taller despite Nesta’s impressive height, blue eyes meeting grey, “You know how much this means to Mom.”

How much had she already done for her mother’s sake? How much more would it take? Only to be undone by a surprise visit and a fucking scarf. Nesta wanted to scream but she was frozen, trapped in a shell built to withstand. Her fingers twitched. But her silence only seemed to agitate her sister.

“You were the one who convinced me to try.” Feyre’s brows bunched and the muscle in her jaw flexed, “And Papa? What about his business? You know he’s been killing himself to keep it running when it was supposed to-” 

They both flinched at the attention they drew but Feyre only lowered her voice, slipped into Scythian, “Is that why you left? Dropped out of school and ran off? You abandoned Papa even when he left his dreams to you. And El? You broke her heart.”

"So it wasn't enough to live for Mama? I have to live for everyone else too? I did my best with the business but it was never my dream." A dull ache began at Nesta's temples, "Don't make the same mistakes as me…even if you stay, don't live your life for them, they'll never know what you've been through."

Feyre sighed, a flicker of regret passing her face, “Look, I knew how bad you had it with Mama. But it wasn’t easy for us either. We were terrified for you. And after...I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what to think. That you hadn’t done it and you’d be next...or that you had, and you were gonna be locked up.

So when all this started, when you came back, I thought that meant this was important. So I broke up with Isaac - and yea, maybe I wasn't the friendliest but now, when I finally feel like I’m getting somewhere? Now you’re telling me to abandon everything?” 

“You’re right. It isn’t fair of me to say this when I was the one who-” Nesta exhaled, remembering that night after the first dinner, the way Feyre had cried in her arms, “But it was a mistake, I just wanted Mama off my back, I didn’t realise...”

“Is that what this is about? He goes over your head, ruins your chance at getting back into Mom’s good books, and that’s it? I need to throw it all away?"

“You don’t owe her anything-”

“If this is about Mom – you should know how she is. It's not easy for her to talk about these things but it’s not like she wasn’t worried about you. We were all worried about you… Why didn’t you just come home?”

Because I deserved it. Deserved everything that had happened and worse. The words came from some deep well within but couldn't make it past the lump in her throat.

Again agitated by her silence, Feyre swore under her breath and reached for Nesta’s hand, squeezing it in a familiar gesture the two had passed back and forth all their lives,

“I get it. You’re worried, it’s probably terrifying, thinking something might happen to me, but I’m not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself. Mom too. So if you can’t...if you need to take a break... that’s okay. 

But that day he came over? When I finally got to speak to Rhys without everyone watching and waiting, like we were animals in a zoo…it was the first time I felt like any of this was actually about me and not just about what everyone else wanted.” 

Nesta felt more than saw Feyre brush past her. Frustration, guilt and fear welled in her, burning her throat and stinging her eyes. 

Because I deserved it.

The words rang in her head, reverberated off her bones, made the floor tilt. 

Tonight, she closed the chapter on Tomas, a chapter than had begun almost a decade ago when she had stolen Clare’s future. But the end of one thing meant the beginning of another, and this time it was something she had no control over. 

She turned and headed for the door. 

~

They had been distant throughout the event. Though, Rhys thought, distant implied they had been close prior. He remembered her in her blue dress, sunglasses perched on her head, rolling her eyes but not fighting the smile that tugged at her lips. Brunch and cheesecake. 

Tonight, Nesta had opted to sit furthest from him at the half circle table they'd been assigned and faced the stage instead of monitoring his conversations with Feyre. 

He didn’t assume it was because of him and the loss of what alliance they might have had - for the little time he had known her, she'd always been half in and out of some haze of memories - but it was difficult to ignore, either way. 

At some point she’d even paused to stare at a statue of a pregnant Bharati goddess for almost 10 minutes. Until a mousy man in a tweed suit had come up and offered his condolences, a cushioning before he remarked that he had first heard of her from a professor at the Calla Velaria School of Law and that it was a shame she had not continued her studies. 

