#is this why they cant conceive do you think

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

13/15 is fun right bc he needs to be touched so so so bad bc she basically touch starved herself to death and she neeeeeeeeeeeds his body she Needs his body but no way in a million years do they have the framework to interpret that need as what it is so they assume it's sexual, right? it's gotta be. i need to be inside you bc i need to be touched bc im my own type bc the trust issues are Dire so just fuck me until ive forgotten im a person or remembered how to be one. right?

until one day like weeks months way longer than it should be into this self-destructive self-actualisation self-care routine theyre lying on the floor of the console room catching their breath and she goes "do you think.....do you think pythia's curse is still in effect or is this gonna be a problem"

and hes like "fuck! susan"

[piosplayhouse]

love it when people are so slippery slope pilled that under every discourse about censorship someone will inevitably go "ok but what if someone made birth of a nation 2 and reestablished the kkk" when it could not be more obvious that the original poster's statement was just like. About a teenager's underage bakudeku fic or something

[skitskatdacat63]

Feels weirdly fucked up when you're majorly putting yourself out there by doing smth scary and then someone younger than you is also doing it, like hey what the hell man 😭 why do you have your shit figured out already

[velarisdusk]

Meant to Stand

Cassian x Reader

summary: Rhysand has one request: restore a half-collapsed cabin into something fit for veteran Illyrians. The catch? You'll be doing it with Cassian—and the two of you haven't truly spoken since that mission four years ago. word count: 15.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, borderline dub-con, rough sex, verbal degradation, praise, fingering, bondage, edging, orgasm denial, piv, no condom and no pulling out (me back on my bullshit :P) sexism/misogyny (minor characters), threat of violence (non-graphic, knives mentioned), injury (to the head, blood), explicit language ] author's note: please note that all sexual content is ultimately consensual, though the dynamic leans aggressive/intense. this is an enemies to lovers after all >:) ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ warrior's draught infused with a drop of heartstring enhanced with echo leaves stirred thank you for the request @avidromancereader!! your ask is gone from my inbox and i cant find your acc but i hope you'll somehow see this anyway. mwah <33

He had to be joking.

Rhysand leaned casually against the edge of his desk, as if this were no different from any other meeting, as if he hadn’t just unleashed the single most insufferable idea ever conceived within the borders of this Court. His arms folded across his chest, violet eyes deceptively calm, holding a polite smile that barely masked something sharp underneath. If he said, “I think this could be good for you two” one more time, you were certain you’d find something heavy nearby to throw at him.

Cassian stood to your left, a low, humorless huff escaping him—equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement. You refused to meet his gaze; looking at him risked egging him on.

“Say it again,” you demanded, keeping your voice steady, trying to rein in the irritation that prickled at your skin. “Just so I know I heard you right.”

Rhys’s smile didn’t falter. “The two of you are going to restore an old Illyrian safehouse. It’s been abandoned for decades—north of Windhaven, higher up into the mountain range. Remote, battered by weather, half-collapsed.”

You blinked, waiting.

“And you want us to fix it.”

“I want you to rebuild it,” he said, voice smooth and unyielding, like riverstone polished by relentless currents. “From the ground up, if necessary.”

You stared at him. 

He pressed on, as if he hadn’t just sentenced you both to weeks locked away in isolation with nothing but rotting timber and cold stone. “It’s more than just a safehouse. I want it to be a retreat—a sanctuary where soldiers can recover. After missions. After war. Somewhere quiet. Off-grid, unreachable, but safe. Yours will be the first. If it works, we’ll build more.”

Your eyes flickered to Cassian.

His jaw twitched—the faintest flicker of muscle betraying his calm.

“A healing retreat,” you repeated, your voice flat, tasting disbelief.

Rhys nodded once.

“In the middle of nowhere.”

Another nod.

“For Illyrian soldiers.”

Smile. Nod.

You let out a breath through your nose—a sharp, bitter exhale. “What the fuck did we do to deserve this?”

Rhysand laughed, a rich sound that held a hint of something unrepentant. “Consider it a sign of my deepest trust.”

From beside you, Cassian muttered under his breath, voice low and dark, “Sounds more like a punishment to me.”

Your eyes flicked briefly to him—he looked as irritated as you felt, but he masked it with practiced ease, folding his broad arms across his chest, a silent challenge. Motherfucker.

You turned back to Rhys.

“Why us?”

Rhys’s smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Because no one else has your combined skill set. And because I think it would do you good to spend some time—”

“If you say ‘together,’” you cut him off, voice low and deadly serious, “I swear on the Mother, I’ll walk out of this room and straight off the edge of the Sidra.”

Cassian snorted.

You whipped your gaze to him. “This isn’t funny.”

He shrugged with maddening nonchalance. “I didn’t say it was.”

But that smug glint in his eye—the one he’d carried the whole way back from that disastrous mission four years ago—the one where everything went sideways and somehow you had been the one Rhys lectured afterward—was back.

“Look,” Rhys said, voice dipping to something dangerously calm, “the house matters. It served as a midwinter refuge for mountain patrols, and I want it operational again. You’ll have all the supplies you need. Space to work. And if you’re smart, you’ll finish before the first frost.”

Cassian drawled, “And if we’re not smart?”

Rhys’s smile brightened, teeth flashing. “Then you’ll be cold.”

You glanced down at the map unfurled before you—tiny inked lines snaking through jagged peaks like veins. The cottage was just a speck, swallowed whole by towering mountains, tucked so deep into the range it might as well be a secret.

It was madness. You should have said no.

But Cassian straightened beside you, jaw set with stubborn resolve. He wasn’t backing down.

So neither would you.

“Fine,” you said, clipped and sharp.

Cassian echoed it with a curt nod. “Fine.”

Rhys clapped his hands once, far too pleased with himself. “Excellent.”

You bit back the urge to slam your fist into the desk.

That had been this morning.

Now, hours later, your boots crunched against the brittle snow crust that had settled thick inside what little remained of the front room. Your fingers were numb, clenching the rusted shovel you’d found half-buried in a corner, its handle rough and cold beneath your gloves. Rhys had winnowed you straight to the site just after dawn, telling you Cassian would fly in alone. Of course he had.

Rhys hadn’t said much before whisking you here—only the name of the family you’d be staying with. Good, solid folk from Windhaven, kind in a way that felt like the earth itself. Their eldest had built his own forge. The memory flickered briefly, warm as a candle’s flame, until you turned and saw the house.

Calling it a house felt generous.

Half the roof had collapsed, snow having crept inside through years of neglect and storms. One wall sagged inward, as if defeated by its own weight, barely holding on. The front door hung crooked on a single rusty hinge, creaking faintly in the biting wind. Inside, rot and ruin claimed everything—the acrid smell of damp wood and cold ash clung to your nostrils as you stepped over the threshold.

You’d expected this would be bad. It was worse.

This place was not meant to stand.

But you got to work.

By the time the sun clawed its way above the ridgeline, you’d cleared two rooms of snow, shoulders aching, fingers stinging despite the thick gloves. Your muscles protested with every shovelful of debris, your frustration growing heavier than the weight you hauled.

The wind whispered and howled through shattered beams. The house groaned under the assault of time and weather. And still, no sign of Cassian.

When his boots finally crunched through the snow behind you, the sky was already washed bright with late morning sun. You were midway through yanking a broken rafter free from what had once been a bedroom.

“Well,” he said, voice maddeningly bright, “at least it’s got character.”

You spun, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”

Cassian glanced around, hands on hips, wings flaring briefly as he took in the wreckage. “No. I’m honestly impressed it’s still standing.”

“I’ve been here for hours.”

“I told Rhys I’d fly. You chose the early shift.”

You dropped the rafter with a satisfying thunk. “You’re late.”

He shrugged. “You started without me.”

And just like that, the bickering began—fast and fierce. Over the beams’ state. The rot creeping through the floors. Who got which tools. Where to start first—though, as you reminded him more than once, you were already well underway.

“You cannot patch a roof with brute force, Cassian.”

“Brute force’s been good to me for five hundred years.”

“Not on a roof.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t lift the roof.”

You came dangerously close to hurling a hammer at his head at that. Why would you want to? Why would you even need to?

Eventually, grudgingly, a plan took shape.

The supplies Rhys had sent arrived: thick lumber, nails, shingles, canvas tarps. Throughout the day, women from Windhaven appeared with baskets of food and tightly wrapped bundles of dried herbs and cloth, leaving as quietly as they came—always with a knowing glance. One winked when she handed you a loaf of bread.

You didn’t ask questions.

Cassian took to the high work, wings carrying him effortlessly to the eaves and upper beams. You handled the details—the door frames, window fittings, and cuts requiring more precision than power. You worked in parallel, never quite together.

Outside, the wind sharpened, prying at battered walls as if intent on tearing the house apart for good.

Hours later, you left the site, the day’s labor etched into your muscles and mood. The chill lingered, stubborn as ever, even when you reached the small home where you would stay.

Illyrian, of course—rough-hewn in both manner and build, but not unkind.

Harran, the father, stood tall and broad-shouldered, coal-dark hair threaded with silver, a jagged scar slicing down his jaw. His eyes were sharp but not cruel, and he moved like a man who’d seen enough battle to stop pretending it glorified anything.

His mate, Vesa, was smaller and wiry, her clipped wings folded tight behind her. Her gaze was steady and clear—missed nothing, endured everything. Her hands, scarred and chapped, were always busy—kneading dough, mending clothes, smoothing a child’s hair.

Their sons, Miran and Corven, were nearly Cassian’s height—broad-shouldered and muscular from long hours training in the mountains. Miran, the older, carried himself with a practiced swagger; Corven was never far behind, eager to match his brother’s pace. They elbowed and argued, squabbled over the first bowl of stew, and ignored you with the effortless indifference only Illyrian boys could master.

Their daughter, Nali, was younger—ten, maybe twelve—difficult to tell beneath soot-smudged skin and fraying braids. Her wings were untouched, not yet clipped. At first, she watched you warily—quiet, observant—before offering a tentative smile and a crust of bread, weighing you carefully as if deciding whether you were threat or fleeting stranger. When she spoke, her bluntness mirrored your own too closely to be coincidence.

Vesa met you at the door with a smile and warm hands. Inside, the hearth roared like a promise of safety. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the room, weaving through the low murmur of quiet conversation. 

You ate without much thought, muscles loosening with each bite as the cold finally released its grip.

Later, wrapped in thick woolen blankets lent by Nali, you lay awake, the mountain wind howling outside like a mourning song, the creak of old wood and scrape of ice against stone your only companions.

Your mind drifted—as it always did after too many hours spent circling Cassian’s orbit—back to that day. The day everything twisted between you.

You could still hear the shouted orders, feel the crushing weight of every mistake like shards of splintering wood pressing down, drowning you.

It hadn’t been just the mission going sideways.

It was everything that followed—the flicker of  grudging respect, the sharp words, the cold distance. The silent apologies neither of you dared voice. 

You closed your eyes and let the wind howl its grief through the mountains, the sound folding over you like a threadbare lullaby. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A week had passed. Probably. You’d stopped counting somewhere around day four, when your fingers went numb midway through hammering a frost-stiffened plank and you’d seriously considered torching the entire cottage just to make a point.

Still—progress. Measurable, even. The worst of the rot had been cleared. Floorboards in the front room were sanded and patched. Rafters, once bowed and brittle, had been reinforced with new timber. Slowly, stubbornly, the bones of the house had begun to realign themselves beneath the weight of your shared labor.

Cassian had even rehung the front door—though not without three stripped hinges, several increasingly irrational arguments, and one wholly gratuitous flex of his biceps.

The worst part of it all? The hike.

And gods, it seemed to get steeper with each passing day.

Rhys had dropped you directly at the doorstep when he first winnowed you in, but ever since then, the journey from the foothills to the cottage had to be done on foot—an hour of merciless incline, uneven footing, and air thinned just enough to make your lungs burn.

Every morning, without fail, somewhere near the quarter mark, you’d hear it: the slow, rhythmic thud of wings overhead.

You didn’t know where Cassian spent his nights, but there he was each dawn, cutting a high path across the ridgeline like a shadow peeled from the rock. He never looked down. Never hovered. Never taunted. For that small mercy, you were grateful.

And yet—

Some traitorous part of you, breathless and aching and cold, found itself wishing—just once—that he’d stop. Offer to carry you the rest of the way. Just once.

The moment the thought formed, you slapped yourself in the face with your own glove.

You would rather collapse in the snow than ask. You were not that desperate. 

Today’s task: one of the larger ceiling beams had to be repositioned before the rest of the support frame could go in. It was easily twice your weight and stubborn as hell, and you knew without even trying that getting it in place would be a losing battle. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t try though. It was going to be a long day. 

You adjusted your grip on the timber. Morning frost still clung to the surface, and the grain bit into your palms like it could sense the tremor in your muscles.

Through the ragged hole where a window would eventually sit, you caught sight of Cassian outside. 

He’d hauled half the new roofing up the slope before sunrise. Now he was anchoring the lean-to’s frame—bracing a support beam with one hand, hammering with the other.

Snow crunched beneath his boots each time he shifted. His breath curled silver in the cold. The steady rhythm of nails driving into wood echoed through the half-finished walls, punctuated by the occasional muttered curse when one bent wrong.

It was the kind of work that demanded his full attention—

—which meant, unfortunately, that your job for the moment was this stubborn, gods-damned beam.

You turned back to it with a sigh. Dragged the step ladder from the corner. Braced it against what remained of the western wall. Climbed slowly, joints stiff from the cold, from the climb, from a week’s worth of bruises you hadn’t bothered to tally.

One hand on the beam. One on the top rung.

You pushed.

Nothing. 

You shifted angles. Shoved again, jaw locked tight.

Still nothing.

Your breath scraped in and out like it had to fight for space.

You braced your shoulder into the timber, legs straining. Something groaned—either the ladder or your spine—but the beam didn’t move. Or maybe it did. A hair. A tremble. Enough to fool yourself.

Your vision sparked at the edges.

Then your boot slipped.

Your shoulder clipped the top rung, too slow to catch yourself—

—and your head struck the beam, hard, a sudden, blinding thunk.

The world pitched.

Then the floor rose to meet your spine.

A flare of white. Then nothing at all.

Something tugged at you eventually. 

Light, at first. Insistent. 

—light, insistent. 

Then sound—distant, distorted, like your name being called through stone. A scraping wind. The dull, percussive drum of your pulse hammering behind your eyes.

You blinked.

The world listed sideways. Skewed edges. Sky, timber, a shadow leaning over you. It moved—broad shoulders, dark hair—and resolved, slowly, into a face much too close to yours.

Cassian.

His palms framed your face, steady and warm, anchoring you like you might float off otherwise. There was tension in his jaw, a furrow carved deep between his brows. He looked—

Panicked.

Why?

You blinked again. Tried to speak. Nothing emerged.

His thumb passed gently along your cheekbone. You felt it. That, at least, reached you.

Then the pain came.

Blinding. Sudden.

The throb behind your eyes flared white-hot, and you could only gasp, curling reflexively as the world slammed back into place—floorboards cold against your spine, rough beneath your coat.

Cassian’s voice cut through the fog. “Hey. Look at me.” Firm. Quiet. “You’re okay. You hit your head, but you’re okay.”

But his tone didn’t sound certain.

You tried to sit up. A jolt of pain arced down your neck like a whip. Cassian’s hand rose without thought—light on your shoulder, more brace than barrier.

“I’m fine,” you rasped. The lie felt hollow in your throat. You pressed your hand to your temple, willing the room to steady. “Just slipped.”

