#chesta

The path feels so unfamiliar now. The last time she walked these woods, she had been nothing but a girl trying to understand the way her world has changed. From gated manors and curated grounds to a wild forest that cares little for her proud name or forced defiance. It would swallow her whole, if she let it. She never gave it a chance, never challenged it either, but Feyre did.

The last time she had been in these woods, Nesta had been dragged kicking and screaming across the Wall into vast unfamiliarity to a world that did devour her. It chewed up everything that she was and spat her out. The pieces that remained… She's still getting to know them. Slivers of other lives dance in the back of her mind; they’re meant to comfort her and prove to her that she (mostly) makes it through to the other side in a hundred thousand different ways. There’s no correct way to live a life. All of it is up to her—whatever makes her happy. So, is she happy?

Even in the dark of night, the forest is bright. Her eyes drink in the slightest slivers of the moon slipping through the canopy like arrows pointing her towards a thousand possible destinations. She catches the spark of life hidden beneath the moss or behind thick leaves high up in the branches, like each beat of the forest’s heart calls to her attention—a rabbit darts underfoot, a crowd of fireflies dance together and something flutters high above where she can’t even see, but she can hear. 

A crack followed by a muttered curse shatters her wonder, and Nesta has to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Couldn’t we have teleported? My back is sore and my boots are wet.”

The peaceful quiet was nice while it lasted.

“You still can,” Nesta clips, unbothered by the thought of being left alone in a place that once terrified her. She’s changed so much, and the forest isn’t scary at all. It’s beautiful. Maybe this is what Feyre saw long before any of them could. She was always a special kind of girl, like Elain but… in a different way. She’d never admit it to them, but out of the three famed Archeron sisters, Nesta always found herself to be the plain one. Who cares about looks; her sisters have so much more to offer within and she’s envious of them. Look how far Feyre’s strangeness has taken her, how the beat of her drum led her to everything she ever wanted.

“What kind of gentleman leaves a lady alone in a scary dark forest?”

“You are neither gentle nor a man, Koschei.” She sighs, treading ahead and watching her footing, unlike someone. “You were trapped in a lake, shouldn’t you be used to being wet?”

“Against my will and I’d like to never be wet again, actually. I much prefer it when others are.” His white teeth glint in the darkness as he smirks at her.

“Disgusting,” she hisses.

“That’s not what you said last—ow!”

She shoves him aside, letting him stumble over rotting logs and mud-covered stones. Koschei makes a show of it, as he does with all mortal things. He doesn’t have to fall, he doesn’t have to walk—he doesn’t have to do anything. Nesta can’t quite figure out why he insists on playing human-like. Is he attached to the idea of it? In the same way that his brother likes to take things apart to understand them, is he driven by his profound curiosity for all the things he isn’t? (Fragile, feeling, chained to this existence?) Or does he do it for Nesta? To make her feel comfortable?

“You know where we’re going. Why don’t you go ahead and wait there while I enjoy the journey?”

“And miss out on quality time with my favourite person in the world?”

“I insist.”

“I respectfully decline.”

She sighs, long, drawn out and tired, but not really. This has become their dynamic over the last couple of months; her annoyance is as much of a performance as Koschei’s ineptitude. The truth is—the truth is she’s forgotten what it would feel like not to have him chasing at her heels or worse, standing by her side, providing a strong sense of comfort and support. He doesn’t have to do any of that, and yet, Koschei’s presence in her life has become something so infallible, she clings to it desperately. He’s the anchor she’s needed ever since her mother died and she wasn’t ready to take her place as the female figurehead of the family. She wasn’t soft enough, kind enough, patient enough or anything she remembers her mother for.

And to think her mother had her at the age she is now.

“What’s on your beautiful mind?”

“How annoying you are.”

“You’re thinking of me?” Koschei gasps, pressing his palm over his heart dramatically. Leave it to him to find a way to find pleasure out of each jab sent his way as long as it comes from her.

It takes her a moment to gather her thoughts, and she welcomes the silence they naturally slip into. She’s grateful for this too, the ability to exist in the same space as someone else without having to be anything more. There’s no need to entertain, despite his teasing, or fill the air because she’s comfortable with him.

“I didn’t expect to feel this much, coming back here.” She confesses, words just shy of a whisper. “I wasn’t attached to our last home.” There wasn’t time to make memories in the new manor they bought with Tamlin’s funds, and it wouldn’t have been the same without Feyre. Though she could not recall her face at the time, her heart knew that there was something—someone—missing. “Everything feels different. Like I’ve outgrown the forest.”

At times like these, Koschei measures his words carefully. Sometimes, he just listens. It’s when she loves him the most, and she can say that with her whole heart because it’s a love that transcends the romance he’s so desperate for. His friendship is a balm for her soul. She has yet to rebuild the Valkyries in this new life, so she’s glad to have him. One day, she hopes to grow her circle like Feyre has done in her Court, but she isn’t there yet. Until then, Koschei is hers (and hers alone). Is it selfish to hold someone so close to her heart? He worked for it, burrowing beneath the walls she’s erected; how could she not cherish him for it?