She’d smiled, too sharp, then asked the man if he were enquiring about the legality of paying his mistress to abort their child, and that if he were, he should look elsewhere as - as he had pointed out - she had not finished her degree and was not licensed to advise him, or required to keep his confidentiality.

At that glimpse of the predator, he’d almost let himself hope she might still become an ally. Had almost regretted his urgency in bringing Feyre into the sphere of his influence.  

But then Nesta had wandered off with Feyre, who had returned to the table alone and said nothing as she slid into the chair next to him, still a little stiff but far less standoffish since his visit. 

Eventually, the guests were herded to their places as the second half of the night began. And Mor, as quick to seize an opportunity as he was, took Nesta's seat to chat with Elain, leaving the seat next to Rhys open.

But Nesta never returned. 

Elain, frowning with worry, relaxed a little after her phone buzzed and she answered, ducked down and quiet to avoid attention. She leaned over and had a small exchange with Feyre, her whispered Scythian too quick for Rhys to pick up even as he eavesdropped. 

"Has something happened?" Mor asked. 

"I think she might have been sick," Elain frowned again, almost childish in her expressions, though it was surprisingly endearing, "Or bumped into someone she knows, it seemed like there was someone with her but I'm not sure, she was…"

"Will you be needing a ride home?" Rhys asked, somehow certain Nesta had been the one to drive them there. 

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, I can have Greysen pick us-"

"Nonsense, it's still so early." Mor interjected, "You should come over. I've been dying to meet you but they've been so stiff with all this tradition stuff. We have wine, I can ask Cassian to cook and we can pick up something sweet from Rita's - it's Thursday so they'll have some fresh cake and fruit pie."

He played his part, as Mor played hers, "Mor…" 

But it was Feyre, not Elain - the victim of the web they had been spinning - that spoke. "Sure, it's not like we won't be seeing each other more often, and you're right, all this tradition stuff is so stiff." 

She turned slightly, her blue eyes meeting his, "If it's not a bother…" 

Rhys met her gaze with a blooming interest and an edge of self satisfaction, "Of course not… if that's okay with your sister."

Elain blinked in surprise, blush creeping onto her face, seeming torn for a moment until Feyre reached out to squeeze her hand, "I still think I should go home and at least change into something a little more comfortable first."

"No? That dress is stunning. But, if it's really bothering you, I'm sure you'd fit into something of mine and oh, my god, I have this cute little dress, I never wear it, but it would look perfect on you." Mor took Elain's other hand as Rhys relaxed in his chair, draping his arm over the back of Feyre’s.

[bittermuire]

Updated Masterlist

My Ao3 | Link to previous masterlist

•

Nessian:

The day after the next day - Nesta struggles to let Cassian into her life. Domestic fluff, modern au.

Nightmare - Shaken by nightmares, Nesta goes to Cassian. Angst, post-acowar.

The wrong confessions on a rainy beach - Nesta and Cassian talk after she decides to marry Eris. Angst, modern au but could be read in canon as well.

For you, there’s only love - Nesta reflects on her relationship with Cassian. Tiny little one-shot.

Be the first who ever did - Nesta gets sick and Cassian takes care of her, despite the tension of their loveless marriage. Angst, hurt/comfort.

Nezriel:

A nightlight and a bottle of wine - After she cuts ties with the Inner Circle, Nesta and Azriel strike up an odd friendship. Modern au, at this point the second part is urban legend but could still happen.

Moonlight - Nesta and Azriel talk about her recovery. Canon one-shot.

A rainy night in Velaris - Azriel walks Nesta home after a dinner with the Inner Circle. Fluffy and cute.

Rhysta:

A bitter heart - Nesta’s disastrous breakup with her boyfriend brings her and Rhys much closer, despite their less-than-favorable opinions of each other. Modern au.

Lukewarm coffee, a twinkle in his eye - Supermodel Nesta meets old money Rhys through a mutual friend. Lots of fluff and angst, modern au.

The red flower in my heart - After she cuts herself off from the Inner Circle, Nesta grows curiously close to Rhys. Canon one-shot.

