#Ive been wholly treated as if ive never been his

[hopesandcoats]

Memories:❤️

[ellecdc]

ive been thinking about stone-faced unamused independent reader and how james and barty would absolutely love to baby her and treat her like a princess and she has none of it..until shes feeling sort of down and like she needs their love and support so she gives in and theyre both so shocked and excited theyre like little dogs wagging their tails spinning around her

hiii....I'm back to apologizing to everyone who sent me in requests 2.5+ months ago for me to hoard them until inspiration struck! hope I did it justice hahaha

poly!darksun x black cat!reader and Sirius who just doesn't Get It

CW: fem!reader, reader is maybe a little mean but obviously James and Barty are into that shit, Sirius' POV so a very unreliable narrator

Sirius Black believed himself to be a pretty open-minded person.

He believed that love was love, he staunchly disagreed with blood status and had a lot of respect for muggle-borns, and believed in the fair treatment of beasts and other magical creatures in the Wizarding World.

But no matter how open-minded Sirius believed himself to be, he could not for the life of him figure out how in the hells James Potter and Barty Crouch Junior found their way to you.

Sirius admittedly had a hard enough time finding out that his best friend was dating his semi-estranged little brother’s maniacal (read: bat-shit crazy) best friend, but this? 

This made no sense to him. 

At least when it came to the likes of Barty Crouch Junior, James had found someone who could rival him in energy and enthusiasm. James could run for seven hours straight at a gods-honest sprint and Barty was just about crazy enough to try as well. Barty never denied his more intrusive thoughts and James was morbidly curious enough to watch those thoughts play out.

And both of them seemed to love hard; even if Sirius didn’t approve of that love, even if he didn’t like that love, he could admit that it, at the very least, made sense for him.

But where James was all golden retriever energy and Barty was some kind deranged, rabid mutt straight from the depths of hell, you….

Well, Sirius wasn’t sure exactly what you were. 

Where James was sweet and Barty was enthusiastic, you were utterly unimpressed. 

Where James was excitable and Barty was chaotic, you were completely apathetic.

And where James and Barty could be…slightly codependent, you seemed wholly disinterested in having either of them (or anyone for that matter) near you. 

“Sod off; I can carry my own damned books.” You had spat at Barty as he tried to take them from you. 

And Sirius had to stand there and watch both Barty and James stare after you with a lovesick look adorning their faces as you stalked away from them. 

“Well isn’t she just a ray of sunshine?” Sirius muttered derisively, earning him a threatening glare from Barty and a frustrated stare from James.

“You’re one to talk, Pads; I watched Remus actually growl at a first year who tried to take the last pumpkin pastie at dinner last night.” He grumbled before redirecting Barty away from Sirius’ jugular. 

And that seemed to be your response to pretty much anything those two did; you elbowed James in the stomach when he held the door open for you like a ‘poncy chauffeur’, you stomped on Barty’s foot when he offered you his elbow on the moving staircase, and you never seemed particularly pleased should they wind up in your vicinity.

Yet…

Yet you never made any effort to actually remove them from your vicinity, nor did you make any effort to leave theirs.

In fact, if Sirius wasn’t mistaken, he was sure he saw your shoulders relax ever so slightly when you realised the people pulling out the chair across from you in the library were James and Barty. 

They tensed right back up when Sirius and Peter accompanied them, but that's besides the point.

No, you didn’t converse with any  of them. Yes, you completely ignored any attempts at conversation from James or Barty - save taking the opportunity to correct them in their debate about their potions homework. And just once, Sirius was certain he’d heard you whisper a quiet thank you to Barty when he helped you find the page number for the answer to number 47 of your Herbology homework. 

It seemed to Sirius that no matter how staunchly you refused to allow either boy to fawn over you, you weren’t completely averse to their company. And though this amount of dedication didn’t exactly surprise Sirius coming from James, seeing as he spent four and half years of his school life pursuing a completely disinterested witch, he was confused that Barty hadn’t gotten bored yet.

It was all very peculiar, Sirius thought. 

Even more peculiar was when Barty and James had been snuggling in James’ bed as James quizzed Moony for the upcoming Alchemy test when there was a tentative knock on the dormitory door. 

Peter looked up from his Ancient Runes homework to look at Sirius, James and Barty lifted their heads to look at Sirius, and Remus turned in his desk chair to look at Sirius.

“What?” Sirius asked. “I didn’t knock.”

“You’re the only one not currently doing anything.” Remus countered.

Sirius paused in his throwing and catching of James’ pilfered snitch to look at him incredulously.

“I am too doing something.” He argued, holding the snitch between his thumb and forefinger and waving it at him. “Besides, Junior’s just laying there.”

“I’m a guest, Black. It’d be terribly improper for me to answer your dormitory door.”

“Answer the sodding door, Sirius.” Remus grumbled as he turned back towards James.

“A ray of sunshine.” James sing-songed for Sirius’ benefit, clearly still not over his passing comment of you from days ago. 

Sirius let out a dramatically petulant sigh as he stood to open the door.

Your face pinched when you saw who had answered, though Sirius had to hand it to you how quickly you corrected your expression.

Before you had a chance to tell Sirius why you were here, he looked back over his shoulder at James’ bed.

“See, I don’t think I should have to open the door for your bird!”

All that was heard was a painful sounding thump and James muttering “Barty, my glasses” before Barty materialised at the door. 

“Hi Treasure!” He greeted enthusiastically.

Sirius watched your eyes narrow as you seemingly debated whether or not to make a fuss over his nickname before ultimately deciding against it. 

“Angel!” James cheered as he, too, rounded the corner and shoved Sirius out of the way. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Sirius sat back down on his bed where he could see you consider your options carefully. 

Finally, after having the two sods stand there no doubt smothering you in smiles and soft eyes did you look shyly down at your shoes. “Can I…hang out with you guys for the afternoon?” You asked quietly.

Barty and James exchanged a - quite comical, in Sirius’ opinion - excited look before returning their gazes to you. “Of course!” They chorused; the volume startling you into lifting your head to look at them nervously. 

James cleared his throat and moved out of the door frame, ushering you in. “Of course you can.” He offered quieter this time, guiding you towards his bed as he looked over his shoulder and mouthed “oh my gods” at Barty who was eagerly following behind you. 

“What have you been up to today?” James asked then, clearly wondering what motivated this impromptu and voluntary visit but not wanting to chance whatever spell had been cast to get you here. 

You sat down on the edge of the bed, anxiously picking at your nail beds as each boy sat tentatively beside you. 

“I was studying in the library…” You offered, sounding horribly robotic and rehearsed in your response before you let out a shuddering sigh. Sirius watched as you visibly deflated and leaned slightly closer into Barty’s side. “I’ve had a bit of a headache all day.” You admit.

James and Barty both coo in unison as James cautiously rubs circles on your back; you let him.

“You have a headache?” Sirius deadpanned from across the room. “And you came here? To these two? Are they not the source?” 

“Get out.” Barty spat, braving himself as he tightened his arm around you; once again, you let him. 

“You can’t kick me out of my own dorm room, Junior!” Sirius argued. “Why don’t you go to your dorm room?”

“Oh, do you want to know what your baby brother and Rosier were up to before I left? Because I’ll happily scar you with that knowledge, Black.” Barty threatened. 

Sirius, who was not ashamed to admit he was perhaps more than slightly immature, simply covered his ears and started singing to drown out the sound of Barty’s voice.

“That’s it, everyone out.” James barked then; tone taking on an air of Gryffindor quidditch captain.

Remus scoffed indignantly at that as Peter - clearly the wisest of the bunch - simply began packing up his homework. “You promised to help me pass this test!”

“Oh for Salazar’s sake, Lupin; the answers are A, D, B, B, A, C, D, A, A, true, true, false, Nicholas Flammel.” Barty barked at him, causing Remus to blink owlishly at him. 

“Fine.” Remus finally said as he stood, shocking Sirius into silence at his quick acquiescence to such abhorrent demands. “Let’s go, Sirius.” 

Sirius, feeling awfully petulant, hurled the snitch towards James’ head who quickly and calmly caught it before offering it to you as Remus hauled him off the bed by his wrist and all but dragged him towards the door. 

“But it’s not fair, Moony!” Sirius pouted as he slammed on the breaks just outside the threshold of their dorm room.

“Sirius.” Remus started solemnly. “How many times did you try to convince me to snuggle with you at night before we started dating?”

“217.” Sirius answered readily, relishing in the soft smile Remus had clearly tried and failed at fighting off. 

“Right, 217 times you tried to convince me to snuggle with you; and how many of those times did I deny you?”

“216.”

“Right.” Remus agreed. “And what had James done to ensure that I would relent that one time?”

Sirius let out a pained sigh as he looked to the heavens. “He charmed his, Pete’s, and your bed to the ceiling so there was only one option.” 

“Right.” Remus agreed again, softer this time as he rested his hand at the juncture of Sirius’ neck and shoulder and rubbed his thumb along the column of his throat. “So don’t you think the least we could do right now is just let them have the room?” 

Sirius looked back into the room in time to see you smiling softly at something James was saying as Barty placed what appeared to be a wet cloth to the back of your neck; your eyes closing and face relaxing in relief, leaning back into Barty as James massaged your calves and carried on in his story. 

“What did I do to deserve this?” Sirius whined then, leaning his head into his boyfriend’s chest as he watched you curl up, not unlike a cat who had finally decided to sit on its person’s lap.

“Can you maybe try to remind yourself that James deserves this?” Remus whispered into Sirius’ hair.

“For Godric’s sake, Moony.” Sirius grumbled as he stood and began storming off in the direction of the common room. “Why d’you have to be so bloody reasonable all of the time!?”

[arinbelle]

Inevitable - Part IV

Summary: Nesta and Cassian mated on the night of Winter Solstice. But before they could mate properly, Cassian left soon after, leaving Nesta reeling and Cassian wanting more. When they mate under an official ceremony, with ancient magic, that mating call is renewed, and Nesta and Cassian are going to be in a frenzy. I.e. I wrote 20k fic full of smut.

Part I  | Part II  | Part III  | Part IV

~*~

Nesta had mostly slept uninterrupted through the night, though she’d expected herself to not wake for hours, maybe even days. She had been so thoroughly spent from the past two days and knew then that it had been wise of Cassian to hold off on their joining until she’d had some form of rest after their ceremony. 

Nesta had been half asleep when she’d reached for the pewter on the bedside table, and had been jolted awake by the cold water. Cassian hadn’t stirred until she’d curled up into his side again, reveling in the strength she’d felt as he’d wrapped his arm around her middle and pulled her closer.

They hadn’t spoken when he’d woken her the hour after with bruising, tantalizing kisses on her neck. She’d only grabbed the hand on her middle and placed it between her legs. Cassian had not made to move her, letting her rest as he slid into her with ease. 

It had been slow and soft even though she could feel Cassian pulling himself back. They’d always been vocal in bed with each other, never shying away from their desires and what effects they had on the other. And yet there was something more intimate, more fragile in the darkness of their room, with his arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her backwards into his chest as he made love to her. Softer, as she entwined their hands and turned her head back to seek out a kiss. It hadn’t been enough, none of it, yet she’d tried to make do. The burning in her chest, the searing live wire within her begging for more, more, more. 

He’d swallowed her gasps and moans as he’d thrusted deeper, biting affectionately at her lips as she’d gone through her climaxes. And it had been her, wholly her as his focus, even though it was Cassian who had initiated. It had to have been torture she knew to hold back as much as he did.  From hurting her or tiring her out, she didn’t know, but she knew the tenderness he was treating her with had only served to make her want him more. In the end they’d broken apart together, hands clasped above her head, lips sealed in a kiss that promised more with time. 

It was almost night when they woke again, Cassian waking her with a lovely smile that melted her heart. When she’d become so sappy, so lovesick, she had no idea. Yet, it didn’t really bother her. If the end result was waking up to Cassian, a very naked Cassian in their too large bed, she didn’t think she’d ever complain about acting like a silly girl with her first love. 

He’d left her to draw a bath, insisting on it for her sore muscles and whatever other excuse he’d created. Between the breakfast, the bath, and the endless orgasms, she could get used to this. She’d told him as much and Cassian had laughed wholeheartedly, only dropping a kiss at the crown of her head before pushing her to move to the bathing room.

She’d all but thrown a fit when he’d made to leave her in the large tub, filled to the brim with bubbles. Petulant as ever but she’d insisted she wasn’t hungry even though she was. All she wanted was him with her as she relaxed and sank deeper into the water.

”You really are so demanding,” he said as he finished washing her hair. “Most females enjoy having someone to cook for them.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say you can’t cook dinner. I said do it after I’m done with my bath.” So she could steal every single minute of his time and keep him to herself. She wouldn’t say that though. 

“Sure Nes,” he laughed. “Sure.”

Cassian began working on dinner at midnight. Through no fault of her own, although Cassian insisted it was hers alone, they’d ended up staying upstairs for far longer than was originally planned. 

Nesta had watched him walk out of the tub, grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips, and taking away the show. She’d quickly gotten out of the tepid water then, moving to find him and make it right. She’d been enjoying the view far too much and wanted it back. 

His back was turned to her when she found him in his other room, browsing through his closet for clothes. He hadn’t turned her way when she’d come up behind him but she’d seen his wings tighten and tuck inwards. It made the job of pulling the towel right off of his hips that much easier.

Cassian hadn’t even looked fazed when he’d turned slowly to take in her still damp, still unclothed body. He’d only raised a scarred brow to her before roving over her breasts and lower.

”If you don’t keep your hands to yourself mate, you’re going to starve.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she’d all but purred.

”Of course not.”

He’d pushed her onto the bed then, putting her on her hands and knees and fucking her from behind. She’d screamed into the sheets as she came, all three times, and even then it seemed Cassian could keep going. It seemed the sight of her in such a way, on her hands and knees, hands clenching into the sheets beneath them had renewed something in him. Something far more primal and Fae than before. She’d always felt the term fucking like animals was too crass for her taste. But then again, she’d never been with Cassian then. Never laid like this before where it was more rutting than fucking. 

It was both torture and pleasure to have his thick cock ram into her at that angle, so deep it felt impossible at times. By the end of it she was sobbing from the sheer pleasure, nearly begging though for what she didn’t know.

He’d cleaned her up gently, kissing the marks he’d left at her throat, her hips, her breasts. She knew he’d likely add more before the night was over but that didn’t bother her. To her surprise, Nesta was finding she liked this side of him. This side that wanted to claim and mark her as his own. His.

Her heart sang at the thought, of being his. 

When they’d finally put on clothes Nesta had been temporarily sent away from the kitchen while Cassian cooked. According to him, she was a bad influence. According to Nesta, she liked what she liked, she knew what she wanted, and Cassian could most definitely have fucked her with one hand and stirred the food with the other if he wanted to.

He hadn’t found her amusing at all and sent her away. A time-out at twenty-five had to be a joke but Cassian was serious. 

“I’ve created a monster,” she’d heard him mutter to himself.

Dinner though, had indeed been delicious. She had explored his study and the small bookshelf inside it, picking up a book on espionage and warfare to read. He’d found her with the book in bed, sprawled on her stomach in his shirt and nothing else. She knew exactly what the sight of it did to him. That and the top two buttons undone to give a generous view of her cleavage that he dutifully ignored while he placed her plate in front of her.

”I’m not hungry,” she supplied uselessly. A lie if she’d ever heard one. It was a miracle her stomach didn’t growl at the mouthwatering dinner he’d procured. A feast really with the glazed vegetables, seared chicken, warm bread and some spiced rice that smelled divine.

She’d never tell him that because then he’d act impudent and arrogant with her, but she’d seriously needed to eat. She couldn’t remember being so tired after sex before but two days of nonstop lovemaking had begun to take its toll. Even the night before she’d gone to sleep knowing it would be hours before she could wake again.

Cassian only said softly, with a lilting cadence, “I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.”

Nesta had tried to look a little offended. Tried and failed but she still kept up the picture of innocence. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a saccharine smile. He hadn’t bothered to even look at her as he moved to the other side of the bed. 

“I’m still going to fuck you Nesta, have some dinner.”

”Really?,” she asked coyly, her traitorous body already perking up at his words. 

”Behave and you’ll find out,” he said softly, the promise of something sinful in his voice. 

She pressed her legs tighter as something warm and tight had coiled in her core. Nesta couldn’t understand it, this want, this furious need to have him over and over. Even the day after Solstice and all the days he’d left her be in the House and she’d made do with just her hands between her legs and images of his face, his body, how he felt inside her, was nothing like this. Even in the days following his return, it had never been like this. Never had there been this aching need that seemed to rob her of breath and voice and all rationality that she prided herself on having. 

Cassian settled against the headboard, wings relaxing around him as he poured her a glass of wine and then one for himself. 

“I just opened this one. It’s two hundred years old.”

She took a sip, savoring the sweetness. She’d never really cared for wine but found it most palatable when getting drunk all those months ago. Hard liquor, though it did the job faster, always upset her stomach far more. Besides that, she hadn’t drank alcohol in months save for a few sips here and there at dinner. It had seemed the House had finally deemed it safe enough for her to drink again a month after Solstice, but Nesta hadn’t had much interest in it anymore.

