silly lizard scribbles

writing thinking about writing | sillylittlelizard on AO3

[andrumedus]

“I would never tie you down, not even with garlands of roses. I don’t want anything from you that doesn’t come from your own impulse, like water from the springs.”

— Dulce María Loynaz, tr. James O’Connor, Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems; “XLVI”

[chelseamorninggirl]

Art by the wonderful @janearts

Blind Side - Chapter 4

Rating: E (eventually)

Chapter: 4/?

Word count: 40,358 | 11,002 (this chapter)

Relationship: Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Gwyneth Berdara/Azriel (background-ish)

A/N: As always, @janearts has been a muse for this!

Taglist: @alexof90s @jsmelodies @misstyfikacja @freyjascatchariot @something-xoxo @heyluuu @musty-old-claptrap @pham-tastical @heirtotheshad0ws @spilledcoffeechronicles @wolfnesta @frostystarlight @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @acourtofladydeath @theteaqueendom @acourtofbatboydreams @spookypersondinosaur @nus4yy @irithiadourden

Let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off the taglist!

Snippet below the cut

She shouldn’t have worn the heels.

Nesta’d known it the second she’d stepped out onto the street, and by the second block, when the left one got caught in a gap between the cobblestones and she’d lurched sideways, catching herself on a garden wall with both hands, she was certain this weren’t heels but torture devices. She’d stood there for a moment in the dark, breathing through another wave of mild panic, before peeling herself off the stone and continuing, determined to make it home on her own.

By the third block, the back of her right heel had dug into her skin so viciously that she was sure she’d find a blister of epic proportions once she’d take it off. She walked through it, jaw set, because she was not going to add being stopped by a fucking blister to the evening’s long list of humiliations.

The cold helped, at least. Edinburgh at eleven PM in October was a particular kind of cold, thorough and unrelenting, the kind that found every gap in her clothing without fault. It sobered her. She pulled her jacket tighter and walked faster, which was a mistake, because that definitely made the blister worse, but standing still was not an option. Standing still meant thinking, and she was not going to think.

She was not going to think about what happened on that sofa, or about the way his large hands felt on her body, guiding her to utter bliss, or the specific quality of his voice when he’d said her name like that. Low and rough at the edges, like she’d taken all the air out of him instead of the other way around.

She walked faster instead.

The rain started around the time she arrived at Bruntsfield Place, without any type of warning, as if it had been waiting overhead for the most inconvenient possible moment just to spite her. Within thirty seconds, it had soaked through her jacket, her silk camisole starting to cling to her skin. Her hair was plastered against her face and her trousers were clinging to her legs, resulting in horrible chafing, and the heels were now an active war crime, water running into them.

She kept walking, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She crossed onto the Meadows path, which was worse, because the rain came in sideways here, off the open ground, pelting her face with some sort of personal vendetta. The trees were stripped back to their October bones overhead. She stepped into a puddle she hadn’t seen and more cold water went directly into her heels, making her stop walking for a moment, her eyes closed, breathing in deeply through her nose.

Right. Excellent.

—————

Continue reading | Start from the beginning

[silly-little-lizard]

I blame this fic for giving me a TERRIBLE idea of what to text my crush about. when everything catches fire it's your fault 💚

[silly-little-lizard]

Update : it worked, in that said crush was highly amused and did text back

whether they will allow themself to be engaged in any ongoing conversation . . . remains to be seen

[silly-little-lizard]

Further update : they have been successfully lured into a conversation about books. they have also permitted me to mail them something from the "read this to understand me better" list

they are a (self-aware and upfront about it) terrible texter, so i got out the vintage stationery and sparkly fountain pen ink and will see if i can turn this into an exchange of letters instead

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Oh look I finally remembered WIP Wednesday is a thing! Did somebody say viking!Cassian?

“I don’t like it,” Nesta said, scowling. Cassian only laughed, pressing a kiss to her brow, right where it furrowed. Against her will, it smoothed beneath his lips. “Nor I,” he said simply. “Anything that takes me from your bed irks me.” “Your bed,” Nesta corrected.  He only shrugged. “Mine. Yours. The end result is the same, no? You’re in it, either way.” Nesta rolled her eyes as he pulled away to tie a leather belt around the chainmail, a golden buckle gleaming at his waist. Such finery— even in battle, in the bloody and brutal game of war, there was finery. The buckle itself had been set with garnets and so much gold-work it seemed like it ought to be holding up the cloak of a king, not the sword belt of a solider.  And yet— This was no ordinary soldier. Even amongst the Danes, he had a reputation. Nesta saw the way they looked at him, like he was one of their gods walking amongst them in a mortal shell. Like he was… Tyr, she thought, as the name rose to the forefront of her mind. The god of war.  And yet. Tyr had lost a hand to a wolf, Nesta recalled. Cassian had told her the tale by the fireside, when the flames had gilded his face and ale had made his voice as smooth as honey. What would Cassian lose, as a man facing down death? A hand, too? Or something far more vital? 