“You’re not the same person you were when you left, and it’s got nothing to do with the Cauldron,” he says calmly, matching her steps as he walks beside her, an equal now. “Mortals are the opposite of gods. Where we are unchanging and stagnant, your kind grows with every new experience. The greater the event, the more you are pushed to adapt or crumble under the weight of it.”

His clinical answer, though spoken kindly, makes her smile. It’s not as cold as the way her nephew would deliver it, but she sees the traces of him in Koschei. “I’ve seen gods grow.”

“No, we’ve had whatever you’re seeing in us all along. We’re just stubborn in our ways.” He grins.

“Who’s to say mortals don’t have it in them all along, either?”

“Think of it like a seed. It needs to be nurtured to grow, and it needs to face adversity to find strength or adaptation. Gods are perfect. We just don’t want to be,” he beams even brighter, and it makes Nesta roll her eyes, but she is listening to everything he’s saying. “Your understanding of the world has grown, too. You’re seeing things through different eyes and you know what lives in the dark, now. Fear comes from the unknown, too.” But there is an aspect of fear that comes from the known, too. From being aware that something is so much greater than oneself.

“If I’ve grown so much, then why do I feel so sad…?”

“Because you never took the time to mourn the girl who needed help.”

Nesta comes to a slow, and then a stop. Koschei halts a couple of steps ahead, turning to look back at her with a cocked brow.

No, she never thought back at the life she lived. It wasn’t the time or the place. There were wars to fight, people to mourn and Courts to bring to order. Nesta jumped from one step to the next, spurred on by the achievements of her other lives and determined to make this one the best one. She carried her sisters’ worries, trying to find solutions to make amends to the ways she failed them as a human girl. She seeks out her Valkyries, knowing how they completed each other and wanting to soothe the ache that comes with knowing each of them are alone in their plights. She has to find them. The past doesn’t matter because he’s gone and done with, isn’t it?

Through all this, Nesta ignored the weight in the furthest corner of her heart where she relegated anxiety and hidden behind it, a tight black ball of sorrow. It was easy to forget, so long as she kept her mind busy. At night, she would seize up, overwhelmed with feeling and it was easy, so easy to send a sparrow Koschei’s way so he could talk her into exhaustion. She doesn’t want to owe him, so she’s invested in a music player.

She stares at the ground, balling her first because she hates the way Koschei’s words needle at her. They wedge themselves in the darkest place of her mind, poke holes in the protective barriers around her emotions. Her body feels like it’s flooding, and her lungs are drowning. Nesta gasps, and it comes out as a sob. Koschei’s expression softens.

Don’t look at me like that.

The words refuse to leave her tongue, her lips holding back the betrayal. She can’t speak, all that will slip from her is proof of her weakness. Even now, a general and a High Faerie, Nesta cannot free herself of this. She didn’t outgrow anything. All she did was run, and it’s catching up to her now. Nesta clutches her chest, willing the tears to stop flowing.

Koschei says nothing, closing the gap between them and wrapping his arms around her. He feels so much bigger now, like a protective blanket around her imperfect body, or as if dark wings surround her, cutting her off from the rest of the world. She curls her fingers into his fine, tailored coat, clinging desperately to her anchor. He stops her emotions from sweeping her away completely. He stays as she feels every single one, never asking her to stop or to quiet down.

She cries into his chest, the sound of her sobs muffled by him. It’s just them. There are no witnesses. She is safe. This is her moment, and they will never speak of it again unless she brings it up. She won’t, and he will respect that. Time continues to move around them, and Nesta only notices how long she’s been standing here, in his steady arms when her feet grow sore. She hasn’t felt that in a long time. The body of a High Faerie feels so much more and yet, less too. She missed this feeling, too. It grounds her just as much as her death god does.

“I’m alright.” She says, finally pulling away.

Koschei nods, letting her go and waiting for her to take the first step. He trails after her, as he always does, ready to catch her should she need more time to rest.

The two of them step out into the clearing where her old cabin rests, still standing after all this time somehow. Dilapidated and slowly giving way to the elements, it looks more like a pile of wood jutting out of the ground. Snow crunches underfoot as Nesta walks towards the broken fence and onto the path between them leading up to the door. She shoves her shoulder against it, trying to get it to open.

“This is where we’ll be staying?” Koschei asks, wrinkling his nose. He is the lord of luxuries, still maintaining his hoarding tendencies under Feyre’s roof.

“May I remind you that you lived on a lake with no shelter from the elements?”

“I put that life behind me. I’m a house-god, now. Give me the comforts of wealth. Do you need money for an inn? I have gold.”

“You can find an inn,” she says ritually, always ready to shoo him off now that she’s feeling better.

“My bed would still be cold without you.”

“You’ll live,” she smiles at him.

The door finally gives way, and there’s a perilous moment where it looks like the cabin will cave in on her. She can’t be sure what’s left of the loadbearing structure, but she waits and listens to the way her old home creaks. Half of it is the old wood, moaning and groaning at the intrusion, and the other half is the wind slipping through uncared for gaps. Once upon a time, she and Elain would have fought to plug the different holes in their walls, using their father’s imperfect carvings, the ones not good enough to sell. Wood is wood, and nothing could go to waste. Somehow, it feels colder inside than it does outside.