“It’s good. Very good,” she noted, before taking another sip.

”It’s for you.” She raised a quizzical brow at him, not understanding even as he handed her the bottle.

On the sleek black bottle, the label read the name of the wine and province it had come from. And then in curling letters in the empty space of the label was a message. 

To you, the most unlucky girl in the world. 

We wish you the best as you embark on your lifelong journey married to this asshole. We hope this bottle of very expensive wine makes up for all your troubles but it probably won’t. Welcome to the family. 

Love,

Rhys and Az

Cassian rolled her eyes as she laughed but she saw the glimmer of a smile graze his lips as he reread the note silently. 

“Idiots. They made me keep it here for so many years. And every time I’d try to open it they wouldn’t let me, insisting I had to give it to their future sister-in-law.”

Nesta smiled at the thought. 

Cassian looked at her then, and something shifted in his face. “And here you are. After all,” he said softly. 

Nesta didn’t know what to make of the emotion on his face. Didn’t want to more like it since she knew she’d likely start crying if she did. Instead she opted to push his plate aside and slide in between his open legs, leaning back against his chest as she reached for her plate.

She ate her dinner silently, nestled in between his legs. He said nothing more either but she knew the unspoken words that lay between them.

I found you. After all this time, after all these years, here I am. Here we are. Together. 

They cleaned up the dishes together, with him washing and rinsing and her drying beside him. It was so domestic, so simple, yet something tugged in her heart as he handed her the last spoon and dropped a chaste kiss on the top of her head.

She could see it then, this future of theirs. Years ago, the best she could have hoped for herself was a husband who she didn’t detest, who didn’t hurt her or force himself onto her, and one who left her alone as she raised their children in a cold, loveless home. That had been the best option for herself, and she’d accepted that fate. When she had grown older, that acceptance had turned to nauseating fear, especially when Tomas Mandray had become a quickly approaching reality. An abusive, spineless asshole who couldn’t have been bothered to treat her with basic respect, let alone anything more.

Love had never even crossed her mind. Not because she didn’t want it or thought herself to be above it, because that couldn’t be the farthest from the truth. All her life she’d secretly dreamed, pining and hating herself for it, for the stupid wish of true love that could steal her breath away with just a look. A man who would sweep her off of her feet, who would make her feel that the world wasn’t unconquerable, who’d stand fervently by her side and love every facet of her. She’d burned with it, that horrible desire to have something so otherworldly it simply wasn’t possible.

And then she had blinked, and there Cassian was.

Their future would be slow, soft mornings, brought out of slumber with finger soft touches and reverent moments as they shared the space in between their mouths and breathed in the same air. Their future would be lovemaking so thorough, so encompassing, she thought she’d combust herself and be engulfed in flames so terribly hot, so passionate it would meld their very skins off until they were fused into each other. Seared into each other’s souls. Their future would be his windswept hair tickling her as he leaned down to kiss her hello and goodbye every time they reunited and every time they had to part. It would be wars fought side by side on killing fields and visits to the local theater where they would dance for hours into the night. Their future would be a small girl with Nesta’s hair and Cassian’s eyes, a boy with her reserved nature and Cassian’s love for the skies, and so much love for their children, each and every one of them, in all the ways neither of them had been given as they’d grown. 

“Nesta,” Cassian’s voice broke her out of her soaring thoughts. 

Nesta placed the last plate into the cupboard and turned to face her mate.

”Where did you go?,” he asked fondly, poking her cheek before moving past her to the icebox. 

Nesta pulled herself up onto the counter watching as Cassian finished closing the kitchen up. She followed the contour of his wings, umber and red-browns mottling with the illumination from the faelights overhead. So beautiful this male of hers, sometimes he took her breath away. 

“What were you thinking about?,” Cassian prompted lightheartedly.

”Nothing,” she answered. A pause. “Everything,” she admitted with a small laugh. 

“Our children,” she finally settled on. Cassian stopped whatever he was doing and slowly turned around. Something soft bloomed in his face, vulnerable and hopeful.

”What about them?,” he asked carefully, a whisper in the already quiet room.

Nesta shrugged, trying and failing to hide her embarrassment. The soft blush she knew would start staining her skin as she felt it heat up. Months ago, a year ago, she would never, never have admitted such a thing to him. Never would she have been so honest about her feelings, about him, about them, and everything in between. It would give him far too much power over her, even though she knew deep down he’d always had it. No matter what she did or didn’t do, he’d always held her in such rapture it was a wonder she didn’t lose herself completely sometimes. 

“How they would look,” she offered with a small smile. Cassian came closer, stepping in between her legs. “How we would be, how they would be raised…,” she mused, raising her hands up to wrap up and into Cassian’s hair as he pulled her closer towards him. 

Cassian’s smile told her everything she needed to know. It was every assurance she knew she would need whenever they started that journey together and a piece of her heart sang as she knew she’d be alright with Cassian by her side. 

“How many?,”Cassian asked gently, tickling her ear with a soft kiss. 

“You tell me, brute,”

Cassian looked far too delighted with the question, so much so that she decided to stop him instead. Nesta let out a huff, knowing exactly where they were headed. She pushed at his chest, knowing full well it did nothing to deter him. 

“Not that many,” she answered knowingly.

He shot her a reproachful look. “You don’t even know what I was going to say. Maybe I would have said two. Or three.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is that what you were going to say?”

He chuckled. “No. Not at all.”

Nesta met him in the middle as he leaned down to kiss her, leaning into his touch. His fingers tangled into her hair, and she angled closer, moaning as she felt him press himself against her core. Cassian broke the kiss just as she felt she was running out of air, and she gasped at the sudden shock of cold air in her mouth.

”Just to be clear, we’re not having any children anytime soon?”

”No,” Nesta answered quickly, eager to finish what he’d started. She reached for him again but he moved out of her reach.

”Because you just need to say the word,” he offered salaciously. She rolled her eyes, pulling him back, this time successfully. 

“I’ll let you know in a century or two. For now,” she said, struggling with the buttons on his shirt, “just fuck me.”

Cassian threw his head back to laugh, pushing her hands away and pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion. She would try not to think on it for too long but the muscled brown skin suddenly on display, whorls of black ink flexing with Cassian’s every movement, had her legs moving apart of their own accord.

If her mind wasn’t so single minded in that moment she would have chided herself for being so lustful. Surely she could gather her wits for a second. She was definitely capable of it. But in that moment it was harder to think straight and keep her composure, especially as he began undoing the lacings at his pants.

Nesta had no intention of moving from where she’d situated herself, happy to wait for him to join her and fuck her until she lost her voice and all sense of reason. 

Until he pulled his cock out. 

It was already hard and dripping with moisture, and it was so easy then, to push off of the counter, instead dropping to her knees before him, eager to taste and touch.

”Nesta-,” Cassian grunted, almost as if he didn’t want this. Perhaps he was trying to focus on her own pleasure as he’d been painstakingly doing for the past few days. But she’d always loved pleasing him. Loved seeing how she could make him succumb to her and only her, even on her knees.

His body told a different story as he practically molded to her, hands spearing with ease into her unbound hair, holding her tresses out of her face.

He tasted like salt and pure intoxication and the taste of him burst on her mouth as she swiped her tongue over the bead of moisture at the tip of his cock. Cassian made a garbled sound and she felt his fingers tighten sharply in her hair before relaxing again.

She stroked softly, softer than she knew he liked, and peered up at him with heavy eyes. Watching, waiting and not giving him nearly enough sensation to enjoy himself. 

“Careful,” he warned in a low voice. “I know what you’re doing, witch.”

Nesta’s lips curved of their own volition before she could help it. 

“Patience,” Nesta started, before dragging her tongue from base to tip in one efficient lick, “Is a virtue.”

He growled and she felt her breasts tighten at the sound. Felt a pool of warmth begin the build between her legs because she always associated it with pleasure that only he could ever give her.

“You’ll pay for it later then,” he settled on, relaxing into her grip as she quickened her strokes. 

“I look forward to it.”

Then she took him down her throat as much as possible, knowing that it would drive Cassian wild. Whatever was left of him she moved her hands over quickly, slickening his length with her mouth, bobbing and sucking with ease. She made a point to drag her teeth ever so gently as she reached the tip of his cock, and to lick at the broad tip before taking him back down her throat. 

Cassian let out a guttural sound each time she did that and she felt a coy sense of satisfaction. Only she could do this to him. She’d learned his body, all of his ticks, and everything he needed to come. It was a heady feeling to taste him and touch him this way, and she relished in the slick slide of his cock in her mouth, the moans he made as she moved faster and faster, pushing him towards that brink.

“I can’t…Nesta,” he murmured incoherently, thrusting his hips jaggedly, all sense of control lost from him as she worked him harder, deeper, faster. The sting on her scalp as he pulled tighter, moaning her name, was welcome encouragement.

Yes. Finally. She’d wanted this from him. This release on himself, the unbridled energy he always seemed to tamp down on so as to not lose control of himself. She knew everyone assumed him to be reckless and chaotic, all brash temper and quick actions over thought. But he was a thousandfold more careful than she’d ever been, far more controlled and far less erratic. 

She preferred him like this. He’d always been able to meet her word for word, verbal blow for blow, yet he always held himself back from a line she was always wiling to cross. She enjoyed him unleashed, more so, on her and it was only when they were like this, when she could touch him and give and give that she felt satisfied. 

He cried out as he hit his release and Nesta did not slow down. She did not stop to breathe let alone think as she savored the warmth now in her mouth, savored the harshness on his face slowly morphing to contentment. She swallowed every drop and kept her eyes open and fastened on his own gaze down at her. Cassian’s pupils were fully blown and something tender was etched into the planes of his as he looked at her. He caressed her head softly as she released his cock, stroking through her hair with careful deliberation.

Cassian let his hand drift from her head down to cup her chin. Then to rest lightly around her neck before pulling her up by it. He met her halfway up in a savage kiss, and she moaned into his mouth, licking against his tongue and letting him taste his release on her.

“The things you do to me Nesta,” he whispered against her lips before claiming them again. She felt his hands travel down her body cupping her ass roughly before lifting her up. She wrapped her legs around him on instinct and paid no mind to where he was taking them. She kissed down his jaw, licking at where his pulse fluttered under her teeth. She was tempted to bite down on it. Knowing Cassian it would only encourage him. But she held back, controlling this urge to take and take and slake herself on this unbearable desire that had been building for the past hour.

Cassian threw her down on the bed, a predatory smile gracing his beautiful face as he saw how quickly she raised herself up towards him.

”So eager,” he taunted, his laugh running chills down her spine. She didn’t care, couldn’t, not when she needed him so badly-

A knock came at the door downstairs. They both froze but Cassian didn’t look away from her. It came again, sharper this time, and irritation blossomed on his face as his eyes went distant and cold. She recognized that look and knew he was talking to someone in his mind. And she had no doubt who was at the door.

When he came to, it was clear he was disgruntled.

“I’ll be back. Rhys is here.” His voice was clipped as he spoke, and he turned quickly on his heel towards the door. Nesta puzzled over what Rhysand could be doing there, knowing he wouldn’t interrupt for a mundane reason. Worry and dread suddenly filled her and formed a pit in her stomach. What if Feyre was hurt? What about Nyx, Mother above-

“They’re fine,” Cassian abruptly interjected her racing thoughts, as if he’d read her mind. “Everyone is fine, this is about something else. Some work I need to do while I’m still here in Illyria. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be back soon.” A darker emotion passed his face. “He knows he’s not supposed to be interrupting us right now. Asshole.”

Nesta laughed softly, relief calming her. Cassian didn’t look at her as he pulled open the door but she saw the slight turn of his head, angled at her.

His voice was low, simmering with lust and intent, but even as he murmured to her, she could make out his words perfectly. “You better not be dressed when I get back.” 

The command was subtle but it was there. The bite of what he’d left unspoken was also not lost on her. There would be consequences if she didn’t listen and while she usually enjoyed seeing how far she could push Cassian, it was not the time for it. She needed to come so badly and she knew her own efforts would pale in comparison to his touch.

She snorted and considered it for a moment. If he punished her for the disobedience she would still get what she wanted in the end, only she would need to work for it. Were this any other day, she might have enjoyed it, being at his mercy as he kept her orgasm from her. But she felt the mating bond chafing from within, and the consuming urge to mate and couple was quickly rising. In the end she caved, tossing her dress and then her underwear to the side of the room.

If Rhysand and Cassian were talking, she didn’t hear anything. Not even as she strained her Fae senses outwards to where they should be outside the house. After a few minutes she laid down on top of the sheets, raising her knees and crossing her legs tightly in the hopes that it would quell the need inside her to touch herself. The lights above her irritated her eyes and she threw a hand over them to block it out. In fact, everything was starting to irritate her, especially as the time stretched on and Cassian didn’t appear. 

Maybe she wouldn’t wait for him and she’d slip her hand between her legs and come. It wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable if it was Cassian himself, but at least then she might finally find release. 

Cassian appeared moments later, as if he’d sensed the direction of her thoughts. The door had quickly opened and closed but Nesta did not move her hand off of her face. She did not rise up to meet him. Had not bothered to drape herself seductively over their sheets in effort to get a rise out of him. Fuck that. 

”I’m sorry,” he apologized, but she didn’t react. “Rhys…,” he sighed, cutting himself off. “Everything’s fine but it won’t happen again. I made that clear with him.”

Fine.

She didn’t have to like it but she listened, moving her arm off her face. The Faelight overhead shocked her and she blinked a few times before her eyes adjusted. Cassian’s pants were still on, laces undone, but he’d put his cock back in and her mouth watered at the memory of what they’d just finished downstairs. She pressed her legs closer together, knowing it wouldn't help. 

He didn’t miss it, that small movement and he took in her legs, her raised knees tightly locked against each other and smirked. The bastard smirked knowingly.

He practically purred, mocking her, “You need to come so badly, don’t you?”

She ignored the jab, only pushing up onto her elbows to look at him better. “What’s it to you?”

His eyes roved over her bare breasts and she felt the bond tug in her chest. So he liked the view, but what else was new? His eyes dipped over her taut stomach, likely noticing how tense she was holding herself. Cassian moved closer then, leaning his two hands down onto the mattress just inches from her legs.

”Let me see you,” he asked softly, but it was an order all the same. And it burned through her as she fought the urge to give in or to fight. He wrapped his hand around her ankle and gave a light tug, just enough to jolt but not enough to pull her legs apart.

“Let me see you, Nesta.”

She knew he wasn’t talking about her face.

Nesta opened her legs, raising her head just a touch to see his reaction. What she saw stole her breath away. He groaned appreciatively at whatever he saw between her legs and a hunger overtook his features. He was going to eat her alive and she’d enjoy every moment of it.

”Look at you,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle down her core with a featherlight touch. She leaned into it, only for him to move away and sit beside her on the bed.

Cassian’s hand slid down Nesta’s bare stomach, leaving chills in their absence and stoking the fire under her skin even more. She was still sore from before yet it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except him and that tantalizing touch making its way down to where she needed most. He was going purposefully slow, she knew, because it was such a Cassian thing to do. To punish her with the one thing he could beat her in.

Patience. 

She could jest and toy with Cassian all she liked about patience, but unlike Nesta, Cassian could and had waited out this sort of torture if he wanted. But worst of all, he would make her wait too. This was punishment for earlier, she was sure of it.

Nesta canted her hips just a touch, causing his hands to go ever so slightly lower to where she wanted it. He slid his eyes towards her, taking in every inch of her torso and breasts on the way up. 

“I will stop.” He said it with just enough mildness that Nesta was tempted to see if he’d actually follow through. But the threat had been made, and Nesta wanted to come, so she stopped her squirming. 

She made sure to tighten every muscle in her body so as to not move anymore. Cassian’s hand still right above the apex of her thighs had to have felt her muscles shift underneath. He chuckled darkly.

“You listen well when you want to come, don’t you? Greedy girl.”

Then, without any warning at all, Cassian leaned down over her stomach, and enclosed his mouth around her core, consuming her over and over. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as his tongue ran down her center and then back up to her clit. Her legs fell open wider and her muscles loosened just as Cassian pulled away.

Nesta almost throttled him.

She didn’t get a chance to though because Cassian slid his entire hand down to her sex and cupped her roughly. He tested the slide of the wetness he’d left on her skin with his mouth, and Nesta canted into the movement, grinding against his hand.

“Greedy,” he muttered again with a small smile. And then he slid his fingers up to circle her clit with just the right amount of pressure to have her gasping. It was so slow, so painfully slow for her, but she let Cassian go on, knowing he knew everything about her body and what she needed. 

It may have gone on for hours, or maybe a few minutes as Cassian continued his torturous stimulation, alternating between rough and fast strokes with soft and gentle ones. 

It was only when he slid two fingers inside of her did Nesta allow herself to make any noise of indication that she was enjoying herself. She’d kept herself silent just to bother him, even though she knew the arrogant bastard was too self-assured to ever worry about that.

It was only when she moaned again as he slid deeper, dragging on the ridge of muscles along the topside of her that he quickly looked her over, smirking at the sight before turning away again. She always liked to see his face when she came, and it was only petty rivalry that had kept her from begging him to look over or kiss her while she came on his hand.

