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The Prompt list for Neris Week 2026 may have accidentally escaped containment. Unfortunately, all records have been reduced to emojis. Can you crack the code?

A final piece that was planned for Nesta Week -- This was originally planned for Free Day.

Sorry not sorry about the angst.

---

"I've turned it over in my mind again and again," Nesta said, and looking at her now he saw the glassiness of her eyes. The faraway look that indicated some sort of shock. "It must have been about equality, right? I'm your mate, I'm expected to be equal to you."

Cassian's mouth fell open, and he looked helplessly at Azriel who, despite all his efforts at constant stoicism, appeared nothing short of stricken.

"I know it must be a disappointment that I did not make Carynthian."

"Nesta," His brother began, his voice strained. "Do you think we put you in that Rite?"

His mate finally lifted her gaze, settling her unfocused eyes on the shadowsinger without any real heat in them.

"Didn't you?"

---

For the pairing, let's go Nesta/Clare.

Yes, love this! Fair warning, it turns sad by the end... I hope you enjoy! Written for @sjmsapphic Day Two: maiden, mother, crone | touch | red string of fate

—————

The willow keeps their secrets.

That’s what Clare always says, ducking beneath the trailing curtain of green leaves, pulling Nesta after her by the hand. No one will find us here. She's right. The branches are thick, falling down and brushing the grass, sealing them into a green-hued, quiet world that belongs only to them. The river babbles somewhere beyond the green curtain, signaling life continuing without them. Nesta has stopped caring about the outside world. This, right here, is all she needs.

They’ve been coming here for two summers now, ever since Clare first pulled her through the branches and they sat in the green, sun-dappled grass, talking for so long they lost track of the afternoon. Since then they’ve claimed this space. They keep a blanket folded in the crook of the roots, together with a small stack of books and little notes they write each other.

They come here as often as they can. After lessons during which Nesta’s mother has been extra cruel. After market days. After Nesta’s father says something that sits wrong and she needs to get it off her chest. Clare always comes.

Today, they’re lying in the grass, their shoulders touching, watching the light move through the branches. It’s peaceful. There’s nowhere else they need to be.

Clare turns onto her side. She watches Nesta for a second, and she can feel the gaze like a brand. Nesta turns towards Clare at the same time she touches Nesta’s face, her fingertips tracing the sweep of her cheekbone, unhurried, like she’s confirming something by touch that she already knows by sight. Nesta freezes, holding her breath. Clare tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting her fingers trail down the curve of it. Nesta feels that small touch everywhere.

“Clare—”

“Shh.” Her thumb moves to Nesta’s jaw, tilting her face up slightly toward the light as if to study her. Then her fingers drift down to the soft skin of her throat and rest there, feeling her pulse. Nesta wonders if Clare can tell it’s speeding up in anticipation.

She probably can.

Her hand moves lower, to the center of her sternum, and she presses her palm there, warm skin against flushed skin, like she’s steadying her.

She can definitely tell.

Nesta exhales slowly, trying to steady her racing heart. Clare’s fingers come back up, tracing her bottom lip in a feather-light touch. Nesta parts her lips, a soft sound escaping them.

Something pulls in Nesta's chest, something enormous and frightening and entirely inevitable. She closes the distance herself, surging up into Clare’s arms.

Clare makes a soft sound when their mouths meet, her hand sliding into Nesta’s hair. She kisses her back deeply, slowly, with a tenderness so sincere that Nesta doesn't know what to do with it. She has never been kissed like this. Like she’s something deserving of love. It’s nothing like she thought it would be. She used to think she’d know what to do, but she doesn’t. She only knows she doesn’t want this feeling to stop, ever.

When they finally pull apart, gasping for air, Clare is smiling, her eyes still closed.

"Finally," she whispers.

*****

Nesta wakes to the grey morning light, greeted by her own, cracked ceiling, lying in her own cold bed.

The dream dissolves quickly, like water slipping through her fingers. Clare's face goes blurry, then her voice goes distant. The phantom warmth leaves her last. Nesta lies still and tries to hold on as long as she can, sighing deeply, feeling tears trickling down her cheeks when the feeling inevitably leaves her.

Clare Beddor has been dead for two years.

The willow is probably still there, its branches long and thick with green leaves, their blanket tucked between the roots, their notes probably falling apart from the effects of time and the weather. It’ll still be there, their private little world, keeping secrets for all eternity.

—————

YES! Love that. I hope you enjoy Gwyn trying to lure Emerie into touching and kissing her, hehehe. Written for @sjmsapphic Day Two: maiden, mother, crone | touch | red string of fate

—————

Everything downstairs is locked up. The shop is empty, the sign flipped. In the apartment above, Emerie is reading. Gwyn has been watching her for a little under an hour. Her own book lies open across her stomach, the spine cracked and the pages soft from use. She read the same sentence four times before giving up on it, studying something far more interesting then the lines about a duke, some misunderstanding and an inheritance that complicates the whole thing.