Nesta-centric:

Turning the page, building a home - Nesta rebuilds her life with Gwyn and Emerie. Modern au, cute, domestic, from forever ago but I would like to come back to it eventually.

Evidence pt. 1 | Evidence pt. 2 - Nesta is married, and doesn’t bother to tell the Inner Circle the details. Set in canon and very self-indulgent.

A woman in the walls - Lucien goes to Velaris for the holidays, and is unsettled by Nesta’s absence. Gothic horror, Nescien if you squint.

Other:

Beautiful reflection | Mosaics - In the first part, Nesta leaves Cassian at the altar. Second part is Feyre-centric as she attempts to cope without her older sister, and comes to terms with her fate in Prythian.

Translation into Spanish by @nightsofvangogh !!! BR | Mosaics

Happy nesta | Nesta and mor | Gwynriel broadway au | Lucky

[beansidhebumbling]

After Mor’s exit and Azriel’s much more grateful departure, the jock remained, slouched with crossed arms. Cass was, despite appearances, not a simple man. Theirs was a friendship made of edges and glass- delicate and hard to hold.

Cassian called him ‘Prince’ sometimes. Had done, since they were kids. Always half-joking and always full in earnest, his friend’s resentment stayed written in the hard-wiring of his jaw even as a crooked grin shone through.

[arson-09]

I love your Rhysta AU thing that you posted oh MY GOD. RAAAAHHH.

Will you be writing a fanfic about it? Honestly, I would pay money for even a one-shot.

omg thank you :D I probably wont write a whole fanfic for it BUT i do plan to do some one-shots with some ideas i had this month (hopefully) between working on some other writing projects i have :3 Ill ofc post those here when i do! Thank you again for the support 🫶🏻

[stargirlfeyre]

“Just let people ship who they want” let people react to those ships the way they want. I along with many others are always going to make fun of you people I’m really not sorry about this idc.

[praetorqueenreyna]

Are we going to get the results of that survey soon?? No rush at all I'm just so curious!

omg HI and honestly thank you for checking in, it reminds me that people are actually stoked on the survey and want to see the results!

UNFORTUNATELY my life is very busy right now! I work a physically active (but VERY FUN) job for long hours. The last week of September I'm literally going to be at sea for 50 hours over 4 days 🤪 It doesn't leave me a lot of brainpower or time to sit on the computer. Also right now I'm devoting my computer time to finishing up content for Eris week and Rhysand week, so I haven't had time to work on the survey data.

ANYWAY! all that to say, my new estimated date for survey stuff is the end of October/ November. Feel free to keep checking in and asking questions!!

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain)

A/N: happy belated birthday @moodymelanist! This is a super late gift, but hopefully the absolutely filthy smut will make up for it. And hoo boy is it filthy! 😉 I know this is a crackship and not everyone's cup of tea, so this is your friendly reminder to simply don't read if you don't like. Also, the consent in this fic is a bit dubious so please read with care! Special shout out to @witch-and-her-witcher for reading this for me and assuring me it was the right side of insane

Read on AO3

Five hundred gold marks.

She'd spent five hundred gold marks on her little escapade the previous night.

He'd seen the way Feyre's eyes would go distant mid-paint stroke sometimes. The way she'd start to wring her fingers together and worry at her bottom lip as her thoughts trailed to her eldest sister. He'd seen the dark circles that clung to the skin beneath Cassian's eyes even well after they'd returned home to peace. He knew his brother was almost constantly perched on that rooftop, praying to the Mother and the Cauldron for anything other than another rejection from a female who clearly never thought twice about him. Rhys had to order him away to Illyria just so his brother might finally get some sleep.

But Feyre's expression this morning when the bill from the previous night arrived had been the final straw. Those soft blue eyes he loved so much had misted over, heat creeping up her neck in shame, as she started forlornly down at her breakfast. A single tear had slipped down across her cheek and into her eggs.

Rhys had been done then. Done with his family hurting. Done with the cause being this cruel, stubborn, selfish female. This is his Court, his city, and he won't allow for this to go on any longer. He intends to put Nesta Archeron in her place.