Nesta moaned louder, no longer caring how she sounded. Not as Cassian moved his thumb up to her clit and began circling, his two fingers still pumping in and out of her, faster and faster now. Nesta’s hand went out to steady herself against something, anything, as she felt her climax begin to build.

Her nails dug into Cassian’s thigh, and his head whipped back to see her, just as her eyes shut tight at the sheer pleasure coursing through her bloodstream. Cassian didn’t let up, but his free hand circled the hand she’d placed on his thigh and gently clasped it. Nesta squeezed his hand harder and he didn’t let her go, holding her through everything as it ripped through her, shattering her mind to oblivion.

Even as she came down from the crest, Cassian did not stop. She let go of his hand to stop him but he snagged her wrist easily and placed it on her stomach. 

“Use your words. If you want me to stop, say so.” And with that, he went back to his ministrations. Nesta whimpered from the overstimulation, even as Cassian gentled his stroking, but he didn’t let up. And Nesta didn’t stop him. It was just this side of pain even as pleasure sparked anew for her, and she didn’t want him to stop. 

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a wicked grin. He stretched her with a third finger and Nesta’s eyes rolled back in her head.

”Cassian,” she gasped. 

It was all the encouragement he needed as he leaned down again and sucked on her clit while pumping those thick fingers into her. Over and over- fuck.

It was too much, all of it was far too much and she came with a silent scream, back arching up to push her core further into Cassian’s face and hands. He led her through the orgasm again, only this time moving away from touching her as she came down from her high. She didn’t think she could handle another climax so soon and as always, Cassian knew what she needed from him.

He gave her the time she needed to catch her breath, undressing himself fully in that time. Her limbs had turned to jelly, and even though the sight of him fully bare so close beside her made her lust return twofold, she didn’t have the strength to act on it.

Cassian didn’t seem to mind at all, content to kiss her neck, the valley between her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, slowly, softly caressing her with his lips. His hands tickled as they moved up her sides, stroking over her arms, her legs, tangled in her hair. She was content too, at his side, simply allowed to be.

”Are you tired?,” he asked after some time, sucking on her pulse before licking a line down her throat to her breast. 

She murmured, eyelids heavy, “No.”

Cassian dragged his teeth over her sensitive nipple and she whimpered as the sensation traveled down to the juncture of her thighs. He looked at her with amusement, hazel eyes flicking over the contours of her body in a generous way.

”I can tell you are,” he admitted. “I can feel it through the bond.”

Yes, he would. It was different now, she could tell. So much more stronger and absolute than when they had first arrived. More than when they had first mated and every time after. It was strange, ancient magic that she wasn’t interested enough in to question.

”It’s fine. I’m fine,” she offered, lifting her chest just so into his face. 

He laughed at that, nuzzling and kissing where her heart lay. “You can sleep. We can continue this tomorrow. Or later whenever you wake up.”

Nesta protested, “No. I’m not tired.” He shot her a look. “Alright I’m not that tired.” Her leg came up to wrap around his hip and Cassian pulled her closer on instinct. And then just to prove her point she grabbed his cock and stroked languorously. 

“I have plans for us,” she reminded him coyly.

Cassian grabbed her wrist, pulling it towards him and kissing the tips of her fingers before pinning it above her head. “I don’t want to tire you out. Or hurt you,” he conceded. 

“You can do whatever you want to me. I don’t mind,” she breathed. 

A bare confession but it was the truth. He could do whatever he wanted, take whatever he needed, and she would freely give it. It was heady, the loss of control she could easily give to him and take back without ever worrying it would hurt her. She trusted him that much and something shifted in his face, as if her words had a far deeper impact on him than she could imagine. 

He kissed her then, with an unexpected fervor, and when the surprise wore off, she matched every stroke with her own. He moaned into her mouth and she pulled him closer, tugging on his unbound hair just the way she knew he liked it. Cassian broke away to bite at her neck, licking at her jaw before peppering it with kisses. Her hips lifted of their own accord, grinding against him and his hardened length.

He cursed softly, peering down to where she’d pressed herself against him, and a surge seemed to overtake him at the sight of it. His eyes darkened with approval and with a shift of his hips he had thrust himself fully inside her.

Her head fell back against the pillows at the fullness of it, at the pressure that she needed to relieve. Cassian pulled her closer, pulling one leg up as he settled between her thighs. She could imagine the view he had, one which had him looking so positively feral. His cock so impossibly deep inside her, one of her legs curled around his hip, the other raised up around his shoulder, giving him a perfect view of where they were joined. 

He shifted slowly, moving out of her with ease before pumping back in. Slowly, so slowly she wanted to die. She snarled with disapproval and his eyes met hers in a smoldering battle of wills.

”Move,” she gritted out.

”Don’t like it?,” he taunted. And moved again, ever so slowly. 

“Go faster,” she snapped, because god damn it she couldn’t handle him being inside of her like this. She needed him to move, to fuck, to finish her so thoroughly she would forget her own name.

Cassian didn’t relent, only barely picking up the pace, enjoying his own personal show as he watched his cock slide in and out of her with ease, knowing exactly what it was doing to her. He could get her off in minutes if he wanted to. He was capable and he’d done it more times than she could count now. 

This was a game to him, to see how long he could torture her, put off her climax and build the temptation until it was unbearable.

She reached down and played with her clit but Cassian caught the movement immediately, snarling with warning.

She didn’t stop, only purring as she held his burning stare. “Don’t like it?,” she threw back, smiling with anything but kindness.

“You’ll come when I make you, witch,” he snapped, but unlike her, there was no bite to his words, only amused affection.

“And when will that be?” To make her point she shifted her hips, taking him harder and faster until Cassian pinned her hips with a free hand.

She whined at that, “I want-”

Casssian cut her off with a kiss, moving against her lips with a ferocity she couldn’t match. 

“I know what you want. You’ll get it,” he promised, a dark glint in his eye that made Nesta shiver. She offered her throat on pure instinct and Cassian leapt at the opportunity, licking and nipping at her pulse point.

He also began moving in her harder, and faster, just how she wanted. Just how she needed from him.

Cassian moaned as he looked down again and Nesta nearly came at the sound itself. It was guttural and low and she could still feel the sound vibrate deep in her chest as he looked down at where they were joined.

His rhythm faltered for a moment as he met her eyes, pulling out of her.

“I could watch you take my cock forever.” It was an obscene sound as his cock slid back into her, and out, over and over as he rammed into her. She screamed, clenching around him, grasping for anything to hold onto.

Tendrils of his hair stuck to his forehead and sweat gleaned on both of their bodies. His muscles tightened and shifted, wings spreading behind him as he pulled her closer, impossibly so, “You’re so good to me Nesta, aren’t you?”

Yes. Gods but she was. But she couldn’t say that, couldn’t manage any words at all on how good she could be to him if he said the word. All he had to do was say it and she was willing to crawl to him and pleasure him for however long he wanted.

His hair tickled her chin as he leaned over her and captured her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard before leaving it with a pop. He dragged his teeth over the other and Nesta moaned his name, not caring for poise anymore. She needed this so much. How she’d held off on touching herself earlier she didn’t know anymore. 

Cassian’s fingers found the apex of her thighs with ease and she widened her legs at his touch instinctually. The rise in pleasure, in sensation, was almost instantaneous and she whimpered against his chest. 

“Cassian,” she gasped, her heart pounding in her chest, pounding in her ears like a war drum. She was overheated with the heat emanating from both their bodies as they moved against each other. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe right. Cassian steadied her with just one look. Just one look into his hazel eyes and Nesta felt herself relax, giving herself over to the pleasure rather than tightening up against it.

He left a bruising kiss on her lips before he continued bucking into her, his hold on her leg tightening in a warm, solid grip that kept her grounded to reality. It shouldn’t have been possible to feel this much pleasure, to be this undone, and to still keep going. There was no end, no beginning, no sense of place or time. There was just them and that thing in her chest that tightened each time he smiled down at her or held her closer as they both came down from another mind-shattering climax. 

“They’ll fade,” Cassian said after what seemed to be hours later after laying silently in their bed. His fingers glided over the bite mark left at her throat in the chaos that had overtaken them and they’d both been reduced to nothing but a rutting and snarling frenzy. 

Nesta laughed at that. “You don’t need to act. I know you’re disappointed.”

Cassian grinned, a feral, glinting smile as he curled closer. He dragged his tongue over the small hurt and she bit her lips to hold in any sound that may escape by accident. She didn’t need to encourage him.

”Is that so bad? That I want there to be a reminder for the world that you're mine.” 

Something warmed in her heart at the words, the sheer honesty he displayed with them.

Mine.

It was such a simple sentiment, but she’d never had that before. Someone to want her as their own, to accept her as theirs and proclaim her for everyone to see and hear proudly. 

“You’re a territorial brute,” she finally decided, quickly kissing him but letting her tongue slide just so over his lips to rile him up.

“You like it,” he lobbied back, leaning in closer to finish what she’d started. But she’d already started untangling her limbs from his and making her way to the bathing chamber.

She didn’t wait to hear what he had to say, knowing it would be a rumbling complaint on her leaving him all alone in their bed. Nesta locked the door behind her for good measure, knowing that a bath to clean off the sweat and sex from her skin would be useless if she allowed him to follow.

Cassian wasn’t in bed when she finally finished changing into clothes and combing her hair. And the bed had been made, with new sheets and all their strewn over belongings set right. 

Nesta felt a tug on the bond and she followed her instincts down the stairs and to the sitting room, to where Cassian was waiting for her. 

The faelight shone through his wings and she paused to take in the image. The amber and brown skin nearly shimmered as she traced the delicate veins underneath with her eyes. Cassian’s hair was unbound again, so unlike him during training and everyday events where he often tied it out of his face into a haphazard knot. Her hands flexed with the memory of the waves she loved to card through, loved to pull on at times, and loved to simply marvel at. He was so beautiful it hurt.

”There you are,” he said with a smile, reaching out his hand towards her. “I was waiting for you.”

Nesta took his outstretched hand happily, letting him fold her into his hold as she sat in his lap. His scent, spice and embers and snow enveloped her and she breathed it in greedily, moving on instinct to his neck, to the pulse that beat under the skin. Cassian let her, his throat rumbling a groan as she pressed a soft kiss to his neck and then the underside of his jaw.

When he speared his hand through her hair, she expected him to tug her closer but to her disappointment, he pulled her back gently.

Nesta clicked her tongue in irritation, her mind already heady with desire that she needed him to satisfy.

He murmured against her lips while his hands held her face firmly in place and just enough out of reach that she couldn’t kiss him. “As lovely as I know you’ll look on this table when I fuck you on it, I need to finish something first.”

Yes, her. He needed to finish her off.

”Behave,” he admonished, granting her one toe-curling, sensual kiss that she left her panting for more. Nesta narrowed her eyes at him as he made no move to go any further, but when he wouldn’t budge she groused lightly and gave up.

”Fine. What do you want?”

Cassian snickered at her disappointment and turned her gently to the table before them. His hand spanned her waist and she leaned back into the solid warmth of his chest. On the table was a small, black velvet box with her name engraved on it.

She looked back at him and an expectant smile bloomed on his face. He nodded towards the box but there was hesitation looming in his face. Nervousness.

”What-“

“Just, open it sweetheart.”

She huffed but didn’t argue, wondering what he could be so nervous about. The wood was cool to the touch and it opened with a soft click, as if it had been kept untouched for this very moment. 

What lay inside took her breath away. A beautiful ring sat glinting in the center of the box, twinkling up at her. Set in what looked to be a silver band that shined in a way she’d never seen before, there were stones embossed in its center. The middle piece was a beautiful oval ruby surrounded by delicate diamonds all around. Nesta had never seen such a beautiful ring in her life, perhaps she never would. It was utterly perfect.

“It’s like your siphons,” she murmured as she pulled it out of its place. She couldn’t help but smile at the likeness. The thought behind it.

”And your fire,” he noted softly, kissing the shell of her ear. “It’s us. Both of us.”

So it was. Her silver fire, the one she’d spent so long running from, was just as much a part of her and who she was becoming as Cassian’s siphons were a part of him. The ring was a perfect union of each of them together. 

Nesta reached for his free hand and placed the ring in his palm.

Alarm ran through his face along with bewildered confusion until she placed her left hand out towards him, waiting.

Cassian let out a relieved sigh and laughed a little. “You had me worried there,” he said with another small chuckle before sliding the ring onto her fourth finger.

A perfect fit. Of course. She marveled at her hand, at the way the lights overhead shone through the ruby and reflected a deep red glint around it.

”It’s beautiful,” she admitted, grinning unabashedly at Cassian. “Thank you. I love it. I love you.”

Cassian cupped her face tenderly, answering with a gentle kiss that set her heat soaring. “And I love you. So much,” he breathed out. Their faces were so close she knew they were breathing the same air, living off of each other, existing in sync as she’d always known they were meant to be.

”You need one too. A ring,” she explained after a few moments, pulling only a small distance from him to take him in in his entirety. 

He nodded knowingly, as if he’d expected her to say those exact words. He rummaged in his pant pocket for a few moments before pulling out a similar box and handing it to her as well.

Nesta snorted. Of course. She flipped open the box and noted the ring inside was a similar imitation to her own silver band. Slightly thicker than hers with no stones or gems to be found, but there was an intricately engraved design in the color of rubies in the center. 

“What is that?,” she asked, tracing the design carefully.

”It’s a marking. Males usually have it tattooed on us when we marry but I didn’t have time to go to Illyria and get it done. I’ll do it when I can, soon, but this is the next best thing.”

 “When did you do all this?,” she asked as she pulled his hand forward. She hadn’t seen him meet with any jewelers when they were preparing for the wedding, nor any engravers. 

“My band, I received a few days after the Blood Rite. It was easy enough to find a simple band and get it engraved. Most males wear a similar style so it was done the same day.”

“Mmm,” she answered, slipping the ring onto his finger, before kissing his knuckles. Cassian relaxed under her touch, tangling their hands together and appraising them thoughtfully.

“And mine?,” she wondered aloud. “I remember when my father worked with jewelers and traders. A ring like mine couldn’t be done in a day.”

He nodded. “It wasn’t. Took them about a month to get back to me. And then another for me to find the time to go see them in Illyria and pick it up because they made it in the northern villages. Such a long flight Nes, I was so tired after that.”

Nesta frowned, confused. “We only decided to marry three weeks ago.”

Cassian nodded, smirking knowingly. As if he were waiting for her to figure a puzzle out.

Nesta’s breath came unevenly. “When,” she asked hoarsely, nearly heady with the realization she’d already made. “When did you decide to have this ring made?”

Cassian didn’t even hesitate. 

“After the ball in Hewn. We danced and I…” he hesitated for a moment. “I just knew. I can’t explain it.”

Soon after it had been Solstice. He’d gotten her the Symphonia, had gone and found all her favorite songs and saved them for her.

It’s a gift, not a fucking wedding ring, he’d told her.

But there had been a wedding ring. The intent behind it and everything else- it had been there all along. He had known for so long, all those months ago, that he wanted to marry her. And she’d never even suspected, never even thought it possible that he could want her in such a way.

Nesta couldn’t stop it, the tears that sprang to her eyes in that very moment. It was suddenly too much to handle, all of her emotions coming at her like a storm. Regret and sadness and excitement and hope and fear and anger and joy and…love. Above all, so much love for him, for who he was, for all he’d given and done for her, and love for this tenuous future they were slowly building together.

Cassian frowned, clicking his tongue at her as he gathered her face in both his hands.

”Don’t cry,” he soothed softly. “Don’t cry. I hate seeing it.”

She sobbed harder and Cassian murmured her name sadly before tucking her into his chest. 

“Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.” He stroked her hair gently, holding her through the worst of it.

“I wasted so much time,” she whispered against his heart.

”No,” he answered immediately. Fiercely. He forced her to look up at him, forced her to hold the gaze she so desperately wanted to break from. The hazel in his eyes blazed with so much emotion she couldn’t place it all. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. We were always meant to be sweetheart. Always. From the moment we met. And I already told you once, if we didn’t get time in this world, I would always find you again in the next one. There is no such thing as wasted time. I found you, we’re here, together. It’s exactly as it was meant to be.”

She sniffed and Cassian dried her tears with his calloused hands. She instinctually leaned into his touch, letting his words wash over her.

”Meant to be,” she repeated quietly, more to herself than him. 

“Yes,” he murmured, kissing her once, twice. “I am yours. Wholly, completely, forever, yours. And you are mine. I can’t believe it sometimes but you are. And I will never stop being grateful for it.”

“I’m yours,” she promised.

”You are,” he assured her. Kissed her again.

”And you are mine,” she breathed, almost praying it rather than speaking it.

”Always, Nesta. Until my heart stops beating. And even then, even when this world ends, when we end here, we will begin somewhere again. Always.”

Yes. Yes, exactly. He was so right, so true, her heart burned at the words. At the confession. She sighed into his touch, into his mouth as he kissed her fiercely again, consuming every bit of her being. The softness of their touches quickly evolved into more heated ones with frantically meandering hands and exploring fingers. Nesta did not know when they parted, did not know what time even was anymore. She’d been consumed by him, completely, and if this was how and when she went, she’d have no complaints.

