@feydarling If You Die For Me Im Gonna Be Really Fucking Mad Keep Your Eyes Open.

@feydarling — “ if you die for me i’m gonna be really fucking mad keep your eyes open. ”

"many people strive to die as they lived." nesta's lips spread into a horrific smile, revealing the blood that has bubbled up in her throat and settled between her teeth. she's only vaguely aware of the wet sensation as it dribbles from the corner of her mouth. "...there are worse things to die for."

but she takes a SHUDDERING BREATH - a promise that she has no intention of dying - and fights the heaviness of her eyelids to survey the sky above. it's difficult for her to tell if the illyrians are moving impossibly fast amongst the clouds, or if her vision is simply blurring. "dying for merrill, now that would really piss me off."

“do you ever think about the person you would have become if our mother hadn’t died – if we hadn’t lost our fortune?” it may seem as though nesta is (once again) ignoring the youngest archeron’s words; her pain. she isn’t. despite being all too aware of the hard truths, having them affirmed for her scratches an itch. in the past few months she has been doing much better, but she has also come to the conclusion that she doesn’t want to forget the person she once was. she fears she could just as easily slip back into that role; whether tomorrow or two hundred years down the line. “i've thought about it a lot over the years. you always had more freedom than we did. i would have married a powerful man and become his puppeteer. elain would have married a handsome man, and given him countless, beautiful heirs... but you could have been anything, feyre. you could have honed your craft with renowned artists, travelled the globe with our father, eaten as many delicious foods as you desired. in the end you would have found yourself here, i know that now, but until then you would have been just as special. would have taken interesting lovers, too.” more interesting than the hale boy who had always been so beneath her. 

“it was never you i hated, feyre.” in the depths of her being nesta knows that part of the reason she had resented her youngest sister so is that she had kept her ALIVE when she had lost all interest in being. ultimately, she hadn’t wanted to starve to death - not really. she could have done just that and allowed her sister’s to have satisfying portions each night that they'd had food. but she had seen the reality of families who had wasted away into the winter, and had just enough self-preservation to keep herself from joining them. but it didn’t stop her from being weak in every other sense. knowing that her sister, who had looked so much like her, was far stronger than she could ever hope to be at such a young age had made her CRUEL BEYOND BELIEF. she knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself from succumbing to the fury when it etched it’s way into her being. she’d simply taken it out on the wrong person.

“i hated our mother for leaving us before we could find security… our father for giving up. i hated that you had to become that version of yourself. but most of all i hated myself for not being able to do what you could.” she’s thankful that she has been mirroring her sister’s body language all this time, lithe fingers wrap more tightly around the railing as she absorbs the peaceful view. she’s grateful to avoid her sisters' sparkling gaze; can’t bare to see what emotions may be evident on her features. feyre had rarely been able to hide her feelings when they were younger. time in prythian had improved her skills, but they still slipped through in moments when her guard was down. no doubt some form of disgust coloured her features now. 

"unless one of our enemies gets their way, we're going to live for a very long time. i can't let you spend another minute of it believing that i ever hated you..." an unexpected smile graces her lips, and she continues. "except for when you banished me to the house of wind, i did hate you then."

@moondevoured : "we had nothing except each other."

“ that’s not how i remember it. ” i stared ahead, clutching the railing, and struggling to bite back the resentment that ached to pour out of me. i was so tired of fighting. of holding onto any of the bitterness that had festered in my new, immortal heart. all i had ever wanted was my sisters — my family, to see me, to fight for me, as i had always been willing to do for them. that promise i had made to our mother still hung over me even now. to stay together and look after them. but i could still remember the sneers each time i trekked back home through the woods, my knuckles blistered from the cold and scarred by bowstrings, clothes splattered with blood, and hair a matted mess. a wild animal, nesta had declared, barely housebroken. even while that scared and lonely girl still cowered in the corners of my soul.

“ you and elain had each other. i had myself. ” and my paint brushes and glimpses of a starry night to keep me company and give me comfort. even before our mother had died and we had lost everything, my earliest memories still involved me having to fend for myself. left out of the dance lessons and dress shopping nesta and elain seemed to revel in. i had been too strange and restless for our mother to waste her time investing in. i was a bother. an inconvenience that taught herself how to become scarce. “ you never wanted me to tag along anyway. ”

@daeathes — you’re an asshole, you know that?

nesta very much does know; she's often the first to tell herself just that. there are even times when she prides herself on being difficult. but on this occassion she isn't entirely certain what she's done for the reminder to come from cassian's lips. in part because there's a few options to choose from. she takes a few moments longer than she needs to massage citrus scented lotion into her cuticles, and by the time she's finished nesta's fairly confident that it has something to do with the words she exchanged with rhysand earlier in the day - too many of their disagreements stem from ones she's already had with the high lord. but she makes no effort to reveal that particular argument, afterall, there's still a chance that she's done something else to spark annoyance.