“My Lady,” Koschei sounds aghast. “At some point, you have to think about your safety.” He follows her inside, looking around in disgust. All that’s missing is for him to press a handkerchief to his nose and mouth, and he would be the perfect irritable and spoiled noble. He clasps his hands together, and then wiggles his fingers. Magic sparks around them. “If I may.”

“No!” Nesta grasps his hands, stopping him from whatever spell he plans to cast. “We’ll fix things up by hand.”

The death god stares at her, blinking as if she’s sprouted another head. “What? That’ll take ages. You have places to be, General Archeron of the Night Court.”

“What an interesting time for you to remember how to do your job, Advisor Deathless.”

“When have I ever forsaken my responsibilities? Wait, don’t answer that.”

“We can only fix what we need. The fire will keep us warm. My father used to sleep here because it was the warmest room anyway and our kitchen windows were the most reliable ones.” Nesta says, testing the windows she speaks of. She closes the doors to the other rooms, trying to contain the airflow and isolate the one room they’ll be using.

“A bedroom would be easier to insulate.” 

Nesta thinks about it for a moment, sensing no trick in Koschei’s words. For once, he isn’t coming onto her. Well, a little, but she ignores that as usual. “Yes, but it won’t be as warm and this fire’s better to cook with. Don’t be lazy,” she needles him. “It’ll be good for you.”

She has never had to do so much manual labor in a single day. When their father moved them in, the cabin was in a much better state, well-kept by the last hunter that had used this place. The Archeron sisters could attack each problem one at a time, but Nesta has to make this place habitable overnight. Her High Faerie physiology made travel easy, but she’s due for a rest before they start moving again. 

She removes her coat, knowing she’ll be warm in a minute from moving around. Nesta rolls up her sleeves, but keeps her gloves on. She gets to work, and feels Koschei moving around her, too. He’s got no sense of urgency or understanding of human structures, but he’s helpful as long as Nesta directs him. Since the bedroom is smaller, she tasks him with boarding up the broken windows and insulating them with whatever old cloths were left behind. She tackles the much larger living space, blocking out the rest of the world from their kitchen and their living room.

By the time the sun sets, the cabin feels like home again. Nesta gets both fires going, one in her old bedroom she shared with her sisters and one in the hearth. She wipes her brow, getting soot on it and smiles to herself. The weight she’d been carrying about this place feels much lighter, as if physical work made her strong enough to carry it for today. 

“Chei!” She calls out. “I’m going to take a bath!”

“In this weather?!” He screeches from the other room. Maybe he was being honest because the offer to keep her company does not come.

Nesta smiles to herself, finding the well where they used to collect water. Memories of hauling water back and forth with her sisters come to mind. Back then, Nesta had been stressed and high-strung, snapping at her sisters to do the job properly. Most days were hard, but she remembers a particularly hot day where all three of them desperately wanted to cool off. They were supposed to bring water back home, but Feyre wanted to annoy her and Elain, splashing them and it turned into the silliest water fight. Their home and the well is far enough outside the village that they had some privacy, so this memory is theirs alone, uninterrupted by witnesses and gossipers. Just them. Nesta and her sisters.

The bath is nice. She’s too impatient to wait for the water to heat up completely, settling for cold water the same way she did way back when. Nesta is quick to wash up, and settles in her old room. She dries her hair in front of the fire in her old room, drying it with one of the towels from Koschei’s bottomless satchel. He’s nowhere to be found, busy with whatever things that occupy a sorcerer-god. She’s learned not to ask—all of them have learned not to poke their noses in the lives of the death gods in their lives.

“Oh, darling!” Koschei’s voice filters into the room from somewhere outside like a melody. “I have a surprise for you! I was going to wait until we reached the Southern Kingdoms, but…” He sounds closer and closer, hovering outside the bedroom door.

Nesta says nothing, squeezing the moisture out of her hair and waiting for the big reveal.

He slides into view, leaning against the doorframe as enticingly as possible. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Her brows raise all the way up to her hairline, and oh, oh, gods! Nesta bursts into laughter, muffling the sound or maybe trying to hide the tears because it hurts, it hurts so much to laugh this hard. “What is that?!”

“I—You! You said roleplaying will help take the intensity out of whatever we had!”

“Yes, but why are you wearing that?!”

“You said maid costume, so I had the maid costume made!”

“Stop saying maid! Why are you the one in the costume?!”

“I thought that’s how this works!” His voice kicks up a notch.

Suddenly, Koschei feels shy. His face darkens, and his ochre tone makes it easier to hide, but not from Nesta. He tries to cover himself, but he doesn’t have enough hands to hide the knee-length black and white dress. Naturally, he’s brought upgrades to the design with Rhysand’s help. There are perfectly placed cut-out panels that draw her eyes to his chest or his sides where the sheer fabric emphasizes his lean body. The skirt leaves everything to the imagination and Nesta finds that sexier. She’s still laughing.

“Wait, wait, don’t leave!” Nesta motions at him when he tries to hide behind the wall. “We can make this work. Come back, let me see.”

“Why? So you can laugh at me again?” He pouts and tips his head up. The mob cap flutters with the movement.