Hours later or days later, she didn’t know, she lay tangled against him, the sheets barely covering her because she knew how much he enjoyed the view. The bond was a living force by then, so strong she didn’t know how she’d gone so long ignoring it and forcing it away. She’d laid there counting his breaths, tracing the markings on his bronze skin, marveling at the power, the life that moved under her fingertips. All hers, every part of him.

Nesta had known then that he was her whole heart. Half her soul. The very air that kept her breathing. They had been inevitable from the moment they’d met. The moment he’d looked at her, the moment she’d heard his voice, the moment their eyes had met.

Meant to be.

~*~

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[whump-bunny]

A Choice To Make

CW: Restraints, Drugged Whumpee, Imprisonment, Threats, 15 year old whumpee, whumper is his dad, technically post-apocalypse, human weapon

Synopsis: Everyone was told that Asa was unwell, that he's crazy, and that Adam is treating him with the utmost care. But Bella believes otherwise. So she goes to find Asa herself.

-

She creaks the door open, waiting for the inevitable alarm or siren. But somehow, the silence is even more disconcerting. There, sitting in a chair at the center of the room, is Asa.

From a distance, he looks like less of a human and more of a doll. His black hair falls limply over his face, head lolled down to his chest. His arms and legs seem to dangle from his frame like pipe cleaners, held in place by metal restraints. Restraints that are wholly unnecessary, given his physical state, and must only be there to prove a point.

Bella swallows as she approaches. Her footsteps sound like gunshots in the quiet of the cell. And yet, Asa does not lift his head. Up close, the reason why is obvious. An IV, sharp and glaring, protrudes from the back of his hand. Bella follows the line with her eyes to the bag of clear liquid hanging on a hook above him.

Then she looks back to him, to the boy that she so quickly dismissed. To the boy who was right about Adam all along. With a trembling hand, she nudges Asa’s head up to see his face, expecting to find him fast asleep.

Big brown eyes are staring back at her, hazy and unseeing.

“Jesus Christ…”

Adam did this. Adam turned his own son into a weapon. And when that weapon stopped being useful, he left him here. Restrained, drugged, and so utterly alone. Bella has never been a very emotional girl… but this just might be enough to make her cry. That is, until her sorrow is quickly replaced by rage.

With a huff, Bella rips out Asa’s IV. Golden blood pours out behind it. Bella swears, scanning the room for a bandage, some gauze, paper towel, even. But the cell is as barren as it is tiny. Finally, with a groan, Bella uses her shirt to apply pressure to the wound. It isn't without difficulty. Asa’s blood seeps into her clothes, making her look like she's been gilded. But eventually, the bleeding comes to a stop, and Bella breathes a sigh of relief. All the while, Asa’s enhanced metabolism fights off the remaining drugs. 

“Hnn…” He groans. Bella puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Asa… you alright?”

He moves at a snail’s pace, but sure enough, he lifts his head, blinking in the synthetic light. His eyes land on her. For a moment, there's no recognition, but his mouth forms the word.

“B… Bella?” He whispers.

Bella tries for a smile, but it probably comes out more like a grimace. “Hey, Asa.”

Asa swallows several times, probably buying time for his brain to come back online. Finally, the haze in his eyes seems to clear up completely. He looks at Bella with an awareness that wasn't there before.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, suddenly very serious.

Bella opens her mouth to answer, but finds she doesn't have one. What is she doing here? Asa isn't exactly her friend. She should be in her room, playing video games, drinking coffee, sucking up to Adam when she wants something. But here she is, potentially getting into huge trouble just to talk to a boy she can't stand.

And then she remembers what she saw. The pillars of fire with golden smoke. The news reports of people dying on the streets, before the news went utterly silent. She remembers Adam's cold grin, looking out to the wreckage he had caused. And she remembers what Asa said, all those months ago.

He's not going to save the world, he's going to destroy it. And he's gonna use me to do it. You have to help me.

You have to help me…

He tried to warn everyone, but they didn't listen. Bella didn't listen. She was too blinded by Adam’s mask, his kindly, generous disguise. And now it's too late. As much as Bella hates it, she can't help but feel a crushing guilt.

Maybe that's why she's here.

“I… I was just-” she stutters, lamely. Reaching for a plausible excuse. But luckily, Asa cuts her off.

“How long have I been down here?"

The question catches Bella off guard, but she's thankful for the distraction. She thinks back to the last time she saw Asa, kicking and screaming as Adam dragged him to the basement.

“About two months, I think.”

Asa doesn't seem shocked by that. Just resigned.

“Oh.” He says. An awkward silence falls over the two. Until Asa gasps, meeting Bella’s gaze with renewed intensity. “My dad- the- the serum! Did he do it? Did he release it on the world?”

Bella considers lying, but decides against it. Asa’s already in a cell, the least she can do is be honest with him.

“Yeah… yeah, he did.”

Asa falls silent at that, but the expression on his face makes it obvious what he's thinking. It's all my fault.

“How many…” Asa falters. He can't bring himself to ask. He doesn't need to. Bella knows.

“He released it on the day he locked you down here. Since then… about 80% of the world population has died.” She tells him, trying not to think too hard about the scale of that number. About the children waking up to find their parents cold and unmoving, about the airplanes that fell out of the sky, about the fear and confusion permeating the whole world. Instead, she looks back at Asa and really takes him in. He looks so small in his chair, so… defeated. Like the only thing keeping him from crying is the fact that he has no more tears left to shed. The fact that someone as pathetic as him is technically the cause of the end of the world would be laughable in any other context. But now Bella feels only pity.

“I’m sorry-” She starts, but Asa cuts her off.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He says, with a startling amount of intensity. 

Bella can’t help but be slightly offended. “I came here to visit you, asshole. I didn’t need to come here.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Asa insists, “Dad comes down here every once in a while to feed me. You can’t let him see you.”

Bella bristles, realizing that the feisty and stubborn boy she knew is long gone. Maybe he’s even more of a doll than she thought. 

“He can’t just keep you down here like this, drugged to hell and back. Maybe I can talk to him-”

Asa pales, “No, please don’t. Don’t let him know you saw me. Just go.”

“He’s your father-”

“HE’S A MONSTER!"

Bella falls quiet. They both do.

Asa is the one who breaks the silence.

“Please, Bella… just forget about me. Don’t come back down here. It’s not worth getting on his bad side.” He starts to tear up. “I can’t… I can’t handle anyone else getting hurt because of me.”

Once again, guilt rises to the surface of Bella’s chest. She swallows it down.

“O-okay… I’ll go.” She says. And for the first time since she’d met him, Asa smiles.

“Thank you.”

Bella turns to go, but a thought occurs. “Wait, what about your IV? He’ll notice it’s out.”

“It’s fine, I manage to rip it out all the time. He’ll blame me.”

“But won’t you get in trouble?” Bella frowns.

Asa shakes his head, “I’m already sitting in a cell. He can’t do much worse.” He laughs. It's the kind of humorless, dry laugh that Bella would associate with a war vet, not a 15 year old boy. 

“Now go,” Asa says, smile fading as quickly as it came. “Get out of here before he notices you're gone.”

Bella doesn't wait to be told again. Her mind is racing as she sneaks back up the stairs and through the halls of Adam’s compound. How can she continue on as normal, knowing that Asa’s deep underground, a plaything to a mad man? But more than that, how can she keep what she knows a secret? Every day, more and more refugees of the apocalypse seek shelter in Adam’s vast commune. They worship Adam like a king… like a god. But if they knew the truth about Adam, about Asa, about everything, they would revolt.

She slows down as she arrives at the courtyard, and one thing becomes clear.

…She has to tell them. They can't go on believing that Adam has their best interest in mind. If he'll do something this horrible to his son, then none of them stand a chance. She has to warn the others before it's too late.

Thoughts of revolution and chaos dance around Bella’s head, pulling her attention away from her surroundings. That is until she all but collides with the very person she's plotting against.

Adam steadies her shoulders with firm hands, “Woah, watch where you're going.” He chuckles. 

His suit is pressed creaseless and his hair is groomed to perfection, as always. Bella has long thought he more closely resembles a mannequin than a human. If Asa is a doll, then clearly this is where he gets it from.

“A-Adam!” Bella balks, heart and mind racing. “I'm sorry, I was just…” She trails off. Normally, she'd whip out an excuse from the tip of her tongue, lying with all the ease of a practiced politician. But it seems the day’s events have left her brain scrambled.

Adam looks her up and down with an unreadable expression. It's not unusual for him, and yet Bella can't help but feel like the word GUILTY is written on her forehead. She needs to escape his scrutiny and fast. Before she buckles completely.

Luckily, Adam clears his throat and offers his own change of subject. “So, what have you been up to?”

“O-oh, y'know, just hanging out. Taking a walk.” Bella smiles weakly. Adam replies with a smile of his own. 

“Of course, of course. It's a beautiful day.” He gestures to the wide expanse of greenery within the courtyard. Looking out at the clear blue sky, the birds flapping their wings in the distance, it's almost like nothing's changed. Like just beyond the compound walls, people aren't dying by the thousands.

“Yeah…” Bella says, taking a step back. “Anyway, I'd like to continue my walk if it's all the same to you.”

“Oh yes, excuse me.” Adam nods, and Bella takes that as her sign to get the hell out of dodge.

She begins to speed walk in the opposite direction. Is it her brightest moment? No, it's not. But right now she couldn't care less about appearing “tough.” All that matters is getting to the others, telling them the truth, and figuring out a way to bring a stop to Adam once and for all. 

She only gets a few steps away before Adam calls out behind her.

“Oh, Bella?”

She freezes.

“Y-yes?” She asks, turning slowly. Adam’s golden eyes seem to pierce directly into her soul. He smiles.

“If you’re going to lie to me, at least wash your shirt first.”

Time slows. The birds stop chirping. Her heart stops. She looks down, and to her horror, she sees Asa's shining, golden blood staining her shirt. In her hurry to leave, she'd completely forgotten about it.

When she looks back up, eyes wide, Adam is towering over her. Smile gone, replaced by a scowl.

“I- I didn’t-” Bella stammers, trying to come up with some sort of lie, but Adam silences her with a hand on her shoulder. He squeezes tight enough to leave a bruise.

“Save it.” He says. Bella’s mouth snaps shut. He stares into her eyes for a moment, as if looking for something. Before finally letting out a sigh. “I’m curious. Why risk your position here for a boy you hardly know?”

Once again, Bella wracks her brain for an answer. Why? Why did she do it? Guilt yes, but there has to be something more. And then it hits her. 

“You need to be stopped.” She whispers, voice weaker than she'd intended it to be. Adam hears her all the same. He tilts his head.

“Stop me? Why would you want that?”

Still playing the hero of humanity, even now. Even when his hands are drenched in blood, he claims to be a savior. Bella would be offended that he's still putting on an act, but it's clear that Adam truly believes in what he's saying. That's what makes him dangerous.

Bella glares, “He… Asa was right about you… every word.”

The hand on her shoulder tightens to a painful degree.

“Well, now you know what happens to people who are right about me. They end up underground, where no one can hear them scream.” Bella's eyes dart to the entrance of the basement, where Asa is sitting in his cell, alone and miserable.

“So is that what you want? To be right? Or do you want to keep living in this paradise I’ve created? With everyone else who’s wrong. The choice is yours.” Adam pauses, giving her time to think.

And Bella does think. She thinks about Asa, about what he'd choose. But in the end, it doesn't really matter what he chose, does it? He stood by his ideals and paid for it with his life. Sure, he's not dead. But the life he's living is no life at all. 

All Bella wants… all she's ever wanted is to be happy. So the question is, can she be happy living a lie? In a paradise built by blood? Can she be happy walking in the sun while Asa rots underground? She's not sure. But she's sure of one thing. 

She wants the chance to find out.

She nods, lowering her head. Adam removes his hand for a shoulder with one final squeeze.

“Go near Asa again, and you'll end up in the cell next door. Got it?” He says, and Bella doesn't doubt that he means it. She nods once more.

Adam’s smile returns, as if it never left.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

Then he walks past, whistling a happy tune, leaving Bella to think about what she's done.

[elven-kisses]

yesss fall further into the treebark brainrot. the fungus i mean uh

how to rest has always been my treebark song. the thing you fear the most never need get in btw. the heart knows nothing of your love or of your loss LOSER. i’ve always seen it as. martyn is terrified of his devotion but he’s already in love with ren and then y’know. i was rotating this song so hard right after limited life

NO BECAUSE IVE THOUGHT ABOUT THIS SPECIFIC ASSIGNING SO MUCH

how to rest is such a martyn song because like. his character's changes during and after ren fit with the song's narrative almost perfectly

in a way martyn adapted around the belief that devotion to an ally was his main weakness and we can see all through last life to the most recent addition that martyn has stopped giving himself wholly to who he's allied with- instead he treated them as temporary. he treated things like he knew he was going to lose them and thus distanced himself

but "love don't know how to rest" is especially true for him because in last life, despite his best efforts to abandon people like mumbo and jimmy, he has these LITERAL HALLUCINATIONS of them still being around after they've died

his loyalty runs so deep not even he can control it, even if he acts detached. he causes so much turmoil to drive people away because God forbid he love like he loved his king

sorry for rambling at you bonks you brought out the little treebark demons in my brain

[chloearit]

// discussion of organised sexual abuse

"We ran the DNA test. She is his daughter. We will try to identify a mother, but..."

"I know. Thank you."

I knocked on her door.

"Come in," she said with a flat tone.

She was sitting on her bed, eyes looking down at the floor. She was wearing shorts and an oversized t-shirt, a combo I would almost never see her wearing again. She looked incredibly meek, almost emaciated, and deathly pale where her body wasn't covered in bandages. An IV was stuck into her left arm.

Lúcia, age 14, 1.50m, 40kg.

"Hey," I tried to greet her with a smile.

She didn't look up. "Hello."

"Are you alright?"

"I feel sick." She sounded sick too. Her voice was incredibly raspy.

"That's understandable. You lost a lot of blood."

"I did?"

I tried to touch her cheek, but she grabbed my arm, her nails so sharp and grip so strong that she drew blood. Not as weak as she looked.

"Don't touch me." was all she said before letting go.

"I'm sorry."

She licked the blood off her fingers. I grabbed a chair and sat down across from her.

She was silent for a while. Then she asked: "So that wasn't a dream? And I'm not dead? This is real?"

I nodded. "It's real."

"How many did I kill?"

"You don't-"

"I wanna know. How many?"

"It's difficult to say, but... In total there were 46 found dead. A good number of them your work."

"Wow." She smirked. "I'd never held a gun before."

"How was that?"

"It felt good. Powerful."

"Did you know you would survive?"

"No. Fuck no. I thought I was gonna die. I just didn't care. It would've been a mercy."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. "I... can't imagine what it must have been like."

"Whatever you're thinking, it's worse."

"You don't have to-"

She looked at me, just for a moment, and once again I saw that look in those green eyes, the same one she had when I found her. Unimaginable horror mixed with determined, righteous anger.

"It's called rape, right? What they did to us."

There was a weight to that word when she said it, that made it sound wholly different from the countless reports I had read and written including it.

"Yes."

"My... He said it was love. Then he told me it was work. At the start he rewarded me for it. That was years ago."

"Your father? Francisco?"

"Yes."

"Would it... help you to know that he's-"

"Dead. I know. I shot him."

"You remember that?"

"Yes."

"The doctors said you told them you couldn't remember anything."

"I remember now."

I nodded.

"I'm glad he's dead," she continued. "Is that bad?"

"I think it's very reasonable. What he did to you is worse than killing."

"Have you killed before?"

"Yes. I shot several people during that raid, and that wasn't the first time. This city is a warzone now."

"Really?" There was a sincerity to the question I didn't expect.

"Not literally, but... the organisation that... those people were a part of is... a very well-connected international group that managed to take over parts of the city. They're quickly falling now, but they've left a lot of chaos behind."

"I see."

"Did... you ever wonder why nobody was coming to save you?"

A naive question, I know.

"No."

And yet the answer hit me like a punch to the stomach. No.

"Never?"

"Never."

Fuck.

"I almost never thought about the outside world. As far as I was concerned, it didn't exist. All I saw of it were the clients that came in. Some of them were... gentle, but usually we were just treated like... toys. Not people. Just things to fuck. Like..."

"Dolls?"

"Dolls. Yes, they called us that, sometimes."

"Why do you always talk about "us"?"

"It wasn't just me. You know that, right?"

"The other kids?"

"Yes... Where are they?"

"We are trying to find their families and... return them home."

"You think they will be happy there?"

"I hope so."

"I hope so too..."

This seemed like a good opportunity to ask her.

"Do I have a family?" She got to it first.

I shook my head. "No. Your... father was your biological father. We don't know about the mother, but..."

"She's gone."

"What?"

"I saw her once..." For the first time in our conversation she seemed genuinely uncomfortable and like she was holding back tears. "He..."

"You don't have to say it."

Lúcia nodded, swallowed, shook her head like she was a wet dog, took a deep breath and straightened her back.

