#starfavoured

if it weren't for the steel in her gaze the raise of nesta's eyebrows as she carefully sips from her steaming mug of cinnamon tea would seem nonchalant — elegant, even. the statement is likely innocent but it irritates the eldest archeron regardless... gets under her skin in the particular way that only feyre seems to. the notion of talking in her sleep isn't very dignified. nevermind the fact that if true she'd have no clue of the words she utters. it's enough to send a shiver up her rigid spine.

"my desire to speak during my waking hours is low, i highly doubt that i become a conversationalist in sleep. perhaps you're confusing me with mor?" the blonde certainly knows how to run her mouth. nesta takes another sip of her tea to cleanse the name from her tongue.

in fleeting moments nesta believes she’s finally grown accustomed to the strange and magical ways of life as a high fae, and then there are moments that rush by and tear the rug from beneath her feet. this is one of the latter. feyre’s wild laughter bellows through her like a gust of wind, knocking the air from her lungs just as thoroughly as the elements. yet, it comforts her too. brings her a rush of joy to see her youngest sister so free and full of life… even while her own hangs in the balance. she is reckless. but nesta is, too. they were cut from the same cloth. she can’t help but think they should have been a little more careless with one another sooner. they would have bickered less if they’d been able to laugh more. it’s difficult to do anything but laugh along with her now, even while her stomach churns with the urge to unleash it’s contents as they make their way back down to earth. 

"ridiculous too!" the words are merely a mask for the amusement that echoes in her shaking voice. "perhaps next time you’ll transform into a dragon so that you might support the weight of us both."