Tumblr Already Has A Personalization Algorithm It's Called My Beloved Mutuals Who Have Great Taste And

Tumblr already has a personalization algorithm it's called my beloved mutuals who have great taste and only wish to psychologically damage me sometimes

the kids are alright 🏳️‍⚧️

A lot of people think you have to read these physical copies of giant, expensive, non-fiction tomes for reading to be beneficial. And you don’t!!! This idea that you must read whatever dry historical text (as someone who reads a lot of dry historical accounts and analyses for academia) is rooted in the intersection between misogyny, racism, classism, ableism, and access to education.

don’t let stuffy people mock you for how you chose to engage in reading. Read for pleasure. Read fanfiction! Read ebooks. Read used books (it’s better Read the Ice Planet Barbarians, Heartstopper, City of Brass, Beach Read, Bridgerton, Six of Crows, Legendborn, Yellowface, etc. Listen to the audiobooks (that counts as reading!). If you don’t like the modality in which you read , try a new one! And don’t feel bad if you’re having a hard time with it!!

the idea that reading is 'supposed to be' some kind of unenjoyable gruelling intellectual penance is also so goofy because like, good fucking luck disciplining yrself into cultivating a habit you hate and that makes you miserable i guess! it's like if you insisted people's food should be bland or unpalatable in the name of Health and anyone who ate something tasty was morally inferior and a societal danger. oh wait

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ACT NORMALLY RIGHT NOW?

“Go to sleep Nesta” I am DEAD!

But I'm Only Looking At You: Part Two

A/N: Happy happy day two of @cassianappreciationweek! Nothing says Gentle like (checks notes) crashing the wedding of the woman you love, right? Right? What can Cassian say, sometimes love makes you do crazy things! Anywho! Hope everyone enjoys :) Also, fun fact! The words Cassian says during the ceremony are historically accurate!

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Cassian watches from the shadows as a carriage pulls up in front of the church. The footman steps down and pulls open the doors, Elain and Feyre stepping out first. Both of Nesta’s sisters are wearing dresses of a pretty, pink color, their hair pinned up with flowers tucked into the golden brown strands.

Lord and Lady Archeron follow their youngest daughters out of the carriage, Eleanor turning back to say something. From this distance, Cassian can’t hear what’s said, but from the dip of Eleanor’s brows, the pinch of her lips, it appears to be some sort of reprimand. The look just has Cassian’s resolve hardening, a scowl of his own twisting across his face.

Finally, Nesta steps out of the carriage and into the afternoon sun. Despite the other ladies of London preferring yellow for their special day, Nesta has opted for a pale blue dress that looks almost silver beneath the sun’s rays. The style is simple but elegant, exactly what Cassian would expect for Nesta, and while he can’t quite see her face beneath the lacey veil she’s wearing, she looks beautiful.

With a steadying deep breath, Cassian straightens and rolls his shoulders back. He takes a moment to tug at the cuffs of his sleeve, combing his fingers through his hair to ensure the strands fall neatly around his face. A sigh from behind him has Cassian pausing before he steps out of the alleyway, and he just barely swallows down an eyeroll.

“Are you sure there’s no talking you out of this?”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Cassian turns around to face his chosen brothers, Rhys and Az each leaning against the brick walls of the buildings on either side of the alleyway. Rhys looks at Cassian with blatant exasperation as he waits for the response to his question, an expression he’s been wearing since Cassian first informed him of his plan the night of his House Party. Not that it made a difference then. Nor, does it make a difference now.

“No,” Cassian answers matter-of-factly, almost daring Rhys to try his argument tactics again. They didn’t work all week and they certainly won’t work now. “Did you ensure my request arrived?”

Rhys sighs again, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t look particularly surprised at Cassian’s response. “Yes. I pulled a few strings and was able to make sure the Bishop sees your request as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Cassian nods his head, turning back toward the church. He can no longer see the Archeron family, which means they must have gone inside and the countdown has officially started.

“There’s no going back from this you know,” Azriel finally pipes up. “She honestly might hate you for this.”

“I know,” Cassian answers quietly. And he does. He knows exactly how disastrously this is probably going to go. “But I love her.”

And that truly is the crux of it. He loves Nesta, and he refuses to watch the woman he loves marry a man like Tomas Mandray. He refuses to watch her become just like Lady Mandray, growing pale and thin, wearing long sleeves even in the warmer months, being prone to ‘sudden illnesses’ that keep her out of the public’s eye for weeks. He refuses to watch her curl into herself and lose that fire he loves so much under the words he used to hear Tomas spew when they were at school. And if that means throwing himself into the firing line in order to do that, then so be it.

“We all know exactly the kind of man Tomas Mandray is,” Cassian continues, glancing over his shoulder at Rhys and Azriel one last time. “And even if she hates me forever, at least she’ll be safe.”

“Then go get your wife,” Azriel tells him, smirking slightly.