“You fell off a ladder,” he said tightly, crouching beside you. “You could’ve cracked your gods-damned skull. What were you even doing?”

He was too close. Too warm. He smelled like cedar dust and sweat and early morning frost—and his hands, even in their urgency, remained heartbreakingly gentle.

Steady.

He was always so steady. You hated him for it.

“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, shoving weakly at his shoulder. It was like pushing a boulder.

He didn’t budge. Just exhaled, slow and measured, as if dragging the breath up from somewhere deep in his chest. Then, softer, “You’re bleeding. Let me help you.”

You should’ve refused.

Should’ve snapped something sharp and final.

But your head throbbed like it was caught in a smith’s vice, and the floor kept tilting beneath you in queasy waves, and your knees—gods, your knees were shaking now.

So when he eased you upright, guided you carefully toward the nearest wall, you didn’t fight it.

Cassian knelt in front of you again, eyes sweeping over you with a battle-hardened thoroughness that made your skin crawl. You tried to turn your face away—

—but his fingers found your chin. Gentle. Unmoving.

“Hold still.”

You glared. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He angled your face toward the light, jaw tightening at the sight of the gash above your brow. The blood had begun to clot, streaking thickly through your lashes. You didn’t need to see it to know the damage—his expression told you enough.

Then his hand shifted. Slid into your hair. Fingers careful, parting through tangles to find the source of the swelling.

You flinched.

He stilled. “Didn’t crack it,” he murmured. “But you’re lucky.”

“Or stubborn.”

A soft huff—barely a sound. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He checked the rest of you with a soldier’s precision—rolling your sleeve to inspect the elbow that had caught your fall, then skimming his hand down your leg, testing the bend of your knee, the give of your ankle. Efficient. Clinical. Detached.

It should’ve felt impersonal.

And yet—

You felt heat creeping beneath your skin all the same.

Cassian leaned back on his heels. “Rhys sent a basic first aid kit up with the supply run. I saw it in one of the crates—we’ll see how basic it is.”

You didn’t argue. Just watched him cross the half-finished room, boots thudding over the creaking floorboards, shadows shifting as he rifled through the stacked crates by the door. Tools clinked faintly nearby. Somewhere outside, the mountain wind threaded through the empty window frames, thin and cold and constant.

You used the moment to gather yourself. To breathe through the pounding behind your eyes, to will the heat still simmering in your chest to settle.

Gods, you hated this.

Hated how easily he’d helped you.

How careful he’d been.

How easy it had been to let him.

Because Cassian was infuriating. Arrogant. Impossible. But when the bluster dropped and left behind only steady hands, a tight mouth, and that quiet concern in his eyes—it made it harder to hold on to the anger you’d spent so long cultivating.

And you needed that anger. It was safer than remembering how it used to be between you. Safer than wondering if he remembered it, too. Safer than asking yourself why it still mattered.

He returned a minute later with a black canvas case and sank back to his knees in front of you. Snapped it open. Inside: a roll of gauze, antiseptic, a clean cloth.

“This’ll sting,” he warned.

You tipped your chin up. “Do your worst.”

He gave you a look. Then, with maddening gentleness, dabbed at the cut above your brow.

The antiseptic bit down sharp and cold and mean. You flinched before you could stop yourself, the muscles in your face twitching involuntarily.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

You let out a breath of a laugh, brittle and dry. “You apologizing now?”

He didn’t bite. Just kept working—focused, silent.

So you clenched your jaw and let him.

There was care in it. Not the loud, performative kind—but the careful press of cloth, the precise wrap of gauze. Intentional. Quiet. It made your skin itch.

He tore the strip of bandage with his teeth, wrapped your head in neat spirals. Tight, but not too tight.

“You’re not setting a bone,” you muttered. “Ease up.”

“Don’t pass out on me again and I’ll consider it.”

You rolled your eyes. Instantly regretted it as the motion sent another pulse of pain lancing through your skull.

When the bandage was finally in place, he leaned back, scanning you again—like he didn’t quite trust you not to have hidden some other injury just to spite him.

“You hit the back of your head too,” he said, voice low. “Hard. You’ll need to watch for symptoms.”

“No shit,” you muttered. “Maybe if someone had warned me about altitude and exertion and, I don’t know, lifting beams clearly designed by a drunk sadist—”

“I did,” he cut in flatly. “Three days ago. You told me to, and I quote, ‘shove it.’”

That… sounded like you.

“Still stands,” you grumbled.

Cassian exhaled through his nose, bracing his forearms on his knees as he studied you. Just studied—no irritation, no smirk, no retort.

Just that look.

You shifted under the weight of it. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Only said, “You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull open.”

You scoffed. “You’d love that. One less thing to trip over in this place.”

A quiet snort escaped him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

You hesitated. Then, grudgingly: “Thanks.”

It burned in your mouth. Bitter as iron.

Cassian stood. Brushed his palms off on his pants like he couldn’t quite figure out what else to do with them.

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

You wouldn’t. Gods, you wouldn’t.

You turned your back before he could say anything else, jaw tight against the ache behind your eyes.

Letting him take care of you had been bad enough.

Letting him see it? That was worse.

Letting it mean something?

Unforgivable.

So you wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

You told yourself that was enough.

The work after that resumed without ceremony. No acknowledgment. No mention of the moment you’d let him bandage your face like it hadn’t cost you something. Neither of you spoke about that day.

You didn’t speak much at all.

Days blurred into weeks, thick with sawdust and silence. The roof had gone up two days after your fall, the outer walls not long after that, and the gash on your brow healed without much fuss. One morning, you’d found Cassian half-folded in the crawl space, swearing so colorfully at a snapped floorboard that a laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

He froze.

Eyes narrowing like a wolf catching the sound of prey rustling just beyond reach.

By the time you registered your mistake, it was too late—he’d hurled a clump of wet moss the size of a grapefruit directly at your chest.

You yelped.

He smirked.

And as if the gods demanded balance, he promptly knocked his head against a support beam trying to make a smug exit.

You went back to work, muttering something like, “Idiots shouldn’t be trusted with sharp tools.”

Cassian had gone quiet behind you. For a second, you braced for a retort.

But none came.

Just a grunt. And the steady rhythm of hammering resumed.

And so it went: progress, distance, and the occasional detour into something that almost looked like familiarity—until one of you noticed. And then it was gone again.

One such moment arrived today.

The structure was solid now—weather-tight, insulated, the bones of a real home. Furnishing had begun, thanks in large part to the villagers who insisted on treating the whole project like public entertainment. Two Illyrian females—names you never caught—arrived this morning with a pair of mismatched nightstands and a little girl no older than five, who darted into the house without hesitation.

Cassian was crouched by the hearth, checking the chimney seal, when she barreled into him like a pint-sized battering ram.

He caught her instinctively. Let out a startled grunt that softened into a laugh as she blinked up at him and launched into a breathless story involving her kitten, a bucket, and something about soup.

You stood just inside the doorway, mostly hidden by the frame.

He listened—actually listened. One elbow propped on his knee, expression intent, nodding at all the right moments. When she jabbed a finger at the uneven stonework and declared it crooked, he didn’t correct her. Didn’t scoff. Just flicked a glance at the hearth and said, “Y’know what? You might be right.”

She giggled. He tossed her a wink like they’d sealed some sacred pact.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Because you’d forgotten this version of him.

The one who softened.

The one whose laugh, when it came easy, was low and warm and kind.

The one who didn’t bark or posture or carry every moment like a war waiting to be lost.

You’d forgotten.

And gods help you—

You liked it.

You turned away before you could fall any further, before Cassian caught the way you’d been watching.

Just in time, too—the crunch of boots on the path announced more arrivals. The two eldest sons of the Windhaven woman you were boarding with came into view, hauling a bedframe between them with the mattress already strapped on top. They moved in quiet sync, the way people do when the task is old and the rhythm familiar.

One of the females was chasing down the excitable little girl, who waved goodbye to Cassian with such enthusiasm she nearly toppled over. Her mother chuckled and called out, “Thank you both for building this. It’s a gift to see young love doing something useful.”

Your head snapped around. “We’re not—”

“Nope,” Cassian said at the same time, flat and certain. “Definitely not.”

The female just winked at her friend like she didn’t believe a word of it, and started down the path without looking back.

Then the Windhaven boys reached you.

“Brought the bed from the house,” Miran said, glancing at you, then turning squarely to Cassian. “Our mother said you’d need it sooner or later.”

“That was generous,” Cassian replied, stepping forward with easy authority. “Thanks for carrying it all the way up.”

Corven, with a permanent sneer stitched into his face, let out a low snort. His wings twitched like he was spoiling for something. “Didn’t realize you were playing house,” he said, eyes raking over the structure. “Figured you’d be back in Windhaven by now.”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice cool and steady.

Neither of them looked at you.

Corven’s mouth curled. “Could’ve guessed you’d let her boss you around,” he said to Cassian. “They get mouthy when they think they’re helping.”

Cassian didn’t move. Not visibly. But his entire frame shifted—still, suddenly, as if something had locked in place. You felt it before you saw it.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you said, stepping forward, sharp as a blade unsheathed. “I don’t need a male’s permission to speak, and I sure as hell don’t need one to lift a godsdamned beam.”

Corven scoffed and stepped in close—too close—his breath laced with arrogance. “Just surprised a fae female thinks she belongs up here,” he said. “Thought your kind liked to stay soft.”

You smiled—slow, cold. The kind of smile that made steel ring when drawn. “Careful. You’re one insult away from me showing you just how soft your skull is.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes.

“Mouthy,” he muttered, “for someone who needs a male to keep her upright.”

“Try saying that again while I’m holding a hammer,” you said, stepping toward him until your chests nearly brushed. You didn’t blink.

To your left, Miran leaned toward Cassian and muttered, “She always like this? Or just when she’s bleeding for attention?”

Cassian turned his head toward him. Slowly. Controlled. “You wanna try that again?”

Miran’s lip curled. “Oh? Didn’t think bastards got this protective. Especially over a fae bitch who doesn’t know her place.”

The breath left your body like a snapped string.

Cassian didn’t yell. Didn’t raise a hand.

His voice dropped, low and lethal: “Didn’t think Windhaven bred males dumb enough to say that to my face.”

Corven snorted, not quite brave enough to meet Cassian’s eyes. His gaze slid back to you, crawling over your frame with open disdain. “Bet you don’t even carry your own weight.”

Your jaw tightened. “I carry more than you can lift, you smug little—”

“Real bold, with your guard dog here.” He leaned in, that oily smile spreading again. “Without him, you wouldn’t be mouthing off at all. We’d teach you some manners real fast.”

He took a step closer. That was his mistake.

Cassian moved—but you were faster.

The dagger came free from your thigh holster in one clean motion, your other hand fisting the collar of his leather tunic and dragging him forward. The blade pressed low beneath his ribs, gleaming like a promise.

“Try me,” you said, voice a whisper laced with venom. You saw the moment the smirk fell away, replaced by startled calculation. His hands lifted slightly—not surrender, just instinct.

Behind you, Cassian’s voice sliced through the air like flint on steel.

“She doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles.”

You didn’t take your eyes off Corven, not even as Cassian’s next words landed like a death sentence.

“She outranks both of you. And if I hear one more breath out of you, I’ll rip your tongues out and send them back to your father.”

Silence crashed around you, thick and absolute.

Then:

“Leave the bed,” Cassian said, voice now a command, no longer a warning. “Thank your mother for us. And get the fuck out.”

Miran and Corven exchanged a look—wings flaring, teeth grit, pride wounded but not enough to be suicidal. They walked off a few paces, boots crunching against packed snow, dirt kicking up as they launched into the sky.

Graceless. Rattled.

Not nearly as fearless as they’d like to believe.

You sheathed your blade in one smooth, practiced motion. Your pulse was a war drum beneath your skin, steady only because you willed it to be.

Cassian hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the empty air where they’d stood, jaw tight, chest rising with quiet fury.

And when he turned to you—

That fire was still in his eyes. But something else had joined it.

Something softer. Something that looked a hell of a lot like concern.

Like he wanted to ask if you were all right.

You didn’t give him the chance—refusing to be the object of that quiet, pitying gaze. 

“So,” you said briskly, nodding toward the bedframe, “we figuring out how to get that thing through the door, or do we throw out the door and build a bigger one?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You tried not to look at him.

Really—you did.

But fuck, the way he moved.

His shirt clung to the line of his back, damp from the effort of dragging the mattress through the door frame. Broad shoulders bunching beneath worn cotton. Wings flaring once for balance, then tucking in with quiet control. Forearms flexing with each pivot, veins rising with the strain.

You didn’t look.

Not when he crouched to angle the frame.

Not when his shirt rode up and exposed a sliver of golden-brown skin.

Not when his back curved and a few strands of his hair came loose—soft, sweat-dampened waves falling just past his jaw.

“Gonna help,” he grunted, “or just supervise?”

You blinked. “I’m thinking about letting the bed crush you, actually.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound low and unbothered. “Touching.”

Still, you helped angle the frame through the narrow hallway, side-eyeing him the whole way because—Cauldron boil you—how the hell had you managed to ignore how obnoxiously ripped he was for so long?

You told yourself it was the work. All that lumber hauling. All that swinging of tools and lifting of beams and moving of furniture. You were tired. You weren’t thinking straight. 

The house had begun to feel… lived in.

The hearth had been stoned and sealed days ago. Mismatched chairs ringed a table you’d argued about positioning—too close to the window, he’d insisted. They hadn’t collapsed yet. Cassian had cobbled together bookshelves from spare planks, and someone had donated a carved bench with mountain birds etched into the backrest. The bed—this godsdamned bed—had been the last missing piece.

You’d kept your head down. Stayed busy. Swept corners. Shifted furniture. Tucked away the worst of the dust. Which was maybe why you didn’t notice the change in the air.

Not until the front door shook in its frame.

Cassian froze mid-step, one hand still braced on the bookshelf. His head lifted slightly. Wings adjusted.

Then the door rattled again—louder this time. A gust slid between the gaps, whistling high and sharp. The kind of wind that didn’t blow past, but through.

Cassian moved in three long strides, shouldering up to the door. His hand landed flat on the wood as he reached for the handle. You followed without thinking, stepping beside him just as he threw it open.

The door fought back.

Cassian grunted, leaning his weight into it. The hinges groaned. And then—

The wind hit.

A wall of it, like something with intent. It punched through the gap, ice slicing across your legs, snow curling around your boots and into the room. It howled in the chimney, screamed across the floorboards, clawed for your faces with invisible fingers.

Beyond the threshold, the world had vanished. The trees, gone. The path, buried. Snow fell in slanted sheets, driven sideways by the gale. It shimmered in the fading light, rippling like water, blinding and endless.

Cassian planted a forearm against the frame to keep the door from flying wide. His hair whipped loose behind him. His wings shuddered once before clamping tight to his back.

You pressed a shoulder beside his, blinking into the storm.

He didn’t shout—just said it low, over the wind.

“We’re not making it back to Windhaven tonight.”

You didn’t argue.

By the time Cassian managed to wrench the door shut again, the wind nearly took him with it. He staggered a step, braced a hand to the frame, and threw the bolt into place with a sharp thunk. His breath gusted out, chest rising hard beneath his soaked shirt.

Snow clung to you both in fine, glittering dust. Your boots were slick, pants damp at the hem. The cold had teeth now—sinking straight through the seams of your clothes.

Cassian blew out a low whistle. “And we didn’t bring in any dry firewood.”

You followed his glance to the hearth. The pile inside was pitiful. Damp, half-frozen. There might be enough to keep the coals breathing till morning—but only if you didn’t mind going numb first.

Then his gaze flicked toward the bed.