“No, it’s cute. It’s very sweet of you.” She holds her hands out to him, motioning to come. “Very progressive, too.”

“You said,” Koschei insists, fully stepping into view. “When we’re alone together, you can be someone else. Roleplaying.”

“Those were two different things.” Nesta gets to her feet, helping Koschei do a little twirl. The skirt moves easily, very swishy. Thoughtful choice in fabrics. She inspects him, looking him up and down. “Do you mind?” She asks, politely.

“Yes, obviously. That’s what this is for. Touch me, baby.” Nesta squints at him. No, no, this is exactly what he wants and this would be too easy. She releases his hands, and steps away. “Wait, no. What? You don’t like it?”

“Tell me more about this plan of yours,” she says, sitting on the one bed that could only fit two out of three of them when she still lived here. Nesta leans back, crossing her legs and watches him expectantly. “Did the great Koschei the Deathless plan to walk in and that’s it?”

“Well, no, but you clearly approve, so we can just kiss while I wear this.” Koschei nods.

“Go on then. What was the plan? What else did you think this entails?” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “You should have brought that out when we were fixing this place up. Embody the role, you know?”

“Ahem.” Koschei clears his throat. He snaps his fingers, and music comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Magic fills the room and skirting across her skin, making goosebumps rise across her forearms. 

And then, he starts dancing.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight before her. In the back of her mind, she knows that gods are capable of anything, but she didn’t know he could sway his hips in a way that makes his skirt rise. She didn’t expect him to move his body with a grace akin to a great feline, a predator in disguise luring in his prey. Koschei runs his hands down his body, fingers tracing the swell of his chest, the dip of his waist and palming his groin. He guides her eyes to his most sensitive spots and the parts of him she appreciates the most. He’s been paying attention, he always is. 

He rolls his body, pulling up his dress to reveal more of his legs. The stocking emphasizes the definition of his muscles, and the curves of his ankle bones and knees. Koschei is, undoubtedly, beautiful. He’s not delicate like Rhysand who has features that can charm anyone, or objectively hot like a Vanserra, but Koschei uses his assets to his advantage. His dark eyes remain riveted on hers, even as he wags his ass towards her. Nesta revels in the sexiness of it all, but she loves watching because it’s him and he did this for her.

Koschei spins, and lets himself fall into her lap. A knee on each side of her, he cups her face. He gazes down at her, his eyes so full of love it hurts. Nesta doesn’t know what she did to deserve this. He gives with such abundance.

“I think I should be the one wearing this,” he says softly. “Because I’d do anything for you, even clean up after you.”

Nesta wraps her arms around him, linking her fingers at the base of his spine. “Are you calling me messy?”

“I’m saying you should be. Let your hair down when you’re with me and know that I’ve got you.” He inches closer, making sure she can hear him rather than raise his voice.

“Why me?” She searches his eyes for the answer, sure that she must have missed it somewhere.

“Why not?” His breath is warm across her lips. “What a cruel life you live, needing a reason to love and be loved.”

“Kiss me,” Nesta demands, and she closes the distance between them anyway. She feels his lips tug upwards into a smile, this is everything he’s been waiting for.

I don’t have enough hands, Nesta thinks to herself. She wants to touch him everywhere. Fuck. 

Koschei arches his back, pushing his chest into her face. She uses her teeth to bite and spit off the buttons. He wants messy? He’ll get messy. She licks a long stripe between his pecs, giggling at the texture of his fine hairs on her tongue. All of this is so real, so human, so grounding. She keeps pressing her lips against any skin she can find, using her hands to pull his skirt up. She slips them under his dress and—

“You’re not wearing any underwear?”

“That’ll only get in the way,” Koschei hums, kissing her until her lips turn red. He moans into her lips, feeling the way she kneads his ass possessively. He grins her hips against her stomach, not getting nearly enough friction under the layers of the skirt. Koschei whines when her hands leave him, but his despair quickly vanishes when she tugs on the upper part of his dress. He helps her, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves.

“Take it off. I want to see.” Nesta purrs, her voice low and dark.

“Your wish is my command.”

The sorcerer kisses her again, and stands. He stays between her knees, unbuttoning the maid uniform the rest of the way and dropping it to the floor. Nesta was already aroused at the sight of him in the dress, but heat shoots low. Gods, she’s wet. She shifts on the bed, squeezing her thighs tight. A black garter belt rests on his hips, cinching his lean waist even more.

“Fuck,” she sighs softly, staring with her mouth slightly agape at those black sheer stockings. 

“That’s the plan,” Koschei teases. 

The lingerie frames his erect cock so damn perfectly, Nesta can’t help the whisper that escapes her. She—She doesn’t know what to do. Kissing is easy, and fondling, too, but this—where does she start? Her hands hover in the air, trying to figure out if she should just grab him and pull him close. You know, taking the horse by the reins. She finally decides on pulling her hair back so she can get to—

“Ah, ah, ah.” He tuts at her and guides her hands away. Instead, Koschei encourages her to lay down. “I serve you. It’s my turn.”