Cassian chuckles and shakes his head, walking across the road to the church. He wastes no time jogging up the front steps and through the door, but he pauses just inside the atrium. The large, wooden doors that lead into the nave loom before him, taunting him. Everything he’s ever wanted is right there on the other side, and once he steps through them, he won’t be able to take it back.

He takes a slow breath in, holding it for a few moments before he lets it back out. It’s all quiet in the atrium, almost eerily so. Cassian tries to strain his ears for sounds, for voices, beyond the doors, but the wooden doors and the stone surrounding him are too thick. He supposes there never really is a good time in a wedding ceremony for this type of thing.

“I’m sorry, Nes,” Cassian mutters to himself before he pulls open the doors.

The wood of the doors creaks and groans, and the metal hinges give a high pitched whine, the sound echoing loudly along the vaulted ceiling of the church. Cassian winces slightly, but it does have the required reaction. All sets of eyes in the church snap to him, but he doesn’t even bother looking anywhere else. Not at Lady Archeron who he’s sure must be sneering and glaring at him. Not at Elain or Feyre who he’s sure are staring with shock. Definitely not at the Mandray family…

Instead, Cassian keeps his attention firmly on Nesta, on where she’s standing at the front of the church, her hands clasped neatly with Tomas’s. Her hands that decidedly do not yet have a ring on them. Beneath the lace of her veil, her blue eyes are wide, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Rector asks, frowning down at Cassian.

“Forgive me, Father,” Cassian begins, continuing down the aisle and closer to the altar. “But I cannot lie, cannot continue on with this secret. Not under the Mother. I must be honest, must confess.”

“Then confess, son,” the Rector encourages.

“I have already had Miss Archeron.”

For a moment, the whole church is deathly silent, his words slowly but surely sinking in. And then gasps and murmurs break out, a cacophony of sounds and alarm. It’s with sick satisfaction that Cassian watches Tomas drop Nesta’s hands like he’s been burned, watches him step back and away from her with a disgusted scowl on his face.

“I beg your pardon?” the Rector asks, clearly trying to calm the rising emotions swirling around the church.

“I'm sorry, Father, but it’s true. I have laid with Miss Archeron. I know what a grave sin it is, what a dishonor I’ve committed for us both, but I’m prepared to right this wrong. I’m prepared to take her hand in marriage myself.”

“What are you doing?” Nesta seethes, storming over to him and shoving hard at his chest.

“I’m sorry, Nesta,” Cassian tells her, and he prays she can see the truth in his eyes, hear it in his words. He prays that she knows just how much he means it, how sorry he is for all of this. “But we cannot pretend any longer, cannot lie to everyone here including your betrothed. It’s not right.”

“I should have known you’re no better than a common whore,” Tomas sneers, tone dripping with cold cruelty.

His words have Cassian’s anger flaring red hot through his veins. He lets out a quiet growl and takes a step forward, his fist already clenching and his knuckles practically itching to collide with the Viscount’s face. It’s only Nesta’s hand settling firmly on his chest, stopping him, that has Cassian holding himself back.

“Tomas,” Nesta pleads, whirling back around to face the Viscount. “Please. It’s not like that. Just… just give me a moment. I’ll sort it out.”

Nesta’s fingers curl around Cassian’s wrist, her grip tight enough that her nails dig into his skin. From the glare she settles him with, the pain is clearly intentional. She all but drags him out of the nave and back into the atrium, leaving the still shocked wedding guests behind. She drops his wrist once the doors close behind them, but it’s only to shove at his chest again.

“I cannot believe you,” Nesta snaps, shoving hard enough this time that Cassian stumbles back a few steps.

“Nesta—”

“Seriously. What is wrong with you?”

“Nesta, please—”

“We have never laid together.”

“I know.”

Nesta finally pauses in her assault to his chest, blinking a few times as she takes in his words, before she lets out a sardonic, almost hysterical laugh. “So, you just decided to lie? To ruin me? To ruin my sisters.”

Cassian lets out a quiet breath, reaching for Nesta’s hand but she yanks it away and out of his reach. He tries not to let the gesture sting as much as it does. “Nes, please. You have to understand that I—”

“Go back in there and tell them you lied. This instance.”

“I can’t,” Cassian tells her, his voice quiet and mournful.

“Cassian!” Nesta pleads, her voice tinged with desperation.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Cassian steps closer to her, his hands coming up to cradle her cheeks. He hates it. He hates seeing the pain in her eyes, the water that’s started to line them. He hates that he's the reason for her tears. “I can’t let you marry him. I can’t lose you. If this is the only way, then so be it.”

“You have already lost me,” Nesta whispers coldly, knocking his hands away from her and taking a pointed step back. “I will never forgive you for this.”