You beat him to it. “No.”

He didn’t even bother to smirk. Just reached for his belt.

“It’s not like I planned this,” he muttered, leather whispering through loops as he tugged it free.

The leather whispered through the loops, his movements unhurried as he pulled it free—sternly, deliberately. Your eyes followed the movement—against your better judgement. 

You forced yourself to look elsewhere. The bed. Then the floor. Then him.

“I’ll take the rug,” you said, already striding toward the folded throw blanket on the armchair. “The floor’s fine.”

Something soft slammed into your face.

You blinked. Staggered back a step. The pillow hit your chest and dropped. You caught it before it bounced to the floor.

“Are you serious?”

Cassian stood beside the bed, arms crossed. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m being considerate.”

He rolled his eyes. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, and the floor’s wooden—less forgiving than you think.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you, Cassian.”

“Oh, please,” he muttered, already tugging off his boots. “Like I’ve never seen you drool in your sleep before.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I do not—”

He collapsed backward onto the mattress with a theatrical groan, then patted the other side without looking at you. “Come on, princess. I won’t even steal the blanket.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You snore.”

“Only when I’m comfortable.”

“I’ll kick you.”

“Not if I kick you first.”

You stared at him. At the lazy sprawl of him across the quilt. At the wind outside battering the shutters like it wanted in. At the hearth that hadn’t been lit in hours.

You muttered a curse and undid your laces. Toed off your boots one at a time—each thud against the floor sharper than necessary. Then you crossed the room, grabbed the blanket—

—and dumped it directly on his face.

He made a low, amused sound, muffled beneath the weight. You climbed into the opposite side of the bed, stiffly, yanking the blanket back into place and tucking it to your chin like it was armor.

“Back-to-back,” you ordered, not turning around.

Cassian shifted, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Sure,” he said quietly. He was already facing away.

Silence settled.

The wind keened against the walls. Something moaned in the chimney—deep and hollow. You lay still, spine straight, every part of your body tight with tension.

Cassian breathed slow beside you.

You clenched your jaw. “And don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“It’s better than idiot,” he muttered. “And you wouldn’t like that either.”

“I didn’t like having a pillow thrown at my face.”

“Well, I didn’t like watching you try to martyr yourself onto the floor when we both know you’d be up every two hours with a stiff back.”

You rolled, just enough to glare at the back of his head. “Excuse me for trying not to make things weird.”

He turned too—slowly, deliberately—just his head at first. “Weird? You think I’m gonna roll over and hump your leg in my sleep or something?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I don’t know what you think I’d do,” he said flatly, “but it’s just a bed.”

“This isn’t just anything,” you snapped.

He shifted fully now, facing you across the narrow stretch of space. “Sleeping. In a bed. In the middle of a storm. That’s all this is.”

You sat up, braced on one elbow. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You’re acting like this is a massive deal.”

“Because it is.”

Your voice cut sharper than you meant. You looked at him—at the mess of him in the low firelight. Hair mussed. Jaw tight. Brow furrowed in that way that meant he was trying not to say something.

“I’m not like you,” you said quietly. “I don’t—”

You stopped. The words caught. Bitter against your tongue.

Cassian waited.

But you didn’t finish.

You just lay back down, hard and fast, curling the blanket tighter.

Neither of you spoke again for a long while.

The wind howled against the glass, the storm clawing at the corners of the house like it wanted to blow the walls down. And somewhere beneath it all, you could hear your heartbeat—steady, defiant, and too aware of the warmth at your back.

It was a long time before either of you slept.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was warm.

That was the first thing you registered—not the cold, not the wind or the stiff ache in your back. Just warmth. Heavy, steady, inescapable warmth pressed along every inch of you.

Then: weight.

An arm slung low around your waist. A hand curled loosely against your ribs. A thigh tucked behind yours. One of your calves caught beneath his. Your nose was pressed to something solid and hot. Your fingers rested on something that was very much not a pillow.

Your eyes opened.

Chest. Bare chest. Scarred and golden-brown, rising and falling beneath your palm.

You froze.

Cassian’s breath stirred your hair. Slow. Deep. His nose was buried in it. One wing tucked behind you like an extra blanket.

Oh no.

You didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the expanse of his skin beneath your hand—watched it rise and fall in sync with your own panicked breaths. You could feel him. Everywhere. His palm splayed warm against your stomach. Your knee hooked over his thigh. His mouth—soft, parted slightly—rested near your temple.

You definitely hadn’t fallen asleep like this. You’d been cold. Irritated. Back-to-back. You hadn’t even faced him.

So at some point—gods—one of you had moved. And the other hadn’t stopped it.

You launched yourself back like the mattress had caught fire.

Cassian jolted with a garbled grunt and flailed off the far side of the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

You scrambled upright, yanking the blanket to your chest.

He was on his feet in an instant—bare-chested, wide-eyed, a dagger gleaming in his hand.

Your heart leapt. Then your gaze dropped—quick. Shirt still on. Thank the Mother.

Cassian exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. Then, as if remembering himself, he slid the dagger away behind his back. Like it hadn’t just appeared there.

Neither of you spoke.

Your heart hammered. Not from fear. From—shit, you didn’t even know.

You sat frozen for a beat longer, eyes locked on the crumpled blanket. His warmth still clung to it. His scent, too—cypress and wind and something darker, smokier. Something that lingered.

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair. His eyes skittered everywhere but you. “That was—”

“Fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too bright. “That was fine. We were just cold.”

He nodded once. Sharp. “Cold.”

Silence stretched.

You glanced over. “Why is your shirt off?”

“I run hot,” he said flatly. “Probably pulled it off in my sleep.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

You shoved the blanket aside and scrubbed your hands down your pants like that might wipe away the imprint of him. “Next time, I’m taking the floor.”

Cassian turned to look at you. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes. “You really think there’s gonna be a next time?”

You narrowed yours. “If there is, I’m bringing a second blanket and a fucking knife.”

“Great,” he muttered, turning away. “More weapons in the bed.”

“I wasn’t the one sleeping like a drunk bear on top of me.”

“You could’ve shoved me off.”

“I did. This morning!”

“Maybe try earlier next time.”

“Oh, so sorry for not waking up halfway through the night to fight off your snuggling.”

His head whipped around. “Snuggling?”

You pointed at the bed. “There was limb placement, Cassian. There were positions.”

He gave a full-body shudder. “Ugh. Don’t say it like that.”

You crossed your arms.

Another long, brittle silence.

You looked toward the hearth.

Cassian sighed, fingers dragging down his face.

You didn’t look at each other again. Not right away. But the red burning in your face wasn’t from the cold anymore.

When you passed him his coat, wordless, he took it without meeting your eyes—tugging his sweater back on in jerky, too-quick movements. Still warm. Still tense.

Still close enough that the silence between you felt like the loudest thing in the room.

“I’m gonna see if anyone in Windhaven’s hoarding dry wood,” he muttered, sliding his arms through the sleeves. His fingers moved deftly, fastening the flaps around the slits for his wings, sealing in the warmth with practiced efficiency. “Or if the Mother feels like being generous today.”

He ducked out before you could reply. The wind slammed the door shut behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame.

It still howled out there—louder than it should’ve for morning—but it was nothing like the chaos of the night before. No hail clawing at the shutters. No lightning tearing the sky into pieces. Just the steady, petulant churn of deep winter. Relentless and gray.

You stood there a moment longer, the back of your neck prickling with leftover heat.

Then you wrung your fingers once. Shook out your arms. You needed to move. Needed something to do.

So you turned toward the crates by the wall and got to work—sorting what was left, piece by piece. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to stop remembering the shape of him against you.

You didn’t mean to think about him. Not really. But the silence made it easy—made it too easy to drift back. To the heat of his chest beneath your cheek. The slow, unthinking rise and fall of his breathing. You paused, fingers resting lightly on the rim of a crate, and let the memory slip in: the way he’d looked at Miran yesterday—like it had taken real effort not to slam the male into the ground.

For a moment, it had felt like before. Before the cold fronts and the sideways glances. Before the contests and snide remarks and the constant need to prove something. Just the two of you, standing on the same side of something.

It started with a dinner table in the Autumn Court.

Too long by design, more gold than wood. Candlelight flickered along its length, caught in the carved antlers of an elaborate candelabra. The courtiers sat like scattered pawns—fifteen or so in total, all finely dressed and finely bored, murmuring beneath the weight of centuries-old manners.

You sat midway down, spine straight, gown cold against your skin. Feyre had chosen it—a pale, silken thing with thin sleeves and a plunging back, elegant enough to flatter, sheer enough to distract. You hadn’t realized how drafty the hall would be.

At your side, Cassian looked like a portrait of restraint. Formal leathers, dark and freshly oiled, with his sword strapped visibly to his back. His wings were tucked tight, shoulders set broad and proud as he drank from a goblet of spiced wine and pretended to listen to the courtier beside him drone on about hunting dogs.

“You must try the roast boar,” the male was saying. “Caught just this morning in the Ashen Wood. Hardly kicked at all.”

Cassian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds like a real fighter.”

You bit back a laugh and reached for your wine, lifting it with a hand you hoped wasn’t trembling. Not from nerves—from focus. Anticipation. The third course was being cleared. That was the signal.

You caught his eye. He gave the barest nod.

This was the plan: you’d slip out once the desserts arrived. Half the court would be deep in wine by then, and the rest too distracted with flattery to notice your absence. Beron was supposed to be away in Rask, and with him gone, most of the staff had followed. The guards were thinned, the route clear. You knew it by heart. Every hallway, every turn. Every blind corner. 

You and Cassian were to retrieve a satchel of documents hidden behind a false wall in Beron’s private study. Documents that, according to Azriel’s source, outlined a network of Autumn spies embedded across the Night Court’s border villages. Names. Routes. Quiet, deliberate betrayal. Proof Rhys needed in hand before the next High Lord summit.

Then the doors opened.

The wind hit first—cold and sharp, a ripple of tension that passed down the table like a shadow. And then came Beron.

Tall. Imperious. A crown of flame wrought in iron above his head. He didn’t speak as he entered, didn’t even look at the table—just let the silence stretch, let his presence do the work of a hundred guards. His eyes landed on you. Then Cassian.

Cassian didn’t move, not at first. Just shifted a fraction, jaw tight. The smile gone.

You leaned in, lips barely moving. “We still have time.”

His eyes stayed fixed ahead. “No.”

“We can be in and out in two minutes.”

“There are guards in the hall.”

“I counted three. They’re patrolling. We can avoid them.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“It is,” you said sharply, eyes flicking to him. “We’re already here.”

He gave a slow exhale, eyes still forward. “Let it go.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just pushed your chair back, carefully, gracefully, as though all you needed was a breath of air. You adjusted your shawl, offered a smile to no one in particular, and laid a light hand on Cassian’s arm in passing.

He rose after a beat. Slower. Unwilling.

The hall outside the dining chamber was dim, lit only by amber sconces spaced far apart. The cold bit at your arms as you moved, your footsteps soundless on the marble floors.

“Turn back,” he said behind you.

“We’re already committed.”

“You’re committed. I’m cleaning up your stubborn—”

“You’re here because you agreed.”

“I agreed when Beron was in Rask.” His glare could’ve scorched the stone.

You didn’t answer. Just kept moving, your pace steady, gown brushing the floor. It felt heavier now. The tension thickened with every step. At the end of the corridor, you rounded the corner and slowed your breathing, ears pricked. No footsteps. No voices.

You reached the study door. Checked the sigil. Whispered the passphrase Azriel’d given you.

Cassian hovered just behind you, tense as a drawn bowstring.

The door clicked open.

The study was colder than the hall. Sparse, but grand—lined with dark, heavy shelves and a wide, weathered desk carved with swirling Autumn leaves. The false wall was behind it. You found it quickly, fingers slipping into the seam.

A panel swung free.

And there it was. A satchel. Worn leather, sealed with a Night Court clasp—proof that the spies were real. That the betrayal was already underway.

You had it in your hand.

Then—

“Oi!”

Cassian cursed. You turned in time to see him shove a guard into the wall, hard enough to crack plaster. Another guard’s horn lifted to his lips.

“Stop him—”

Steel flashed. Cassian cut the horn clean off before the sound could carry, but it was too late. The third guard was already gone, no doubt having sprinted for the main wing.

“Shit,” Cassian muttered. “We need to move.”

You bolted. The satchel hit your hip with every step. Shouts echoed behind you—more guards, more boots. You could feel them closing in.

“Go!” Cassian barked. “I’ll hold—”

You didn’t let him finish. Vaulted over the railing instead, your stilettos landing hard on the ledge two stories down. You were sure they snapped, but it didn’t matter when pain flared through your shoulder as you caught yourself. Something pulled—tore, and you couldn’t hold back the ragged cry that tore from your throat.

“(Y/N)!”

Below, the front grounds yawned wide. Gravel path. Stone basin. The koi pond Beron used to impress diplomats and scare off children.

The satchel had landed at the edge of it. Teetering near the water.

“I’m fine!” you shouted up, breath ragged, blood running warm down your arm. “Just jump—come on!”

Cassian landed beside you a second later. He didn’t hesitate. Just scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing and vaulted off the ledge. The world tilted. The wind roared past.

But then, the real fallout began. 

Back home, Rhys didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His silence in the River House study said enough. The satchel lay at his feet, soaked and half-caked in mud. Your side throbbed beneath a bloodstained bandage, and Cassian still had a smear of crimson dried along his neck—one you hadn’t noticed until the lamplight caught it. 

Rhys looked at the satchel. Then at you. Then at Cassian.

“What happened?”

You told him. So did Cassian.

Not all at once. Not over each other. Just… plainly. Like it was a report. Like it wasn’t still alive under your skin.

You hadn’t expected him to take sides. Not overtly. But when it ended, he absolutely had. Like the weight of it had settled heavier on your shoulders than Cassian’s. Like the mistake hadn’t been getting caught—it had been trying to finish the mission at all.

You squared your shoulders, tried to keep your voice from shaking. “I didn’t choose to get caught. I didn’t choose to mess this up.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “No. But you chose to keep going when you should’ve pulled back.” His arms crossed, his voice low. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

Your throat tightened. You pushed through it.

“I did what I had to,” you said, sharper now. “You think I wanted it to go this way?”

“Wanting and surviving aren’t the same thing,” he snapped. “You gambled with your life—and mine. And the lives of everyone in this court, now that they know what we were doing there. Don’t pretend you didn’t have a choice.”

The air turned brittle.

Rhys’s voice cut through it like a blade.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

The finality in his tone stopped you cold. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Get out.”

Your eyes darted to Cassian, expecting him to move first—to scoff or curse or storm off with the anger barely leashed behind his eyes.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Still as stone. Unreadable.

You opened your mouth—confused, half-prepared to follow his lead—

Then Rhys looked at you.

That calm. That cold, razor-precise calm that never meant fury. Just decision. Just finality.

“Go,” he whispered—quiet, deliberate. 

And you understood. Suddenly. Horribly.

He meant you.

You left without another word.

Cassian didn’t follow. Didn’t call after you. Didn’t come by the next day, or the one after that. When you passed each other in the House of Wind, your shoulder in a sling and your pride hanging by threads, he didn’t say a word. Just kept walking.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Not the bruises. Not the frost still clinging to your lungs after the flight back from Autumn. Not even the look Rhys had given you when he dropped the satchel—dropped it—before sitting at his desk like it was nothing worth holding.

The worst part was that Cassian had let it lie.

Had let the blame settle and cling without brushing a single piece of it off. Like you’d earned it. Like silence was the lesson.