[bookhobbit]

on tv people are always getting called by professional titles instead of names eg captain doctor detective what have you. wish this happened more in real life in general for your average person. I would like to simply be addressed by the element of my life that is relevant to the current situation, I mostly do not want people to know or use my name. hello patient, the doctor will see you now. dear applicant we are sorry to say that we think your resume is terrible and we hope you crumble into unseeing dust forever, goodbye. you there, shopper, please stop hiding under the clothing racks and leaping out to bite people. and so forth

[silly-little-lizard]

I honestly would not hate if this was more of a thing! (I feel like it maybe is in some other languages?) Sorry, patients, you don't need to know my name. That's for people who know me as an individual. You can call me Ms. Receptionist and we will all know who you are talking about.

I also notice myself doing a version of this when I'm looking to avoid gendered language. Someone is not him or her or that lady or this gentleman, they're "this patient" or "the dancer to your right".

[chelseamorninggirl]

Art by the wonderful @janearts

Blind Side - Chapter 4

Rating: E (eventually)

Chapter: 4/?

Word count: 40,358 | 11,002 (this chapter)

Relationship: Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Gwyneth Berdara/Azriel (background-ish)

A/N: As always, @janearts has been a muse for this!

Taglist: @alexof90s @jsmelodies @misstyfikacja @freyjascatchariot @something-xoxo @heyluuu @musty-old-claptrap @pham-tastical @heirtotheshad0ws @spilledcoffeechronicles @wolfnesta @frostystarlight @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @acourtofladydeath @theteaqueendom @acourtofbatboydreams @spookypersondinosaur @nus4yy @irithiadourden

Let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off the taglist!

Snippet below the cut

She shouldn’t have worn the heels.

Nesta’d known it the second she’d stepped out onto the street, and by the second block, when the left one got caught in a gap between the cobblestones and she’d lurched sideways, catching herself on a garden wall with both hands, she was certain this weren’t heels but torture devices. She’d stood there for a moment in the dark, breathing through another wave of mild panic, before peeling herself off the stone and continuing, determined to make it home on her own.

By the third block, the back of her right heel had dug into her skin so viciously that she was sure she’d find a blister of epic proportions once she’d take it off. She walked through it, jaw set, because she was not going to add being stopped by a fucking blister to the evening’s long list of humiliations.

The cold helped, at least. Edinburgh at eleven PM in October was a particular kind of cold, thorough and unrelenting, the kind that found every gap in her clothing without fault. It sobered her. She pulled her jacket tighter and walked faster, which was a mistake, because that definitely made the blister worse, but standing still was not an option. Standing still meant thinking, and she was not going to think.

She was not going to think about what happened on that sofa, or about the way his large hands felt on her body, guiding her to utter bliss, or the specific quality of his voice when he’d said her name like that. Low and rough at the edges, like she’d taken all the air out of him instead of the other way around.

She walked faster instead.

The rain started around the time she arrived at Bruntsfield Place, without any type of warning, as if it had been waiting overhead for the most inconvenient possible moment just to spite her. Within thirty seconds, it had soaked through her jacket, her silk camisole starting to cling to her skin. Her hair was plastered against her face and her trousers were clinging to her legs, resulting in horrible chafing, and the heels were now an active war crime, water running into them.

She kept walking, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She crossed onto the Meadows path, which was worse, because the rain came in sideways here, off the open ground, pelting her face with some sort of personal vendetta. The trees were stripped back to their October bones overhead. She stepped into a puddle she hadn’t seen and more cold water went directly into her heels, making her stop walking for a moment, her eyes closed, breathing in deeply through her nose.

Right. Excellent.