He can't remember the last time he's been to this part of Velaris. Many of the cobblestones beneath his shoes are cracked, some even fully broken or missing. Paint chips and peels off many of the buildings, but it doesn't stop any of the taverns lining the streets. Doesn't stop the patrons entering their doors or stumbling out of them.

The unfortunate building Nesta Archeron has chosen as a home is as unassuming as it is rundown. Dull gray stone and broken shutters line the outside, and as Rhys steps through the doors, it's rickety stairs that greets him. He follows them up to the third floor, his feet carrying him down the winding hall.

There's a distinct scent that seems to permeate the whole space around him. Stale alcohol. Food gone bad. Unbathed residents. Rhys can't help but grimace, can't help but turn his nose up to that scent, to all the grime that seems to bleed from the walls. He'll certainly need a long soak after this, and almost instinctively, his fingers move to his sleeve, picking and brushing at the fabric.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about the door at the end of the hall. Nothing of note either. Old nails in the wood may have held up rusted numbers or letters at some point, but not any longer. Raising his fist, Rhys knocks twice, hard and curt, against the wood. There’s rustling on the other side, the slide of locks, and then the door pulls open, Nesta Archeron standing before him.

She has on some male’s shirt, but judging by the scent behind her, or lack thereof, whoever was in the apartment is long gone now. She’s barely bothered to do up the few buttons at the bottom of the shirt. It leaves a deep v of skin exposed and on full display. The expanse of her collarbones, down through the valley of her breasts, all the way down to her navel. Dark circles cling to the pallor skin beneath her eyes, but they’re still a piercing, stormy blue, still narrowed in a glare in greeting.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Nesta sneers, her appearance doing nothing to damper the bite to her tone.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Rhys asks coolly instead of answering.

“No.”

Nesta tries to slam the door in his face, but Rhys is quicker. His hand shoots out, catching the wood and stopping its momentum with ease. It doesn't take much effort to force the door open again, to shoulder his way past Nesta and into her apartment. The lingering scents of males is especially potent inside, a mingled, stale mix of sweat and sex. Rhys doesn't bother swallowing down his blatant sniff nor his frown, reveling in the way Nesta's gaze hardens even more at the reaction.

“What are you doing here?” Nesta demands again, crossing her arms over her chest. The gesture only draws further emphasis to the swell of her breasts, threatening to send them spilling through the opening in the shirt she wears.

Rhys tears his gaze away from her, eying the bedroom and the rumbled sheets he can see through the open doorway instead. “Company left already? Perhaps consider washing your sheets. I’m sure the scent of revolving males is quite off putting and would send any sane male running.”

“Fuck you,” Nesta seethes, practically snarling as she spits the words at him.

“And what number male was that last night? Or have you already lost track?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Rhys chuckles darkly, stepping closer to her again and using the few inches he has on her to look down and offer a smile that’s all teeth. “It is when it’s in my city.”

For her credit, Nesta doesn’t allow the proximity or his height to cow her. She holds her ground, raising her chin defiantly. “I didn’t realize that was part of your job description, keeping tabs on all the fucking that happens. That must be exhausting.”

“If I were you, I’d keep that smart mouth of yours closed.”

“And if I were you, I’d get out of my apartment,” Nesta fires back, gesturing toward the door.

“Yours? Did you forget who pays the rent for this shit hole?” Rhys chuckles dryly, making his disgust clear as he pointedly looks around. When he finally meets Nesta’s gaze again, her hands are clenched into fists, that defiance burning as bright as the flames he knows skitter just beneath her skin. “Although, clearly you have no issue with whose money you’re spending considering what you spent last night.”

The barest hint of a smirk tugs up the corner of Nesta’s lips. “What can I say? All the bar patrons were all too happy to raise a toast to their High Lord when they heard drinks were on him.”

“Do you think this is a joke? You spent five hundred gold marks last night!”

“Only five hundred?”

The growl is escaping the back of Rhys’s throat before he can stop it. “Do you take joy in being a selfish bitch?”

“Does it get you off playing big, bad High Lord? I’m sure Feyre loves this little act.”