In the war room, it was the same. Around that long obsidian table where battle strategies lived and died, where the Inner Circle weighed lives like stones on a scale—he wouldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t say your name.

Just her, she, or nothing at all.

A flick of his eyes. A tilt of his chin. Like you were something he’d learned to step around.

Until now.

Because yesterday, for the first time in over four years, he’d defended you again. Had looked at Miran like he might tear his throat out just for raising his voice at you. Had spoken like the fight never happened. Like you hadn’t failed. Like he remembered what you were worth.

You blinked. 

And the crates were still there. Still needing to be sorted. So you bent your head, grit your teeth, and got back to work. Because if he could forget it—at least for now—then maybe you could too.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when the door creaked open again.

You didn’t look up right away—your fingers were halfway through scraping what felt like centuries-old candle wax from the underside of the table. How it had gotten there, you had no idea. Your shoulders ached from the angle, knees cold where they pressed into the floorboards.

But you heard the footsteps pause.

A beat. Then another.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

You shifted, squinting up at him from beneath the table’s edge. “Scraping.”

Cassian blinked, then stepped fully inside, the wind tugging the door shut behind him. 

“Why are you under it?”

“Because someone,” you said, chipping harder now, “decided to shove this thing directly in front of the hearth and apparently didn’t notice the stalactites hanging from the bottom.”

He opened his mouth—paused. Then grunted and held up a bundled stack of firewood.

“Vesa gave me these,” he said. “Said it was the least she could do after yesterday.” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “Told her what happened. You should’ve seen those kids’ faces—went pale as ash.”

You snorted. “Sounds about right. It’s always the ones who talk the most shit.”

He dropped the bundle beside the grate and crouched, sleeves shoved up, hair still tousled from the wind. You stayed under the table, willing yourself to focus on the wax and not the shape of him lit in profile by the first flickers of flame.

For the first few minutes, he was quiet, poking at the kindling until a small fire finally caught and crackled to life. Then—

“Why’s the table all the way over there?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just leaned out and wiped your wrist across your cheek. 

“Because this spot gets the best light.”

Cassian rose and brushed his palms together. Then, without waiting, strode across and grabbed the table’s edge. 

“Don’t—” you started, too late. 

He dragged it five feet to the right, chair legs shrieking across the floor, some collapsing into a messy cluster.

“You’ll block the light,” you snapped, standing now and flinging the scraper onto the windowsill. 

He cocked his head. “You’re obsessed with the damn view.”

“You moved it into the corner.”

“The corner’s not a dungeon,” he muttered. “It’s still technically daylight.”

“Daylight doesn’t mean good light,” you shot back.

“And you’re suddenly a fucking artist?”

“I’m trying to make this place not look like a condemned training yard.”

He stepped closer. “Well, forgive me for interfering with your vision.”

“You always do.”

His brows lifted, expression cooling. “Oh, that’s rich. Because you’re the picture of collaboration.”

You folded your arms. “I would be, if you’d stop rearranging everything I’ve already done.”

“It’s a table.”

“It’s always a table with you!”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you show up, throw your weight around without consideration of others and the time they’ve put into something, and act like you’re doing them a favor!”

His brow lifted, expression tightening. “I am doing you a favor.”

“By ruining everything?”

“It’s a miracle this place has floors that don’t collapse under your ego.”

You took a slow, pointed step toward him. “At least I showed up on time.”

Cassian’s smile was sharp. “At least I didn’t get us both chewed out by Rhys.”

Your nostrils flared. “You still think that was my fault?”

“I think you never admit when you screw up!”

“I always admit it—because someone has to!”

He stared down at you, breathing hard now, chest rising in the same uneven rhythm hammering through your own. 

And then, just like that, you both realized how close you’d gotten. 

“What do you care so damn much?” he shouted, voice ringing off the stone walls.

“Because it’s our project!” you fired back, fists clenched at your sides.

Cassian scoffed, incredulous. “Our project? You barely let me touch anything without biting my damn head off—”

“Because you do it wrong!”

“I built half this place!”

“Exactly. Half. And I’m the one trying to make it livable.”

You were toe to toe now, breath mingling—furious and hot, sharp enough to cut. 

“It’s ours,” you snarled. “Whether you like it or not.”

Silence. 

One breath. Then another.

And that was all it took.

He lunged first. You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and fury and weeks of tension neither of you had dared name—finally breaking free.

His hands tangled in your hair before you could catch a breath, gripping like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or shove you away. You grabbed at his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric, hard enough to stretch the seams.

You stumbled together—hip into the table. One of the dining chairs screeched across the floor as you crashed into it. Neither of you stopped. 

Cassian bit at your bottom lip like he wanted to keep the argument going that way, and you shoved him, nails dragging down his chest. He caught your waist, hauled you back in. You didn’t know if you were kissing him or fighting him anymore. Didn’t care. 

Your hand slid up his chest to his throat, not gentle, and he groaned into your mouth like it only spurred him on.

Four years. Four years of silence and blame and what-ifs collapsing in the space between your bodies, now gone.

You weren’t thinking—just grabbing, shoving, kissing like you meant to hurt. Cassian stumbled again, hard, tripped over one of the dining chairs and nearly went down.

He caught himself at the last second, crashing backward into the seat with a grunt.

You didn’t get the chance to laugh—because he yanked you down with him.

You landed on his lap, straddling his thighs, your mouth never leaving his. And then everything blurred into fire.

His hands gripped your hips, dragging you forward, grinding you down until you could feel every sharp line of him pressed beneath you. The friction wrung a raw sound from your throat. Your fingers scrabbled at his coat, his shoulders, fisting in the fabric like you didn’t know whether you wanted to rip it off or hang on tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered against his mouth, biting at the corner of it.

“Shut up,” he rasped, catching your jaw in one hand and dragging you back in.

You rolled your hips again—deliberate now. Slow, filthy. He groaned, hips jerking up in answer. You did it again. Again. The rhythm turned hungry.

You weren’t sure who lost control first. Only that suddenly it was all heat and teeth and breathless swearing.

You tugged at the collar of his coat, wrenching it open just enough to shove your hands beneath—seeking the warmth of him through the coarse weave of his sweater. He growled into your mouth when your nails scraped down his spine.

The damn coat was still in the way.

You reached behind him, fingers slipping over the slats built to frame his wings, trying to find the clasps. Couldn’t get them. Didn’t care. You tugged anyway—frustrated, frantic, gasping against his throat as he mouthed his way down the side of your neck.

“This is—fuck, this is so stupid,” you breathed, hips stuttering against his again.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, low and furious, like it scorched him to say it.

You got one clasp open, then the next snapped loose beneath your fingers.

He didn’t wait. Tore at the coat, shoving it down his arms, half-flinging it aside. Before it even hit the floor, you were already under his sweater, dragging it up with one hand while the other reached again for the second set of slats.

These were easier. Familiar. Your fingers worked fast. You got them loose and yanked. 

He helped this time, yanking the sweater over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him.

But you barely registered it.

Because his hands were already under your shirt.

Big, rough palms skating over your sides, greedy, without finesse—just hunger. You gasped, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other already tugging your shirt upward.

He didn’t wait. Grabbed the hem and yanked it over your head in one motion. Tossed it behind you.

You didn’t even feel his fingers before the clasp of your bra flicked open—just the sharp, practiced snap and the sudden looseness against your skin.

And then he was baring you to the air, to him, dragging the straps down your arms like he’d tear them off if they didn’t come fast enough.

His mouth closed over your nipple—hot, relentless—and you gasped, head tipping back as he sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. One of his hands kneaded the other breast, rough and greedy, while the other stayed clamped on your hip, dragging you down like he meant to fuse you there.

It was frantic. Hungry. Mindless in the way only need could be.

You rode the hard line of him through your clothes, every grind a flash of friction that lit up your spine. Your thighs locked tighter around him, chasing more—harder, deeper—and his grip only anchored you firmer, like he couldn’t get close enough if he tried.

Shirts gone, his chest hot and bare against yours—

Mother above, the heat of him. The press of skin. How solid he was, how he moved like the contact might kill him or save him.

You were breathing hard against his ear, still grinding slow and filthy against him. He groaned into your chest, mouth dragging lower, sucking a dark, bruising mark onto the swell of your breast.

“You always this easy when someone mouths off at you?” you panted, lips brushing his jaw as he rolled his hips into yours. “Guess that explains the barmaid in Itica.”

He bit your collarbone—hard.

You cursed, breath catching.

“You’re such a little shit,” he growled into your skin, voice shredded.

Your nails raked down his back, catching at the sensitive base of his wings. He jolted.

“Takes one to know one,” you said, smug.

Cassian pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You gonna run your mouth the whole time?”

“Only when it gets you this worked up.”

Something in him snapped.

He growled—low and feral—and surged upright in one brutal motion, hands gripping your ass as he lifted you off his lap. You yelped, clinging to his shoulders, and barely registered the shift before your back hit the bed with a bounce, limbs flung wide beneath him.

He stood over you, flushed, breathing hard. His fingers were already on his belt.

You couldn’t help it—you stared. Watched the way his fingers gripped the worn leather. The sharp clink of the buckle, the whisper of it sliding through the metal loop. It shouldn’t have been hot. It was hot. Like watching him unholster a weapon. Like watching him bare his teeth. You swallowed, heat crawling up your throat, your thighs pressing together. 

His knuckles brushed his stomach as he dragged the belt loose, and the sight alone made your pulse skip.

“Oh, you like this?” he said, tone smug, a little cruel. “Yeah, I know you do. Couldn’t tear your fuckin’ eyes off it last night.”

The belt hissed the rest of the way through the loops.

“Shut up,” you said, but your voice came out too thin.

His smirk was pure sin.

And then he was on you.

One heartbeat flat on your back—next thing, you were flipped face-down with a grunt, cheek pressed hard to the mattress. 

“Cassian—” you started, twisting under him.

“Shut. Up.” It came low and sharp in your ear. 

One heavy hand yanked your wrists behind your back. The belt coiled around them a moment later. Not once. Not twice. Kept looping it tight through the buckle until your hands were cinched together in a firm, inescapable bind.

You cursed, bucking hard. “Fucking undo it—”

“Should’ve thought of that before you started mouthing off,” he growled.

He dragged your hips up with both hands, leaving your shoulders pinned by one broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades. Your face mashed into the sheets, breath caught, teeth gritted.

You twisted your wrists, tried to lift your upper body—

But he shoved you back down with humiliating ease.

“Stay the fuck down,” he bit out.

Then came the tug of your pants, the hook of his fingers in your underwear. You kicked out instinctively, but it didn’t matter. He manhandled the fabric down anyway, wrestling it past your hips, down to your knees, leaving your legs tangled and stuck. The cool air rushed over you—over the slick, swollen heat between your thighs—igniting a fresh spark that sent a sharp hiss from deep within you. 

“Shit,” Cassian growled, and his head dropped, forehead resting on the curve of your back as his fingers pressed against you. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when he dragged two fingers through it again—slower this time. Like he needed to feel it properly. Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“From that?” he muttered, heat washing over your skin. “Just from that little show?”

You didn’t even have time to think before his fingers slammed into you.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sharp, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you, your body jolting forward with a choked gasp.

“Fuck—” you choked, wrists straining against the belt.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you a second to adjust. His fingers drove into you hard and fast, relentless—each thrust ruthless, the angle unerring. Over and over, he found that spot that lit you up from the inside out, made your breath stutter and your vision white out.

The wet sound of it was obscene. It echoed between the groaning mattress and the wrecked, involuntary noises spilling from your mouth.

Cassian muttered something behind you—filthy and dark. You didn’t catch all of it. Just the tone—low and wrecked, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. Like he couldn’t stop.

His free hand dug into your hip, anchoring you in place as he fucked you on his fingers. Your knees slipped wider despite the pants still tangled around them—your body betraying every biting word you’d thrown his way.

“All that mouth,” he panted, “all those fucking fights—just needed something stuffed in you, didn’t you?”

You twisted, tried to rise, but his hand left your hip and fisted in your hair, shoving your face into the mattress.

“Stay down,” he growled, fucking you faster now. His voice went ragged. Wild. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Mouthy little thing, and now you can’t take it?”

A harsh scoff.

“Should’ve done this years ago.”

Your stomach flipped. You hated that it flipped.

But you managed to turn your head—maybe he let you, maybe not. “Yeah? Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be such a tight-fisted, control-obsessed asshole. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent the last four years wanting to claw your fucking eyes out every time you walked into a room.”

His fingers didn’t falter. If anything, his wrist stiffened, driving them deeper—meaner—like you’d proven something.

“Four years and you still can’t decide if you wanna kill me or fuck me.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the way his fingers were driving into you, relentless. 

“Nothing to say?” he murmured, teeth sinking into the curve of your ass. “No claws left, kitten?”

“Ew,” you hissed, hips jerking. “Don’t call me that.”

He just laughed—low and mean—then flipped you like it was nothing, your back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Your wrists ached beneath you, fists digging into the small of your back. Uncomfortable as hell—not that you’d expect anything else from him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done it on purpose. Just to irk you. One last petty jab before you talked about this later.

Oh, Gods. You were going to have to talk about this later.

A conversation. 

About this.

A hot spike of dread twisted low in your gut.

But you didn’t get the chance to dwell on it, because then he was undoing the buttons on his pants—and suddenly, you had a far more immediate problem on your hands.

Well. Not your hands.

He shoved his pants down, and—

Mother above.

Maybe those Illyrian wingspan rumors had some merit after all. Because fuck.

The first thing you saw was the cut of his hips, the sharp V leading down to a dark trail of hair—and then him. Thick, flushed dark at the tip, heavy enough to make your mouth go dry. Your thighs clenched on instinct.

Of course he’d be built like that. Of course he’d keep that hidden away behind all that smug, self-righteous bravado. Arrogant fucker knew exactly what he was working with.

He caught your stare, brows raised, mouth curving into something downright indecent. “You keep looking at my cock like that, sweetheart,” he drawled, wrapping a hand around the base, slow and unhurried, “and I’m gonna start thinking you’re not as mad at me as you pretend to be.”

He gave himself one lazy stroke. Your breath caught.

“That mean you ready to be nice for once?” His hand moved with practiced ease, pulling your pants and underwear the rest of the way off in one sharp tug. Your socks bunched awkwardly at your ankles, forgotten with the way the heat spiked between you. 

You narrowed your eyes. “The only thing I’m ready for is—”

“You gonna behave?” he murmured, almost sweetly. “Gonna play nice for me?”

You sucked in a breath, spine stiffening—but before the words could form, he shoved into you Thick, unrelenting. And just like that, your sentence vanished. 

He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath, didn’t give you time to adjust. He set a brutal rhythm from the start, fast and deep, fucking into you like he meant to tear something out of you.

You gasped, voice breaking on a startled cry. “Wait—shit, it’s… Ca—hold on, it’s—”

He laughed. Low. Rough. Right in your ear. “Too late for that now, sweetheart. You wanted to mouth off.”

His eyes met yours, dark and burning. “You feel like heaven.”

His hips slammed into you again, and the only thing you could do was choke on the shock—the white-hot bloom of heat unfurling inside you.

“Fucking tight around me like you were made for this,” he growled, teeth grazing your ear. His voice was raw, possessed—like he was branding every thrust into your bones.

Your body clenched involuntarily, muscle locking against muscle, every nerve bracing under the weight of sensation.

“You’re gonna take every inch,” he hissed, voice like smoke, “and you’re gonna like it.”

“Cassian, it’s too—”

“You’re gonna fucking like it, (y/n).”

It hit like a slap—the sound of your name in his mouth.

Not her, or she, or sweetheart, or the princess he’d thrown your way last night.

Just you.