—————

Continue reading | Start from the beginning

[silly-little-lizard]

I blame this fic for giving me a TERRIBLE idea of what to text my crush about. when everything catches fire it's your fault 💚

[silly-little-lizard]

Update : it worked, in that said crush was highly amused and did text back

whether they will allow themself to be engaged in any ongoing conversation . . . remains to be seen

[teaboot]

There's this thing I never realized I did when I was doing it that I like to think of as "Ownership of Space"

And it's that thing where you mentally place yourself as the second, auxiliary party to someone else that you consider to be "In Charge" of whatever space or occupation or responsibility you are assigned to

And when you are IN that mindset, it *feels* like you're being responsible. It *feels* like you're being respectful, and helpful, and contributing to the load.

But what you don't SEE- because it *feels* like deference- is that the other person who you're seeing as The Authority you report to- by being assigned that role, has also been assigned the invisible load of BEING YOUR MANAGER.

This is by FAR most commonly seen in husband-and-wife relationships, where the man says, "just tell me what I can do to HELP- you don't have to do it all by yourself, but it's like you won't even tell me when you NEED help. You just do everything and then get mad at me for not doing it first. I can help clean. I can help with the kids. I can help"

But I also see it- and am guilty myself of doing it- at work, at school, in public- that mental, "this is THEIR space, and i will be respectful and helpful to THEM"- without realizing that subservience in this manner isn't actually a good thing. That it actually shifts the burden of responsibility to the other person. That aspect was totally invisible to me.

I didn't understand that when I was told, "if you see something that needs to be done, just DO it", or, "take the initiative", what they ACTUALLY meant was, "I am not above you", or "you have equal say in what kind of environment you want to live or work in", or "I do not want full control over what happens here, I do not want to order you around, I do not want to be in charge, what I WANT is to co-command WITH you"

Being in The Assigned Authority position NOW, that is all so much clearer.

I am the senior member of my team at work, and now, every time I train a newbie, every time I finish catching them up to speed and giving them a list of everything that needs to be done, my next big hurdle seems to always be, "now take pride in the space when I'm not around". "Now don't assume I'll tell you when something is due or what orders to plan things in".

Now, having been on both sides of the struggle, I can appreciate the sticking points here

TO THE PERSON "IN CHARGE": The person deferring to you doesn't understand the invisible labor you're doing. They genuinely believe you know more, you WANT more, you see things they don't, and that they are being respectful and good by staying out of your way and waiting on your orders. THAT is the bit that's not clicking.

TO THE PERSON "WANTING TO HELP": "Help" implies that you are providing assistance to a problem that belongs to somebody else. Stop thinking like that. Understand that the problem belongs to BOTH of you equally, and consider what kind of shared space you BOTH want. What is your SHARED GOAL? Not THEIR goal, but a goal that belongs to you too. Own your space.

This is not a Commander-Lieutenant problem. This is a Partnership problem.

You Are Co-Commanders On This Ship

[coldasyou]

people misunderstand summer enjoyers it’s not about the heat it’s about the fact that it isn’t getting dark at 4 pm

[chelseamorninggirl]

Art by the wonderful @janearts

Blind Side - Chapter 4

Rating: E (eventually)

Chapter: 4/?

Word count: 40,358 | 11,002 (this chapter)

Relationship: Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Gwyneth Berdara/Azriel (background-ish)

A/N: As always, @janearts has been a muse for this!

Taglist: @alexof90s @jsmelodies @misstyfikacja @freyjascatchariot @something-xoxo @heyluuu @musty-old-claptrap @pham-tastical @heirtotheshad0ws @spilledcoffeechronicles @wolfnesta @frostystarlight @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @acourtofladydeath @theteaqueendom @acourtofbatboydreams @spookypersondinosaur @nus4yy @irithiadourden

Let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off the taglist!

Snippet below the cut

She shouldn’t have worn the heels.

Nesta’d known it the second she’d stepped out onto the street, and by the second block, when the left one got caught in a gap between the cobblestones and she’d lurched sideways, catching herself on a garden wall with both hands, she was certain this weren’t heels but torture devices. She’d stood there for a moment in the dark, breathing through another wave of mild panic, before peeling herself off the stone and continuing, determined to make it home on her own.

By the third block, the back of her right heel had dug into her skin so viciously that she was sure she’d find a blister of epic proportions once she’d take it off. She walked through it, jaw set, because she was not going to add being stopped by a fucking blister to the evening’s long list of humiliations.

The cold helped, at least. Edinburgh at eleven PM in October was a particular kind of cold, thorough and unrelenting, the kind that found every gap in her clothing without fault. It sobered her. She pulled her jacket tighter and walked faster, which was a mistake, because that definitely made the blister worse, but standing still was not an option. Standing still meant thinking, and she was not going to think.