“Don’t speak about your sister, your High Lady, that way.”

Nesta rolls her eyes. “So much talk, and yet I’m not seeing any sort of action.”

Rhys surges forward, his hand coming up between them to grasp at her jaw, to hold her in place while he glares and seethes at her face. He can feel her pulse just beneath his fingers, the way it flutters and stutters, but it’s not fear burning in those blue eyes.

“You want to see action? Give me a reason. I dare you. You will speak of your sister with respect. You will speak to me with respect.”

“What are you? My father?”

Rhys realizes too late how close they’re standing. Realizes too late that her already kiss bitten lips are parted as she stares up at him beneath long lashes. Realizes too late that her full breasts are pressed firmly against his chest, peaked nipples noticeable even through the two layers of fabric between them. Realizes too late the way his cock twitches in interest at this turn of events, this turn in the conversation.

“Really? Does that get you off? Do you want me to call you Daddy?”

Despite her taunting words, the sweet scent of her arousal permeates the air, swirling around him and flooding his senses. The magic deep within his chest thrums to life, rising in interest to meet the well of power stolen from the Cauldron itself. He squeezes his hand a bit tighter, relishing in the way Nesta’s breath catches, the way her eyes flutter, casting piercing blue in shadow as her eyelashes kiss her cheeks.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Rhys warns lowly, even as he shifts his hand enough that he can drag the pad of his thumb across her lips.

“I’m quite confident the only person’s ability to finish currently in question is yours.”

“There’s that smart mouth again. How about we put it to better use.”

Rhys slides his hand down, the tips of his fingers grazing across the skin of her neck. He can feel the shiver that skitters up her spine at the touch, the goosebumps that pebble beneath. His fingers continue down to her collarbone, following the delicate line all the way to her shoulder. It doesn’t take much pressure for him to push her down to the floor, her legs spreading wide to hold her weight comfortably.

In this position, Rhys has a perfect view to leer down the front of Nesta’s shirt. He can see the large swell of her breasts and pink peaked nipples perfectly, can watch the way they heave with each panting breath that tumbles past her parted lips. And just beyond, he can see the dusting of dark curls begging for his touch, for his cock.

As if sensing where his thoughts have gone, Nesta’s eyes dance to the growing tent in the front of his pants. Already his cock is hard and straining against the laces and fabric, his blood heating with every passing second. The sight of Nesta licking her lips forces him to swallow down a groan. The stubborn, eldest Archeron. The Kingslayer. The female who sneered at every High Lord when they all gathered.

“Now, that’s much better. On your knees before your High Lord,” Rhys comments, slowly but surely untying the laces of his pants. He tugs his cock free, fisting it and spreading the precum pooled at the tip down the length of it. Nesta tracks the movement, and Rhys smirks at the reaction. “Is this what you want?”

Nesta looks at him through her eyelashes, nodding her head. The scent of her arousal becomes stronger, headier, the female clearly as turned on as he is. He can already imagine how she must be dripping down her thighs, but the shirt still hides that from view. Because he can, Rhys uses his free hand and tugs hard at the offending thing, wanting to hear the buttons clattering against the wood, the feel of fabric tearing beneath his grip, rather than magicing it away.

The sight presented before him is certainly worth it, and he half wonders if he should fuck her tits instead.

“Open,” Rhys demands coldly, letting a low rumble of his power to bleed into his tone. Almost on cue, Nesta’s lips part wider, her tongue pressing forward in waiting. “Well, would you look at that. You can behave after all.”

Before Nesta can respond or get another remark out, Rhys presses his cock forward into the wet heat of her mouth. He’s not gentle about it, feeding her half his length in one crude thrust until he hits the back of her throat. She chokes around him, but then she’s moaning, the vibration paired with her throat working and swallowing around him finally pulling a groan free from his chest.

Her tongue laves at the underside of his cock, the tip flicking and catching on the ridge of the head as he pulls back only to push right back in. He digs a hand in her hair, threading the brassy strands around his fingers and tugging hard. It pulls another choked, spluttering moan from Nesta, and Rhys using his grip to begin fucking her mouth in earnest. With each hard snap of his hips, he tries to feed her even more of his cock, to bury himself deeper down her throat.