He’s driving her crazy. It’s the outfit, the words and the effort. Nesta has never felt so loved before. He doesn’t need to get on his knees for her, or undress her with a care that makes her feel precious, and yet, he keeps doing it. The first time had been in her room, helping her dress for her first official meeting as the Night Court’s general. She thought it was a one time thing; she thought she could guard against this, but she lifts her hips and feels the waistband of her bottoms slide down her legs.

“Koschei, wait,” she exhales. “I’ve never…” They’ve never gone further than heavy touching, but his head is between her legs and he can feel him there. Nesta feels herself clench, yearning to be touched, but afraid. What if it’s not what he expects? What if it’s—it’s not to his taste? Nesta pushes up on her elbows, trying to pull away and close her knees. “You don’t have to.”

Koschei squints. “What’s wrong?”

“What if we had sex?”

“This comes before that, and you too. At least once.” He motions at her pussy like it’s a dinner plate. “I want to eat you out. Do you need to… go? ‘Cause,” he pauses, shrugging. “You can do that on my face, too.”

“Koschei!” Nesta flushes, sitting up completely now.

“I’m saying, I would enjoy anything you have to give to me.” He preens on the edge of the bed, grinning. “Talk to me, Nes.” Koschei touches her ankle, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“It feels too intimate,” she confesses with a blush, looking away. “Do your face need to be… there?”

“You really should give me a chance. If you thought you loved my mouth now, you really should see what I can do.”

“It’s not you.”

“Then, what is it?”

Nesta reaches for the blankets and covers herself. Koschei remains as he is, still hard as ever.

“What if… it’s not… normal down there?”

A thousand thoughts are swimming in her mind. Nesta has read many books, but they’re not grounded in reality. They don’t tell her how it feels to be the centre of his attention and how vulnerable it makes her feel. She doesn’t know how Feyre did it, but she wonders if she should have asked. Koschei allowed her to explore his body, but he’s a god. He’s perfect by nature. She has hair in places never mentioned in the books, and she wonders how she should taste or smell.

“I assure you, everything is as it should be. Better even because it’s you.” Koschei watches her carefully, observing openly like he always does. “Do you want to taste yourself?”

What? Confusion etches itself onto her face. “Isn’t that strange?”

“That’s not a no.”

Nesta chews on her lips, pulling her knees to her chest. It’s her own fault for asking a death god and immortal sorcerer about what’s normal. Maybe she’s the strange one for being so close to one. “It’s not,” she finally says. “Does it taste similar to you?”

No, yes, she’s absolutely the strange one for being okay with touching, kissing and putting him in her mouth, but now that the time has come to return the favour, she suddenly has cold feet. 

Koschei climbs onto the bed with her, laying by her side and waiting for her to relax. He will wait forever, he’s said it many times before. Nesta eventually eases back, laying there expectantly. Tense. He rests his hand on her stomach, soothing her as much as possible.

“We don’t have to do this, if you really hate the idea of it.”

“I just,” she swallows hard. How can she put words to the litany of feelings she’s been carrying with her for years? How can she tell him what happened? Nesta lays there, tense. Koschei has never pushed, but just this once, she wishes he could just slip into her mind and just see everything. She doesn’t want to have to talk about it. 

“If you never let me touch you again, I’d still be grateful you let me into your orbit,” Koschei whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I can dance in my skimpy little underwear and you can watch. You should be honoured.”

Nesta bursts into laughter, and turns to look at him. Their faces are so close. “I was attacked. A while back. He tore at my clothes. It… changed how I look at men and…” She motions at herself beneath the blanket. “How my body affects men. I know how that sounds,” she scrubs her face. She’s no siren. That’s not what she wants to be, either. “What if this changes us, once you’ve gotten what you wanted? I can’t fight a god.”

Koschei laughs. “Says who? I think that would be pretty hot,” he teases. “If it wasn’t clear, I want you for all that you are. I see you, Nesta. What you’ve done, what you will become. I want to see it through. Plus, we’ve already slept together in my mind and there’s no way you’re living up to that expectation, so don’t bother.”

“Not helping!”

“You’re smiling, so I think it is.”

“You mean it? If I never touched you again, and told you we could only be friends for as long as I live, you’d accept it.”

“I’m honestly surprised we got this far in the first place.”

Nesta stares into his eyes again, looking for the lie. She’s not so naive to think that he wouldn’t say anything to get what he wants, but she knows him well enough. Koschei has pride. He wouldn’t stoop so low as to lie to have sex with her, a mortal creature—one among thousands. (But he could, he could.) She wants to trust him. It feels right to trust him. She’s the General of the Night Court. She fought in a war. She’s stronger than this—stronger than that one memory.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Koschei’s brows raise.

“Okay,” she nods.

“Are you sure? Because I was ready to introduce you to cosmic fucking. No bodies involved, only brain synapses and godly powers. It’s mindblowing, literally. It’s like souls—”

“Chei.” Nesta turns her whole body towards him. She cups his cheek. “Do you want to touch me or not?”