She was not going to think about what happened on that sofa, or about the way his large hands felt on her body, guiding her to utter bliss, or the specific quality of his voice when he’d said her name like that. Low and rough at the edges, like she’d taken all the air out of him instead of the other way around.

She walked faster instead.

The rain started around the time she arrived at Bruntsfield Place, without any type of warning, as if it had been waiting overhead for the most inconvenient possible moment just to spite her. Within thirty seconds, it had soaked through her jacket, her silk camisole starting to cling to her skin. Her hair was plastered against her face and her trousers were clinging to her legs, resulting in horrible chafing, and the heels were now an active war crime, water running into them.

She kept walking, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She crossed onto the Meadows path, which was worse, because the rain came in sideways here, off the open ground, pelting her face with some sort of personal vendetta. The trees were stripped back to their October bones overhead. She stepped into a puddle she hadn’t seen and more cold water went directly into her heels, making her stop walking for a moment, her eyes closed, breathing in deeply through her nose.

Right. Excellent.

—————

Continue reading | Start from the beginning

[silly-little-lizard]

I blame this fic for giving me a TERRIBLE idea of what to text my crush about. when everything catches fire it's your fault 💚

[fforsythiaaa]

Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as “problematic” in class and our professor was like, “That’s cool, but ‘problematic’ doesn’t really mean anything. It means that the thing you’re describing has a problem, and in and of itself that’s not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else it’s not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like you’re trying to say that this is bad, but you don’t want to say ‘bad.’ Is that right?”

So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”

Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.

Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I can’t help but think of this professor being like, “Good starting point, now let’s get specific.” I think when we have to commit to saying “that’s ___” it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever we’re claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes it’s art, and it should be full of problems, because that’s what art is.

[beansoup3000]

You know what's so devastating to me about "God that I were a man"? It's the way that in this situation, Beatrice is not exceptional. In the first acts, she appears to be exempt from the gender roles that everyone around her complies with: she has avoided marriage so far, and she has license to playfully criticize and reject being "over-master'd with a piece of valiant dust" (2.2.55-56). She even suggests to Hero that she claim some agency over her engagement: "it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy, and say, 'father, as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say, 'father, as it please me'" (2.1.48-51). Beatrice has carved out an existence for herself that everyone else tolerates; her wit allows her to live outside of people's expectations of womanhood.

But Beatrice is not exempt from being a woman. When it actually matters, when Hero is disgraced by powerful men with no regard for her wellbeing or humanity, Beatrice can't do anything about it. And "God that I were a man" is so painful because it reminds us--and Benedick--that no matter how transcendent Beatrice appears to be, she is still constrained by her role in Messina's society. Back in act one and act two, the reason that she was allowed to poke fun at men wasn't that she couldn't be stopped; it was that it didn't matter. She has no actual power to change the order of things, and so her verbal sparring is not a threat.

(An aside: I think that Benedick is taken aback by "God that I were a man" because this has never really occurred to him. He sees Beatrice as his intellectual equal, and he has watched her carve out space for herself effectively (they know each other of old). In the 2011 production with David Tennant, the costuming and acting choices show how Benedick starts actively performing masculinity only when he accepts Beatrice's request to kill Claudio--when he has to "be a man for [Beatrice's] sake" (4.1.314). In the first acts, he wears tight clothes, a crop top, and a miniskirt. From the wedding on, he wears his military uniform and then a suit. His body language also changes; he abandons physical comedy, stands tall, and emotes less when he speaks to Claudio and Don Pedro. He wields his masculinity as a weapon because he now realizes it's a weapon that Beatrice cannot wield herself.)