"I won't, then."

Silence.

"So... usually, a child like you would enter the foster system, but... if you want... I could adopt you."

"Adopt?"

"You would legally become my daughter. I would be your mother."

"Mother... daughter..."

"It's up to you."

"I... think I would like to know you more... if you're going to be... my mother."

"Of course. There's a whole process we need to go through..."

She nodded. "Thank you."

I smiled.

She reached out a hand and touched my arm. "Strong..."

"Yes. I'm pretty strong."

"Good."

Poor girl. Adjusting to normal life won't be easy.

"What is a doll?"

"What?"

"A doll. What they called us. What is that?"

"A... doll is a figure, out of plastic or fabric or something else... that's made to look like a person, at least somewhat. Children sometimes play with them, or people collect them, or... you know..."

"A plaything... a toy. That looks like a person?" She tilted her head.

"Yes." I pulled up an image on my phone. "Like this."

She looked at it, almost transfixed. "A doll..."

"Did you ever have things to play with?"

"No." She shook her head. "Why would someone give toys to their doll?"

Astute question for someone who seemingly didn't know what a doll was until just now.

"Some other children I've rescued were treated with more... love, for lack of a better word, I guess."

"The only love I know is being fucked. - Raped," she corrected herself.

Another gut punch. Fuck. And she said it so matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry," was all I could say.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry those things... happened to you."

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do it."

"It's... an expression. To express sympathy."

"I see."

"I... do wonder if we couldn't have stopped it sooner, though."

"No way to change that now."

She said that like it was something she'd had to tell herself. Probably best not to probe that now.

"You're right."

14 years old. Stuck in that place for as long as she could remember...

"How do you know how old you are?"

"They told us. Clients have preferences with regards to age. If they asked us how old we were they wanted us to answer truthfully."

Clients. Preferences with regards to age. We had found children as young as four. Somehow I didn't think too much of it. Now it made me want to throw up.

"14-year-olds are the most desirable."

I was going to have some beer tonight. Or maybe something stronger. Maybe just pure vodka. That would taste appropriately clinical for the day.

"They... did something to me. They said that I wouldn't age anymore, and wouldn't die if they were... too rough with me. I didn't think they had actually made me immortal."

"What?"

"I don't know what they did. I just remember how they experimented with me, and what they talked about. But they said they had ways to keep me in check. I was the first one, I think. I don't know what they did before when we got too old.""

Definitely pure vodka.

I wasn't sure if I should dare to ask. "Did they... kill-"

"Yes. They'd kill you if you were too much of a problem." Her voice was monotone again. "They..." She was staring off into the distance. Dissociating.

"Hey, do you want some water?"

Again, she shook herself like a wet dog. I brought her a cup of water. She started crying, but she found back to reality.

"Okay. I think that's enough questions for now," I set the chair back where I'd taken it from.

"Yes."

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Do you have a phone?"

She looked at me like I was insane. "No? Where would I have gotten a phone?"

"Right... I will be around for the rest of the day. If you'd like to talk, just tell a nurse, okay? You know how to call for them?"

"Yes."

"Good. The door is unlocked, but everyone will knock before they come in. Get some rest, you deserve it."

"I know."

"And make sure you get enough water!"

"I will."

"Okay. Bye!"

"Goodbye."

Good God, I was already acting like her mom.

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yeah... You know, I never really talked to them, like this. That's someone else's job. And even then it's so... procedurised. You don't really feel it."

"Sal, you know that's not a word, right?"

"And yet you know exactly what I meant."

He didn't say anything to that.

"That girl is... something. There's a lot she doesn't know, but... she has a way with words. And she's bitter. I'd be willing to believe she survived by sheer force of will."

"You know, a few years ago this would've baffled me - but now? I'd believe it."

"She says it's something they did to her."

"What? Why?"

"She says they did something to her so she wouldn't age and wouldn't die, no matter what they did to her."

"That's fucked."

"Worked out well for them."

"I don't understand what drives these people. I mean, there's so many things you could be doing. Why risk all this to get to fuck some child?"

"It's about power. Any adult can see they don't have hearts. Hurting people is the only way they can feel like they're in control."

While we were waiting around at the hospital, I briefly excused myself to seek out the nearest electronics store and pick up a phone for her. I installed some things I thought she might find interesting, saved my number, that of the hospital, all emergency numbers were already pre-saved.

"If her condition continues to be stable we will transfer her to the psychiatric wing tomorrow. A psychiatrist has already had a look at her. She has authorised us to share her full medical information with you, but only as a private individual, not in your capacity as an officer of the law. Will you be able to maintain that separation? - Please sign here. - Alright. We're sending you the reports."

// by Chloe, Silvy and Lúcia

[thepastisalreadywritten]

The Coronation Chair: Anatomy of a Medieval throne

The Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II prompted the first comprehensive archaeological study of the Medieval throne on which British monarchs are crowned.

It has been battered and vandalised over the ages, but unpicking this majestic artefact’s evolution shed new light on both its original form and that of the enigmatic Stone of Scone, as Warwick Rodwell reveals.

10 August 2013

The Coronation Chair has been illustrated and described since the 14th century, and is renowned the world over.

For hundreds of years, this piece of Medieval furniture has played a seminal role in the anointing and crowning of English monarchs.

It was last used at the coronation of HM The Queen on 2 June 1953, the Diamond Jubilee of which was celebrated this year.

To mark the occasion in 2010-2012, the Chair underwent a long-overdue programme of cleaning, conservation and redisplay in Westminster Abbey.

Concurrently, a detailed archaeological study was carried out and the Chair was comprehensively recorded for the first time.

The project led to a radically new understanding of its construction and decoration, and of its relationship to the Stone of Scone, which was embodied in its seat.

Spoils of war

The origins of the Chair are well known. Indeed, the documentation accompanying its manufacture in the 1290s is still preserved.

Following Edward I’s victory over the Scots in 1296, state documents and items of regalia were surrendered and taken to London as spoils of war.

One of those items was a ceremonial block of sandstone upon which Scottish kings had hitherto been inaugurated at Scone Abbey in Perthshire, the last being John Balliol in 1292.

The Coronation Chair and Stone of Scone.

Constructed in the 1290s on the orders of Edward I, this famous throne recently received its first comprehensive archaeological study.

The results emphasise how the current form of the Stone of Scone can only be understood alongside the evolution of the chair that held it.

Edward I treated the Stone of Scone as a relic and presented it, along with the Scottish crown and sceptre, to the shrine of St Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey on 18 June 1297.

He ordered the construction of a great gilt-bronze chair to incorporate the Stone as its seat.

The chair was cast but was scrapped before it was finished and a new one made of oak, thereby reducing its weight from three-quarters of a ton to one-quarter.

St Edward’s Chair, as it is properly known (‘Coronation Chair’ is a relatively recent naming), was designed as a liturgical furnishing that would stand close to the shrine altar, where it served as a seat for priests officiating at masses.

Opinion is divided as to when the Chair was first used in the coronation ritual, but it was no later than 1399, when Henry IV was crowned.

A manuscript illustration of the coronation of Edward II in 1308, however, shows the king seated in what is almost certainly the Coronation Chair.

It is an extraordinary fact that, like a surprising number of artefacts and structures of first-rank importance, the Coronation Chair had never been systematically studied and recorded until now.

John Carter’s sketches of 1767 provided the basis for all known drawings but neither he nor any other antiquary recorded how the Chair was constructed or unravelled the vicissitudes of its later history.

Like most ancient artefacts of complex construction, it has undergone fundamental alterations as well as suffered deterioration over the centuries.

In fact, very little has been written about the Chair at all, as opposed to the Stone that it encapsulated.

The Chair has been the subject of a dozen books, scores of articles, Parliamentary debates, a commercial film, theft, hoaxes, and much political posturing.

Myths and misdirection

The Stone has accrued a huge mythology, but that is wholly of Medieval or later invention, as Nick Aitchison demonstrated in his study Scotland’s Stone of Destiny (2000).

The block is made of Lower Old Red Sandstone and has a geological signature that confirms it derives from the Scone Formation.

It did not originate in Egypt, Ireland or the west of Scotland, as the Romantic tales would have led us to believe.

Indeed, the Stone’s spurious biblical connection (as ‘Jacob’s Pillow’ – the stone on which, according to the Book of Genesis, the sleeping Jacob had a vision) was already being ridiculed in 1600 by William Camden.

Much of the Stone’s pseudo-history is of even more recent invention.

The first archaeologically objective study of the Stone took place in 1996, when it was removed from the Coronation Chair and sent to Edinburgh Castle, where it currently resides on loan from the Crown.

Under the direction of David Breeze and Richard Welander, Historic Scotland carried out a detailed examination, the findings of which were published by the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland: The Stone of Destiny: artefact and icon (2003).

The Stone’s intimate relationship to the Chair has never been explored, however, resulting in the wholly unwarranted assumption by past commentators that the physical features exhibited by the block today relate to its pre-1296 history in Scotland.

This in turn has given rise to the invention of historical scenarios to explain these features.

Some writers have pronounced the block to be a Roman building stone or part of a pagan altar; others have claimed a Bronze Age or Pictish ancestry.

The iron links and rings that are attached to the two ends of the block have given rise to much comment, as well as claims that they were inserted for the purpose of carrying the Stone from site to site in Scotland, or alternatively for transporting it to London.

Finally, there are the conspiracy theorists who would have us believe that the Stone is fake.

These contentions can be refuted without exception. When we study the Chair and the Stone as archaeological artefacts, not just individually but jointly, and marry the findings with reliable historical evidence, a clear picture emerges.

The most fundamental misapprehension is that the Stone (as we see it today) was brought from Scone and placed in a made-to-measure compartment under the seat of the Chair, and that it simply sat there for the next 700 years.

In reality, the Chair and the Stone were made for one another, and both have been subjected to significant change over the centuries.

Made for each other

There is no basis for casting doubt on the authenticity of the Stone of Scone, or for claiming it as a Roman ashlar or a Pictish symbol-stone.

The upper and lower faces are natural bedding planes and are untooled, although the former is well worn through its prolonged use as a seat.

The four vertical edges were all crisply dressed in 1297 to create a close-fitting, rectangular seat for the new Chair.

One of the revelations of the 2010 study was the fact that the Coronation Chair did not have a wooden seat-board until the 16th or 17th century: the Stone itself was the seat.

The Chair frame is made of oak and comprises four corner-posts, and a series of moulded horizontal rails.

The sides of the Chair have upswept arms, which were originally decorated with carved lions.

The joints are mortised-and-tenoned but are inherently weak. The frame gets its structural strength from the lining of thick planks.

Below seat level, the sides are pierced by large quatrefoils – that is, four partially overlapping circles creating a shape akin to a stylised four-leaf clover – each of which originally had a painted heraldic shield at its centre.

By the 1820s, the shields had all been lost, and the quatrefoil grille at the front had gone too.

The gang that stole the Stone in 1950 also smashed the front rail and further weakened the frame. A replacement grille has now been fitted to restore its structural strength.

The Stone of Scone rested in this compartment and could be glimpsed on all sides; its top was fully exposed.

William Lethaby’s 1906 reconstruction of the gilt figure of a king in the back of the Chair. He is depicted seated on a low throne, with his feet resting on a lion. Only the lower part of this image survives today.

Externally, the sides and back of the Chair were carved and moulded with Gothic arcades.

The corner-posts too were embellished with blind, pointed – lancet – arches, and surmounted by pinnacles from which decorative foliage or ‘crockets’ sprouted.

No timber was originally visible, though, as the surfaces were entirely covered with decoratively punched gilding and pseudo-enamels.

There were also many pieces of coloured glass inlaid into the carved decoration. These inserts would have carried painted and gilded motifs, similar to those found in profusion on the altarpiece of Henry III known as the Westminster Retable (c. 1270).

Internally, the Chair was uncarved but was covered with gold leaf. It bore finely punched decoration - showing birds, animals, vegetation, and Gothic motifs.

Dominating the centre of the back was the seated figure of a king with his feet resting on a lion, almost certainly Edward the Confessor.

It was the work of Walter of Durham, principal painter to the court of Edward I. Unfortunately, most of this impressive display has been lost over time.

A detail of the punch-decorated gilding surviving inside the Chair’s left arm, showing birds amid vegetation.

The conservation programme of 2010-2012 was undertaken by Marie Louise Sauerberg, then of the Hamilton Kerr Institute, but now Westminster Abbey’s Senior Conservator.

Her work was key to unlocking the history of the Chair’s decoration, particularly by demonstrating that the all-over gilded appearance was primary.

In the 1950s, it had been suggested that the Chair was initially white in colour, emulating King Solomon’s ivory throne.

Royal pride

Perhaps the most striking aspect of the Coronation Chair today is the gilt plinth on which it is raised, comprising four magnificent lions with Oriental features.

These were fitted in 1727 by the royal furniture-maker for the coronation of George II and replaced an earlier plinth, which also incorporated lions.

That plinth may have been made in 1509 for the coronation of Henry VIII.

Since both lion-plinths were fixed to the Chair frame, the Stone could only be inserted into the seat compartment from above, but this was not the original arrangement.

Walter of Durham’s exquisite gilt decoration would have been wrecked by manhandling a close-fitting, 3-cwt block of sandstone through the seat compartment.

Every time the Chair was required for a coronation, it had to be taken from the Confessor’s chapel through a narrow doorway, carried down steps, and repositioned in the Abbey.

Four operations were involved in extricating and replacing the Stone.

Almost certainly, the original plinth was a separate construction that rested on the floor. The Stone was placed on it and the Chair lowered over that.

Iron links and rings are attached to the ends of the Stone by staples set into lead plugs.

Various theories about their date and purpose have been advanced, all based on the assumption that they were used for lifting or carrying.

But nobody seems to have noticed that their fixing points are below the Stone’s centre-of-gravity, which means that it would instantly rotate when lifted.

Also, the links are not long enough for the rings to clear the top of the Stone, making it impossible to thread a carrying-pole of adequate diameter through them.

It is now clear that the ironwork was attached to the block in c. 1324-1327, on the instruction of Abbot Curtlyngton, expressly for the purpose of chaining it to the floor of the chapel.

At the time, he was under pressure from Edward III to relinquish the Stone so that it could be used as a bargaining counter with the Scots.

The abbot refused and the chronicler Geoffrey le Baker tells us that ‘the stone was now fixed by iron chains to the floor of Westminster Abbey under the royal throne’.

Since enforced removal of an object gifted to a shrine would have constituted sacrilege, the king backed down.

The 13th-century marble and glass mosaic pavement in the Shrine chapel has been meticulously recorded by David Neal.

During his work, we noticed that a square area to the south of the altar, where the mass priest’s seat would have stood, had been destroyed.

Almost certainly, this marks the place where the pavement was broken through in the 1320s to embed anchors in the floor for the chains that secured the Stone.

When the Chair was fitted with the first of the lion plinths, a new means of manoeuvring the Stone in and out of the seat compartment had to be found: the only route was from above.

The iron fittings were now pressed into service as lifting devices. Channels were crudely cut into the ends of the Stone so that the links could stand up, rather than hang down, and ropes could be passed through the rings.

The tendency for the unbalanced Stone to rotate was largely mitigated by the links being constrained in channels.

It was a clumsy compromise but it worked, albeit inflicting damage on the gilded interior of the Chair, as the Stone was hauled in and out.

The institutional history of Westminster Abbey in the two decades following its dissolution in 1540 is complex, but remarkably, the shrine of St Edward and the royal tombs survived.

The later 16th century saw a fashion for attaching historical labels (tabulae) to features around the Abbey, including the shrine, tombs and St Edward’s Chair.

These were generally painted either directly on the object or on a board, but in the case of the Chair, it seems that there was initially an intention to insert an inscribed brass plate in the upper face of the Stone.

The rectangular outline for the plate was roughly chiselled. The matrix was never fully cut and the project aborted. A painted label on a board was provided instead.

The change of plan most likely resulted from a decision to fit a timber seat-board over the Stone that had two further consequences.

First, battens had to be fitted to the sides of the Chair to support the seat-board, thereby reducing the size of the Stone compartment opening.

The block had to be shortened, and both ends were cut back by c. 15mm.

Second, the iron rings projected above the top of the Stone, obstructing the fixing of the seat.

To solve this problem, housings were hacked into the top of the Stone, allowing the rings to lie flat.

13th-century survival

Since the late 16th century, travellers and antiquaries have written accounts of the Chair, from which we learn that it suffered casual abuse until Queen Victoria came to the throne.

All the glass inserts were prised out, scores of slices were removed from the frame with pocket-knives and taken as souvenirs, names and initials were liberally carved in the wood, and the shields were stolen from the quatrefoils, exposing the sides of the Stone, which was then scraped with knives to acquire samples of its dust.

Three shallow scoops scored into the front edge result from this activity.

In the 18th century, when the second lion-plinth and new seat-board were fitted, further modifications to both the Chair and Stone occurred.

Although the latter had been shortened, the iron staples to which the rings were attached projected awkwardly, gouging the sides of the Chair every time the Stone was moved.

To ease this, the crowns of the staples were filed down. Something even more barbaric happened between 1727 and 1821: the lower edges of the Stone were broken away with nine hammer-blows.