“Nes…”

Before Cassian can finish his thought, those large wooden doors swing open again, Eleanor Archeron stalking through them. Cassian braces himself for her ire, for the cutting, choice words he’s sure she has for him, but her narrowed gaze isn’t pinned on him. It’s her daughter that she’s glaring daggers at.

“You insolent child,” Eleanor seethes, smacking the back of her hand hard across Nesta’s cheek.

Fire roars through Cassian’s veins, burning molten until his hands tighten into fists. He’s moving before he can even think twice about it, eyes glued to Nesta. To the way she has her face turned away, her hand cradling her cheek, a tear slipping free to slide down along her skin. He stalks closer and gently curls his fingers around Nesta’s wrist, tugging her behind him, placing himself firmly between her and her mother.

“I would appreciate it kindly if you did not put your hands on my wife.”

“She is not your wife yet, you filthy factory rat. I should have known when you were always sniffing around as a boy that you’d dare to lay your hands on my daughter. Not better than your disgusting father.”

“Mama,” Nesta starts to argue, but Cassian gives her wrist a gentle squeeze. There’s no reason for her to step into the firing line and certainly not for him.

“I’m staying with the Duke, Rhysand, while I’m in London, until the Bishop’s License arrives,” Cassian explains, keeping his voice calm, polite, refusing to rise to whatever bait Lady Archeron tries to dangle in front of him. “Nesta is of course welcome to stay there as well, until the wedding.”

“You truly are a fool if you think I’m going to let you whisk her away like that,” Eleanor snorts derisively, her fingers curling roughly around Nesta’s bicep and yanking her daughter to her. “She is still my daughter until the registry is signed.”

Cassian swallows hard and tries to calm the way his blood has started to simmer. “I’ll call on her—”

“You will not.”

The clear dismissal has a scoff tearing free from Cassian before he can squash it back down, but before he can argue, the doors to the nave swing back open. The Viscount comes striding out, his mother’s arm looped through his. Neither even looks in Nesta’s or Cassian’s direction, keeping their gaze straight ahead as they exit the church. If it weren’t for the way Tomas’s lips are pressed together, the way his brown eyes are darkened with clear annoyance, Cassian would almost say he looks the picture perfect of indifference.

“My lord,” Eleanor begins, her tone oozing with a courtier’s charm that Cassian has certainly never been on the other end of.

The Lady Mandray lets out a harrumph, the sound quiet but no less contemptuous, the only acknowledgement that she even heard Eleanor. Tomas and his mother continue down the front steps of the church and toward their carriage, the members of the wedding guest list there to support the would-be groom following behind them, each expression directed their way more judgemental than the next. It has Cassian taking an instinctual step to the side, blocking Nesta from those snide looks, shielding her.

He chances a glance over his shoulder, but it’s Eleanor’s gaze that meets his. With Tomas and his mother no longer looking, the placating smile has dropped from her face, that irritated scowl and glare returning and pinned right on Cassian. He can’t find it in himself to care for the look she’s settled him with, not when her hand is still curled around Nesta’s arm, fingers gripping tight enough that the skin has started to turn red.

Cassian opens his mouth to say something, but there’s more scuffling from the nave. He turns his head back around just as Elain and Feyre step into view, both of their faces still bewildered as their eyes dart between him, Nesta, and their mother. At least Feyre offers him a small, almost sympathetic smile.

“I’ll go get the carriage,” Elain offers quietly, rushing out of the church and tugging Feyre along with her.

“I’ll be sure to have a settlement drawn up for you to review and sign,” Nesta's father says, stepping out of the nave and over to Cassian, his face surprisingly impassive despite the day’s turn of events.

“Of course. Whatever terms are most favorable for Nesta,” Cassian agrees with a nod, earning a quizzical look in response from Lord Archeron.

“The carriage is ready,” Feyre declares, walking back up the church steps.

With her message delivered, Feyre turns on her heel and heads back down the steps, her parents side-stepping around Cassian to follow their daughter. It’s Nesta that takes up the rear of their party, her arms wrapped around herself even as she holds her shoulders back and her head up high. It’s a mask if Cassian’s ever seen one, and the sight sends a crack shattering clean through his chest.

“Nesta,” Cassian calls out to her, soft desperation and pain coloring his tone.

“Nesta,” her mother’s clipped voice cuts in.

Despite the clear order hidden in her mother’s request, Nesta’s steps do pause. She turns back to look at Cassian, and that crack in his chest explodes into a throbbing ache at the betrayal burning in her blue eyes, her lips pinched into a cool, hard line. She opens her mouth, words clearly poised and ready on the tip of her tongue, but then she merely shakes her head, turning away from Cassian and joining her family.

She leaves him standing there alone, nothing to do but watch her walk away from him, watch her leave. A lump presses in around his throat, his lungs burning and chest aching despite his attempts to swallow around it. He lets out sound somewhere between a scoff and a self-deprecating laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face and along his jaw. He tries to remind himself why he’s doing this, to remind himself that when it’s all said and done, it will have been worth it.