The crashing realization of Beatrice's limits is so devastating to me because it's so familiar. I can only speak from experiences I've had, but as a queer woman I know that tolerance is different than empowerment. That having grown up evading dating and romance with made-up excuses to hide my queerness, having realized the extent of the misogyny in an organization I cared about and having grappled with how that misogyny prevented me from effecting change, being allowed to exist is not the same as being able to participate, to make things different. God, that I were a man. I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

[currentlycryingaboutlancelot]

i can’t get over how crazy much ado is sometimes. it feels like a deconstruction of shakespeare’s other comedies when you look at how quick and lovesick and beautiful hero and claudio are and how well they fit the script of just classic young lovers, things like how hero is one of the only characters to speak in verse, the way claudio praises her to all his friends etc. and then how in the middle of the play the script is completely flipped. now hero is in danger because of what claudio believes and no one can help her. and suddenly the love story shatters because the same willingness claudio has to fall in love with her at first sight is the same willingness he has to believe a baseless accusation and the love story starts to descend into horror because there’s no legal course of action hero can appeal to her and her own father insults and disowns her at her wedding and she’s quite literally left for dead fainting on the ground with her father saying let her die, what is it to me? it’s insane because like 30 minutes before it’s just a happy comedy love story but shakespeare shows a real darkness to the genre because claudio may think he loves her but when it comes down to it he will never trust her. her word isn’t good enough. no one is going to listen to the woman

[silly-little-lizard]

Because I like this play a normal amount, I have an extensively annotated commentary of the script with all my favorite bits from various different productions and how I would stage it if I were running one.

Everybody thinks of Much Ado as "the feminist Shakespeare", and it is, but IMO its feminism isn't solely, or even mostly, about the female characters! It's literally a commentary on toxic masculinity.

The sort of masculinity that doesn't want to fall in love because "women aren't trustworthy" (Early-play Benedick), and gives his friends shit for getting crushes (also Benedick). The sort that takes your friend's asshole brother's word rather than talking to your girlfriend (Claudio), and tries to impress his role models (like early-play Benedick) by making a big show of shaming an "untrustworthy woman" (also Claudio). The sort that backs the big show because it reflects badly on his status (the Prince). The sort that believes that status rather than his own daughter (Leonato).

THIS is what really gets me about "Oh that I were a man, I would eat his heart in the marketplace". Beatrice is not just saying that she wishes she could defend her cousin because she loves her cousin. That entire scene is a beautiful, merciless critique of how, while there are theoretically social structures by which men can hold eachother accountable for bad behavior, those social structures are only as good as the men who form them, and they have all systematically failed Hero in order to protect those men and their egos from any discomfort or consequences. INCLUDING BENEDICK!!

So my personal staging is that when Benedick finally agrees to challenge Claudio, it's not "for love of Beatrice". It's because she's made him see how he created this monster. How Claudio's public shaming of Hero was an attempt to live up to the (shitty but less destructive) example that Early-Play Benedick had set. How it is on him to hold any and all of his fellow men accountable, and Claudio in particular, because this might NEVER HAVE HAPPENED if Benedick had been more aware of the effects of his own behavior. Ans how he is gonna have to go fight his own best friend in order to set things right-- not (just) because he loves Beatrice, but because he sees how he's responsible.

(also they are maybe having a swordfight about it because I am a sucker for romantic swordfights).

[northirish]

Locking blades with your hated rival on the field of battle is inherently sexual, sorry I don't make the rules

[visorforavisor]

I think disability justice would be easier if abled people understood that being disabled is a mixture of all three of

I can’t do that without negative consequences

I can’t do that unless I have support for it

I can’t do that

and that trying to treat one of these as if it’s another one will get you nowhere.

[peterfromtexas-deactivated20250]

Reenactor throws a spear at a drone

[supapoopa]

What a time to be alive.

[tenthcorner]

“The medieval warrior, realizing the consequences of his impulsive act, immediately approached the owner of the drone and offered to pay for the damage.

The owner of the drone was so impressed by the brilliant attack that he suggested organizing a competition for bringing down “dragons” with short spears next year.

Drone owners have another year to develop a unique “dragon-like” design for their flying machines.” (x)

[kineticpenguin]

I am 100% cooler with this knowing that the spear-thrower realized “oops maybe I shouldn’t have done that” and tried to make it right, and that the guy who the drone belonged to was cool with it

[brunhiddensmusings]

just so everyone knows, this has already been memorialized in a runestone

[stephendann]

Everything about this post blesses those involved with a +4 on their next Today is Good Day roll

[fromaliminalspace]

a rough translation of inscription on the runestone:

On the seventh day of May in the year of 2016 on hither spot the mighty warrior Ulf hath slain a dragon with his spear.

so yeah, happy birthday to this dragon-slaying event and to it only

[nonlinear-nonsubjective]

Happy Ulf Hath Slain A Dragon With His Spear!

[orphankin]

10 years!!