Spat like a challenge. Drawled like a curse.

Your breath caught, your whole body locking up around him.

“Yeah,” he snarled, like he knew exactly what he’d done, the words vibrating against your skin. “You feel that? That what it takes to shut you up?”

His hand splayed across your abdomen, pressing down hard as he drove into you again—deep, brutal, claiming.

“Say my name again,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, before you could think.

He gave a dangerous, breathless laugh. “Greedy,” he growled. “Didn’t think I’d fuck the attitude out of you and make you beg.”

And gods, maybe you were begging. Maybe that’s all you had left, with your hands trapped, hair clinging to your damp skin, and the only thing anchoring you to this world the thick, punishing press of him inside you.

He slowed—just barely—to drag the next thrust in deep. Too deep. You felt the shape of him shift everything, rearrange everything. Your lips parted around a sound you barely recognized as your own. A half-broken moan, raw at the edges.

Cassian grunted at the noise, hips drawing back in one long, slow pull—only to slam forward again, harder. A cruel rhythm. A practiced one. Like he was testing your limits. Learning them.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick against your ear. “Messy little thing. Can’t even pretend you don’t want this cock in you.”

Your breath hitched. Your back arched instinctively, desperate to escape the stretch and heat—but his hand clamped hard around your hip, dragging you back with brutal precision. Like you were leverage. Like your body was his now. Because you’d let that slip—say my name again—and he’d taken it for blood in the water.

You hated him for it.

You hated how good he felt.

“Fighting it won’t help,” he said softly, like he could see it on your face. “You already gave in.”

Maybe you had.

Maybe the second he said your name like that—like it still meant something—it had already been over.

You dug your nails into the sheets, teeth grit as you wrenched air back into your lungs. “Keep telling yourself that,” you gasped, forcing the words out around a moan. “Might help you sleep at night. Thinking I actually wanted you all this time.”

His laugh was low, vicious. “Sweetheart, you’re dripping down my cock.”

He punctuated it with a snap of his hips—hard, precise, merciless.

“You can lie all you want. But your cunt’s got better manners than your mouth.”

You twisted beneath him—more reflex than intent—

—and he caught it like he’d been waiting for it.

His grip shifted in a blink, dragging you onto your side. Your shoulder hit the mattress, legs folding awkwardly beneath you—until his hand caught your thigh and lifted, braced it open. The other settled hard at your waist. A warning.

You barely had time to draw breath before he drove back in.

The angle was ruinous. Sharper. Deeper.

He hit something that made your vision snap white. Made your spine curl. Made your mouth fall open in a wordless gasp.

“Fuck,” he bit out. “Tighter like this.”

Your hands—no longer pinned but still restrained—clawed at the sheets, grasping at nothing. And gods, you hated the way your body arched into him. Hated how fast he’d found a new rhythm and made it yours.

“Say it again,” he hissed. “Say you don’t want me. Look me in the fucking eye and lie to me.”

You tried. You tried.

But he rolled his hips just right—once—and the sound that broke from you tore your argument apart at the seams.

Cassian groaned. And gods help you, it sounded like satisfaction.

“Thought so,” he growled, grip tightening as he wrenched your thigh higher. “You feel that?” His voice dropped—rough, clipped, almost amused. “Used. Fucking used.”

You didn’t bother looking at him. But your voice cut through the air anyway, sharp and venomous:

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not the one losing control.”

He stilled for a heartbeat.

Then he drove into that angle again and again, harder and harder, until your lungs caught fire with every thrust. 

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.”

His hand slid down your body, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path between your hips, barely brushing over the slick skin. The touch was maddening. Featherlight. Precise in its restraint. 

His thumb pressed gently at first, circling with measured patience, never quickening, never giving the release your nerves were screaming for. Cauldron, that was exactly what you needed, the pressure building just enough to ignite you. Yes, yes, yes, yes—each one tore from your lips like prayer, like instinct. You hadn’t even realized you were saying it, hadn’t noticed the way it spilled out—quiet, helpless, reverent. 

But he pulled back, and his thrusts slowed to a crawl—so measured, so agonizing, it may as well have been nothing at all.

You jolted like you’d been struck.

“Are you—” Your voice cracked, hoarse with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He didn’t bother answering. He didn’t need to. That smirk, sharp and smug, said everything.

You twisted, desperate for leverage, trying to push back against him—to make him move, force his hand—but his arm only cinched tighter around your thigh, keeping you spread and helpless in that sideways sprawl. His body: a cage. A curse.

“You think this is funny?” you snapped.

Cassian’s mouth brushed your ear before you even felt him shift. “I think you’re beautiful when you’re desperate.”

He rolled his hips sinfully deep, just enough to brush everything you needed. Pleasure flared so hot and fast it took your breath, your cry catching halfway through your throat—

And then he stilled.

You swore, loud and vicious.

Cassian laughed low in your ear. “There she is.”

“You motherfucker,” you hissed, trying to move, to get something, anything. But his arm locked firm across your thigh, holding you open and perfectly still.

He hummed in mock thought, as if he wasn’t actively ruining you. “Y’know,” he mused, voice soft like silk over a blade, “I’ve got a few places I want to put my hands.” His palm slid slow up your side, curling beneath the swell of your breast, teasing without giving. “Could untie you. If you promise to be good.”

You snapped your head toward him. “I’m not promising you shit—”

He stopped moving entirely. Every inch of him thick and pulsing and unbearably still, the heat of him like a brand.

The whine tore out of you before you could stop it—high and broken, more plea than protest.

Cassian didn’t say a word. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at you. 

A single brow arched.

Your face burned. You grit your teeth. “Fine.”

Still, he waited. “No. Promise.”

You rolled your eyes. Looked away. Of course he wanted the words. Of course he wanted to win. 

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw with enough force to make you gasp—fingers squishing your cheeks until your lips puckered. You glared. He didn’t flinch. 

“I promise I’ll be good,” you muttered, syrupy-sweet, laced with venom. 

Cassian grinned, all teeth. “Good girl.”

Then he let go—of your jaw, of your thigh, of every last ounce of mercy.

You didn’t even register the motion before he reached down, unfastening the buckle in a smooth, unhurried sweep. The belt rasped as it loosened, the sound too loud in the charged air. He never stopped moving inside you—slow, shallow thrusts that felt more like a warning than a reprieve. A promise.

And then your wrists were free.

You didn’t have a second to process it. The moment the leather dropped, he drove back in like he’d been waiting for it—no rhythm, no patience, just heat and power and brutal momentum.

Your arms flew around his neck, hauling him down, desperate for something to hold. His chest crashed against yours, sweat-slicked skin meeting slicker skin, and you clung.

One leg stayed hitched over his shoulder, your thigh crushed near your ribs now, and gods, you felt every inch of him. Every brutal slide, every shift of muscle as he adjusted the angle like he was searching for the exact spot that would ruin you.

His hands were everywhere—one braced beside your head, the other sliding between your bodies, dragging over the sweat-slicked curve of your breast. His thumb swept roughly over your nipple, and you gasped, hips jolting in time with the motion.

You didn’t even think before your own hand moved, sliding down your stomach, chasing the pressure and friction you’d been denied. The second your fingers brushed yourself, your head fell back, breath catching on a moan that was far too desperate to pass as hatred.

He felt it—really heard it.

And when he looked down at you, it wasn’t smugness—it was something darker. Focused. Like now that you were free, he was going to see what you’d do with it.

He didn’t say a word as your fingers worked fast, frantic—just kept moving inside you with brutal precision, all heat and muscle and weight. His chest pressed tight to yours, breath rasping against your cheek. That leg he’d hoisted up stayed pinned, folding you open around him like he had all the time in the world to take you apart.

Then his voice, low and too close to your ear. Not a growl. Not a threat. A question.

“Is this what you wanted?”

You didn’t answer.

His thumb dragged over your nipple again, slower this time. Intentional. 

“When you mouthed off earlier. When you looked at me like that.” His teeth skimmed your jaw. “You wanted this?”

You shook your head before you even thought about it.

“Liar.” 

He angled his hips again, and you gasped—your body stuttering beneath him, back arching.

Your hand was so slick now. So close.

“You wanted me to fuck it out of you,” he said, like it was obvious. Like he’d always known. “You wanted to lose.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out—shoved aside by sensation, swallowed by heat.

His hand slid up again, cradling your jaw—firm, but not cruel. His thumb brushed over your parted lips. 

“Say it,” he breathed. “Say what you wanted.”

You swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut, the words catching in your throat like they might burn coming out. But he didn’t wait. His hips slammed forward—once, twice—hard enough to shake the frame like he’d rip the truth from your body if he had to.

“I… wanted… you to—ah—fuck me.”

Everything stilled—just for a breath.

Then he let out a sound that was half laugh, half snarl, low and razor-sharp. 

“Yeah?” he rasped, the next thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “You wanted me to break you in? Fuck you so hard you’d forget how to run that pretty little mouth?”

Your answer was a strangled sound, no shape to it—but it was enough.

Cassian didn’t need to hear any more. 

He moved like he meant it—vicious, savage. Every thrust drove deep, shaking the mattress, the frame, the pictures on the walls. You could feel it everywhere—down to the soles of your feet, behind your teeth, pounding inside your skull. And still, your hand worked furiously between your thighs, desperate and slick, chasing the pressure his rhythm only stoked higher.

You were close. Too close. The kind of close where your thighs were beginning to tremble, where your breath hitched into broken gasps, where your stomach coiled so tight it felt like you might split open from it.

And then his hand shot down, catching yours just as you were about to tip over the edge. He yanked it away, holding it up like a prize, like proof of your need.

“Cassian—fuck—” you sobbed, your hips chasing after what he’d stolen, body spasming from the denial.

He leaned in, breath hot at your ear, and pinned your hand above your head, fingers lacing through yours like he owned them. Owned you.

“What was it you said earlier?” he murmured, the words cruelly soft, hips still driving into you with ruthless intent. “Something about losing control?”

His meaning, along with a sharp thrust, deep and slow, made you cry out.

He hummed, mock-thoughtful. “Tell me—who is it, exactly, falling apart now?”

Your breath hitched, broken on another sob. The pressure was a blade now, poised to split you open. 

“What do you want from me?” you begged, voice cracking. “Just—just tell me what you want, I’ll—please—”

His answer came without pause, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Apologize,” he said, dark and absolute. “For saying you didn’t want me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed and wide.

“Tell me,” he ground out, each thrust a brutal punctuation. “Tell me how badly you want me. No—need me.”

You hesitated, teeth sinking into your bottom lip hard enough to sting. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to say it—it was that saying it meant surrender. Saying it meant he’d won. 

Still, your voice came out hoarse and thin. “I didn’t mean it…”

He gave a low, amused hum, cock still grinding into you like there was no rush. “That’s not an apology, sweetheart.”

You tried to glare at him, but your head was thrown back too far, body too wrung out to muster more than a gasping curse. 

“Fine,” you spat. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t want you.”

“Better,” he murmured, mouth brushing your cheek, near your jaw, his breath all heat and command.. “Keep going.”

Your next breath came shaky. “I wanted you,” you said, barely audible. “I’ve wanted you for—fuck—for so long.”

“That’s it,” he praised, voice molten. “Say it like you mean it.”

And gods help you, you did.

“I need you,” you choked, thighs trembling around his hips. “I fucking need you, Cassian.”

“Look at you,” he breathed, something reverent beneath the filth. “All that attitude, all that fight—and now you’re here, begging. Dripping.”

His hand slid between your bodies like it belonged there. Two fingers found the aching, swollen mess of you, rubbing tight, punishing circles. You jerked at the contact, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

“So sweet for me now,” he groaned, working you with ruthless precision. “Was that so hard, baby?”

You whimpered, hips twitching. “No,” you whispered. “Just—please, let me—”

“Then come, (y/n),” he growled, his fingers moving faster now, rough and wet and perfect. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

And with those words, you did—you shattered around him, back arching hard as white-hot pleasure crashed over you, wave after merciless wave. His name tore from your throat—sacred, wrecked, a plea and a prayer all at once. Your body locked tight around him, the sounds ripping from you falling somewhere at the intersection of a shout and a cry and a moan.

Cassian swore—raw, reverent—and didn’t stop.

In one seamless, brutal motion, he grabbed behind your knees and shoved them higher, folding you in half. Your thighs pressed tight to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders as he pinned you there—helpless, trembling, wholly his.

“Fuck,” he bit out, voice hoarse. “Look at you—still fucking squeezing me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely think. That new angle had him hitting something devastating—something deep and bruising that sent stars bursting behind your eyes.

He didn’t slow. Just kept going, those deep, relentless thrusts rocking the bedframe, obscene slick sounds cutting through the ragged rhythm of your breath.

“Taking me so well,” he groaned, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh like a vice. “This what you needed? Me to fuck you this deep—this full—until you can’t think straight?”

Maybe it was. Maybe this had always been what you both needed—this unspoken breaking point, all heat and fury and surrender.

“Keep making those sounds for me,” he rasped, pounding into you like he meant to leave a mark on your soul. “Those pretty little sounds—fuck, you sound so needy.”

And you were. Every noise that spilled from your throat was high and broken and raw, punched out of you with every snap of his hips.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and ruined with want. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you breathed—then louder, filthier, no shame left in you. “Want you to fuck me full, Cassian. Want to feel you dripping out of me for days.”

He choked on a sound—half snarl, half moan—his rhythm faltering.

Then he drove into you hard, to the hilt, deep enough you swore it pressed behind your ribs, and stilled.

A ragged groan tore from him—your name, cracked and guttural, as his whole body locked above you. You felt every shudder, every pulsing wave of heat spilling into you. Felt him unravel, felt the weight of it—of him—pouring into you until there was nothing else.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Cassian let out a breathless laugh, low and wrecked. “Fuck.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The storm had passed.

In every sense.

Morning sun spilled amber through the cottage windows, brushing over fresh paint and new shingles, over repaired beams and the once-crooked door that now swung true on its hinges. The faint scent of pine smoke clung to the air—evidence of the fire Cassian had built earlier, more out of habit than necessity.

You stood at the hearth anyway, one hand braced on the mantle, the other smoothing absently over the front of your sweater. The house was quiet. Not silent, but quiet in the way a place becomes once it’s been lived in. Settled.

Behind you, a soft thud marked the last box lowered to the floor.

“That’s the last of it,” Cassian said, voice low, content.

You didn’t answer right away. Just turned, slowly, letting your eyes move across the room—the clean lines of the walls, the honey-warm kitchen, the faint gloss of varnish still clinging to the new floors. Light glinted off the old tools hung neatly by the door, each one a reminder of what this place had been.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to fall over anymore,” you said.

Cassian glanced at you from where he knelt by the hearth, coaxing the embers back to life. “You say that like you’re disappointed.”

“I’m not.” You let the corner of your mouth curve, soft. “I think maybe it was meant to stand after all.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter. He stood and stretched, arms arcing above his head, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of golden skin. You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Not too obviously, anyway.

“Rhys said we can take the rest of the week if we want it,” he said after a beat, wandering to the little kitchen table and adjusting one of the chairs. His voice was easy. Too easy. 

You paused, taking a mental tally. Three days—maybe four—since that night. The ache hadn’t quite left your muscles, and neither had the tension between you. It lingered in the space, quiet and unspoken, like something waiting to be acknowledged. 

“Do we want it?” you asked

He shrugged. “No one’s waiting. We don’t have to rush back.”

And it was true. There were no war meetings waiting, no urgent messages. The world, for once, wasn’t on fire.

Just this place—sturdy now. Still a little imperfect. But whole. 