“You know, your mouth is much sweeter when it’s stuffed full of cock instead of mouthing off.”

Nesta blinks up at him with watery eyes as he continues to move. Tears track down her cheeks, mixing with the drool that spills past her lips and splashing across her chest. There’s a pretty, pink flush spread across the skin there, matching the color of her cheeks. Even with the wide stretch of her lips around him, she hollows those same cheeks.

“Fuck,” Rhys groans, pleasure buzzing through his veins and threatening to send him teetering over the edge quicker than he’d prefer.

He pulls out of her mouth with a wet pop, a line of drool still connecting them. He watches the way Nesta swallows, the way she licks her lips now swollen and red from sucking his cock. Her eyes are glassy as she peers up at him, but that fire still burns behind the blue of them.

“Close already?” Nesta asks, the taunt still clear despite the rasp of her voice. “That’s disappointing.”

With a growl, Rhys uses the grip he still has on her hair to yank her to her feet, the rest of her shirt falling away with the movement. He doesn’t bother with the bedroom, with the rumpled sheets and the ghosts of males embedded within the fabric. Instead, he spins Nesta around and pushes her against the ragged, fraying sofa that takes up space in her sorry excuse for a living room.

“So much hatred,” Rhys comments, using his feet to kick her legs further apart. He presses himself along her spine, curling an arm around her. He slides his hand down her chest, down her stomach, all the way down until he finds the lips of her cunt already slick and fluttering from the barest of touches. “And yet you’re already drenched for me.”

He keeps his touch light, drawing the tips of his fingers back and forth. When he reaches her clit, he draws the barest hint of a circle against it before pulling away again. A high pitched sound somewhere between a whine and a whimper tumbles past Nesta's lips, and she tries to shift her hips down, chasing the pressure, but he keeps her firmly pinned in place.

“Beg for it,” Rhys tells her, teasing at her entrance in a promise of the pressure to come and gathering the wetness there between his fingers.

Nesta moans softly, her hips stuttering again, but she turns her head over her shoulder enough to still glare at him. “You know you want to fuck me, so just do it already.”

“And yet you’re the one with your legs spread and desperate for me,” Rhys reminds her, skimming over her clit again, her cunt fluttering beneath his ministrations as if in agreement of his words. “Beg for it. And maybe I’ll be a generous High Lord and give it to you.”

Nesta huffs, turning her head back around and dropping it down between her shoulders. She doesn’t say anything, but Rhys is confident that her stubborn will won’t win out this time. He continues his teasing and taunting touches, daring to slip and press just the pad of his finger past her entrance.

“I’m waiting…”

“Please,” Nesta finally whispers. “Please. I need it.”

“That’s more like it.”

Rhys wastes no time sinking two fingers into her cunt, hard and deep. Nesta lets out a loud moan at the sudden intrusion, slumping forward even more against the sofa. Her cunt is warm and wet, practically inviting him in with the way it seems to pull his fingers even deeper, the way her walls flutter and clench around them. He drives his fingers in a rough, fast pace, scissoring and curling them. Every wanton sound he draws out of the female before him goes straight to his cock, his length somehow hardening even more.

“All these males in and out of here, and have you ever even been properly fucked? You’re so tight.”

“Fuck,” Nesta gasps out between moans. “You.”

“Oh, I intend to. I’ll show you what it’s like to take a real male’s cock.”

Rhys curls his fingers, finding that spot within her that has Nesta keening, has her back arching with the pleasure. Already, her skin has started to glisten, beads of moisture beginning to pool along her spine. Pressed this close together, her sweet scent engulfs him, making him dizzy. It drives him to work his fingers harder. To squeeze in a third finger. To press his thumb hard to her clit.

Every slide of his fingers is wet and hard. Each forceful thrust in sends Nesta’s hips jostling against the back of the sofa, and each time he drives his fingers back out, more of her arousal is drawn out too. It makes a mess of his hand, slicking between his fingers. Leaves the wet sounds of sex echoing through the apartment, a perfect harmony to the melody of Nesta’s moans.