There is no obvious explanation for this – perhaps the pieces were sold as souvenirs.

Even in more recent times, the Chair has suffered periodically.

In 1887, the Office of Works painted it brown for the celebration of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.

A public outcry ensued and great damage was done to the gilt decoration when trying to remove the paint.

In 1914, Suffragettes attached a home-made bomb to one of the Chair’s pinnacles, causing more damage.

In 1939-1945, the Chair was stored in the crypt of Gloucester Cathedral, where it narrowly escaped destruction by an infestation of dry rot.

Finally, as well as vandalising the Chair, the gang that stole the Stone in 1950 dropped it and broke it.

Given this long and varied history, it is perhaps remarkable that the Chair survives at all.

Yet our study makes it clear that, despite having fallen victim to neglect, politics and the whims of fashion, St Edward’s Chair and the Stone of Scone – in the form we know it today – are two components of a single artefact, made in the 1290s.

They have an integrated physical history, and shared archaeology: one cannot be understood without the other.

[magnoliamyrrh]

What drove you to convert to islam?

well, thats a long story now

i was born and raised orthodox - ive always had a complicated relationship with religion, because on the one hand there is a lot of beauty, peace, and wisdom i found in it, on the other hand theres plenty of shit that either just didnt make sense to me, theologically speaking, and also a bunch of mostly sexist shit which really pissed off me since i was a kid. i do have a lot of religious trauma - mostly from my fathers side of the family who is much more orthodox, conservative, traditional, and who very much shoved religion (and a bunch of sexist shit) down my throath, got the idea of being inherently sinful in my head as a kid, whole bunch of shit. my father is also.... psychotic and he is what we call a habotnic, a religious extremist who, well, has bordderrrline essentially more or less joined a cult-like section of the orthodox church made up mostly of men whod been kicked out of the church (many who also happen to be pedos lmao rip) and i grew up with religion being used to justify a whole bunch of horrible shit - shit he did to me, how he treats and abuses his wife, etc

so, when i got older, 11-12 ish, i very much had a backlash against it. nevermind being an atheist, nevermind an edgy atheist faze, i outright hated it and found it to be wholly dangerous. and i did indeed have valid complaints mostly abt sexism, homophobia, hypocrisy, etc. at the same time, i had a fascination with dissecting religion and trying to understand it and studying it, something i had even before then. this went on for some years, and i continued to have an interest in theology; eventually, when i was idk 14ish, i started to have some softer and more malluable views on religion and orthodoxy - also coincided w understanding that religion wasnt what made my father an insane piece of shit, it was simply a tool he used to justify things and a path he went down on - but he could have gone insane down whatever other line

so, for a time i tried to get back into orthodoxy. this was partially from a spiritual perspective, but tbh moreso bc i was trying to keep onto something which reminded me of home in this damn empty and cold country. this is when i started to veil too, before i had anything at all to do w islam, i started praying, i started keeping onto certain traditions more. also when i got into traditional romanian magic moreso. still, i may have been trying to take the best of orthodoxy, but i felt like it never really... fit. there is a lot of beauty i still find in it to this day, and occasionally i still go to a monestary or church, i still hold onto certain traditions but no matter how hard i tried i never quite... felt it? .... and either way, after you have gone through a certain amount of horror in life, it tends to get harder to believe in things like the divinity of everything or that theres any possible sense at all to all the horrid cruelty on this planet etc etc.... i do still struggle w this to this day lol. but. also, i knew christianity so well, had already turned it on every which side, i found that even if i tried, i still had a long series of theological issues with it (many of which i dont remember after all these years, but i do remember that the trinity was one of them)

anyhow, i did keep trying for awhile. and in this whole process, i kept coming across things abt islam. this was also the years when islam was always in the news, usually in a negative light or something abt terrorism, so, it was quite frequently part of mainstream discussions. and i was curious, bc of that, bc i was curious abt theology in general, and bc partially growing up in dobrogea, i knew a very gentle and soft, beautiful islam which was the one of the turks and tatars, who were our neighbors w good food and good music and gentle, soft spoken voices like honey who were always nice to me. and i knew of islam from story books and such, one of my favourite childhood books to this day is a beautifully drawn romanian version of one thousand and one nights. so, idk, i kept coming across things, and i was curious so i looked into it

and... hm. i dont remember quite what first got me. but i did find it interesting, and i found that it solved some of the theological issues and gaps that i had with christianity, answered quesions to which the orthodox seemed to have no answer, made things click into place here and there, annuled some of the illogical loops and hypocricy which bothered me.. i found the analysis and discussion around it fascinating, so much more lively than ones i had seen in orthodoxy. i found the way hadith and quran functioned together to be fascinating, and the entire system behind it - even if today i hold different views of hadith.... i found sharia to be fascinating - and how things would fit into place and work together, shifting parts of a whole legal system and way of life intertwined. sharia always carries such a scary connotation to so many people, and yet, i dont think its a system bound neither to failure neither to opression - the question here is moreso whose sharia interpreted by who and implemented by who. i didnt have any plan to convert to it lol, and yet, it intrigued me enough that i felt a drive to keep digging and digging into it, to keep turning over in my head this and that about it, like some string or force was pulling me

most of all i think i found the qur'an itself to be.. captivating, once curiousity got to me and i started reading it. like sharia, it clearly had to be understood as a whole, and reading it for the first time and seeings its progression and how it builds upon itself was an experience in and of itself. i genuinely enjoyed spending hours reading and listening abt what this means what that meant etc. and it is so direct and personal, moreso than many other religious texts. i did find many parts of it stricking, moving, piercing. its prose and flow are beautiful. it feels alive, as if it is speaking to you, looking back into your eyes and right through your soul. i fell in love with it. and yet, it also feels like this capsule in time - while i no longer hold the commonly held idea that the qur'an is unchanged and there is only one, it can be said that as far as studies can tell from the oldest quranic manuscripts found, it is indeed remarkably well preserved - as if reading the pages you can hear and see them echo throughout time, back to when the words were first spoken..... quran recitation is very beatiful too, and i found there to be something... very meditative, tranquil, calm, soothing in it. something else that felt like it echoed through time. it also reminded me of the way orthodox priests give sermons, which i always found very beautiful and entrancing as well

i appreciated its call for reason, that i do remember particularly drew me in. that it would repetedly, repetedly call for one to question and think and it would give examples of the existence of divinity and explanations and even ask one to try to disprove things- it felt less like blind faith, more like this book was holding an active dialogue with you, and i really liked that. many of them are so beatiful too, many of them call upon nature and its wonders, and i supoose, even when my belief in a god was on very shaky ground, in nature i always saw divinity anyhow. i did find it interesting too how many of the verses did show an understanding of natural phenomenon, could be interpreted in a way which was less science-breaking than the bible, and called upon these phenomenon as signs of divinity.... and i appreciated its call to justice as well, its striving for a just system, society, and way of life. i appreciated its call to struggle for the sake of allah - jihad, which doesnt only mean wartime fighting (which is supoosed to be a very last resort).... its call for the end of opression, and the responsability of each person to do something about ending said opression and injustice

i found its understanding of god to be beautiful, and to make sense - my understanding of this developed more later when i came across sufism, and when i started doing shrooms too lol, but. i always felt the heart of it. which is the oneness of god, pure monotheism; because god is one, and god is indeed all that exists; indeed, everything is one. this is the same thing psychedelics teach you - ego death as its often called - and what many religious rituals of plenty of religions around this world seek to understand, achieve, feel, live by. it could be said that since there are high chances human conciousness developed along w psychedelic use, and since our african ancestors certainly did psychedelics, we are indeed genetially and biologically programmed as a part of our evolution and history to experience and understand ego death - to see and feel and become the connection and thread which runs through everything, the oneness of everything, the singularity of everything, unbound by time. this is what islam seeks as well.... hm. i liked that islam understood allah, unlike in christianity in which god is reffered to almost exclusively as a father sort of figure, to be not like any other thing, and most certainly not male. unbound, unconstrained, never fully knowable to us as humans..the 99 names of allah are beatiful, and i was drawn in by how many times the qur'an proclaimed allah to be all merciful, all forgiving, all loving, etc

.... there was something about it all, the more i looked into it, which brought me a sense of peace, calmness, ease... i found the way of life it promoted to be one of peace - i liked that you were supposed to pray five times a day, i liked that there were certain ways of doing things, i liked that muslims lived like the older romanian people did, always mentioning the name of allah and always aware of divinity. the idea of freedom not being getting to do whatever you may please, but rather living by a series of constraints, to make much sense - and i was drawn to it a lot more than this modern western do what you want individual freedom reigns supreme mindset... i liked that sharia was concerned with the common good and community before it was concerned with the individual.. i liked that islam promoted a middle path, i liked that it called for moderation and reason (things which my father never had), and showed a way of life which was almost monk-like, without leading to monastic seclusion.... i had always wanted to be a nun, you see, and parts of islam drew me in because of that. there were certainly many muslims, mainly sisters, who impressed me in their faith and way of life, the energy and aura that would clearly radiate off of them - women who lead by example, and by only doing so, would make one curious as to how they have come to be this way

i had an interest in other religions as well. i knew some of my ancestors were jewish, and yet judaism is a hard religion to convert to, and harder to be accepted into - and while i have read the old testament several times, i never quite felt a strong connection to it. i was fond of other christian denominations like the quakers for example, i found some of the theological points of protestants to be intriguing, but i still had many of the same issues with it. i find hinduism, buddhism, and sikhism to be beautiful religions with much wisdom - and to an extent being fond of certain kinds of sufism is to adopt a hindu or south east asian influence or to reach similar understandings at least; they are sister religions - but while i look into them, they never really felt like something id follow; not on their own

islam brought me a sense of home, it all did. so much of it simply made sense to me and clicked into place, it felt like learning something i had already known, discovering something that had always been within myself - i supoose, this is why we use the word revert rather than covert, because it feels more like coming back into the fold of islam..... and hm. both arab and turkish cultures felt... very much like home to me, never like something foreign. they made sense, i instantly understood them, both the good and bad parts - so many things were so similar to our own, and to me, they felt, and still do feel, like a second home. later after some years of converting when id go to masjids and eid and such, i again very much found that among the arabs i felt so much more at home than i ever did among the americans. and islam itself, there are many things which i saw which were so similar to orthodoxy, and this brought me a sense of comfort and home as well. and i always associated islam too with the turks and tatars in dobrogea, and so, islam never felt like a foreign thing to me - as converting to another religion may have - rather the religion and culture of our neighbors whom we had so much in common with

.... it just.. it really felt like there was some force pulling me, i had a unending thirst and drive to understand more. id get lost in spending hours reading the quran, id get lost in spending hours trying to understand it. id spend the nights awake reading and contemplating..... i dont know if it makes sense, but i dont mean this in a meme way - it very much felt like islam chose me, not like i chose it. it very much felt like i had become muslim before i had made any such decision, my soul had already made it for me, and i was the one who later realized and accepted it. islam, the word, comes from the word submission, sometimes said to mean peace in submission. i had already felt it in my bones, the submission to its truth and allah, the onesess of everything, before i realized it. it simply was - looking back, it was a very similar feeling to the one you get on psychedelics. you simply.. understand.... i knew my family would likely forsake me. i knew my country outside of dobrogea would forsaken me. i knew many muslims would forsake me for being gay.... but even if i had wished to go back, it was too late, for i had already seen, and felt, and understood, and there was no denial left. alhamdulilah, i do thank allah for guiding me, for it certainly felt like being guided

i have never known as much peace as i knew in those first, hm, months and years, despite the fact that things were hard back then, especially with my family, and my parents were at the peak of being abusive. i never felt such a connection to god and everything, such a suredness, groundedness, and strengh of faith...... it is something i miss, and i regret that these days i do not often pray the five daily prayers, and do not keep fast as often as i did, and do not live with allah in my heart as much. inshallah, i will get back on the path. i did used to be a lot more orthodox back then, islamically orthodox. and as the years passed my relationship with islam and allah changed, and when i came across sufism for the first time, i realized that it was the heart and soul of the religion which i knew, had felt myself, and had been searching for

i believe there is truth in all religions, they are different paths to take, different understandings which seek the same goal. i do not believe in sects, nor do i believe in devision between religions much... we all have our paths; my understandings of islam may have changed over the years, and i may have had, and still have, my struggles, but this will always be the home and refuge of my soul, and the path i walk

[saradika]

for your trick or treat event. ive got many favorite halloween-related things, but i’ll tell you the most iconique costume 6 year old brit went as: the hamburglar of mcdonald’s (yes the fast food chain) lore. ive known since then that i was probably destined to become a batman villain of equal or greater absurdity.

thank you for hosting such a lovely thing

🤍🦇🎃👻🍭🍬🍫🕯

BRIT! This made me laugh, I love that you went as the Hamburglar for Halloween. Did you pick the costume out yourself? 🍔

For your moodboard, I wanted to make something for Still Wait For You - it has been on my mind a lot lately, and has become such a favorite and comfort fic of mine. I really hope you like it 💖

Still Wait For You - Obi-Wan Kenobi x F!Reader

Sir Obi-Wan Kenobi has been assigned as your knight since you were eleven years old. Whispers of an impending war waver throughout your kingdom. Marriage laws become the norm in order to establish peace between nations. By this point, you are fifteen years into Sir Kenobi’s fierce loyalty and protection. It isn’t until your father breaks the devastating news that you are to be betrothed to Naboo’s sovereign leader, Sheev Palpatine. When your father’s attempts to ratify the marriage proposal are wholly futile, he manages to press one condition into the clause: that Sir Kenobi remain assigned to you, and never leave your side. Sheev Palpatine is furious.

Sir Kenobi is bound to your soul—he would follow you to the ends of the earth, and wait for you until his dying breath.

———

saradika’s trick or treat celebration (closed)

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

looking for advice and reassurance. TW for discussion of ptsd symptoms.

I was in an unhealthy relationship in the past that ended up in me developing c-ptsd. my ex is no longer in my life and hasn't been in months.

Ive been seeing someone new who so far is absolutely perfect. I've known him for about a year now and he's always been just... the best? so sweet, funny, affectionate, smart, basically everything I'd want in a partner. I can confidently say that he's the only boyfriend I've ever had who I've felt real romantic love for. I want to marry him someday.

but I'm worried that I'm putting too much on him with my disability. we've talked about it, he's seen me during episodes, he's never blamed me or even really been freaked out, but I'm still scared I'll be too high maintenance. guilt was a huge part of how my ex manipulated me and I feel so much of that with him. even when my boyfriend is willingly gladly taking care of me I feel like a burden to him. I can't talk to him about anything because my ex gaslit and guilted the shit out of me whenever I tried to talk to them. even the little things like making sure I eat or sleep enough make me feel bad. the only part of his comfort that doesn't bother me is the physical affection, only because I know he enjoys it too.

Im completely wholly in love with him and he's expressed the same for me. I'm scared that I'll self sabotage and run away so I don't hurt him. I'm scared that he's secretly bothered by the way I act sometimes but won't tell me the same way my ex lied to me about their feelings. I want to know how to stop feeling like a piece of shit and just enjoy the first guy who's ever treated me like a human being.

Hi anon,

I am so sorry for your trauma and the resulting c-ptsd, and commend you for reaching out so I may have an opportunity to offer you some encouragement as you navigate a healthy relationship for what sounds like, the first time. I myself have the same diagnosis, and reading your ask was like stepping back in time in that I had the exact same concerns and worries when I met my now husband.  I share this only to affirm that it is very much possible to have trauma, and a mental illness, and a supportive partner.  None of those are exclusive.  

However, not to detract from your concerns, I’d also like to share that in your case - you’ve only begun the healing process.  It’s only been a few months, and for many of us it can take years.  I’m not suggesting this means you can’t have a functioning relationship (we did, and have) on a similar timeline to yours - but I say this because though it is not my permission to give, if you need it, here it is: you deserve the time and safe spaces to heal.  You are allowed to not have it all figured out right now.  You are allowed to bask in a healthy relationship as you’re healing.

Now as for the potential to self sabotage, or how to not feel like you’re too much, there’s of course some recommendations you can find in our pinned post - as well as some affirmations you can say daily - but what might help the most is looking into a therapist where you can unpack some of this trauma in safe spaces, and discuss and build a mental health treatment plan for yourself as you continue to heal.

No matter what you decide moving forward, I wish you well, and healing and safe spaces <3 - Mod Kat

[girldigital]

a breather

I responded to Big, once again, weeks after he did. I purposedly try and respond to him at times when he is asleep, so he can wake up and take the time he needs to respond. Either that, or I try to message him at a late time for him, so he can close his eyes while thinking about me.

Yet, despite my efforts to keep a sort of game of cat and mouse going, a thirst and longing, he does not reciprocate. I responded to his dusty message at what would’ve been about 6AM for him, and he opened and responded immediately. He doesn’t even give me the opportunity to miss him…Isn’t that fucked up? I have been waiting for over two years though so maybe I’ve done my part already. Besides, despite his messages being in my camp for 80% of the time, I still do miss him. He’s so evil to keep this up. Everytime I answer, this tiny part of me wishes that’s the last message we exchange. Why do I have to think about him every day? Why did I move to this new country only to think even more about him?