That’s enough to stop him from chattering. Koschei looks at her like he can’t get enough of her, like if he wants to ask her if he’s sure, but Nesta doesn’t do or ask for anything she isn’t sure of. He kisses her, gently at first, then more and more deeply. He kisses her until she’s breathless, until soft moans of approval slip from her lips. Koschei takes two fingers into his mouth, and sucks on them, getting them nice and wet. With his other hand, he pushes errant strands of hair out of her face. He keeps smiling at her, soft and delicate. Not like a victor, but like a lover. Like the soft gazes she reads about in her stories.

His fingers skirt her belly, making her clench and shiver. Every second of attention feeds her arousal. He touches the hair over her pubis, toying with it the same way he would the hair on her head. He loves her, all of her. Then, he dips lower. Oh, oh, oh! Nesta feels him part her lips. He slips into her easily, fingers eased by her wetness. He doesn’t push into her, running the pads of his fingers lazily just so.

She sighs, her eyes fluttering shut. She lets her feel the sensations. It doesn’t hurt, and it doesn’t overwhelm her.

“How does that feel?” Koschei whispers, afraid to shatter the moment. “Good?”

Nesta nods. “More,” she asks, softly.

He can only oblige. He toys with her a little longer, spreading her slick just outside her entrance. He scissors the lips around her clit, not quite touching the bundle of nerves, but the cool air is enough to make her gasp. The sensations are all new. She’s never touched herself down there, not directly, and certainly not in that way. 

“No!” She whines when he stops.

“Patience, my lady,” he hums. Koschei brings his fingers to her lips, painting them with her own wetness as if he’s painting her lips with her favourite red. “Taste.”

Nesta licks her lips, letting the flavour coat her tongue. It doesn’t taste like him at all. Yes, there's saltiness, but it’s not as prevalent. It’s hard to describe, but what matters is that she doesn’t taste horrible, or unworthy, or disgusting. It’s, it’s—

“Good, right?” Koschei completes her thought eagerly.

Her face flushes, and her cunt moistens. She’s tasting herself. That’s so, so… hot.

“Mind if I finish what I started?”

Nesta sighs, biting her lip. “Yes. Please, yes.”

Never in her life has she seen him move so quickly, cock bobbing as he scrambles to get back where he belongs. She’s barely even on her back when she feels his mouth on her. Gods, god. She didn’t know that a god could be so hungry. Koschei is careful with her, but he is not delicate. He tongue is sure, licking her open and burrowing himself deeper and deeper into her. Each lick, or suck—oh, she doesn’t know what he’s doing to her down there—sends pleasure throughout her. She can’t decide if she wants to coil her body around him, or spread legs wider and wider.

“Oh, god,” she moans. She never thought she would want to be touched so badly. Worse, she feels just as desperate as he is for this. Her fingers find home in his dark waves, pulling him closer, as if she could make herself one with him. “My god,” she teases him and he sucks on her clit by way of thanking her.

“Koschei! Koschei! There!” Nesta is breathless, arching her back. Her nipples are hard, and her skin rises with gooseflesh. “Right there, please. I’m there.” He’s undulating his tongue, adding pressure into her. She cries out. “Fuck!”

The same two fingers he’d sucked and pressed against her lips penetrate her; they feel so large, stretching her for the very first time. Nesta breathes heavy and hard, gasping his name like it’s the only word in the world. It’s so much and everything at once. Pleasure radiates from her clit and somewhere inside here as he thrusts into her slowly. The sensations are at war with themselves, the vibrations from his mouth as he hums his amusement and the gentle care of his fingers inside her. Then, he curls his touch into her. 

“I’m gonna, I’m gonna—!”

Nesta doesn’t have Feyre’s gifts, but she swears, this is what it must feel like to fly. Koschei brings her up to the highest peak, leading her by way of his tongue, and then, pushes her off. Then, she’s falling, through clouds and clouds of pleasure taking over her. It’s pure ecstasy washing over her. She feels her pussy flutter around his fingers wildly, but she hasn’t a clue of how loud she’s being. She doesn’t hear herself. She doesn’t realize how hard she’s squeezing his head between her thighs.

Her orgasm goes on for what feels like forever. She basks in it, waiting for her vision to come into focus. 

“That was…”

“Good?”

“Stop finishing my sentences.”

Koschei flops onto the bed beside her. It doesn’t bounce, the straw doesn’t allow for it. He props himself up on his elbow, grinning at her. “I can just finish you, right?”

“Keep this up and I can promise you it’ll never happen again.” It occurs to her that Koschei hasn’t had his turn. “Wait, what about you?”

“No, this was about you.” He’d had his chance, the handful of times Nesta felt confident and curious enough to touch him. She never let him touch her back. “And I came on the floor around the same time you did.”

“But you…” His hands were on her, weren’t they? “Just… like that?”

“Not just like that. That’s how much I like you.” Koschei pauses, watching her. “Nes, I—”

“Don’t,” she breathes, breaking their gaze, and curling into him. “I’m not…” She’s not ready. It’s too much too soon. This is good enough. Whatever they have has always been always good enough.

Koschei pulls her into his chest, tangling his legs with hers. “Alright.”

Dilandau sat alone by the fire, wine half-forgotten in his glass as his eyes were captivated by the swirling flames. 