The thought of another morning here, slow and golden beneath thick quilts… of evenings warmed by the fire, maybe even stealing a moment outside bundled up with Cassian to watch the snow settle while his laugh echoed soft across the rafters—

It didn’t sound terrible.

You reached for two ceramic plates, their edges chipped and familiar, the way all good dishes are. “You’re building the fire, I’m setting the table. We’re staying.”

Cassian looked at you over his shoulder, one brow raised in mock challenge. “That an order?”

You set the last plate down with a gentle clink. “It’s a plan.”

His grin bloomed slow and real. A little tired. A little surprised. But warm, all the same.

When he moved to your side and bumped his hip lightly against yours, reaching for the bread and honey, it wasn’t the kind of touch that asked for anything.

It just was.

Uncomplicated. Easy.

The fire crackled. 

The floor no longer creaked beneath your feet. 

You poured the tea.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—something had been fixed that wasn’t made of wood or stone.

Maybe something else had been meant to stand, too. 

[maplesyrupsainz]

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙20 weeks you say… | LN4˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: lando norris x pregnant!reader y/n (she/her)

genre: social media au, established relationship

warnings: sexual references but not major, mainly fluff with some joking/play fighting yk the vibes

summary: in which your pregnancy announcement is met with an unexpected response

a/n: chose lando coz im obsessed with him atm😭😭😭 also i think this plot suits him better lol. it's pretty short but it fits the plot best imo!

request!!!: Can I request reader and driver, maybe Carlos or lando, announce her pregnancy only for fans to put together that the baby is a result of a race win

my masterlist

fc: various blonde girls from pinterest

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by landonorris, lilyzneimer, and others

yourusername we've been keeping a secret… 20 weeks and counting 🕊️

view all comments

user1 OH MY GOD

yourmother im crying again y/n!

yourusername you better stop by the time baby's here!

lilyzneimer so happy for you guys 🥹

yourusername tysm angel <3

iamrebeccad amazing news ❤️

liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux congratulations ❤️

liked by yourusername

francisca.cgomes ahhh cant wait for baby to be born!

yourusername 🥹🥹🥹

user2 all the wags comments!! so cute

carlossainz55 are you sure?

yourusername 😂😂😂 yes lando is going to be a father for the 500th time

user3 hahahaha poor lando

charles_leclerc wow sending love to you both! congratulations!

liked by yourusername

oscarpiastri congratulations to my favourite couple!

yourusername thanks osc 😊

danielricciardo contrats 🎉

liked by yourusername

logansargeant wow congratulations guys

liked by yourusername

user4 20 weeks you say... 🧐

landonorris posted a story

liked by lilymhe, francisca.cgomes, and others

user5 ahh she's so gorgeous

user6 i can't believe u guys are gonna have a baby omg 😭

user7 wowwww

user8 cant wait for baby norris 🥹

lilyzneimer you better be looking after her

landonorris i am!!!

lilyzneimer good.... im watching

landonorris scary

yourmother look after my baby!

landonorris i am!!! why does no one believe me

yourmother she's carrying precious cargo

landonorris oh dont i know it 😭

twitter ->

messages ->

instagram ->

landonorris

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55, and others

landonorris anyway 🤫

view all comments

user16 r u telling us to shut up lando 🥺🥺

landonorris yes actually y/n is mad at u guys!

user17 NOOOOOOOOOOOO

user18 smh coz u guys r always running ur mouth

user19 what happened? what did u guys do this time 🤔

user20 ...worked out when their baby was conceived...

user21 HAHAHAHAHHA

user22 too far i fear

carlossainz55 me personally, i think it's funny

landonorris well...

yourusername shut up both of you

carlossainz55 sorry y/n

oscarpiastri forgive & forget 😌

user23 yup i agree with oscar! forgive us y/n

yourusername hmmm.... NO!

user24 HAHAHAHA

user25 hahahah poor y/n!

user26 it was a special race win tbf, we'd all have done the same thing y/n <3

liked by landonorris, yourusername

messages ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by lilyzneimer, landonorris, and others

yourusername lil update. we r so ready for baby now

view all comments

user27 omg she's so much bigger now

user28 what's the gender??

user29 they havent told us

user30 ur glowing y/n

liked by yourusername

user31 she liked this.. maybe she is forgiving us :)

lilyzneimer miss you in the garage babe

yourusername miss you so much! please come visit soon lol

lilyzneimer omg i will🥹🥹

mclaren we cant wait to meet little norris!

liked by yourusername, landonorris

iamrebeccad gorgeous girl

yourusername ily

user32 carlando & landoscar lives on in their wags friendships tbh

oscarpiastri lando is miserable without u, hurry up & have the baby & get back to races

yourusername what do u think im trying to do oscar? 🤨

oscarpiastri yea true. my bad

landonorris i dont like ur tone

oscarpiastri im so sorry

landonorris better

user33 LOL😭😭

time skip 🧡

landonorris posted a story

liked by yoursister, lilyzneimer, and others

yoursister is everything ok?

landonorris i'll keep you updated, dont worry

yoursister you better

user34 she's sooo cute

user35 i cant wait for her to have the baby ahh

user36 giggling & kicking her feet she's jus a girl fr

lilyzneimer keep me updated please

landonorris 😂 will add you to the baby update group chat

lilyzneimer please do omg

carlossainz55 dont freak out

landonorris easy for you to say

landonorris

liked by yourmother, oscarpiastri, and others

landonorris first month with our daughter x

view all comments

user37 OMG FINALLY NEWS

user38 a girl omg

user39 lando a girl dad!!!

user40 awwww a beautiful daughter from winning in miami

landonorris DONT BRING THIS UP AGAIN

user40 oop-my bad

user41 HAHAHAHA

user42 they deffo nickname her miami

oscarpiastri congratulations 🥂

landonorris 🧡

lilyzneimer 🥹🥹🥹🥹 so gorgeous

liked by landonorris

carlossainz55 congratulations both of you!

landonorris thanks for all ur help 🫡

carlossainz55 it's nothing :)

yourusername god i love you 🥹

landonorris i love YOU

yourusername posted a story

liked by landonorris, mclaren, and others

user43 HAHAHAHA

user44 ur not mad at us 🥳🥳🎉🎉🎉

user55 this is sooo funny & cute omg i love her

yoursister 😭😭stop it

yourusername hahahaha it is kind of funny tho

lilyzneimer ignoring the caption, u guys are so cute

yourusername 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

landonorris best gift i could ever ask for 😌 i love you

THE END 🧡

[presidentogekiss]

You know, there have been traditionally very few romances, in any media, that compel me. I am not a very romantic person, y'all. I'm the kind of person that plays a videogame and thinks of all the broken number combos I can make.

But I think I finnally understand what is it about this story that compels me so much, and I think this is very nice to know for when I eventually write my own novel (it will happen. One day...)

Number 1: Its a classical example of emerging storyline.

They say that in writing there are two types of writers/stories.

Gardners and Discoverers.

A garden story is one where everything is carefully placed from the start. There is a plan, an outline.

A discovery story is one where the story is more or less carried by the characters. The events happen from what the characters would be more likely to do.

Both of these approaches have their great advantages and disadvantages. But Id argue that in romance, we pretty much ONLY see the first, which leads to its flaws becoming disproportionally visible.

Most romances are made to be carefully planned, with a start, middle and finish.

The issue of that is that you get characters that are mostly collections of tropes meant to fill a dynamic, usually a very steriotypical one.

And what I like about KC2 is that it seems, at least to me, very clearly that Hans is NOT that case. He is very much not intended as a character primarily to be a love interest. He is, but the core of his story still exists even if you dont.

Of course, Vavra says that a Hans romance was always the intention and they simply couldnt do it, but I dont believe that was the case. And THAT'S GOOD, at least to me.

It means that the romance came about from the writers conceiving the arcs for these two characters, in a way that is plot relevant, and after that realizing that a romance between them made total sense given what they had written.

And that led to the amazing stort we have right now.

Number 2: You know, I really love the charcter of Hans in particular. And I specially love the frustration that the character clearly feels:

I've said it before how I find it very telling how the only character that Hans ever shows genuine, and very obvious in that, jealousy is not any of the female love interests, its SAM. And that to me, compared to the other things that he says in the story, is very telling to me about how exactly Hans SEES himself in Henry's life.

Hans sees himself as the Galehaut to Henry's Lancelot, his comrade in arms, his KNIGHT. Of course, he often ends up being the Peach to Henry's Mario hehehe, but that's precisely where his frustration comes from: he wants to be Henry's equal (perhaps the only time in his life he ever WANTED to be someone's equal), not his lord. He wants to go into battle with Henry and save him, which is why he immediatly volunteers to a suicide mission the moment Henry does.

That is the way he chose to conceptualize his love for Henry, because no typical heteronormative narrative he has thought all his love fits. He cant seduce Henry the way he would one of his many flings. It wouldnt work.

That... ressonates with me a lot as a queer man who never saw himself in most romance media. Even most BL media tends to have a very traditional "This is the dominant masculine one" and "This is the feminine submissive one" dynamic that feels very alien to anything I have ever experienced.

It also contextualizes why one of Hans objectives is to essentially go on Crusade with Henry, because of course it is. Its the epitome of the ideal that he has on his head for their ideal life: errant noble knights adventuring around the world, seducing pretty mais together, and being FREE.

Its why I believe the "I want to live a life of adventure" line in Henry's conversation with his parents was made with Hans in mind.

.....

Its basically it. I think that's what compels me in this story so much. Im gonna keep this in mind in the future when I finnaly have time to write hehe.

[min-mrv]

GIGGLY BUG -(part 1)

pt.2 | pt.3 | pt.4

ler: gi-hun lee: in-ho

A/N: help this is my first fanifiction aaargghh this took sm but yh hope you like it!! a feedback would help alot 😋 i sadly cant remember much of s2 what they exactly talked abt and stuff, so sorry abt that but,i tried my best!!

Summary: in-ho has been feeling a little odd after the talk abt his wife with Gi-hun, the man that played these games before. suddenly, player 456 got an wonderful idea how to turn his frown upside down!

------------------------------------------------

Everyone had fallen asleep and another game was defeated. most of those people there decided to stay, typing the O in the first round.

Gi-hun sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly into the wall, thinking. the silence of the room echoed his thoughts, amplifying the emptiness he couldnt shake off. "will i ever be able to end this game? "what if i end up like last time and all of the new people i met would die infront of my eyes again.? "what if i would die? could they keep it out without me??" The weight of everything that happened pressed down on his chest. he was lost in his thoughts when suddenly, in-ho sat next to him. "excuse me" he said. Gi-hun came back to reality. "sorry if i came so unexpected. i found it difficult to fall asleep, and i saw that you had the same issue..i wanted to apologize, about what happened after the decide to stay or not." he told extra. "...no..its fine, i apologize also. i was out of line." gi-hun spoke, looking at in-ho's eyes. "my wife is very sick.."

Gi-hun attentively listened as In-ho shared his concerns about his ill and pregnant wife, comprehending every word he expressed. He regonized that number 001 teared up a little and felt down after ending the topic..oh boy, what's he gonna do now? "...it had been a while since i cheered up people.." he thought, feeling a little awkward.

In a moment of inspiration, Gi-hun conceived a brilliant idea, but wasnt sure if he should ACTUALLY do this. A little bit of cheer up tickles wouldnt hurt this sorrowful man right now, would it..?

While in-ho was looking down, entering more into darkness, gi-hun slowly reached his hands..aiming in-ho's sides. "please work, please work, please work..!" after a moment of silence, the quite room suddenly earned a sound of a squeal. There we go!

"...whahat are you..?"

"dont make any loud noises, alright?"

"whahaAHA-?! wahihit hohOLd on!!"

Gi-hun was also unsure what he brang himself into. He thought cheering up other ones, would maybe cheer up him too. he digged his fingers more into his new friends sides. In In-ho's mind, he didnt know what to feel either. Since when he has been this ticklish?? so many unanswered questions, but sadly no right answer. He could kick Gi-hun's face right now, but seems like the tickling made him weak.

"whahat is thihis fohohor?! people are sleheheping!!!"

"..you seemed sad. and instead of just staring at you, i thought i would help a little." gi-hun explained.

"we couhuhu- EHAHAHA wahihit wAIhihit CMOHOHON-! thihis is nohohot helpihing!!"

oh god. when was this going to end? and why..did his body suddenly unlock parts which wasnt even ticklish at all?? gi-hun's hands weren't making the situation any better!! slow-tickles were hell for this man. he hided his face with his hands, trying not to let out any weird noises, laying on gi-huns bed, in a giggly mess. Number 456 hands switched the spots and went up on his ribs, scribbling slowly up and down.

"you know, you remind me of my little daughter.. she was a squirmer like you" gi-hun added. now it was getting awkward. "did he just compare me to a little girl??" Gi-hun noticed his emberassment, he couldnt help but let out a little chuckle. "i thought you were a serios man huh..?" "QUIHIHIT IHIHIT!! ehehe- ihihim cheered uhup, sEehehehe?" his giggles turned into silent laughter, but sadly not for a long time. Gi-hun decided to go for his armpits now, finding this situation kinda adorable. "khahahaha! OHOHOKAY everhyhything but nohohot nOhohow! THIHIS is chihildish..ihihi cAhant!!"

"..." gi-hun chuckled even more. humans do have 2 sides. "not now, eh? you want to have more?" "shihihihit!!" in-ho was about to scream and shoot this man without any guilt, cursing the day he invinted him to this game.

Now, In-ho grabbed Gi-huns pillow and positioned it infront of his face, just letting the laughter go. Laughing like this..was a pleasant. he kinda enjoyed this moment, being clingy and everything without any intruptions. Gi-hun didnt mind this at all. He just thought that in-ho seemed to look like a little puddle, asking for tummy pats. laughing a little with him.

oh, humans do really have 2 sides.

aaaa my first fanific oh my oh myyyyyyy EEEEEE i think im abt to explode i aint THAT proud of this but like mwah im happy abt it ehe!!.

[ask-deadpan]

[ Deadpan & Frances React!: The Missing Files of Rhyboflavin! ]

okay ladies and gentledudes, i’m gonna be trying something new here. my buddy mx. @marvalouslynerdish gave me and frances access to BHO’s “orientation tapes”. To think, I’ve been a villain for six years and still haven’t watched these apparently oh-so-important tapes…

i’m not sure which one to start with, so i guess i’ll do the first one on the list…

oh, wow… he’s… so…

ugly. why does he look like that ? i’ve seen some pictures of this guy, but none this close. where’s his nose ? his ears ?? why’re his teeth blue ? is he really that bald ??

Deadpan, you see terrifying hallucination creatures every day. Why’s this guy so different?

It’s just that… he’s real, y’know? my brain didn’t poop him out, he really just… looks like that. he’s got some fat pecs, though.

DEADPAN—

hush, frances, it’s still going !

so he DOES have hair ! … and ears… and… wait, what ?

okay, apparently this episode is about “skin-changers”, a tactic villains use in order to confuse and torture the hero. but… why would you wanna do that ? wouldn’t you want to make your own name feared instead of copying some hero’s gig ? i feel like there are easier and less obsessed-seeming ways to torture people, like turning them into a hotdog!

It COULD be useful, but the last time you tried to change your appearance, you almost forgot what your hands looked like…

having dog paws forever would’ve been REALLY funny, though.

They should NOT be giving these things to children.

except the mustache. that’s pretty banger.

RULES ?! these guy put RULES onto being a VILLAIN ? how many sticks does this guy have shoved in there, man ?? the whole point of villainy is freedom to do what’s wrong, not studying over 100 rules ! who the heck put this dude in charge??