Even still, Cassian can’t help but tilt his head up, sending a silent prayer to the Mother and just hoping that he’s doing the right thing.

~ * * * ~

It takes a week before the Bishop’s License is finally signed and in Cassian’s hands. Unsurprisingly, Nesta’s family wants everything to move quickly and quietly. Cassian can’t say he minds. It means the sooner he can see her, can talk with her just the two of them privately. The sooner he can get the both of them out of London and away from all the prying eyes, the whispering gossip and judgemental looks of the ton, the better.

The Archerons are already waiting at the church when Cassian arrives with Rhys and Azriel. It’s Elain and Feyre, standing with their father, that greets him as he steps inside the atrium. Despite the fact there’s about to be a wedding, there’s a solemn air that clings inside the walls of the church, heavy and pressing in. Neither sister is smiling, even Feyre not quite able to meet his gaze. Instead, her attention is pinned to her right, lips tugged down in a frown.

Brows furrowing in confusion, Cassian turns his head, following Feyre’s gaze to where Nesta is standing with her mother. Eleanor has her head tipped down, practically right in Nesta’s face as she hisses something too quiet for Cassian to hear.

“Eleanor,” Lord Archeron calls out, drawing his wife’s attention.

Lady Archeron takes in Cassian standing there and straightens, striding over to her husband’s side. She doesn’t even acknowledge Cassian as she passes him, but he doesn’t miss the sneer still ever present on her face. It’s only when she realizes Rhys is standing behind him that her disdainful expression drops away, surprise taking over before that courtier smile returns.

“Your Grace,” Eleanor offers, dipping into a polite curtsy.

Rhys doesn’t say anything, merely dips his chin in a nod of acknowledgement, and Eleanor continues to her husband’s side. She slips her arm through Lord Archeron’s, and they head into the nave of the church, their daughters trailing behind him. Rhys claps his hand against Cassian’s shoulder and does the same, Azriel offering a small, sympathetic look as he too follows Rhys inside.

It leaves just Cassian and Nesta still standing in the atrium as they wait for their cue to walk down the aisle, for their lives to be forever bound together.

Nesta finally walks over to him, but she keeps her eyes downcast, seemingly glued to his kilt. The attention has him resetting his stance, has his hands reaching down to smooth out the fabric along his thighs. He rarely wore it when he was in school. He already heard enough from his peers, from the ton, about his family’s new money status. He hadn’t wanted to add fuel to their fires by flaunting his Scottish heritage too, practically handing over the insults and jabs on a silver platter. But now, with Nesta’s eyes on him, he finds himself more nervous than he ever was back then, his heart beginning to stutter between his ribs.

“After today, you’ll wear my colors too,” Cassian explains quietly.

The comment has Nesta’s gaze finally snapping to his, and Cassian’s heart squeezes tight enough it sends pain ricocheting through his chest. Even through the lacy fabric of her veil, Cassian can tell the way all the color seems to have leached out of her cheeks, the dark circles clinging to the skin beneath her eyes. And her eyes. Cassian doesn’t think he’s ever seen them so dull, more gray than blue and not even a hint of that spark he loves so much.

He takes a step closer to her, eyes sweeping over her accessingly. She’s wearing that same pale blue dress as her almost wedding to Tomas, but despite it only being a week, the fabric seems looser in places. Cassian has to swallow hard around a lump forming in his throat before he’s able to find his voice again.

“You look pale. Have you not been eating? Or sleeping?” Cassian asks gently, reaching a hand up beneath her veil to slide his knuckles against her cheek, but Nesta jerks her head away.

“Don’t touch me,” Nesta snaps, readjusting the veil draped over her face. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Cassian’s hand hangs in the space between them before he drops it back down to his side. The words are certainly a blow, but all Cassian cares about is that the fire has returned to Nesta’s eyes, the blue of them practically blazing up at him. He’ll take it. He doesn’t care if he’s on the other end of her ire, as long as he can keep stoking that fire, as long as he can finally make that lifeless expression vanish, as long as she gives him something.

So, Cassian scoffs and shakes his head. “Just what every gentleman wants to hear on his wedding day.”

“You brought this upon yourself. Or have you already forgotten your utter stupidity?”

“I wish you would just understand that I did this for you.”

“How dare you lie to me,” Nesta seethes, shoving him hard for extra good measure. “You did this for yourself, you selfish, insufferable idiot.”

“Careful, Nes,” Cassian taunts, catching her wrists and tugging her closer still while he dips his head down toward her. “Is that any way to speak to your soon-to-be husband?”

“I hate you.”

Cassian drops Nesta’s wrists and takes a step back from her at her words. For a moment, he swears he sees something flicker across her face, but she quickly turns her head away before he can begin to decipher it. Closing his eyes, Cassian takes a moment to breathe deeply. He holds out his arm for Nesta to take, and pointedly pushes down the hurt when she hesitates.