“Em.”

“Mm.”

“I’m bored.”

“Read your book, Gwyn.”

“I’ve been reading my book.” A beat. “It’s dry as sand.”

Emerie turns a page. “Then pick another one. I have loads.”

Gwyn huffs. She picks up the book again, reads the first sentence and closes it with a hard snap. She shifts to the end of the couch, nudging Emerie’s ankle with her foot. Emerie tucks her legs up without looking. A gentle dismissal.

“Emerie.”

“Gwyn.”

“I’m very bored.”

“That’s unfortunate for you, love.” Emerie flips another page, and Gwyn can feel the annoyance rising within her. The soft light catches the gold piercings in Emerie’s ear, and Gwyn has a deep urge to trace them with her tongue. Tug a little, maybe. Gwyn watches Emerie’s fingertips press into the soft paper and feels something petty and wanting bloom behind her sternum. She wants those fingers pressing into her softness.

Fine.

Slowly, she loosens the leash on her magic. It rises to the surface like a gentle tide, a low hum starting in her throat and slowly filling the air. The sound moves through the room, filling it with a soft warmth, everything going fuzzy. The warmth is directionless at first, until it finds Emerie.

Emerie’s eyes slowly lift from the page, as if pulled towards her. Gwyn smirks. Her voice comes out in a soft, enticing lilt, syllables curling at their ends like smoke. Come here, my love. Come here and touch. Come get a taste.

A soft, white light engulfs her completely, turning her edges luminous, her hair the brightest copper. She knows her eyes must look like endless oceans Emerie wants to drown in.

She watches Emerie's hand go still on the page, before she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head.

“Gwyneth Berdara.”

“Yes?”

“What,” Emerie says, setting the book down and rising, the movements fluid, coiled like a dangerous predator. “Are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Gwyn says lightly, innocently.

“That was far from nothing.” She makes her way over and Gwyn has just enough time to look triumphant before Emerie’s hand closes around her jaw, tilting her face up. “That was very much something. It looked an awful lot like a little brat using her very unfair abilities to interrupt a very good chapter.”

“The chapter will still be there later.”

“So will you.” Emerie’s thumb drags along Gwyn’s cheekbone, and her voice has dropped, the scolding softened. “Won’t you, Gwyn?”

“Emerie—”

“You know, you could’ve just asked,” Emerie says, fond and exasperated. “My little nymph.”

Her voice is low, almost gentle. Almost. “One word, and I would’ve put the book down. You don’t have to lure me.”

Gwyn’s hands find her waist. “Then I’m asking now.”

“Are you?”

Emerie tips Gwyn’s face even further, but when Gwyn surges forward, chasing her mouth, Emerie pulls back an inch. Enough to feel the frustrated exhale against her lips without giving Gwyn anything to catch.

“Emerie—”

“Ask me, Gwyneth,” she murmurs. “Properly this time.”

—————

Mistruth

Mor x Nesta | E | 5.7k

Mor has always gotten under Nesta's skin, and Nesta has the same effect on Mor. That's all there is to it; there's nothing else going on. Or: five times Nesta lied to herself + the one time she didn't

written for @sjmsapphic day 1. there is mutual pining if you squint. but also mutual loathing. it's toxic yuri time >:)

thank you to @olenvasynyt for beta reading she saved my life!!

snippet below; read it on ao3 here

Nesta scans the room for her next conquest. A few familiar faces make to catch her eye, but she turns away quickly. She prefers to avoid repeats. But Velaris, no matter its size, is an isolated city; there are never travelers passing through to entice for a single forgettable night. The pool of prospects has begun to ebb.

When she catches glimpse of a head of sun-gold hair, she finishes her drink. The color is one of a kind, just as the faint scent of citrus and cinnamon that wafts amongst the must and sweat and old, stale beer soaked into the floorboards.

Recklessly, she pushes her way through the crowd.

"Morrigan," Nesta says with mock sweetness, flashing her teeth as she approaches. It's too pretty a name for someone so unpleasant. "I didn't think this was your sort of tavern."

"It isn't." Morrigan's nose wrinkles, the long curve of it pinching with disdain.

"Following me around now, are you?" Nesta asks, not caring that the words slur together as they tumble out of her mouth.

Morrigan says nothing, only looks at Nesta down her nose. She's always looking at Nesta like that—like an annoyance she'd rather not put up with. Like something inferior.

She's dressed, as usual, in bright red. Something tight and low-cut that hugs every curve of her body, leaving little to the imagination. Scandalous in a way that's hard to look away from.

"If you were trying to go unnoticed, this"—she gestures to Morrigan's dress—"was an odd choice."

"Maybe I wanted you to notice me," she says, her voice sensuous as silk, a long nail tracing the rim of her drink.

:)))

linger | Mor x Nesta for scent for @sjmsapphic

There's no escaping Nesta Archeron it seems.