"you always know how to say the sweetest things, cassian... go on, tell me more." she turns to him with a saccharine smile and leans against the dressing table. the picture of innocence - almost.

Gwyn decides to fight dirty by biting Azriel while sparring. Right on his forearm. Hard enough to bruise, hard enough to draw blood. Azriel -depraved as he is- spends the next two days running his fingertips over the mark even after it’s long gone. 

Azriel -depraved as he is- drags his lips over the mark, setting his teeth to it, later that night while he’s touching himself. 

Trying to chase the taste of her mouth. 

Give the quarter nymph little fangs, Sarah, I beg you. Azriel would LOVE it. 

the first time nesta scented a male’s arousal it had overwhelmed her senses; she had never known anything like it - the change in the air had been so strong that she thought she might just choke. she had never known anything like it since, but even so it was unmistakable. the change in azriel’s scent is almost subtle. it flows from him in waves of sweet musk and salt. despite herself she inhales, and a shiver dances down her spine; paints a pattern of goosebumps up her arms. 

she presses her thighs together, instinctually searching for friction, but she’s watching the way he observes her body attentively enough to know that he will notice the movement. knows he would have noticed even if her eyes weren’t locked on his features in fascination. her pulse is pounding in her ears so loudly that she’s certain she wouldn’t have been able to comprehend his words if she were still human, but she makes no attempt to steady her breath. azriel may not know what she’ll do next (neither does she) but he already knows how she feels, and she isn’t interested in hiding it. perhaps she should be.

“i do have limits,” she assures him, surprised to find her voice so calm, her gait so steady as she moves around the table. her fingertips trace the wood as she turns the corner in an effort to keep herself steady if she does lose her nerve. she’s far from prudish and hasn’t been for a long time. she’s certain he’s heard tales about it, but she wants him to know that what she’s doing is different to what she’s done in the past; even if she can’t put her finger on why that is. “but i have less of them when i feel SAFE.”

her words act as an admission to herself, and she realises that’s what keeps her stalking towards him. usually she’d be mortified to admit something like that, but like she said: she feels safe. her rational mind knows that she should stop, that she’s taken it too far already, but she can’t. 

finally, she pauses before him, and for a moment she considers mirroring his actions from earlier and turning his chair towards her. but she doesn’t. she’s fairly certain that it wouldn’t be as smooth as it was when he did it; as attractive. the strength she has now often surprises her, but she knows it isn’t enough to take that much control... that she’d only embarrass herself in the process. so she embraces gentleness. her fingertips find his jaw once again, and she leans in closer to press her lips to the corner of his mouth.

“you told me that you like to be surprised, and i think you deserve to enjoy a lot more of the things you like...” her eyes meet his and there’s a rare hint of honesty in them. without breaking her gaze she presses another kiss to the opposite corner of his mouth… another to his jaw… and finally to his throat, where she lingers. “so tell me what else you like.”

there she goes again, surprising him. the feeling, the emotion, rolling off of the new-fae is intriguing. it's as if she's screaming one thing but yet .. is not exactly giving in? the shadows around him whisper of her intentions, her wants. what her body says it desires. he keeps himself as neutral as she usually sees him. azriel is on a tight leash and keeps himself that way for good, real measure.

when she rises from her seat in a graceful, fluid movement... azriel does wonder what she's going to do next. what he can feel from her is boldness, determination.. it's all that is shining through. her eyes - those silver, dangerous things, - shine brighter than any moon. she is the sun. a mischievous sun. how burnt will he get? his answer comes as she uses quick fingers to slide her dress to the floor. the soft whoosh of the fabric causes such a reaction inside of himself. he does not react outwardly.

dark eyes flick to her beautiful, cold features now glowing with attraction. if she's learned anything about scent and phremones, she'd surely pick him up in a heartbeat. he's letting himself be caught. if this is a game - he's a master player.

azriel allows his eyes to take in the planes and curves of her body, his eyes lingering at her breasts - pointedly. a pink tongue comes to wet his full lips, then click off his teeth. his gaze finds hers once more after he's had a purposely long look. " i didn't know you were going to do that. " he says finally, his low voice smooth like velvet night. the darkness pulses around him and he sits back into his chair, contemplating her next sentence. " you're determined to surprise me - and you have, surprisingly, twice now. i'm beginning to wonder if you have no limits... or at least not the limits i perceived you having. " he tells her, scarred fingers lacing together over his lap, his elbows on the arm rests. " i cannot read your mind, unfortunately. my particular set of gifts do not extend that far. so why don't you show me? "

@serendpitous — do you believe in fate? (kate)

"no." she responds simply. too simply. in the time that it takes for the music to come to an end and for the orchestra to prepare for their next piece, nesta realises that kate is fishing for more information with her question.

"i believe that we create our own fates. if you desire a happy ending, work is required. but fate is certainly a comforting thought. all of my favourite novels have a sense of kismet." for a fleeting moment she wonders if perhaps some people are more destined to create their own happiness than others. the same, she realises, could be said for MISERY. "— what do you think, miss sharma?"