Arm in arm, they make their way through the church and to where the Rector is standing and waiting for them. The Rector has them turn to face one another and then the ceremony begins. Cassian can still see the exhaustion that clings to Nesta’s frame, but with the light spilling through the stained glass, she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, still takes his breath away. Still has his heart beating in time with her name, Nesta Nesta Nesta.

By the time Cassian is taking Nesta’s hand in his, sliding the band on her finger, his own is trembling. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

Following the Rector’s instruction, Nesta takes Cassian’s hand in hers, sliding his own ring on as she repeats the same words. Something unlocks deep in Cassian’s chest, deep in his soul, in that moment. It’s a final piece falling into a place, a key turning in a lock, a golden thread binding them together just as surely as the rings on their fingers. It fills Cassian with warmth, with a sense of rightness, with a sense of home.

With the rings exchanged, Cassian and Nesta step forward to sign the parish registry. The wedding guests in attendance rise to do the same, but with so few of them, it doesn’t take particularly long. The ink has barely dried from Feyre signing her name before Eleanor is striding toward the doors to exit the church, shooting an expectant look over her shoulder to her youngest daughters.

“I’ll have the footmen move Mrs MacLeod’s trunk to your carriage,” she finally addresses Cassian. “I’m sure it’s quite the long journey back to Glasgow.”

Cassian has to grit his teeth, has to bite back and swallow down the harsh words he wants to fire back at her blatant dismissal. No longer is she Nesta, no longer her daughter, but Mrs MacLeod, the factory rat’s wife. And there would be no celebrating this fact, no wedding breakfast to honor the newly married couple. It has Cassian’s blood boiling, his fists clenching at his side until Nesta’s palm slides along his wrist. It’s the first contact she’s initiated, the touch soothing, but just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone again.

“Thank you, Mama,” Nesta offers politely.

Nesta side steps around Cassian, and he can do nothing but follow behind her, nothing but watch as her trunk is secured to his carriage, her whole life seemingly packed away in that one box. At least, Nesta’s sisters each give her a hug goodbye, but her mother still offers only contempt. It takes all of Cassian’s willpower to keep his face neutral, not to glare at the Lady Archeron, instead focusing on offering a hand and helping Nesta to step inside the carriage. He turns back to give a final nod to Rhys and Azriel, his chosen brothers offering a wave and a salute respectively, before Cassian steps inside and takes the seat opposite Nesta.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins once the carriage jerks into motion.

He reaches forward to take Nesta’s hands in his, but she flinches back, holding her hands close to her chest and turning her head to peer out the window, to watch as London fades away. Cassian sighs softly, dropping his hand to the skirts of her dress, his fingers curling against the fabric.

The rest of the carriage ride is painfully quiet, Nesta’s attention never straying from the carriage window. Cassian’s always loved her stubbornness, the way she never backs down from what she wants, but just once, Cassian wishes she would look at him. He wishes they could properly talk now that it’s just the two of them.

Hell, as the hours and miles continue to tick by, as the sun continues its stretching path across the sky, Cassian would give anything for Nesta to yell at him. To fight with him. For anything other than the suffocating silence. It chokes him from the inside out, his heart twisting and squeezing until he presses his free hand against his chest, rubbing like that will somehow alleviate the ache.

He feels like he’s going insane. After the first hour of stilted silence, Cassian had tried again to talk to her, to draw her attention back to him, but he’d only earned a quiet harrumph for his troubles. After the second hour, he had tried to tease her, tried to spark a reaction from her the way he had earlier, but he had even less success with that. It has Cassian wondering if Nesta really did mean it when she said she’d never forgive him. When she said she hated him.

By the time they're pulling into a coaching inn just outside of Birmingham, Cassian has never been more grateful. He clambers out of the carriage and takes a deep, heaving breath of the cool, evening air, relishing in what little soothing balm he can get. He turns back toward the carriage and holds out his hand in offering, but Nesta pointedly ignores it, stepping down on her own. She hikes up the skirts of her dress and strides forward toward the door of the inn without even a glance back, so Cassian tilts his head up toward the sky, sending a mental plea to the Mother for strength before he jogs after his wife.

“Should I expect silence for the rest of our marriage then?” Cassian mutters as he holds the door open for her.

That comment at least earns him a sharp look from Nesta before she walks through the door and inside the inn, Cassian stepping in behind her. He goes to speak with the landlord, who hands over the key and directs him up the stairs, and Cassian tries not to grimace at the fact they’ll only have the one room.

Thankfully, Nesta doesn’t say anything when Cassian unlocks the door for them to both step inside. Although, he half wonders after the hours of silence if a reaction would have been preferred. Instead, Nesta grabs the pitcher of water for their room and heads straight for the bathing chamber, closing the door behind her. With a soft huff, Cassian sits down on the bed, taking the time to peel his boots off and toss them aside. He rests his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The exhaustion of the day’s travel, of the past few weeks, burrows beneath his skin, carving space into his bones until he feels completely weighed down by it.