Nowhere is safe. Every place where Mor once found refuge is now permeated with the searing scent of heated metal, of cold smoke and brumal flame. It seeps beneath Mor's skin and lingers there, taunting her in the late hours of the night when Mor pleasures herself and pretends she's imagining anyone else.

In the River House, Mor drinks glass after glass of wine. As usual, inexplicably, no amount is enough to numb her senses. Her nails tap-tap-tap along the stem of her glass, chiming dully.

At the other end of the house, the front door opens. Then slams with a thud. Mor's heartbeat quickens.

She's here.

The scent overwhelms her. Like a forge, like winter wind. Something steel and sharp enough to cut.

She can't stand it.

When Nesta enters the room, Mor finishes her wine.

Mornesta: secret (ofc) 🤫 OR

Gwynesta: new ✨ OR

Gwymerie: joy ☀️

OH so many good ones!! Thank you @heyluuu!!

I went with Mornesta - Secret, but the choice was definitely not easy. Written for @sjmsapphic Day One: arrangement | scent | mutual pining

—————

Velaris’ cast-offs all come to drink at the Howling Wolf.

Nesta fits right in. She’s been here four hours, maybe five. It’s been long enough that the card dealer has stopped trying to cheat her, and long enough that the wine has gone from burning to warm to simply present, a low hum in her blood. She leaves with more coin than she arrived with, the night air hitting her like a hand to the face.

She’s three streets from her apartment when she notices footsteps. A regular click-clack that sounds too close, synced just slightly too well to her own. They stop when she slows, pausing when she pauses to look up at the sky, something she tests several times, counting to five and then to seven.

The footsteps stop, then continue their slow chase.

Interesting.

Nesta walks the rest of the way with her chin up and her hands loose at her sides, a rage uncoiling in her stomach. Because she knows who this is.

*****

Nesta fumbles with the lock on purpose. She rattles the key, mutters, drops it, and crouches to retrieve it with the slightly exaggerated clumsiness of a woman who has had too much to drink and can’t manage her own door. She feels the presence coming closer, waiting for her to rise.

She waits until they’re close enough and spins.

Mor hits the wall, a low oof whooshing out of her as Nesta's forearm comes down across her throat. Nesta bares her teeth, her face inches from Mor’s. Mor’s golden hair flows down in thick waves, her dark brown eyes wide and bright.

“Well,” Mor says. She doesn’t reach up to remove Nesta’s arm. “Hello.”

“How long,” Nesta grits out.

“Long enough.”

“How long have you been watching me.”

Mor lifts her chin. “Since the Wolf. I watched you take the dealer for forty marks without so much as a blink.” Mor pauses to take a breath, slightly strained by Nesta putting pressure on her throat. “It was—you’re very—” She stops.

“Spit it out.”

“Riveting,”Mor says, like she hates herself for it. Like it costs her something

Nesta stares at her, not moving. “Feyre sent you.”

“Feyre doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Rhysand, then.”

“Nobody sent me, Nesta.” Something shifts in Mor’s face. “That’s rather the problem. I’m here out of my own volition. More or less.”

The wind moves between the buildings, howling. Mor’s pulse beats against Nesta’s forearm, speeding up to a hammering pace. Nesta’s nostrils flare when she notices Mor’s scent deepening.

“If anyone found out—” Nesta starts.

“They won’t.” Mor’s eyes drop briefly to her mouth before they come back up, staring into stormy blue. “It can be our little secret,” she whispers, a smirk pulling at her lips.

“I hate you,” Nesta tells her.

“I know,” Mor says. “Are you going to move your arm?”

Nesta shifts, sliding her arm up, her hand finding the wall beside Mor’s head, and closes the remaining distance between them. She captures Mor’s mouth roughly, her lips slanting over the female’s soft, plush flesh. She presses more firmly against Mor, who makes a startled sound that dissolves immediately into a low whine. Nesta can taste the expensive liquor on her tongue, mingling with her wine. She bites Mor’s lower lip roughly, and Mor grips Nesta’s skirt, her hands going white-knuckled. It feels right and wrong at the same time. Most of all, it feels like relief, like something that has been building since the first time they looked at each other across a room finally being set free.

Mor’s hands snake around Nesta’s body, grabbing her ass and pulling her flush against her. When they finally separate, they’re both breathing hard, their chests heaving.

Mor looks at her, flushed and slightly startled. Her lipstick is destroyed, her hair mussed.

Nesta bends to pick up her key from the ground and unlocks the door. She doesn’t say anything, but goes inside and leaves it open behind her.

After a stunned second, Mor follows.

—————

Nesta and Amren

For @sjmsapphic 🤗

Taglist:

As everyone may or may not know, @theladyofbloodshed sadly took a step back this year after having run Neris Week for several years. We've got some huge shoes to fill, but this year's team has already been hard at work to transition this event week into something really special across not just Tumblr, but also Instagram and Reddit!

Without further ado, and in alphabetical order, please welcome this year's mod team! behind the cut!