Every day I crave laying next to him, kissing him, caressing his chest, feeling safe and loved in his arms, being treated like a goddess. He is the only one who can make me feel okay with not giving myself. Which is so strange.

You know what’s interesting too. My attraction to men is so boringly patriarchal.

I love being reduced to a sex doll (or rather I think I do until I am…). But as a whole,  I’m a giver through and through. I have no desire other than to be desired. Of course, what a shallow and horrible way to experience sexual intimacy. But the problem is, I don’t know anything else. It’s the only thing that turns me on (again, in theory but never in practice). The thought of a man loving me would be nice, but I just don’t like them *lesbian alarm rings*. I refuse to be loved by someone I am not wholly obsessed with, and Big is the only person to have ever achieved that status. And what’s funny is that, I want to be his ultimate object of desire, I want him to use me as he pleases and I want him to let me take care of him.

Unfortunately, he is the only man who doesn't get off by this. Hell, my superpower is head and he barely seems to care for it. He'll stay downstairs at mines forever if I wouldn't tell him to stop due to me losing sensations in my hands. He kisses me fervently, in places ive never been kissed before. He makes me feel loved, and like he's doing this for me, rather than me being there for him. I think that's what drives me crazy. How can you be the least attainable, but be the most present. 

The only one that makes me feel human, that makes me feel seen, appreciated. Like I am what you desire as a whole of two, not just my body. 

He is the only man I've ever witnessed this in, though I'm aware my pool is pretty small. It'd be terrifying if someone was reading what I'm typing right now. Writing smut coded diary entries on the clock, how fun.

Anyway, yeah. Maybe that's why I love it so much with him. Maybe that's why I think he should transition for this all to make sense.

Even more than all of this, I just love being with him. Not sure how I'm supposed to date anybody else when ... Anyway that's another diary entry I've already written.

I'm going to turn 27 and there is only one person in this world I am interested in having sex with...Wasting my prime years or whatever.

girl with no sexuality no identity no country

no home to call my own.

[cicada-bones]

Could we get a snippet of The Warrior and The Wildfire please?

Hi! so first of all im so sorry for leaving this in my inbox unanswered for like 2 months, second of all i have graduated!!!! So now ive got some free time!!!! Extra long snippet for you guys as a treat (and perhaps a bit of a bribe lmao) for being so patient and nice to me ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Rowan spent the better part of dinner trying to convince Aelin to say something, anything, about what their next step was. How he could help, what she was doing with the money she get from the bank that day, even just what she planned for them tomorrow morning.

But Aelin just smiled that pretty smile of hers, and munched on a spare bit of toast. Apparently, all she could cook was breakfast. Rowan had to keep himself from smiling, and remembering all the ruined meals she had made back at Mistward. Those few nights they had spent around the fire, beneath the trees. He really should have tried harder to teach her how to cook.

Rowan would never regret coming to Rifthold, even though it had been against her direct orders. But he wished he could spirit her away from here, from this dank city, crawling with people and shrouded in the scent of monsters. Wished he could be back in the wild again, where the air felt clean and open all around him. Where his magic wasn’t crushed deep within him, so tightly that it made his skin crawl.

He had slowly gotten used to the feeling, though it was still uncomfortable. And every now and then, tremors would still wrack his muscles, making him shiver in discomfort. But they were getting less and less.

He could adapt, he could endure.

Aedion kept silent through most of his cajoling, either still nursing a grudge from their fight this morning, or already accepted it as a lost cause.

Aelin had decided to keep them in the dark, and Rowan would just have to figure out how to live with it. He just wished that he could explain to her that she didn’t need to bear this burden on her own, that the reason he was here wasn’t only because he wanted to be. She deserved help, and so much more than he could offer her.

So once again, they separated after dinner, Aedion moving into his bedroom while Aelin pulled Rowan into hers. Again, he grumbled as she insisted that he share her bed, but he put up far less resistance than he knew he should.

Aelin went to wash her face in the bathroom, and Rowan turned to the window, stripping off his weapons and extra clothing. It was dark in the bedroom, so he knew no one could see in. But still, he scanned the nearby streets and rooftops, watching and listening for anything untoward.

Of course, he didn’t notice anything. But when had Lorcan ever been known to leave a trace?

Rowan sighed and turned to slide between Aelin’s cloud-soft sheets, forcing down the guilt that pooled in his stomach. He knew it was a mistake to let her get so close, to let their scents get even more tangled up in each other. But he just couldn’t help it.

It was an inexpressible comfort, to have her so close, almost wrapped in his arms. It made him settle, feeling the undeniable truth of her safety.

Or it would settle him, if she wasn’t so insistent on provoking him with her scandalous clothes every night.

This time, the nightgown was a delicate blue. The soft silk hem stroked over the tops of her breasts like petals, and those paper-thin straps barely held the dress in place on her shoulders.

So narrow, so light, so easily brushed out of place –

Rowan shook himself, barely keeping his gaze from dragging down further, and glimpsing what awaited below. But that meant he couldn’t miss the brazen confidence of Aelin’s smile. As if she knew he was fighting a battle doomed to loss.

Aelin slipped into place beside him in bed, the silk billowing over her chest as she turned on her side to face him. “So, what do you think? Pink, or blue? Personally, I’m more fond of the pink, but I figured I’d test this one out, see where your preferences might lie.”

Rowan just clenched his jaw, scowling at her.

Aelin laughed at him.

···

 Within a few moments, she was asleep, her breathing calm and even, eyelids fluttering with night visions. But once again, Rowan lay awake. Trying in vain to calm his blood.

It kept seeming to get worse and worse, more and more difficult. He had wanted her in Wendlyn, during those many nights they had spent together in the fortress. But his ties to Maeve had kept the desire in check for him. He had wanted her during those nights they had traveled together back from Doranelle, especially that first night, the night he had given her that tattoo. But abstaining, keeping himself and what he wanted in check, hadn’t been so difficult.

Now, it felt like trying to move mountains with his bare hands.

And seeing that ghost of Lyria today, seeing that remnant, that reminder of her, it had pulled all of his fear and doubt right back into place.

Hearing Lyria in his head again, those screams of agony…it had been far more complex than just pain. There was so much guilt there. And not that old, familiar guilt of his unforgivable failure. It was new guilt. Fresh and hot and roiling in his stomach.

The guilt of having fallen for another. And seeing Lyria, or at least this facsimile of her, and not being cleaved in two, not being rent through with agony – had him stunned in place. Unable to move.

Not with pain, but with shame. It was only the echo of a remembered hurt, one he had held on to for far, far too long. But one that Rowan knew he should still be holding on to. One that he knew should weigh on him until his deathday. And it honestly scared him more than he could admit, scared him senseless, scared him motionless, that this wouldn’t be true.

He had betrayed her once again. Betrayed Lyria in death, even. And Rowan had no idea how he could possibly atone for such a deep, yet wholly unexpected, betrayal.

And then Aelin had taken him to the theater. She had taken him to this small sanctuary from her past and she had reminded him of just how beautiful she was. And not the beauty of her body, but the beauty of her very soul.

And Rowan knew that he couldn’t help but love her. No matter who it betrayed, no matter if it was a tearing of his own soul, of the partner of his heart, of the only person he expected waited for him in the Afterworld.

It was like the movements of the tide, the phases of the moon, the rising of the sun in the east and setting in the west. Uncontrollable, unstoppable. He couldn’t help but love her.

And gods, he wanted to kiss her.

But Rowan just closed his eyes and turned over in bed, forcing himself into an unsettled, disquieted sleep.

Until, in the deepest part of the night, he felt the covers rustle slightly as Aelin silently slipped out of bed and across room, heading right for her black armor.

[bipirate]

Still fuming about how much LWJ's characterization was hurt by the "kicking WN" scene. Jealousy towards random inn staff and a very young girl is bad enough, but LWJ not only knows at that moment that WN is the only miraculously surviving blood relation of LSZ (the single one from a whole clan decimated 13y ago!) but also that WN is WWX's only friend, the only one who stuck by WWX against all odds unlike LWJ, though WN had probably less of a choice about it, which both are reasons enough 1/4

on their own to hug WN, if anything. Plus WWX is not only presumed straight at that moment in the book, but LWJ also believes that WWX has rejected him before dying, and WN is actually not even human anymore, but an animated corpse whose rooting, decayed organs fall out when he's stabbed--and still LWJ is jealous of him as a potential sex partner for WWX (unless it's even jealousy that WWX has friends)! The clincher is that it happens during one of the drunk scenes which means LWJ is supposed to be acting his real self, unrestrained by rules that were hammered into him during his upbringing, so it implies that at his core LWJ is wholly unreasonable and uncompassionate, but forces himself to act like a totally different kind of person in society. And when I can sort of understand why some people might enjoy reading about someone getting angsty about a partner interacting someone they are well matched with, even if those people are not me, but that scene is not it, so I just don't how and who among the readers find this kind of totally maladapted, over the top jealousy attractive? I legit don't get the appeal. Not saying that ironically, but I just don't... understand?

god yeah you hit the nail on the head with this one. ive never been much of a fan of jealousy or possessiveness as a plot point or character trait when it comes to shipping, but god knows there are hundreds of fanfics about that because people think it's hot or whatever. and like, sure, jealousy is a normal human emotion and we all experience it but most of the time lwj is clearly not written to handle that jealousy in a healthy way and his possessive behaviour is romanticized.

and especially with how he treats wen ning, it's just so outrageous. lwj should be grateful to wen ning for being wwx's friend and helping him, he should treat him with respect at the very least, and he should be happy wen ning is miraculously still alive as the only living relative of his adopted son!!! he has no reason to treat wen ning like that and the reason he's written to be that way is because mxtx thinks possessive behaviour is hot or whatever. but also the innkeeper scene bugs me too like this is a random man wwx is talking to and being friendly towards to get a bit of information. it's like lwj doesn't want wwx to look at, talk to, or touch anyone that isn't him. imagine loving a man who literally died after losing all his friends and being shunned by the cultivation world for protecting those friends, and then, after he comes back to life, denying him the chance of making new friends or actively threatening the one friend he has left. it's awful

[queen-susans-revenge]

Your recent musings on fix-it, would you be able to put them to their own post? Because I think they deserve that.

Okay, here you go :)

(These thoughts were inspired by this amazing art chain)

I have actually not been able to stop thinking about this art, not just because it’s wonderful, but because it so beautifully demonstrates how to do a fix-it.

First, the original work is wholly acknowledged; its truth is accepted. If the next picture just showed us the plane-dragon getting up and flying again–if the last image was the only response–it wouldn’t work. We wouldn’t be able to accept it. It would be a contradiction of the original art, not an extension of it. It wouldn’t truly fix anything.

Instead we’re taken through the steps. We’re given a healing process we can believe in. The tube down the throat! The IV! The stitches! The work is put in to make it believable.

I’m reminded of the plot point in Misery where Annie Wilkes demands her captured novelist bring back the character he killed off. And in his first attempt to satisfy the demands of his kidnapper, he writes her a glowing happy fluff piece where the death never happened and everything is just marvelous for the character.

And Annie can’t accept that. It’s not real. It denies the pain but doesn’t fix it. To satisfy her, his torturer, the novelist has to come up with a fix-it that actually acknowledges what came before. It has to start in that dark place; the character wasn’t dead, just in a coma, and she was buried alive! She’s rescued from her grave but the trauma gives her amnesia, setting off more plot…and this darker take is the necessary one. This one works for Annie.

Similarly, we have to see the dragon’s injuries treated seriously before we can rejoice in its return to the skies.

A fix-it has to show the work. A fix-it has to go to the dark place before it can take you out of it.

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

My Personal Opinions on Some French Grand Opéras

Here we go. I’ll be focusing solely on pieces in what’s widely considered the “Golden Age” of grand opéra (from 1828 to about 1870).

1828, Auber: La muette de Portici: never seen or heard so I cannot comment, but I do think it slaps that it helped start both the Belgian Revolution and the genre of grand opéra.

1829, Rossini: Guillaume Tell: I love this one. it’s one of the few grand opéras that has a happy ending and it’s fully deserved. it’s long but it all has a point-- the first act introduces us to the community spirit that drives the rest of the action; even though it’s called Guillaume Tell, it’s not just about Guillaume Tell. it’s about a whole movement coming together, with all these vividly-drawn people of different social statuses, ages, heritages, and livelihoods coming together to do good in the world in the face of oppression. also it’s Rossini so it bops start to finish. the finale is one of opera’s best. I could not have higher praise and admiration for this piece.

1831, Meyerbeer: Robert le diable: another rare case of a grand opéra with a happy ending, but it feels a bit more contrived, something I wrote about when I watched it about a year ago for the first time. it’s quite a clever ending, however, and I love that these lovely characters get a happy ending. Robert is the least interesting principal character both musically and dramatically; the musical highlights of the show are mostly Bertram and Isabelle’s big scenes. the former is also arguably grand opéra’s most exciting ballet sequence, the Act III ballet of the nuns (or as I like to call it, the Zombie Nun Ballet). it’s long but it is incredibly worth it. overall, I really do enjoy this opera although it is very much an uneven piece.

1833, Auber: Gustave III, ou le bal masqué: here’s a thing I wrote about it like 3 months ago and I stand by every word.

1835, Halévy: La juive: It’s damn near impossible to find an even remotely close to complete recording. However, what the recordings have is excellent. The score is marvelous all the way through, although for the most part I tend to prefer the ensembles to the arias (the exception, of course, being Éléazar’s 11 o’clock number). Speaking of Éléazar, he’s an extremely complicated and frankly uncomfortable character, toeing the line between being one of opera’s most complex characters, an even more complicated proto-gender-swapped-Azucena if you will, and being an unfortunate vessel of antisemitic stereotypes. This is made even more complicated because Halévy was an assimilated Jewish composer. On the whole, Rachel is the only wholly sympathetic character in the piece, although all five of the principals are lovingly scored. 

1836, Meyerbeer: Les Huguenots: *holds things in because otherwise I would write an entire essay about this opera and you all know that because I have done that several times* Both a great strength and a great weakness of this piece is its sheer wide-ranging-ness, particularly in terms of mood. Unlike, say, La juive, this opera does not have one overall mood, instead steadily progressing from bright, brilliant comedy to one of the most horrifying endings in opera. Dramatically, this is great for the most part, although the sheer amount of exposition in the first two acts may take getting used to. Just as the drama gets more intense and concentrated as the opera goes on, the music gets more intense- and frankly, more often than not better- as the opera goes on. The window/misunderstood engagement business is something I still struggle to see the exact dramatic purpose of, because I think the question of religious difference would likely be enough to separate Raoul and Valentine at the beginning anyway; to me, it feels like Scribe and Deschamps were struggling to find a way to integrate Nevers into the story, as he is crucial to the opera’s lessons about love and tolerance, so they stuck in a quasi-love-triangle in order to justify his presence earlier on. (Also, for goodness sake, could you at least have given him an onstage death scene?) Anyway, in this way the story can be a bit unwieldy and uneven at first, but stay the course with this one...and even a lot of the first couple of acts are wonderful. The characters are all wonderfully written if rather episodic in many cases, but this opera is ambitious and by the end, it’ll tear your heart to shreds. It’s amazing. Uneven, yes, but amazing nonetheless, and I will defend it to the death.

1840, Donizetti: La favorite: I’m not as familiar with La favorite as with some of the others on this list (I’ve seen two different productions once each and I have a recording of it saved to my Spotify library that I listen to bits and pieces of very occasionally) but I do think it’s an excellent piece overall. LÉONOR DESERVED SO MUCH BETTER. The music is lovely all around; I know Donizetti wrote at least one other grand opéra in full and part of another, both of which I need to check out because in its own way, Donizetti’s style works wonderfully with grand opéra.

1841: Halévy, La reine de Chypre: here is a post I wrote about La reine de Chypre. basically all my thoughts remain the same except I have to add: Halévy as a whole just needs more love. there’s a few other of his operas I have waiting (a recording of Le dilettante d’Avignon that has been sitting in my Spotify for who knows how long and a film of Clari with Bartoli and Osborn I’m also sitting on) but there are so many pieces that sound fascinating but have basically ZILCH in terms of recordings.

1849, Meyerbeer: Le prophète: before I say anything else about this opera, I need to ask a burning question: WHY THE HELL IS THERE ONLY ONE GOOD VIDEO RECORDING OF THIS OPERA?!?! on the one hand, I adore the Osborn/Aldrich/Fomina production; on the other, I would also like other productions, please. anyway, I said one time in the opera Discord that while Les Huguenots will probably always be my favorite Meyerbeer opera for an array of reasons, this one is definitely Meyerbeer, Scribe, and Deschamps’ strongest work. it is both unusually dark and unusually believable for an opera of its time—and the fact that it still holds up so well is disturbing to say the least. this opera thrives on complexity in all forms and yet has probably (and paradoxically) the simplest plot to follow of the four Meyerbeer grand opéras. the score is brilliant start to finish, mixing the best of bel canto, Romanticism, and something altogether darker, stranger, and more original. definitely one of the most underrated operas ever. the aforementioned production is on YouTube with French subtitles; give it a watch here.