The soft snick of a door opening has Cassian practically leaping to his feet. He whips around just as Nesta steps back into the room, dressed now in only her shift. For a moment, Cassian is struck dumb. She’s wearing her hair down, the soft, golden brown waves falling around her shoulders and down her back. His fingers twitch at his sides with the urge to run through those strands, to tangle there as he holds her close. She’s beautiful, just like this, hair down, the faintest dusting of pink smattered high on her cheekbones.

“Where do you want me?” Nesta asks, fidgeting almost nervously with the cotton fabric of her shift.

“What?” Cassian somehow chokes out, shaking himself out of his staring.

“I presume on the bed. Perhaps a better question would be how do you want me?”

Cassian blinks a few times, his mind finally following what she’s asking. “Nes…”

Nesta lets out a frustrated huff, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m not one of those simpering girls. I know what happens on a wedding night.”

“Do you still hate me?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I won’t touch you until you ask me to, until you want me to.”

“You’ll be waiting forever then.”

“I suppose I will,” Cassian shrugs, grabbing one of the pillows and tossing it to the floor at the foot of the bed, intent on sleeping on the floor.

“That makes our marriage a sham then. I’ll go back to London and tell all of society.”

Cassian doesn’t bother biting back his taunting smirk as he lifts his attention back to her. “Did you forget that they already think I’ve had you? Everyone knows and believes that. But go ahead and try.”

That fire is a full blaze in Nesta’s eyes now, her mouth twisting into a scowl. She storms over to the bed, and Cassian half wonders if she intends to clamber over the mattress just to get to him, just to shove him and sink her claws into his chest. But she merely stops on the other side, hands clenched into fists at her side as she continues to glare at him.

“You’ll never have heirs.”

Cassian laughs dryly, cocking his head. “You think I care about that?”

“All men care about that.”

“I guess I’m not like most men, sweetheart.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at that, her tone dripping with derision when she says, “what do you care about then?”

“You,” Cassian practically shouts. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? I care about you, unlike that man you were going to marry before I stepped in.”

“Stop doing that. Stop speaking to me as if I’m stupid. As if I did not know exactly the type of man Tomas Mandray is.”

“Yet you were going to marry him anyways? What, better to marry a cruel man with a title than some factory brute?”

The silence hangs in the air between them, clearly answer enough. Cassian tries not to let it sting, but his chest already feels cut and splayed open, his nerve endings already raw and exposed. He swallows hard and turns away from her, extinguishing the candle and plunging the room into darkness. He settles down onto the floor, knocking his fist against his pillow for extra good measure, but the gesture doesn’t help the cold ache that gnaws at him the way he had hoped.

“Cassian…”

“Go to sleep, Nesta.”

—

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AH NO!!! Nesta!!! poor Cassian!!!

Living for the heartbreak you’re doling out this week.

Baby, Now We Got Bad Blood

A/N: So, we're told in ACOMAF and ACOWAR that mating instincts ride the males hard and that you should never come between a male and his mate, but one of my biggest gripes with ACOSF is that we never really see that from Cassian. Like come on, SJM! I want to see the Lord of Bloodshed go into Mate Mode(tm)! And so, I decided to write this. I recognize it may not be everyone's cup of tea, so remember that the back button is free, but for everyone else, enjoy! :)

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The tug between Cassian’s ribs is so sudden, so harsh, that he almost drops to his knees right then and there. That golden thread securely tucked there squeezes tight enough that it steals the breath straight from his lungs, twisting and writhing in his chest until he can do nothing except press a palm against his side in hopes of alleviating the pain, until he's sure that he must be bruised. He’s half aware of Devlon watching him curiously, of the other camp lords still sitting around the table, but all Cassian can focus on is the way his blood has run cold, on the ringing that’s taken up home in his ears all from that one tug.

Tentatively, he reaches for the golden thread within himself, sending his confusion and concern down the bond. He skates a finger along it, keeping his touch featherlight, before he plucks, a small, urging question. And then, with bated breath, he waits. Waits for the tug in response. Waits for the soothing feeling that’s not his own to rush through him and calm his worry.

But it never comes.

In fact, there’s almost nothing on the other end of the bond. Just silence. Just an empty, yawning void that has the hairs on the back of Cassian’s neck standing up, that has the pounding in his ears turning into a deafening roar. Genuine fear sparks through his veins, ice cold where it digs its claws into his mind and sends his heart stuttering. He reaches for that golden thread again, tugging more urgently this time, but still nothing.

Something’s wrong.