He can tell she’s close from the way she starts to squeeze tighter around his fingers, her walls fluttering and pulsing in a steady pace. From the way her keens grow into a higher, breathier pitch. Her fists clench hard into the fabric of the sofa, and Rhys uses that exact moment to withdraw his hand completely.

“Please,” Nesta whispers again, letting out what sounds almost like a sob. It’s broken and needy, and Rhys’s cock twitches again in interest. “Please…”

“You forget that this is a punishment.” Rhys lifts his hand toward her face, dragging his fingers and her own arousal across her lips. “Clean them.”

Nesta dutifully sucks his fingers into her mouth, sliding her tongue around each digit. She moans around them, around the taste of herself, and Rhys presses his fingers even deeper, until she’s gagging against his touch. He slips his fingers free, but he doesn’t pull them far. Instead he grips her jaw, still sticky, wet fingertips digging into her skin. He yanks her face to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are unfocused, the blue of them swallowed by her pupils in their blown out, lust addled state.

“But this is what you want, isn’t it?” Rhys asks in a mocking tone. “You like to be punished, to be put in your place.”

He releases his hold on her with enough force that Nesta’s head merely sags back between her shoulders. Rhys knows that he could leave her just like this, desperate and keyed up and wanting. Knows that it would be punishment enough. He knows that he should leave her just like this, a voice tickling along the back of his mind to remind him of such.

But his own desire and need is a throbbing and wanting thing writhing inside his chest. Her cunt is the prettiest shade of pink, still fluttering and pulsing from his previous ministrations, practically begging for him to take take take. His power rumbles beneath his skin and echoes the chant, and Rhys slides a tantalizing hand down her spine, Nesta arching even more beneath his touch.

“Take it,” Nesta breathes softly as though reading his own thoughts. “Take me.”

Rhys focuses his attention back on his pants, tugging them further down his hips. He fists his cocks again, the pump of his hand already providing some relief for the ache burning low in his gut. He slides the head of his cock along her, gathering the wetness there and spreading it down the length of him. Nesta shudders and moans each time his cockhead catches on her clit, trying to rock further against him, and while the temptation to make her beg again is there, Rhys isn’t sure he’ll be able to wait much longer. For once, he wants to be selfish, and who better to be selfish with than the most selfish female he’s ever met.

He shifts his free hand to grip her hip, to hold her in place exactly how he wants her, and then he buries his cock inside her in one hard, clean thrust. The warmth and squeeze of her around him is indescribable, a groan escaping his clenched jaw. He can’t stop staring at where they’re joined. Can’t stop staring at the way her cunt opens for him, the way it swallows him.

“Rhysand,” Nesta’s voice brings him back to the present. “Move.”

“You’re the one who’s so desperate for cock. So you can fuck yourself on mine.”

Nesta whimpers at his harsh words, but there’s no denying the way she clenches down harder around him, the way her walls flutter still adjusting to his size. She spreads her legs wider, resetting her stance, and then she starts to move her hips. With the limited space between the sofa and Rhys’s body, she can do nothing but create shallow thrusts, but even still her sweet cunt somehow pulls Rhys even deeper, the drag of her walls enough that he has to tighten his grip against her hip.

He allows her control for just a few more thrusts before taking it back with a hard snap of his hips. He sets a punishing pace, his hand sliding up her back and shoving her down hard until she’s bent in half over the sofa. His hand traces along her shoulder, down her arm to her wrist. It takes some maneuvering around the way their bodies jostle with each rough thrust, but he’s able to move her hand down to her own cunt, move it so he’s fucking through her splayed fingers.

“Do you feel that?” Rhys growls out, his voice barely audible over the moans and cries of the female beneath him. “Do you feel how drenched you are for me? Feel how well you take your High Lord’s cock?”

He leaves her hand there and shifts his own to her breasts. They overflow in his palms, heavy and bouncing as he continues to fuck her hard. He pinches and tugs at her nipples, relishing in the way her cunt seems to respond each time he does. It doesn’t take long before Nesta begins to tighten even more around him on each inward thrust, before she’s practically trembling against him, clearly teetering right on that edge.