1855, Verdi: Les vêpres siciliennes: Vêpres is an opera I love dearly although I have yet to find a production that is completely satisfying. I think it’s because this opera is a lot deeper, a lot more complex, and a lot more troubling, frankly, than people are willing to go. also it should be performed bilingually and I am dead-set on this: the dissonance of an opera about French capture of Italian land being sung entirely in either French or Italian is always a little off at least (and also part of the reason why my brain probably adjusted to hearing this opera in either language better than, say, Don Carlos). but anyway, neither side comes off particularly well here, particularly due to the violence and sexual assault on both sides of the equation: both Montfort and Procida are heavily in the wrong, and while Verdi sympathizes with both for personal reasons (Verdian Dad in the former case, Italian Liberator in the latter), there is a lot of troubling stuff in here. nevertheless, the music bops, the story is intriguing, and I think we can all agree that Henri and Hélène both deserved better, especially considering how close they got to bliss (although I think we can also all agree that the end of Act IV twist to almost-rom-com is pretty abrupt).

1863 (full opera: 1890), Berlioz: Les Troyens: I wrote this review of Troyens after watching it in the Châtelet 2003 production in December 2019 (first time ever watching it) and I still stand by just about every word. Such a fascinating opera, great adaptation of the first few books of the Aeneid, marvelous score (of course, it’s Berlioz!)...but could there be a ballet or two fewer, Berlioz? Or at least shorten them up? And that’s coming from someone who likes ballet. But anyway, in every other respect it’s absolutely marvelous. Some people say it’s the greatest French opera ever, and while I hesitate to say that, it comes pretty damn near close.

1865, Meyerbeer: L’Africaine (Vasco de Gama): Vasco da Gama/L’Africaine is even more troubling—much more troubling—of an opera than Vêpres to me and I wrote a whole thing here as to why. I still stand by most of it, although upon reflection, I feel like the ending that drove me so crazy has virtually the exact same idea behind it as the end of Troyens/Book IV of the Aeneid: empire has consequences and those consequences hurt real people, who, though different and not among those perceived as “heroic”, are worthy of being treated as human, not being collateral damage. (I’ve written at least two essays about this for different classes, both specifically in regards to the Aeneid.) It may be time to revisit this one. The score is lovely, after all, although it didn’t stand out to me as much as others by Meyerbeer.

1867, Verdi: Don Carlos: *holds myself back from writing a 10-page essay* y’all, there is a reason that when someone asks me what my favorite opera is, I always choose this one even though I’m horrible at favorites questions. it’s Verdi, grand opéra, romantic drama (SO MUCH romantic drama and SO MUCH gay), political drama, religious/social struggle, personal struggle, social commentary, spectacle, intimacy, masterful characterization all in one. what more could you want? I first saw/heard this opera in Italian long before I did in French, so my brain is more hardwired to hearing the Italian but both are good. my motto is “Italian or French, I don’t care, but Fontainebleau has to be there.” fuck the four-act version. I mean, I will watch four-act versions but five-act versions are just superior. I’d prefer uncut performances (the first part of the garden, the Lacrimosa, the extended opening and ending), but these aren’t dealbreakers for me. it’s the perfect synthesis of Verdi and grand opéra, much less unwieldy than Vêpres (as much I love that one), both musically and dramatically.

1868, Thomas: Hamlet: Part of me wishes this was more faithful to the actual source play (why??? the??? fuck??? does??? Hamlet??? live??? although there are alternate endings), but part of me also realizes that the play is already four hours long as is and singing it plus ballet would make it WAY too fucking long. This does a pretty respectable job. The music is gorgeous, by turns almost sugary-sweet and thrillingly ominous. The Murder of Gonzago scene is an absolute masterpiece. The Mad Scene is justifiably one of opera’s best (although I’m not sure it was a good idea to have that and a frequently-cut 20-minute ballet with no relation whatsoever to the main plot to make up all of Act IV). There are a lot of bops in this one. The four principals are closely followed and still very well-drawn. Both of the stagings I have seen were excellent. An underrated opera.

1869 (grand opéra version), Gounod: Faust: Another of my absolute favorite operas. Since this existed for a decade before its transformation into the grand opéra we all know and love, I won’t comment much about its actual format and adherence to grand opéra tropes aside from saying the Walpurgisnacht ballet is one of grand opéra’s best and extremely good at giving off Vibes TM. I used to hate how the character of Faust was written and thought he was incredibly boring. Not anymore (although of course, I still hate him as a person. fuck him tbh). This opera has a reputation for being saccharine and old-fashioned and I think that’s a bunch of garbage right there. It’s about the search for eternal youth and the expectations of conforming to social values and people’s struggles with themselves when a) they “fall short” and b) when the world ostracizes them for being “different” and “out of line”. I am also firmly convinced that Marguerite is the real protagonist of Faust (like how I’m convinced that Valentine is the protagonist of Les Huguenots if there even is a singular protagonist in that opera but I digress). The music slaps. People need to stop cutting whole scenes out of this. I’m still undecided on the order of the church and square scenes of Act IV. Marguerite and Siébel just need everything good in this world.

Anyway, those are my two cents! I tried to keep these pretty short, so if y’all want any follow-ups, let me know!

[carewyncromwell]

AU number 5 please!

5. …Your MC ends up in a romantic relationship with their best friend? (If they do end up falling in love with their best friend in canon, what if they fell in love with a different good friend?) 

*glances and smiles apologetically at @cursebreakerfarrier* Ahem.

In most lifetimes, Carewyn and Bill’s relationship went through four stages. In one, however, it went through five.

Stage I: Guardian and Protectorate. When Bill first heard from Charlie about his classmate, the younger sister of the “delinquent” Jacob Cromwell, he immediately felt sorry for her. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like, to have lost an older sibling, and even if he’d yet to meet this girl, the eldest Weasley felt his “Big Brother” instincts twitching. Then Carewyn approached him the following year for help with the Ice Vault, and Bill honestly breathed a sigh of relief. Charlie had said she seemed okay even after what had happened to her brother when Bill had asked him, but Bill was still relieved to see that that did indeed seem to be the case. The young red-haired Slytherin may have been tiny and perhaps a little insecure and soft-spoken, but her eyes blazed with determination, and when they dueled, Carewyn showed immense courage, even managing to win their duel by chucking a potion bottle at Bill’s head and then using the distraction to Disarm him. It was in that moment that Bill decided -- he was going to look after this girl. And so he did everything he possibly could to help her with her quest to break the spells on the Cursed Vaults and save her brother Jacob.

Stage II: Surrogate Big Brother and Little Sister. As the years went by, Bill and Carewyn dealt with the Cursed Vaults together with their other friends and got to know each other better, and Bill soon came to see and treat Carewyn like family. Bill cheered both Charlie and Carewyn on in Quidditch friendlies. Bill even invited Carewyn over for Christmas at the Burrow one year. It soon got to the point that Bill almost filled the role in Carewyn’s life that Jacob once had, in the way that they were rarely seen apart -- and yet, even with that, Carewyn never trusted Bill with all of her flaws and insecurities the way she had Jacob. She never trusted anyone that much. As Carewyn got older and the maturity gap decreased, Bill found himself leaning on Carewyn in a way he never really had anyone else, as well as found Carewyn herself answering his emotional needs by looking after him just as much if not more than he looked out for her, just like she did the rest of their friends. Carewyn counseled him about his crush on Emily Tyler. She offered a listening ear and good advice when he was down. She surprised him with meaningful Christmas gifts and sang songs to cheer him up. Their friends had started teasing the two by calling them the “Papa Bear” and “Mama Bear” of their friend group, and even Bill had to admit, they really weren’t on the uneven footing they’d been on before. After all...Carewyn really supported him a lot more than she ever let him support her anymore...

Stage III: Equals. By the time Bill reached his seventh year, Carewyn had really come into her own as a strong, determined young woman with a brave, compassionate heart and an unbreakable spirit. Despite the two year age gap, Carewyn had more than proven herself Bill’s peer, not just on the dueling field but in leading and protecting others. Bill was proud of how much his friend had grown and truly respected her as a person, but he couldn’t help but notice -- now that they were on equal footing -- just how much Carewyn didn’t trust him or the rest of their friends, even after everything they’d gone through together. Even when she clearly cared so much about him, Charlie, and the rest, she absolutely refused to let them into her heart or help her with her emotional needs. Still Bill was patient and was prepared to let Carewyn open up when she was ready, even after Charlie blew up at her for keeping so much from them and Ben and Merula stubbornly refused to let her just go off by herself without telling anyone. After Rowan’s death, however, Carewyn disappeared for a full 24 hours. When Bill found out, he immediately dropped his Cursebreaking assignment and rushed back to the school to help the others look for her. When she finally emerged after being found by Duncan, Bill fell to pieces, tearing into Carewyn about how he knew full well that “she was a liar,” that she “always lies,” but that it was “only because of how much she cared,” and berating her for being so stubborn that only Rowan’s death could finally make her open up to her friends and trust them with how she felt. Bill was crying the entire time, which wasn’t much of a surprise -- Carewyn crying too, however, took everyone aback. And it was as the two sat on the floor hugging each other and sobbing, right before Charlie and Ben both also descended on Carewyn and Merula hugged herself on the sidelines, that the wall between Bill and Carewyn was finally torn down.

Stage IV: Best Friends Forever. From that point on, Bill and Carewyn saw each other as their best friend. Bill was Carewyn’s second-in-command in the Circle of Khanna, and when the two dueled side-by-side, they could stand toe-to-toe with just about any Dark wizard. After Carewyn joined the Ministry as a lawyer, Bill would pop down to watch her court cases from time to time, and whenever Bill wrote to Carewyn asking for help with an assignment for Gringotts, Carewyn would instantly drop whatever she was working on to help him, even though she’d never really wanted to be a Cursebreaker herself. The two also wrote to each other pretty much constantly and supported each other unconditionally. No one could deny that these two loved each other, even if it was only platonically.

In one universe, however, as mentioned...there were those who suspected that love was much more than just platonic.

Stage V: Lovers. (More under the cut, ‘cause this got long AF. >>; )

HPHM AU Ask!

It all started when Carewyn distanced herself from the Weasleys in 1995, just after the return of Lord Voldemort in the Little Hangleton graveyard. Carewyn came to the austere decision so as to help the Order, since she knew her position at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement could be helpful in the fight to come and her associating with the Weasleys or the staff of Hogwarts at all would give Fudge less reason to trust her. Even despite the logic of the rationale, the loss of his best friend and confidante, if only through not being able to speak or write to her, weighed very heavily on Bill. Carewyn had been one of only two people he’d ever felt he could really rely on for emotional support (the other being Charlie), and she was easily the one he did so most, since she was always so prompt in her written responses and always seemed to know exactly what he needed. Her absence left a hole in Bill’s heart and life, which was soon filled by his new associate at Gringotts, Fleur Delacour. Fleur was very taken with Bill, and soon enough Bill felt romantic feelings budding in his heart for her as well. The two started dating, and the relationship brought some real sunshine back to Bill’s life, even in the midst of the storm to come.

The advent of the Second Wizarding War prompted a lot of people to jump into marriage quickly, as it felt like any day might be your last -- and so, within a year, Bill was all set to marry Fleur. He loved her very much, and she him...but everyone else in the Weasley family was a bit less sure about the prospect, especially Mrs. Weasley and Ginny. But in this universe, it wasn’t just because they didn’t like Fleur. Even Fleur herself was a little startled when Bill popped the question so quickly. But Bill loved Fleur and, he thought, the War would be less scary if he knew she was by his side. Not long after he popped the question, Voldemort’s return was finally made public, and Bill saw his chance to finally -- FINALLY -- be able to see Carewyn again at the Ministry, after she dealt with Fudge’s Educational Decree #23 in court. The two met covertly in Carewyn’s office for the first time in over a year, both almost beside themselves with how happy they were to see each other. Bill and Carewyn hugged for almost five whole minutes, laughing and babbling almost the entire time and squeezing each other in a vice grip. It was the happiest either Carewyn or Bill had been in months.

Bill had expected that his best friend might not wholly approve of his and Fleur’s engagement too. Carewyn, however, although she was taken aback, very quickly showed support. “She makes you happy, doesn’t she?” the lawyer asked through a beautiful, soft smile. “Well...that’s all I could ever want for you, Bill. I know how long you’ve wanted a family...if Fleur can give you that, and love you and care for you...then that’s all that matters.” Bill was encouraged by Carewyn’s words, and yet almost uncomfortable -- maybe he just wasn’t used to positive feedback to his engagement yet, he thought sheepishly. Nonetheless, after Carewyn said she was sure the ceremony would be beautiful and lamented that she probably wouldn’t get to see it, Bill fiercely insisted that Carewyn would have to be there: he refused to start such an important chapter of his life without her. His insistence on her being present did seem to affect Carewyn somehow -- Bill couldn’t quite place how, but she was smiling, at least.

After their meeting, however, Bill found himself a bit less certain than he had been previously. Seeing Carewyn again after so long really got him thinking about how much of a bedrock she’d really become in his life -- seeing her in the courtroom, recalling once again what a brilliant, noble woman she was, finally realizing how hard she’d really been fighting all that time they’d been apart, in complete silence...just like she always had, since they’d first met...it shook him slightly. When had she become so instrumental to him? When did the thought of her not being at his wedding become so terrifying that it made him not want to go down the aisle at all? When did them separating make him feel anguish, knowing that there was a good chance they’d never be reunited again? When had he...become so emotionally reliant on her...even more so than his own fiancee? These questions bothered Bill a lot. He pushed them away for the longest time, but still they persisted. Fleur could tell Bill was upset about something, and yet Bill was too ashamed to admit to her what was wrong. She at one point asked Bill if there was “someone else,” and Bill -- almost panic-stricken by the suggestion -- vehemently said no. Carewyn was his friend, his best friend! They’d been partners, yes, but not like that -- they’d been Papa Bear and Mama Bear at school, sure, but that was a joke! Carewyn was family -- she’d always been family. Not like Fleur soon would be...

That night, finally, Bill had to ask himself -- could he see Carewyn, the way he saw Fleur? Even if he wouldn’t choose Carewyn over Fleur...could Carewyn be someone he could see himself marrying and starting a family with? And at long, long last, Bill had to admit...he could. He could imagine it. He could imagine Carewyn being a wonderful mother -- cradling a red-haired, freckled baby in her arms and singing it a lullaby -- smiling at him with those ruby red lips as he came home -- trailing a hand through his hair as he kissed her. And Bill, his heart both swelling with joy and breaking in despair, knew he couldn’t marry Fleur while feeling so conflicted.

He finally opened up to Fleur about how he felt, leaving off Carewyn’s name the entire time...yet Fleur, insightful as ever, knew immediately who Bill was talking about. Although she was a bit hurt, she nonetheless maintained the utmost grace and suggested they break their engagement. “If after you’ve come to a dezision, your heart iz still mine,” she said gently, “zhen we can pick up where we’ve left off, Bill. And if it iz not...zhen I wish you every happiness.” Bill, still feeling incredibly ashamed of himself for rushing so fast into an engagement before he’d even taken the time to properly address his unexamined feelings for Carewyn, thanked Fleur for her support. She truly was a wonderful woman -- it was unsurprising that he’d grown to care for her so much.

Fleur and Bill didn’t have the chance to break the news to anyone about their wedding being put off before the Order was summoned to Hogwarts to protect it from the Death Eaters that had broken into the school with the help of Draco Malfoy. After the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, Bill got his face slashed up by Greyback and Mrs. Weasley finally accepted Fleur and her love for Bill, even with their engagement having been broken. Late that night, Carewyn received a letter from Tonks about Dumbledore’s death, Snape’s betrayal, and Bill’s injury and without hesitation she Apparated to Hogsmeade, turned into a robin, and flew the rest of the way to Hogwarts.

Carewyn found Bill sleeping restlessly in the Hospital Wing with nightmares. She used her Legilimency to enter Bill’s mind so she could soothe his nightmares of turning into a werewolf and killing everyone he loved and transform them into images of the Burrow, in anticipation for his wedding. But because Carewyn didn’t realize that Bill and Fleur had broken up earlier that day, she didn’t know that Bill wouldn’t have ever conjured up such a dream himself. And so when Carewyn tried to gently coax Bill to head down to the wedding pavilion over to Fleur, telling him that she’d catch up, Bill -- even though he was asleep -- sensed something was off. After a long moment of staring at Fleur’s lovely, smiling face among the crowd of his friends and family, he realized that however happy it was, it wasn’t what he wanted...and so, it wasn’t something he’d conjured up himself. It wasn’t his dream -- it was someone else’s dream for him. Within his dream, Bill turned to Carewyn, his brown eyes full of both love and pain, and said through a weak smile, “...Carey...as always...you lie because you care.”

Carewyn had not expected Bill to instantly force himself awake and -- within seconds -- bring up a hand to clutch Carewyn by the back of the head and hold her in place so he could place his scarred lips, slightly hampered by the bandages covering his face, to the side of her face. It was the first time Bill had ever kissed Carewyn, even if it wasn’t on the lips -- and over time, it would not be the last.