Cassian knows that Rhys had sent Nesta and Mor to the human lands on some sort of reconnaissance mission. Azriel’s network had gotten some concerning information through the vine, so the High Lord sent Nesta and Mor to blend in with the women of some village and see if they could get more details. It was supposed to be an easy in, easy out mission. He’d even arranged this war meeting in Illyria for when she was gone so he’d be back in time to welcome her home, even had tickets ready for them for the Velaris ballet.

But now, all he has is a silent bond, that single moment of fear twined in that hard tug that festers and burns with his own.

Without a backward glance, Cassian storms out of the room, ignoring Devlon calling after him. As soon as he steps outside into the biting snow of Illyria, Cassian unfurls his wings wide behind his back and takes to the skies. He keeps a hard and fast pace as he tears through the clouds, pushing himself and pushing himself and pushing himself. His back and wings ache with the exertion, but it’s nothing compared to the ache that throbs in his chest like an open wound. Nothing compared to the bloodied and bruised shreds of his heart at the thought of something happening to Nesta.

His mind keeps playing an endless loop of possibilities, each one worse than the last. He tries to imagine a scenario where it’s all a big misunderstanding, where he arrives back in Velaris and Nesta is there with that softness that takes over her stormy blue eyes when she sees him, with that sweet smile meant only for him, and they’ll laugh about this whole thing. But there’s no denying that niggling doubt, those whispers in the back of his mind. They fuel his fear, taunt him, and soon all Cassian can see each time he blinks is the sight of Nesta’s eyes open but unseeing, the color completely leached from her face, seared on the back of his eyelids.

It drives Cassian to push himself even harder, to fly even faster. Each beat of his wings, each thunderous hammer of his heart, it all pounds in time with that twisting thread between his ribs, in time with that call that blazes through his soul.

Nesta Nesta Nesta

He lands hard enough that his knees groan and ache, but he doesn’t care. He presses his hand against the wards, an incessant flash of red sparking in front of him, and steps inside the River House. Rhys steps into the view at the top of the stairs almost as soon as he’s through the front door, as though he was expecting him. The wariness pinching the corner of his brother’s eyes, the way his lips are pressed into a thin line, it confirms all of Cassian’s worst fears. Bile claws up the back of his throat, tangling with the lump already lodged firmly there.

“Where’s Nesta?” Cassian forces out.

“Cass…” Rhys starts slowly, holding his hands up placatingly. Cassian doesn’t miss the way his brother shifts his feet, resetting his stance like he’s expecting a fight.

Cassian is about to ask his question again when Madja comes bustling into the River House behind him, rushing up the stairs and past Rhys. The sight of the healer jolts Cassian into action, and he follows hot on her heels down the hall and into one of the bedrooms, but his steps stutter to a stop when he realizes it’s Mor sprawled across the blankets, holding her hand against a wound in her side.

Cassian whirls back around, ready to check every other bedroom until he finds his mate, but he comes face to face with Rhys again. His brother is still wearing that cautious expression, face still pinched and body still tense like Cassian is some sort of wounded animal he needs to treat with care.

“Where is Nesta?” Cassian demands again.

Rhys holds his ground and raises his chin, his eyes glancing over Cassian’s shoulder only briefly before landing back on Cassian’s face. “There was an ambush. I don’t know how the mortals knew we’d be there, knew who Mor and Nesta were, but there were two dozen of them… with ash arrows.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Where is she?”

“When I got there, Mor was already badly injured. She was going to bleed out if I didn’t get her out of there and to a healer.”

Cassian can feel his patience hanging on by a thread, stepping closer to Rhy and growling out, “where is my mate?”

Cassian feels the press of Rhys’s magic against him, the darkness that begins to creep and rumble from the corners of the room, as Cassian stares his brother down, but Rhys is unmoving, undeterred. He continues to meet Cassian’s blazing gaze, his face and voice an even calm that grates against the last shreds of Cassian’s nerve endings, the last of his sanity.

“I had to make a choice, and I made it.”

It takes a moment for the words to really sink in, to understand exactly what Rhys is telling him, and when it does, it’s a bucket of ice water over his head. He stumbles back a step in his shock. His stomach roils and drops all the way to his shoes, his blood crystalizing into ice, as he chokes out, “what?”

Rhys looks away then, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I used too much of my magic winnowing there already, and Nesta was too far away. I couldn’t get to her without risking Mor, without risking both of us, so I did what I had to do and winnowed us out of there.”

Cassian doesn’t think he’s breathing. He’s sure that his heart isn’t beating because it’s lost somewhere in the human lands, lost with Nesta. “You…” Cassian swallows hard, finding his voice again. “You left her there? In the middle of an ambush?”

“I’m sorry, Cass. I really am.”

“No, you’re not.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Cassian has always known that Rhys isn’t exactly Nesta’s biggest fan. From the moment they met the sisters, from that first meeting at the manor in the mortal lands, Rhys has always held a certain animosity for the eldest Archeron. He’s always held onto that cool resentment on Feyre’s behalf for what happened when the sisters were young. And despite what happened with the human queens, despite what Nesta did during the War, despite what she did for Feyre and Nyx, that tension has never quite dissipated, that contempt is still there.