He hated spending nights in the inns and taverns of other countries. He much preferred the cold comforts of the Vione. Hated the openness of the dining rooms, hated the coarseness of the sheets on the small beds. Hated strangers all around him, hated that he couldn’t raise his sword to drive them away. 

Hated that his Dragonslayers enjoyed the minor shore leave, even if they were still on assignment. 

His hand fell to the pummel of his sword when his senses alerted him to a nearing presence but he removed it when he found it to be Chesta. 

The short Dragonslayer stood not-quite behind and to the side of his commander, waiting a moment until Dilandau turned his head and acknowledged him. Their eyes did not actually meet, red eyes were still focused on the fire. Eventually Chesta came around the bench and sat next to the red-clad soldier. 

Dilandau usually became pensive when they spent significant time off the Vione and it was usually Chesta who kept the ornery commander in check. 

They sat next to each other for an extended period of time, Chesta watching the way the firelight played across Dilandau’s pale skin. Occasionally the older soldier would take a sip of his wine, his eyes never straying from the dancing flame. After a while Chesta slid his hand across the space between them and clasped Dilandau’s empty one. 

The commander allowed his subordinate to twine their fingers together and returned the slightest of squeezes. 

Relationships were banned in the army but the entire Dragonslayer squad turned a blind eye when it kept their commander from burning down the current village they were in. 

Despite their brightly colored armor, they rarely actually attracted attention when the rest of the tavern was mostly drunk and they did nothing to draw that attention. 

The slight turn towards him of the silvery head was all the permission given. Chesta leaned over and slipped his hand around Dilandau’s neck, then tilted his head up and placed his mouth over pale lips. Their eyes closed and expertly Dilandau set his wine cup on the nearby table. Small hands slipped into silver locks and Chesta tasted the wine on Dilandau’s lips. 

After a moment he pulled away. “Come to bed sir, it's late.”

Dilandau hummed a non-committed response, grasped his wine cup and downed the dark liquid, replacing the cup onto the table when finished. 

Chesta stood and carefully pulled Dilandau towards him. 

The tall soldier stood, slipping his hand around the shorter man’s neck, and bent down for another kiss. 

Eagerly Chesta went up onto his toes to accommodate their height differences and tilted his head. 

When Dilandau finally pulled away, Chesta tugged on his arm; “Let’s go upstairs sir, I’ll show you where your room is.”

The firelight played across the pale skin of the commander and Chesta had to contain his gasp of appreciation. 

Dilandau compliantly followed the short Dragonslayer up the steps, down the hall, and into the room. 

It was another quiet night. 

-

              As if his eyes had been given flight, his vision sped across the forest, through the thick brush which disguised the tents of the camp.  He saw men and women gathered around the campfire finishing their thin meal of watery stew and sour wine.  They were tired and battle worn, but their spirits still high.  They’d been harassing the flank of the 45th regiment mercilessly, striking soundlessly in the night without warning or mercy.

              The past week alone, they’d killed Colonel Gilles and Major Raythe. Both had been formidable warriors and rather valuable to the war effort.  Worse, they’d dared to burn the supplies needed on the front lines and freed nearly a hundred prisoners!  They’d done it all and disappeared without a trace, leaving the Black Dragon Army in chaos and looking like fools!

              “A camp within the trees.”  He heard his own voice whisper in a distant monotone, as if something was speaking through him.  “A hundred men and women gather, warriors all.  They bear the banner of Restalos and vengeance is in their hearts.”

“Restalos?  I had no idea there were any survivors.  Hmph, Lord Folken is getting sloppy in his old age.”  The voice dripped with bitter scorn and he could feel the ambition burning behind the words, the predatory nature seeking any hint of weakness, ready to strike if given the slightest opportunity.  “What of the prisoners?”

“No sign.”  He breathed, studying the weapons of those gathered around the fires, seeking some meager warmth from the coming fall night.   Some distant part of his soul wished them what comfort they could glean from the flames, knowing that the icy finger of death would claim them all soon enough.  Even as he watched, he could feel the dark specter of death pressing down on them.  The fates twisting about the camp, every minute he watched, every minute they rested cutting off more paths of survival.  Death was watching, and he was hungry for blood.

“Give me a target Chesta.”  The voice growled, eager for violence, feeling the inevitability of a kill within his grasp.  The young seer couldn’t help but shudder slightly as his vision focussed on a tent hidden beneath the boughs of an ancient tree.  Within he could see two men and a woman, battle-scarred and strong, their eyes burning with the fierce will of the defiant.  The will of those who have lost everything but their desire for vengeance.

The men were large and swarthy skinned. Brothers in blood as well as arms, one sported an axe, the other a sword and shield.  He could feel the weight of the many lives the two had claimed darkening the air around them, but it was the woman who drew his attention.  

She was pale, her hair black as night and her eyes as blue as the midday sky.  Muscles stood out on her arms and two well worn swords hung on her hips.  A thick fur, taken from a bear draped over her back and its claws hung from her throat.  When she spoke, the men listened attentively, and he could feel her spirit burn like icy fire across his mind’s eye.  

“Hidden within the shadows of the ancient oak lies the heart and soul of the enemy.  A great bear wearing the form of a woman.  Strike her down and break the back of our foe.  Miss your strike and she will become twice as fierce.”

