It has been done! Huge thank you to @princessrottenpeach for setting the discord up. We hope for it to be a safe, positive, and inclusive space for anyone who loves Nesta, no matter which ship she's in. Bullying, harassment, and any form of hate speech will not be tolerated. Neither will AI in any form.
Join here: https://discord.gg/TfgPfGRZGF
Also, I feel like it shouldn't HAVE to be said, but just for my own peace of mind, I feel the need to remind everyone that we do have a section of the discord made for other ships within the ACOTAR fandom. We welcome any positive discourse but again, won't be tolerating any form of ship wars. Ship and let ship, yall!!!!!
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Snippet below the cut
Light leaks in through the blinds. It’s pale and washed out, the kind of winter light that makes everything look flat. The apartment smells like old coffee and paper.
Cassian is awake. He’s not sure he ever fell asleep. He’s lying on Nesta’s narrow mattress with his hands folded on his chest, vaguely aware that he hasn’t blinked in a while. He’s been staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his vision blurring. Nesta is curled against his side, still in yesterday’s clothes, her braid undone and her face puffy from crying. Her hand is splayed on his stomach, moving her thumb absently back and forth over the fabric of his shirt.
Out in the living room, Azriel is already at the table with a mug of tea. His hair’s a mess and there are dark circles below his eyes. He’s been writing lists since before dawn; of names and phone numbers of people who might be able to help, of routes and safe house locations. Gwyn sits across from him with a sheaf of envelopes, her own mug gone cold. She keeps rubbing her thumb over the edge of a stack of paper, making it curl up.
When Nesta finally sits up, she doesn’t look at him. She slides off the mattress and disappears into the bathroom. When she returns, she heads straight for the kitchen without speaking.
“They’ll mail his induction notice within a matter of weeks,” Cassian hears Azriel say. “We have to have everything ready before.”
Gwyn’s voice is gentler. “The appointment with Martinez is at ten. We’ll get the statement typed up. We can get letters from the pastor, the people at the community center and several neighbors.”
Nesta stands in the kitchen doorway, fist on the frame. “It’s not a guarantee,” she says flatly.
“No,” Azriel agrees. “It’s not.”
Her eyes flick to Cassian on the bed, and he feels it like a brand. “Do you think he’s up for it? He hasn’t moved.”
“Let him have a minute,” Gwyn says softly.
Nesta shakes her head. “We don’t have a minute, Gwyn.”
Cassian hears her cross the room, and feels her warmth when she kneels by the bed, taking his hand. “Cass,” she says quietly. “We have to go soon.”
He doesn’t respond. He keeps staring at the ceiling instead.
“Cassian, can you please look at me?”
Finally he turns his head toward her. He feels disconnected. Hollow. “What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?” His heart aches at her quiet, careful tone.
“What’s the point, Nes? They’ll never listen to a simple farm boy like me.”
She flinches like he hit her. “The point is you not dying in a jungle for someone else’s war.”
“It’s already decided,” he says, and he feels it in his bones. There’s nothing left to do. “Number seventeen. That’s it. That’s me.”
“No,” Nesta says, fierce. “That’s just a number on a slip of paper. That’s not you.”
He doesn’t answer.
She squeezes his hand so hard her knuckles go white. “You promised me last night.”
He swallows. “I know.”
“Promise me again.”
“I won’t go,” he whispers, not looking at her. He feels like an asshole for lying to her. Because he is. It’s all a lie.
“Say you’ll fight this with me.”
He closes his eyes. For a long second he considers slipping back into that numb place. Eventually, he nods, barely.
Cassian week edition - The Other Side Of The Door Chapter 2 (AKA Mustassian)
—————
Cassian wakes up with his face buried in Nesta’s hair.
For one disorienting, impossible second, his entire body is relaxed and languid. His mind stays soft and half-submerged in dreams, caught in the hazy place between sleep and waking where consequences do not exist yet. The storm is still raging on outside, rain pattering against the roof and wind battering against the walls, but for Cassian the world has narrowed to the warmth of her breath against his chest and the clean, devastating scent of her.
She smells like honeysuckle and sleep-warm skin. Like the vanilla body wash she always claimed was nothing special, even though it used to cling to his sheets for days and ruin his life accordingly.
His nose is full of her.
His lungs are full of her.
His arms, he realizes with a slow, catastrophic dawning, are full of her too.
He opens his eyes to find Nesta draped over him like she has spent the night slowly conquering his side of the bed and then, finding no resistance, decided to annex him too. One of her legs is tangled between his, her knee pressed high against his thigh. Her arm is thrown across his ribs, her hand curled loosely in the fabric of his T-shirt. She’s tucked against his shoulder, her cheek resting on his pec. Her breasts are soft and warm against his side, rising and falling with each quiet breath.
Cassian stares at the ceiling, hoping for some sort of divine intervention. He doesn’t find any, but instead notices a suspicious water stain in the far corner, drops of water falling down onto the floor in a slow drip, drip, drip.
He tries to stay still and not breathe too deeply. He tries not to think about the fact that Nesta feels so goddamn soft and perfect against him, or about the heat of her body sinking into his, or about the way her soft mouth is parted against his shirt, her breaths like a warm caress he can feel through the fabric. He certainly doesn’t think about the last time she woke up in his bed, before things went to hell, with her hair tangled across his pillow and her eyes still sleep-heavy, pretending she hadn’t stayed the night on purpose.
Instead, he thinks about the way her breasts are pressed against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, barely even a sound. Nesta shifts and every muscle in his body locks. She makes a small noise against his chest, something between a sigh and a soft whine, and nestles closer.