“If you were really sorry, why didn’t you go back for her?” Cassian continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “After you got Mor back to Velaris, why didn’t you go back?”

Rhys sighs as if this whole conversation is exhausting. “I just told you. My magic was depleted by winnowing that far, and they had ash arrows. I couldn’t risk it.”

“But you could risk Nesta, right?”

Cassian can feel his disbelief at this whole situation quickly morphing into anger. He can feel the heat of it just beneath his skin where it blazes through his veins. The beast deep within his soul thrashes against its restraints, hackles raised at the idea of any harm coming to Nesta. That rage burns and roars as it twists in dark, crackling tendrils in his chest. It urges him to fight, to raze the whole world to the ground until the debt is paid, until all of Prythian understands the mistake of risking the Lord of Bloodshed’s mate.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” Rhys continues, still using that too calm voice. “You know that. Nesta understood the mission, the importance.”

“Don’t you dare!” Cassian snaps, stepping forward again until he and Rhys are toe to toe, glowering down at him. “Don’t you dare speak of her when you left her to die.”

“Calm down,” Rhys speaks slowly, violet eyes flickering in warning.

“Are you fucking kidding me? What if it was Feyre? What if I left Feyre in the middle of an ambush surrounded by ash arrows? What if I left your mate for dead?”

“Don’t.”

The low tone of Rhys’s voice lets Cassian know he’s hit his mark. That magic and darkness presses a little bit harder, those violet eyes turning cold, clearly unimpressed with the underlying threat toward his mate. Cassian almost wants to laugh hysterically, seeing his own feelings mirrored back to him. It’s a sickening type of vindication.

“That’s the difference, isn’t it?” Cassian continues to drawl, not backing down, the red of his siphons flickering in time with Rhys’s own magic. “I would risk it for Feyre. I would go back for her because I know how much she means to you, but you don’t care. You’ve never forgiven Nesta, not really, and now, you finally got the chance to wash your hands clean of her.”

“Cassian—”

“Where?” Cassian interrupts, taking a step back finally and adjusting the straps of his leathers and preparing for a long flight. “Give me the coordinates. I’ll go get Nesta myself.”

Cassian side-steps around Rhys and heads for the stairs, but Rhys is hot on his heels. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you fly all the way to the mortal lands and potentially walk head first into an attack.”

“Try and stop me,” Cassian dares, whirling around with a snarl of warning. “Being mated and a father has made you soft, Rhysand. Do you really think you could take me?”

The temperature in the room starts to drop, Cassian’s siphons flaring brighter in response as magic scrapes along his spine. He’s been itching for a fight since the moment he stepped through the doors, instincts gnawing at his every nerve ending and riding him hard until his hands are clenching into fists, his fingers twitching with the urge to drive into Rhys’s face.

But he doesn’t have time for this.

Nesta is gods know where in the mortal lands, in the Mother knows what state, and he needs to get to her. He waited five hundred years for her. Five hundred years to hold her. Five hundred years to love her. And he’ll be damned if he loses her now. Damned if he fails her again. Damned if he doesn’t save her when he wasn’t there to protect her in the first place.

He turns back around and storms down the stairs, striding toward the door without looking back. His blood has already started to thunder again, that same beat of Nesta Nesta Nesta as he stretches his wings to warm them up.

“Cassian, stop,” Rhys calls after him, but Cassian merely rolls his eyes. “I am ordering you as your High Lord.”

Cassian can feel the magic of the order as it slinks across his skin, taste it on the back of his tongue, but he’s quick to shake it off with a scoff, yanking open the front door. “Fuck off.”

“You step out that door, you won’t be welcome back in this Court.”

Cassian turns over his shoulder, settling Rhys with a deathly cold look. “Good luck finding a new General then.”

Rhys looks genuinely taken aback by that, blinking a few times in surprise. “You’d really throw away everything you’ve worked so hard for? Everything you’ve ever wanted?”

“Nesta is everything I’ve ever wanted. And you knew that. And you still—” Cassian can’t choke the word out, can’t fathom a world where Nesta, his Nesta, his beautiful, smart, amazing mate is gone.

A world where Rhys killed her.

With one last shake of his head, Cassian steps out of the River House and onto the streets of Velaris, the door slamming behind him. It feels strange and wrong to step onto these streets knowing Nesta isn’t here. Knowing that her quiet steps won’t fill the bookshop in the Rainbow. Knowing that her soft laughter won’t fill her favorite bakery by the river. That fear from before grips Cassian tight enough that his steps almost stumble, but he stretches his wings out wide behind him nonetheless, siphons flaring in anticipation.

He’s going to get her back. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

—

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