Himself, if I had to guess.

he is… so gross. does— does he know he’s drooling ? i mean… i can at least respect his sadism, to some extent. there’s something very satisfying about watching things you want to suffer do just that. Suffer. i just… cant say i’d drool about it… well, maybe sometimes, but not to that extent!

Oh, hey! They got a phone number! That’s good to know for prank calls!

We are never calling that number.

some of this hat guy’s anger is justified, i will admit. the red-headed freak with the mustache that he’s reviewing (Nohayass, i think ?) is extremely obnoxious. But… that whole comment with the hand-puppets was really uncalled for. Puppets are the best creation humans could have ever conceived, probably, second to hot chocolate and third to burgers. Plus, He made that adorable bear cry!

… who was that bear?… why does he have a bear? he… doesn’t really look like anything this hat guy would have. doesn’t really look like anything Dr. bag-twink would have either.

it was funny when hat-guy made bagdude cry, though. scientists’ pain is always a goodie.

overall, I guess this hat-dude had some good points. pain is funny, annihilating your heroes immediately so that they don’t defeat you in the future is smart, and paper bags are kinda shitty, but he’s just… so uptight. so persnickety. if i shoved a clog of dirt up his ass, it’d come out a diamond. sorry I keep bringing up his butt.

not to mention how bossy he is. villainy, from what i’ve experienced, isn’t any kind of exact science. it’s fluid, y’know ? People can succeed in different ways. i feel like things are easier when you just do them and make mistakes instead of memorizing a whole rule book about it, y’know ? besides, i thought villainy had no rules.

i dunno. i’ll keep watching, but right now, he’s kinda… dumb. who knows though, huh ?

[firstflower9]

I don’t know who all needs to hear this but if you are reading tlt hoping that griddlehark is going to be just like the rest of your favorite enemies to lovers pairings you are just not reading the right thing. If you are hoping gideon and harrow will get over what they have going on after one book you are so sorely mistaken. If you want them to bicker and then have a tense moment and kiss and makeup before the book is over you should leave. These two were raised in a cult where harrow was the beloved child of the cult and gideon was an orphan they tried to kill and abused for her whole life. These two have no one but each other in an almost extinct no sunlight death cult planet and they hate each other. They fight. They claw each others skin off. They torture each other bc they have nothing else. It is 17 years of this. They resent each other and that resentment is basically the driving force of both of their lives. Gideon does something that makes harrow almost commit suicide when she is 10 years old. Harrow taunts and beats and steals shit from gideon their whole lives. This is serious hatred that the two cannot get over in just one book.

But also they have no one but each other. They have trauma rooted so deep from each other but also forced upon them by their circumstances. They have been hurt so badly by their upbringing that they took it out on each other because they had no other choice. And when the both finally start to understand each other after so long they find out that none of their hatred for each other is even their fault and in fact they probably dont hate each other they just hate themselves and take it out on each other. And when gideon forgives harrow finally harrow doesnt think she deserves it because she thinks she is a horrible monster and when harrow tries to save gideon gideon doesnt think she deserves it because she thinks she should just be used and abused her whole life. These two hate each other because they hate themselves and could not possibly imagine a universe where they loved each other instead even though they do love each other already. They just cant accept it.

All of this is 100% completely unequivocally fundamentally different from any enemies to lovers romance that has ever been produced. Gideon and harrow at the end of gtn go through the most irreconcilable disconnect any fictional couple could go through that makes them unable to even see each other face to face for TWO WHOLE BOOKS. They hate each other across dimensions and time and space for two whole books because they cannot conceive that something has been done that shows that they are loved. These other enemies to lovers romances are compact. These people see each other on the daily and bicker and fight and encounter each other all the time and have time and time again to get through whatever they have against each other but gideon and harrow are not like that. They have so much history that culminates in the beginning of a multiple book long conflict that they cannot reconcile because it is physically impossible and will probably only be resolved at the end of the last book in the series. Other enemies to lovers romances are sustained by continuous moments in what will become a shared history but griddlehark is a history that has doomed them before anything could even happen. So if u are reading gtn and thinking gideon is being a little harsh towards harrow and why is this different than everything youve read previously and is this rly for me you have 2 options 1. Forsake any comfort you have with the enemies to lovers trope and go balls to the walls and accept that the romance you are experiencing probably wont be resolved for another real life year or 2. Tap out and read smth else <3

[blackoutbruh]

might be an odd q but i was wondering why you dont like june?

achtung many words

ill be honest im not a transphobe i hate everyone equally firstly for me june makes absolutely no sense secondly i dont like the tendency to suddenly make some character trans or something like that, why cant you just create a character who was originally conceived as a trans character and not take an existing one thirdly this is my personal attitude towards john i dont know how to describe it rlly fourthly LEAVE AT LEAST ONE CISGENDER HETEROSEXUAL CHARACTER PLEASE- i wouldnt mind if for example harry was made transgender, hes a teenager and this is a new character who can be well written as transgender and i would gladly watch this story if it were true why make john suddenly trans if in the original comic he was obviously a heterosexual cisgender man and there was NOT A SINGLE hint that he was uncomfortable in a mans body for me he will forever remain silly nerd guy you can hate me you can accuse me of all mortal sins you can cancel me wherever you can but i will not change my mind and the fact that i hate june egbert does not mean that i hate all trans people i hate everyone, remember that

and also im pissed off by ardent fans of june egbert who feel obliged to write what a transphobe i am because i call john john and draw him as a guy just block john egbert hashtag idk why i was smart enough to block the june egbert hashtag and not write all sorts of nasty things to the artists who draw june because i dont like her and june fans didnt think to do the same with john egbert

[susansontag]

I’m soooo scared about something bc my track record for medical exams is: 1. still terrified enough of blood tests (despite having had every conceivable one known to man) to have the rushing feeling of nausea after it’s over and the anxiety releases; 2. near panic attack experience before my nerve conduction studies and the memory of watching my arms jolt with absolutely no control over it is haunting; 3. nausea during a session with an osteopath who was doing stuff to my arms so I had to go outside and cool off; 4. burst into tears during my ultrasound, was desperately pressing down on my stomach area to try and release the pressure of idk the thingy they hold against you, made more awful by the fact the woman doing it didn’t react At All to this, it seemed like she didn’t gaf that it was clearly hugely emotionally impacting me (and she had no idea why I might have been in tears and clawing at my abdomen! maybe she was just trying to get through it quickly to minimise my negative reaction but it was made so much more upsetting in my memory by how little it seemed anyone in the room cared about my very clear distress, that and it was so unbelievably mortifying and uncontrollable; I had no clue it would affect me in this way before going…), etc etc. I have more experiences too but these are the current greatest hits.

I also have health ocd so that intertwines with the anxiety of the examinations themselves to contribute even more to my distress. I cant stress enough that, though uncomfortable, none of these experiences physically hurt me and yet I was still sobbing, honestly almost trying to push devices off me in the ultrasound case but barely reigning it in, still feeling nauseous or like I’d faint (I’ve also fainted in the past after a medical talk lmao).

people online are saying (to other people with similar worries) that if you think it’s going to be a negative experience you can tell your GP, they may refer you to a hospital to have it done instead, there are options of drugs to take etc if you tell them how these sorts of things impact you. this makes me feel better that there are options like it calms me significantly but I’m so stressed by the idea they’ll say no you’ll have it done like everyone else. like surely this is good enough evidence that I would make this experience Awful for my local nurse like do we think they’d refer me to the hospital if I told them all of this…

[infoglitch]

Bliss.

Bleiss found herself roaming the halls of beacon as she was trying to think of how to approach her sister without conflict but everything she thought of didn't work.

Weiss was just so fuckin stuck up that's why she cant stand her, she's too fuckin prissy

The thought ran through Bellameres head before shoving it away. She was nearly as grown adult and as much as she loved being right her sister was more important than her ego.

But oum damn it all why the fuck couldn't Weiss just relax around her and not foam at the mouth at everything Bleiss said!

Unbeknownst to Bleiss her feat brought her to a single dorm. Team JNPR's dorm... This was that arc boys team dorm, knowing how he acts it was probably full of losers. Bleiss knocked on the door and soon it opened to reveal the one and only invincible champion, Pyrrha Nikos.

Pyrrha: oh hello Weiss.. what's with the new look?

Bleiss just looked her up and down before trying to speak "calmly" and "dignified" considering this was that overconfident bratty bitch Weiss just LOVED to speak of.

Bleiss: Ms. Nikos apologies for the intrusion-

Pyrrha: I told you already Weiss call me Pyrrha

Bleiss looked at her somewhat annoyed.

Bleiss: apologies Pyrrha but you have me confused for my sister. I am Bellamere Givrése. Weiss' twin.

Pyrrha took a moment before snapping her fingers.

Pyrrha: oh yeah your her "evil twin". I guess on the surface the title is apt.. regardless what do you need Bleiss?

Bleiss: I'm here for Jaune Arc, Ms. ni-

Pyrrha: Pyrrha. I have a name, I'm a person just like you, not some deity.

Bleiss was a bit taken aback, she figured Pyrrha was some snotty stuck bimbo that was used for a one time sponsorship with some weird cereal... That she may have begrudgingly liked.

Bleiss: Pyrrha... So may I please talk with Mr. Arc.

Pyrrha: sure thing.

Pyrrha would lean back and shout into the dorm.

Pyrrha: jaune! You got a visitor. Its weiss' "evil twin".

Jaune: wait what?

Jaune popped his head out from the door frame as he held a box of cereal that Bleiss recognized instantly.

Bleiss: are you... Are you eating pumpkin Pete's?

Jaune: yeah... Any problem with that?

Bleiss: yes. It's the fact no one told me you had some pour me a bowl aswell.

Jaune was a bit surprised but nodded and soon both sat at a table with Bleiss scarfing down her bowl as jaune looked at her in awe.

Jaune: you alright? You act like you haven't in cereal in years

Bleiss stopped and swallowed what was left in her mouth.

Bleiss: right on the money knight, Vacoue ain't got a lot of food, hence the constant delivery of food.. plus the peice of shit who helped my mother conceive me never allowed us to eat "filth's food" .. winter did manage to sneak a few in for all four of us before she got all stick-up-her-ass.

Jaune: that... That surprisingly is sad

Bleiss: yeah.. but ah fuck that boohoo shit and fuck the old bag. He's a daft cunt and a sqwimp.

Jaune: I can agree to that.

Jaune brought up a fist right beside her as Bleiss fist bumped him. Meanwhile Ren Pyrrha and Nora watched in the background.

Pyrrha: I don't get how she's an Evil twin. Most evil thing to her is her language.

Nora: I like her, she seems fun

Ren: I have a bad feeling about her... Something is off with her disposition.. like she's hiding something.

Pyrrha: well if anything happens we'll be prepared... She better stop sizing jaune up though.

Fin

[threeeyedharemp3]

☕how the writers delt with river song

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP THEY DID MY GIRL SO DIRTY there are so many. good river song moments. and there are so manythat make me want to tear a strip off steven moffat like every goddamn episode with her they have to make some obnoxious sex joke or some Honey Im Home type shit & i understand this is like. A Moffat Theme & i dont always hate it but goddddd its so reductive like there is so much!!!! that could be done with her character !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! that is overshadowed by haha what if she was sexy like STOPPPPPPPPPPPP.

like silence in the library was a really good character lead in & i like her!!! as a character !!!! even the overly flirtatiousness unfortunately that would work on me but even aside from that. she is a good character let down but the sheer pull-it-out-of-your-ass writing of her backstory. like?? she could regenerate cos she was conceived in the tardis okay thats really cool much weirder stuff has happened when it comes to tardises & making babies but then WE SeE THIS FOR LIKE. ONE OR TWO EPISODES BEFORE THEYRE LIKE WHOOPS THAT DOESNT WORK ACTUALLY COS SHE'S DEAD UHHH SHE BETTER UHMM IDK SAVE TH E DOCTOR OR SOMETHING WHATEVER> COS HER ENTIRE LIFE HAS TO REVOLVE AROUND HIM. HASHTAG MARRIAGE AMIRITE like even the fact that her entire life was shaped around him isnt a Bad Idea it just feels like no one considered the tragic impies (implications) of this, & simultaneously doing amy so dirty in the process as well like??? she loses baby mels & then discovers she was her (never previously mentioned) childhood friend but then she uhhhh dies & turns into this woman you already know and them????? barely eveer mention it again???? holy shit?????????????????????? amy & river is a freaking horror story but one that the writers seem imcapable of dealing with because sOMEONE is too busy making obnoxious jokes about married life

a lot of thsi is specific to the General Vibes of the eleven era stuff as well which was in general so so weird about women & while its not like twelve or any of teh other doctors are expemt from this eleven is a massive dick to people quite a bit & a lot of this falls on river b/c he is seemingly (iirc i havent seen some of this stuff for a while though it Haunts Me) almost careless? with her? like a sort of 'welllllll she's here now so it was all okay in the end :)' sort of attitude ignoring that she went through A Fuckton Of Stuff before she was even a concious human(mostly??) being

even the husbands of river song is tragically guilty of some of that stuff like. she's seen some wild shit & she should have known it was twelve wayyyyyy way way quicker. like i understand why she didnt for plot reasons but she is in fact very intellegent like. she's allowed to show that. unfortunatley sometimes women cant be smart & have their boobs out at that same time I GUESSSSSSSSS

also the nine & river audios from earlier this year? i really like archipelago i listened to that a couple of times & i thought it was really powerful but AGAIN the writers make river So Fucking Obsessed With Romance like. you'd let it go by that point. nine had literally just proved he's the most aro guy in the universe (good for him) and shes stillllllll flirting at him. which. imo she wouldnt do anymore because, shock horror, she does actually like him as a person & values his company and you would think you would be friends wit hthe guy YOU ARE GONG TO MARRY OR WHATEVER. NOT THAT THEIR MARRIAGE WAS PARTICULARLY ROMANTIC EITHERIM GONNA BE SO REAL. obviously sex is important to her & good for her but yikes. it doesnt need to be mentioned so often.

like its the whole 'inherent tragedy of waiting for a time traveller' stuff which i do eat up every time meeting her in silence of the library & knowong that there is so much more there - VERY COMPELLING !! really good character intro augahagaauuaajaaajahhahahahhhh but nooooo her Entire Fucking Goddman Life has to revolve around being manipulated & The Doctor AS WELL AS !! the completely uncalled for ohhhh im a PSYCHOPATH ( <- unfounded & demonstrably untrue lowkey this is saneism right. thats an ableism there yes? ) thing they alllwaysssss have her say like well!! shes not !! theres 'youre talking about commiting a murder'/'no im not, i'm actually commiting a murder' which i like & is funny & she would say that and then theres teh vauge oooohhhhh im so Freaky & I Have A Gun or whatevr like augsugsaihuahahaouoauauoouauoauoauoauuo

also twelve & river had freaky t4t bi4bi aroallo sex after the end of husbands of river song but no actual dw writer is enlightened enough to see that because they have to flatten her into The Doctors Wife & she would have had a far better dynamic with 12 than with 11 (not that i'm biased) i wish they got more time togetherrrrrrrrrrr also you should listen to the bekdel test (diary of river song audio with missy)

[jimmyscanongf]

re: that last reblog and i think ironically… it’s ANYA who can and would have given him that permission to exist and live if he would have owned up to what he did to her. like in my head ive been rolling around the idea a few people have raised about him just being unable to face the enormity of what he did because he does understand how wrong it was. and ive struggled with it because i can see it, but i still dont think its the whole story like, i think this misogynistic disregard he has for anya does play a big part but neither can i ignore the massive dysfunctional defense mechanisms of narcissism either

because for real, i think he does understand that rape is one of the worst violations you can commit on another person. I think many rapists do and they just do mental gymnastics to validate why their actions dont apply. but here we have someone who has the disorder that makes you wanna fucking die if you’re a little bit not perfect like you think he’s gonna be able to admit to having raped someone? he’s pushed it so far out of the realm of his consciousness he cant even conceive of it without the lens of this terrifying horse imagery.