“Oooh, she sounds fun.”  Blood dripped from those words and Chesta could feel more paths of escape fade away as the trap began to close.  “Do you think she’ll actually fight back?  Or will she die like the useless rebel filth she is?” The Seer didn’t bother to answer. One wasn’t expected.  Instead, he pulled his mind back into his skull, shivering at the bone deep cold which always filled him after his Visions.  

His body felt heavy, awkward and tired, but he knew better than to give voice to any complaint.  Weakness wasn’t tolerated in the Black Dragon Clan, even less so in the Dragonslayers.

Blinking his eyes rapidly to settle his vision, he watched the albino in the blood red armour wheel his horse around to face the rest of their unit, a wide vulpine grin split his youthful face, twisting it into something demonic.  Crimson eyes, pitiless and cold glittered with undisguised malice as he tapped the bared blade of his sword against his shoulder.  The reflection of his face made his smile more of a rictus grin.  The reaper preparing to sow the lives of those gathered down below.  The soldiers, his unit… Gaea itself… Chesta knew deep in his heart that he followed on the heels of Death like a faithful hound, but it was better to follow at Death’s heels than run before Him.

“Let’s go and say hello.”  Captain Dilandau grinned, those inhuman eyes of his fixed on the hidden camp, power beginning to build around him.  His cruel laughter was echoed by those of his men… no, his boys. They were all so young, painfully young, but Chesta could see the blood running over their hands, dripping onto the ground below and killing everything it touched.  “No survivors.”  The captain added, licking his pale lips in anticipation, already tasting victory.

“Sir, Lord Folken will want prisoners to interrogate.”  Gatti dared to speak up, his voice ever cautious.  Dilandau’s hand tightened on his sword and the second in command drew back, unable to meet that terrible gaze.

“Did I stutter?”  The pale leader sneered, leaning forward in his saddle, ready to spill the blood of his own team if they dared to question him.  “If Folken wants toys to play with, he can get them his damn self!”

“Of course sir!”  The others all replied, knowing what is expected of them.  Chesta’s voice is found among them.  He’d learned long ago not to fight the storm.  It’s far safer to simply allow the winds to blow him where they will.  He’s seen enough examples of what happened to those who stood up to the impure dragon and had no desire to be counted among them.

With his place at the front of the pack confirmed without dispute once again, Dilandau led their charge.  The wind whipped through Chesta’s hair driving away the last vestiges of his disorientation, leaving only the bloodlust and adrenaline of battle. Like the others, a grin split his face as he drew his sword.  The steed beneath him tore through the underbrush without any hint of self preservation or hesitation, infected with their bloodlust.

Young voices rose up in a vicious howl and he could feel the terror filling the minds of those ahead of them.  They’ve heard tales of that sound, whispered around the campfires in the dark of the night, stories of a pack of children, of demons, of wolves wearing the flesh of men.  He knew well the atrocities attached to his team.  Worse, he knew that they barely scratch the truth of it all.

The enemy soldiers learn quickly enough as the Dragonslayers break through the trees, coming in from all sides.  The fires are scattered by horse’s hooves, armour is cleaved by swords and the screams of the dying soon overpower the howls of the boys.

Explosions drown out everything as the ground tears itself apart, cutting a lethal trail through several ranks of soldiers attempting to form up and protect their leaders.  Limbs fly free from bodies, blood rains from above and the tent, guarded so carefully by the ancient boughs of the oak shatters apart.  

Chesta can feel the concussive blast of power from across the camp.  He can feel the lives snuffed out instantly, never having seen the face of their killer. Cries of “Dragonborn” echo through the camp, accompanied by Dilandau’s wild laughter.  Moral is shattered, the ranks scatter and flee, but the seer can feel their futures snuffed out one by one.  No matter how fast they run, their lives are measured in little more than minutes, an hour at most.  The army marched behind them after all, a lethal net ready to catch any who seek to slip through the jaws of the Dragonslayers.  It’s the lucky ones who die quickly.  Lord Folken has never been known for his mercy after all.

The blast which took out the leader’s tent has damaged the roots of the oak, and as Chesta watched, the ancient tree begins to list heavily to the side, the few remaining roots buried deep beneath the earth groan softly in protest, doing their best to keep the tree upright.

There’s nothing he can do but watch it bend beneath its own weight.  Enemy soldier’s race by him, within easy reach of his sword, but he pays them no mind. They’re already dead after all. He’s seen their inevitable fate. What do their short and pointless lives matter in the end when compared to the death of this king of the forest. It had stood tall and proud for centuries… perhaps even more, its power inviolate… until now.

Something was changing.  He could feel it in the wind, hear it rumble deep within the earth. It wasn’t the tree that was falling, torn apart by its own greatness; it was everything.  The world was about to change, the roots cut out from beneath it, and all the little people in its shadow were going to run as it toppled down upon them.

“Chesta.”  Ryoun hissed sharply from off to the side.  “You’re letting the enemy escape!”  The dark haired slayer’s sword dripped wet with blood, so much blood that it formed a river beneath his horses feet.  “If Lord Dilandau thinks you’re going soft there’ll be hell to pay!”