I'm lightly spamming with this WIP in hopes it motivates me to write it in time to post next week, so here's another snippet of Love Island Nessian -- Nesta being talked into going on a reality dating show--
Nesta spotted the smirk before Emerie hid it away. “So judgmental, Nesta. I’ll have you know everyone in my office watches it.”
“Mine too,” piped in Gwyn. “Everyone at the Schwarzman. Well, not Otto. Or Merrill. But they’re both over seventy and proud of the fact that they don’t own a television. I think Otto probably thinks we’re all still watching ‘Cheers’. And of course I don’t– ”
“See?” Emerie cut Gwyn off from her tangent with a wave of pasta-laden fork. “Everybody watches it. People go on for this exact reason - a social media boost. Publicity. And when they find out that the gorgeous brunette with the killer rack writes romance novels? And she’s looking for love? Fucking catnip. We’ll have the country pouring over all those furtive glances and googling what an abigail is.”
Nesta snorted. “They’ll all be disappointed.” She paused, letting Emerie’s words sink in more than she intended. Perhaps it’d be useful. Watching people use love as a goal. An objective with a cash prize at the end. Talking themselves into feelings because they’re both attractive and both love grilled cheese sandwiches. For the tiniest second, Nesta considered it, but wisdom prevailed. She shook the notion back out of her head. “I - all romance writers really - we have enough trouble being taken seriously as it is. I don’t see how making an ass of myself doing Nickelodeon challenges in a bikini is going to help.”
Em shrugged. “It won’t, probably. But it will make you money. Enough money to buy yourself the right not to give a shit about being taken seriously.”
“I don’t want people buying my books because I’m a novelty and they like my tits.”
“Why not? You don’t need the money? Because I certainly wouldn’t mind a commercial success. And you’re allowed to be hot and fun AND intellectual, you know.”
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She was at Rita’s of all places, and hope flared within him at the thought that she might have chosen this bar, the very one he frequented more often than any other in Velaris, on tonight of all nights, because of him. The longer he’d stood and watched and drank, though, the more that hope withered into something ugly and unrecognizable.
It was why, when some handsome thing with blue-black skin and wings of gossamer that twinkled like stars in the night sky offered him a rolled joint of something that smelled both sweet and musky, he took a deep pull from it without asking what it was.
The male’s brows rose in surprise before a wicked grin stretched across his face in approval. Cassian was well known for keeping tight control over himself. Sure, he drank and danced with Mor and Az often enough that he was on a first-name basis with nearly everyone in the bar, but he always held himself to a three-drink maximum while out in public.
As Commander of Rhys’s armies, he had a reputation to maintain. It wouldn’t do to lose control in front of the citizens of the very city you were meant to protect with your life at any given moment. He’d held himself to that arbitrary rule for the last several millennium, only succumbing once when Rhys returned to them from Under the Mountain, and he felt as though he could breathe properly for the first time in fifty years.
Tonight, though, any ounce of self-control or sense of discretion had evaporated as the first hit of smoke hit his lungs. The substance had a sedating effect that crawled slowly across every inch of his body, lowering his shoulders and easing tense muscles to an almost worrying degree. He point blank couldn’t remember the last time he felt so unburdened and wondered if people became addicted to smoking it for that reason.
Had Nesta ever tried it? If they were on better terms, if she ever gave him the time of day again, he’d ask her. Maybe if she did, it would help draw down the slender shoulders that always seemed to be up to her ears when she or any of the other member’s of the Night Court’s inner circle were near.
after much deliberation I have completed a simple task that took less than 10 minutes, and I'm happy to report that this time it only cost me about 3 days of dread
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seeing people say "this trope has been done to death" as if that's ever stopped anyone from eating bread. BREAD HAS BEEN DONE TO DEATH FOR LITERALLY THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WE STILL WANT MORE BREAD. write your chosen one AU. write your coffee shop meet-cute. write your 47th iteration of "there was only one bed" because guess what??? we're still hungry.
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some of you weren’t around for the fan fiction dot net purge of 2002 (when they banned explicit content and mass-deleted thousands of fics) and the livejournal purge of 2007 (when they deleted hundreds of blogs, disproportionately targeting queer & kink content) and it shows
There was a quiet serenity about the hours that followed Nesta’s experience at the prison and Cassian’s subsequent episode of mate-induced possession. Quiet, yet thick with an intensity that thrummed between the two of them. It was a need to be close, to remind each other of what was tangible. Real. Alive.
It occurred to her that their perpetual exhaustion meant they spent more time in bed than was perhaps healthy. Or perhaps it was simply because her spirit had chosen to leave her body more often as of late, which required a soft place to land. Nevertheless, Nesta was not born to be lazy. And Cassian certainly wasn’t either. And yet she could not bring herself to move.
As quiet and still as her body was, though, her mind raced with the knowledge of all that had happened, and all she needed to share with not only her mate but everyone else who was committed to this strange quest.
With her head nestled against his collarbone, she pondered her words carefully, aware that she needed to tell the male beneath her what he would very much not like to hear.
“Cassian,” she said softly, fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt.
A large hand soothed up her back in response, a low hum telling her that he was still awake, though perhaps not fully. After his rather intense display after she’d returned, she sensed he was just beginning to feel sated.
At her feet, she felt the weight of the mattress shift as Juniper adjusted himself between their legs, also happy for a nap and likely already aware of what had occurred in the spirit realm, strange creature that he was.
Breathing in, she continued, “I need to tell you something.”
Cassian hummed again, squeezing her gently. Though, to his credit, he sounded a bit more awake than he had a second ago.
Nesta huffed a little but still felt anxiety tightening her chest.
“I’m afraid, you aren’t going to like it much.”
---
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