“Do you want to come?” Rhys teases one hand down just past her navel but no further. “Scream my name. Let all of Velaris know how good their High Lord is. And maybe I’ll be generous and fill you up.”

Nesta is all too happy to oblige, shouting his name until she’s practically hoarse between her choked off moans and high pitched whines. Rhys finally slips his hand lower and spreads her wider still. Her clit is slippery and swollen, and it only takes a few swipes of the pad of his fingers before Nesta is wailing brokenly, her whole body tensing as she finds her release.

Feeling her coming on his cock, the way she clamps around him, steals the breath straight from Rhys’s lungs. Despite the tightness of her still fluttering and pulsing cunt, Rhys doubles his efforts, fucking in harder and deeper and chasing his own release. His balls slap against her skin, filling the apartment and mixing with the sounds of his own grunts and Nesta’s whimpers.

“It’s… it’s too much…”

“You can take it,” Rhys tells her harshly, not stopping his movements. “I know you can take it. Don’t you want me to fill you up? Fill you up nice and deep until you’ll be dripping for days. Until every male in this city will know whose bitch you really are. Until you’ll always remember this cock.”

Nesta lets out another sob as another orgasm tears through her unbidden, clenching so hard that Rhys sees stars. He groans and buries himself as deep as he can go, his cock twitching as he spills inside her. He offers a few more shallow thrusts, riding out the last tendrils of his own release and taking a final moment to relish in the tight heat of Nesta’s still fluttering cunt.

She whimpers when he pulls his softening cock out, slumping against the sofa in a boneless heap. Rhys can’t help but fist his cock again, dragging the head through the absolute mess he’s made of her cunt. He gathers his seed that starts to dribble out of her, shallowing forcing it right back where it belongs, chuckling darkly at the way her knees give out at the action, the way she shudders.

“Perhaps now, you’ll remember your place in this Court,” Rhys whispers in her ear, both a threat and a promise.

He straightens back to his full height, carefully tucking himself back into his pants and tugging the cuffs of his sleeves back into place. He offers Nesta Archeron one last look, the female still naked and unmoving save for her still gasping breaths against the sofa, before turning and striding toward the door.

“I expect to see you at the next family dinner.”

[tadpolesonalgae]

Fic/Author recs

A smallish list of fics/series/writers I’ve enjoyed spending my free time on that I hope you will too! 🧡💛

Anything with a * just means please check the warnings carefully!

Masterlist - @azrielhours Kink/angst-tober 2023 - @throneofsapphics

@azrielhours Waiting On A Ghost - Azriel x reader Lessons on Relief - Azriel x reader Captured - Azriel x reader

@c-e-d-dreamer My Heart Of Stone - Nessian

@velarisbynight Wrapped In Spider Silk - Azris Stone Statues and Viperous Hair - Ianthe x Elain

@witch-and-her-witcher lunch. - Morlain

@sarawritestories Come Here, Sweetheart - Cassian x reader

@azrielhours Company Of Phantoms | Our Marriage Bed - Azriel x reader

@whisperingmidnights Heart Of Velaris - Rhysand x reader Sunday Morning - Feysand x reader Sunlight & Shadow - Helion x reader x Azriel

@c-e-d-dreamer Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain) - Rhysta When We Howl, The Moon Will Cower - Nessian

@throneofsapphics Have Your Little Girlfriend - dark rowaelin x reader

@secret-third-thing And The Hounds Bayed* - Eris x hounds

@nocasdatsgay A Nest of Her Own - Neris

@daycourtofficial Azriel's Cat Cafe - Azriel x reader

Books A Little Life - Hanya Yanagihara* In Praise Of Shadows - Junishirō Tanizaki Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy Half Bad - Sally Green All The Light We Cannot See - Anthony Doerr Caraval - Stephanie Garber

Moth Masterlist dividers by @cafekitsune Autumn Court dividers by @tsunami-of-tears