and anya, i think, god she’s so kind, “our worst moments don’t make us monsters” are her words she said TO HIM. do i think she would have been chummy with him if he owned up to it? no i dont think she would have wanted anything to do with him but i also dont think she wanted him to die or suffer either. i think she wanted the closure of him admitting what he did and i really think she would have, if not forgiven him at least RELEASED him with the assurance that he isnt inherently evil, that he has the capacity in him to do and be better, that his worst moment doesnt make him a monster. but he just doesnt respect her enough to give her words any mind so he’ll just destroy everything and everyone around him instead of letting her save him

[tonydaddingham]

the s2 endgame

an incredibly long post that i will not apologise for but does contain multiple frames of michael sheens face, so-

the first beat, for me, that truly leads up to the kiss is when aziraphale says to crowley, "i don't think you understand what im offering you." because whilst im sure in part aziraphale was referring to the offer of restoration and - as he perceived it - what it meant for crowley (and that's what crowley denied with "i understand. i think i understand a whole lot better than you do."), i think aziraphale truly meant that crowley didn't understand what the restoration could give them. to restore crowley meant that aziraphale could give all of himself to crowley, with no fear of reprisal or comeuppance like they've had to suffer for their entire existence; "pretending that we aren't".

it meant that they could be safe, together, as two angels, and not on opposite sides in the eyes of heaven. they could work together to make things better, but they would be together. crowley was completely justified in refusing the offer, based on his own trauma and pain that heaven unforgivably dealt to him, but aziraphale wasn't necessarily asking crowley to forget or forgive that; but instead to be with aziraphale, aziraphale completely as he is with nothing hidden, nothing repressed, and nothing sequestered away in fear of retribution from heaven - or indeed in fear of rejection from crowley.

so when crowley said he understood more than aziraphale did, i imagine that meant to aziraphale that crowley did indeed see all of that, had heard aziraphale and knew what aziraphale was offering, the security and freedom as aziraphale saw it, but didn't want it - didnt want aziraphale, didn't want that version of us - anyway. crowley didn't mean it that way, of course; he meant he knew that the restoration would trap him, try to make him into an angel he no longer knew or wanted to be, and was rejecting what he thought aziraphale wanted him to be.

but i personally can't conceive any notion where aziraphale would ever have thought this - he's fallen for the not-quite-angel-not-quite-demon that crowley is now - why can't crowley see that? he just wants to give him back the same peace and joy that he had before the fall, but naively cant understand that being an angel doesn't make it so. it's not about being an angel, for aziraphale, but what being an angel could return to crowley... that it could fix the wounds that the fall left behind.

but here we arrive at "no nightingales". given the symbolism in popular culture and in mythology behind the nightingale, and the context of the nightingale in their story, it seems to me like crowley is saying that the conversation that has just transpired between them has broken something. and really broken something. it hasn't broken the love, per se - that's still there - but it's led to their own personal tragedy. their conflicting wants and needs have led to the downfall. that in crowley's eyes, there isn't a way to repair the damage that has been done. he doesn't even qualify that it's 'no nightingales singing', but the full absence of them, meaning that this has changed - poisoned - every chance of what could have been.

"we could have been us" compounds this; that in crowley's mind, there is no possibility of this now. that he knows what aziraphale will decide, what he will choose, and knows that he has already lost; and he's placing all of it at aziraphale's feet. that if the only way to see them be together is to be restored, to return to heaven, then crowley can't and will not do it - he doesn't understand why aziraphale would even entertain the thought and sees it as a reflection of aziraphale's distain for his current self.

aziraphale however sees it as an opportunity to ensure that they are safe in perpetuity, and wants to reverse the fall because the happiness and joy that he saw before is what he wants for crowley now, not realising that the two are, as of now, currently incompatible. so this line is, for aziraphale, the final deathblow; that there is no way back from this, the chance has faded to nothing even if the love between them remains - and they'll never get back the 'us' that existed before the event, let alone the 'us' that they both want now.

the wave hits aziraphale and bowls him over, makes him stagger. what he has been wanting - but couldn't initiate out of fear - is now completely impossible and will never happen. his face crumples, and he turns away, mirrors crowley in not looking at him, not letting him see the vulnerability and the sorrow. he looks to the left, into the dark and away from the light, into the space where crowley normally stands, always by his side, and not on the other side of the chasm that has now erupted between them.

but crowley does sees the face, and recognises it. he's seen it before, seen the expression of when aziraphale hears his sentence and resigns himself to his fate, and despairs in kind that this rift of both of their makings has put in on aziraphale's face. but he also sees it as a mark of hope; can I change his mind? can I offer him something that I haven't offered yet? he can feel the last burning embers of doubt, and he could stoke it. build to a full fire, to an inferno. words haven't worked, they never work - "it's always too late" - but in this case, just one time, action might. so then crowley - oh, crowley - makes up his mind. he has to know, whatever happens, that he did everything that he could possibly do to cling to this dream, this fairytale, where they might get to be together.

and it's pure desperation and determination, the swan dive off the cliff not knowing how far it'll be until he reaches the bottom. there's the smallest chance he might catch an updraft and fly. but the kiss - whether he intends it that way or not - is a temptation. and he's so good at that, isn't he? he tempted aziraphale into eating, he tempted him into dispatching a child... he knows he can do it, and he knows that aziraphale can succumb to it (whether it's because angels can in fact be tempted by demons, or because aziraphale can be tempted by crowley). he has nothing else to lose, but everything to gain, and that everything is slipping through his fingers, "you can't leave this bookshop", so what does it matter if he tries to keep aziraphale in the last way he knows how?

and even then this time, it's more; it's physical, it's raw, and it's human. their common ground. he's the serpent of eden, he tempted eve to the apple, he brought about the fall of humanity. crowley has gone beyond tempting aziraphale with sly words, assurances, and logic; this time, he's putting everything into it, giving it his all, so neither of them can ever say he didn't try. temptation was literally his first order, his first command; his most powerful and yet destructive capability. and each one, on aziraphale's part, has led to manifestly chipping away at aziraphale's divinity, his angelic core. each one has made aziraphale into the person he is today, the person that crowley loves, so whilst it may not be the right thing to do, it's the best chance he has to reach him.

so crowley grabs him, wheels him round to face him, and pulls aziraphale into him. there are no words, there's no gentleness, there's no finesse; it's practically animal, carnal and rough, and everything that - in all likelihood - neither of them wanted when they imagined how this moment would be, if it ever came. and throughout the whole thing, crowley does not move. his grip does not lessen, his mouth does not move, his expression does not falter; it's like he's serpentine again in all but form, constricting and gripping his prey into subjugation. it's instinctive, and unconscious, probably involuntary, but it leaves aziraphale with such little room, no space to breathe.

aziraphale visibly seems to struggle - somewhat physically, but certainly emotionally and mentally - and we can see that predominantly in his expression. he at least almost seems like he's trying to pull away, or create some space between them. it's not how he likely imagined their first kiss - if they ever got to have one and if aziraphale indeed ever imagined it - to be; it's not right, and it certainly doesn't feel like love. love may be behind the wheel, but what is slamming into him in possession, and anguish. i can't believe that aziraphale doesn't know or feel that, not going by the way he reacts. there's also the fact that - as far as we've seen - the last time crowley gripped him by the lapels and got this close to him was at tadfield manor, when crowley was all but raging at him, "im not nice, im never nice; nice is a four-letter word". it's an unmistakable parallel, and it may be that that four-letter word is swapped out for another one, it certainly doesn't feel like it in the moment.

but then aziraphale relaxes, rocks back towards crowley, and returns it. he grips at his back, at the space where resides his wings, and gives back crowley what he's asking for. it might be that aziraphale is trying to be kind - giving him the confirmation that he returns his love even if he can't act on it - or it might be because aziraphale actually realises that he likes it, this kiss, and the brutality of it. it might even be that he knows that this may be his only chance to show crowley that it's reciprocated; that he feels the same way. but it may also be, in addition to any or indeed all of the above, that aziraphale subconsciously succumbs to the temptation. gripped and bound, with nowhere to go, he surrenders to his fate - the freefall - and allows himself for a moment to sink. but then he steps back out of it, reins himself in, lifts his hands again from crowley, and crowley finally lets go.

crowley lets go, and stands back to see what it might have changed. did he tempt him, did he succeed? will his angel stay? it felt like he will, he felt his hands and how he surrendered - he didn't imagine it - and it might have worked in crowley's favour. it worked with the ox. it worked with the antichrist. there's no reason it wouldn't work this time, right?

until aziraphale steps back. he steps back, places that distance, the chasm, between them again, and looks for all the world that the heavens have caved in, crashing and splintering all around them. a look of utter despair, almost a plea that what happened didn't happen, because it changes everything. it puts what can't happen into the open, makes it more than the abstract. it's longing, and it's sorrow, and it's heartbreak that this could have been what they'd have.

but the fog starts to lift, the shock has settled in, and horror sweeps over; it's disbelief that crowley made that move, and made it in the way he did. it's waking up, coming-to, reality starts to seep back in. it's looking down at the board, and seeing a check on the king, a challenge that aziraphale never saw coming -

- and then it almost becomes fear and panic, backed into a corner, and not necessarily because someone could have seen them, or because crowley has now put something fundamentally physical to what they are (although i believe these could also be contributory to his reaction), but it's the dread of having to refuse and deny what crowley has put out between them, dangling between their fingers waiting to be held.

aziraphale begins to bargain, starts to try reconciling what just happened, and whether anything can be salvaged. he's had a tiny piece of what their future could hold for them, and he has a decision to make. he starts wavering, starts to oscillate between the decision to follow his head and do what he feels is the right thing in the long-term, or arguably betray the person he has become over the millennia, deny himself what he thinks is the right thing, and instead follow his heart; grasp at crowley, and the future he laid out before him.

he looks to crowley for guidance, he's lost, suddenly unanchored in a churning maelstrom. trying to gauge what move he should take - does he surrender the king, or move it to evade the check?

either decision means that the game is up or is only a matter of time before it folds; he either risks their safety by staying, or risks losing crowley by going. there isn't another option, there isn't another way, and aziraphale is teetering between the two. neither are options that he wholeheartedly wants to take. he begins to trying to speak, trying to get out words that are choking him, trapped in the snare of Things Unsaid. words to explain, to placate, to beseech, to plead, and it starts to really hurt.

and what hurts about it the most is that he's about to deny crowley. in the full scene - you can't get it from just the frames - his expression is complete heartbreak. he wants to explain why, even now, when he wants to stay more than anything, he has to choose heaven. why he has to choose to continue evading the check, why he has to continue to fight. and it's the prospect of hurting crowley in the process, of prolonging the pain, that is tearing him apart.

except. except. he's just realised what crowley was doing. it was desperation, and fear for losing aziraphale, and a last ditch attempt to cling to what they have and what they could have. all of these thing, out of love.

but what aziraphale realises is that it was manipulation. it was temptation. this one means something deeper, something darker, because to aziraphale it was calling him to betray who he truly is. and suggests that who he truly is isn't enough.

his gaze flicks up from the floor, and he finally makes full eye contact, staring crowley down. it's disbelief all over again; that crowley would resort to that trick, the trick that crowley knows is aziraphale's personal, heartfelt weakness, and one that he will - and demonstrably always has - succumbed to.

it's the disbelief that crowley would take this power and use it to mold and ply aziraphale into staying, when crowley should know that going - to "make a difference" - is the most aziraphale thing he could do. if crowley loves him, exactly as he is, why would he try to make aziraphale betray that?

the anger, the sense of betrayal, sets in, and spreads like hellfire. it relaxes his face, almost bringing him an eerie serenity. because he's seen that not only does he have to break the check (tirelessly continuing the chess metaphor), but he's going to fight back. he's seen that he can instead take the piece threatening him, and checkmate in kind.

it's the scorched earth option, but one that will demonstrate that he's not one to falter under the eyes of a challenge; he will stand his ground, roots digging into the earth, and will not be moved. he takes a breath, about to move his piece that will end the game. it will make crowley lose, but it was lost already; the game was up as soon as he told aziraphale he understood what aziraphale was offering him. because whilst crowley was talking about a place in heaven, aziraphale was talking about us.

and to aziraphale's mind, crowley was so unwilling to hear him, so ready to reject whatever narrative meant he would have to love aziraphale more than he hated heaven, that crowley would stoop to essentially trying to trick aziraphale into staying. into betraying who he is at his core.

instead, aziraphale steels himself; he knows who he is, and he will be enough. the acceptance of the situation, what it will mean when he 'wins', will do something unspeakable, but it must be done. he has to show his own claws, show how much it hurt. aziraphale takes a breath, even has a small smirk, and places the final piece.

"i forgive you."

[atopvisenyashill]

Is it reasonable to say that Maegor would’ve turned out better if Aegon was a father to his son and dare I say if Aegon didn’t abandon Visenya.

Visenya lost her sister, her husband never showed any love like he did her sister, then he distance himself from her (so she lose a brother and A husband). Westeros don’t fuck with her, people aren’t warm to her, they respect her but she has no friends it seems since “even those who loved her best found her stern, cold and unforgiving” (like not one of y’all can say something like she was funny or sum?). Like I’m sure she had supporters but those are different from genuine friends who aren’t dependent on your title.

All she has is Maegor who she mold into the perfect warrior and since he’s all she got, she tolerates everything he does. That’s her only support and her only child that she likely had to work to conceive either via the cauldron, fertility potions (women in stem💅) or by asking Aegon to tidy up and do their duty.

I think not being alone she wouldn’t be so dependant on her son and therefore would be able to be less blind and put her foot down in discipline. Plus Aegon himself, as a father could’ve tempered Maegor.

Aenys and Maegor raised together would’ve benefitted them, Aenys would’ve gotten a spine and Maegor would’ve known to chill out for once.

Aegon the conqueror cant even rule his own family 😭 no wonder why Rhaenys and Visenya did the heavy lifting with the day to day (heck Visenya did it after Rhaenys died) and had the nerve to terrorize folks into bending the knee

Also I am certain Maegor & Visenya were funny asf because “your grace is more than welcome to take her from me” when Maegor was asked by Aenys to give Blackfyre is so funny.

Rip Maegor, Catelyn Tully could’ve fixed you and you could have enabled her being unhinged at times

I remain a "maegor's father was the goat Visenya blood sacrificed" truther so I think Maegor was kind of fucked from the outset. But do I think he might have been better if Aegon was the dad that stepped up? I mean, yeah, lol, most people would be better off if their father didn't clearly and actively resent them and their mom.

Maegor has real child of divorce energy and that's his main issue until he gets brain damage and becomes a zombie. He has a mom he loves but is weird about, a golden child older brother he never spends time with, and a father who is too busy resenting Visenya for not being the favored wife to actual parent his child. Which, I know royals don't really parent their kids but you know. Aegon isn't even half assing it by putting Maegor's art on the wall, they're living completely separately and then Maegor gets shuffled off into a marriage to fix Aegon's political headaches like he's a girl or something, to a woman waaaaay older than him. Of course he's heavy compensating lol who wouldn't in that situation. I mean Daemon grows up in a situation signficantly nicer than Maegor's and he's insane, I can't exactly blame Maegor for being a little crazy even before the brain injury.