[ketubahring]

Jewish Vampire Folklore 🐈‍⬛🩶

While most people think of Dracula when they hear the word vampire, Jewish mythology tells a much older and more mystical story about a creature called the estrie in English or striyas in Hebrew. These beings are fascinating because they occupy a strange space in Jewish mysticism as they were said to be created during the twilight hours just before the very first Shabbat. Because they were made in that liminal space between the mundane week and the holy day, their bodies were never fully finished and left them with the ability to shapeshift and change their form.

An estrie is described as a female spirit who looks like a human woman and lives among people in towns or villages to satisfy her need for blood. But unlike the vampires we see in movies, her power is deeply connected to her hair. Folklore says she can only fly when her hair is completely unbound and loose. If she wants to take flight to hunt or escape, she must let her hair down, but this also becomes her vulnerability. If you can manage to bind her hair or cover it, she is instantly grounded and can no longer use her powers of flight.

These shapeshifters are masters of disguise and often take the form of night creatures to move around unnoticed. It is common in these legends for an estrie to transform into an owl so she can watch from the trees or swoop down in the night. Other stories describe her taking the form of a cat to walk silently through a home or village without drawing any attention to herself.

There is a very specific way to heal or disarm them that speaks to the ancient Jewish value of hospitality. If an estrie is injured by a human, she can only be healed if that same person gives her bread and salt. This creates a powerful spiritual bond between the injurer and the vampire because offering bread and salt is a sign of sustaining life and welcoming a guest. By accepting this food, she is bound to the person and her injury is repaired.

It’s a beautiful and eerie reminder that Jewish folklore is full of mysterious creatures that walk the line between the physical and spiritual worlds. Shabbat Shalom 🧿✨

Copyright © 2026 Ketubah Ring. No reproduction, printing, resale, or use without permission.

[maladattata]

nessian should have been benedick and beatrice from much ado about nothing but instead we got the yellow wallpaper

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

In my Civilization You’re the King and the Queen (ao3)

Honestly, when I wrote this one-shot in 2024 I had no intention of coming back to it. Then it slowly but surely dawned on me that maybe I wasn’t quite as done with historian!Cassian and archivist!Nesta as I’d thought. So here we are, with a little bonus epilogue in honour of the final day of @nestaarcheronweek ❤️

Also peep the Semper Eadem Easter egg 👀

(Read part one here!)

Nesta Archeron was not the kind of woman who walked blindly into a bad decision.

She was meticulous and careful. Methodical. The kind of person that didn’t so much as walk out of her front door in the morning without first assessing the pitfalls of doing so. She didn’t make mistakes— didn’t entertain them. And so, when she left the library that evening with a short good-bye called over her shoulder to Ron, the guard at the Manuscripts reading room door, she knew with every fibre of her being that this was a very, very bad decision.

And she’d walked into it with her eyes wide open. 

There was no excuse for it, really. 

Here she was, standing in the early evening light as it filtered through a skylight high above her head, in an almost empty gallery at the British Museum, surrounded by white marble and ancient friezes. It was quiet, peaceful; the man beside her almost a complete stranger. It was ludicrously stupid, to be so alone with a man she’d only just met. And yet she was here anyway, with the only sensible thing being the way she kept her hands tucked into her pockets to avoid any chance of her fingers accidentally brushing his, hanging loosely at his sides, like that’s exactly what he was hoping for. 

He looked like the kind of man who’d had the layout of the Somme memorised by the age of fifteen, but still couldn’t name all of Henry VIII’s six wives. The kind of man who couldn’t tell the difference between Romanesque architecture and Gothic— who still used the term ‘dark ages’. 

The kind of man she had absolutely no business entertaining for more than five minutes.

And yet. There was a curiosity there— deep within her. Something that, try as she might, did not want to be buried.

She was all about bad decisions today, apparently. 

On the walk over, he’d told her about his research, about Rhysand and how they’d been raised together. How they’d gone through every rung of the educational ladder together, until they both wound up working at the same university. He’d asked her how she became an archivist, where she was from originally - ‘because that’s definitely not a London accent, sweetheart’ - before he’d grabbed her arm and pulled her back from the curb, just as a bike came hurtling around the corner with such speed that it definitely would’ve taken her out if he’d not been there to haul her back. She swore, and he laughed a little as he brushed his hand down her sleeve, as if checking no harm had been done. Nesta had been able to feel the blood in her cheeks— told herself it was the indignation, the humiliation at having to be saved by a man.

Nothing at all to do with the way he’d pulled her against him as he’d pulled her back, or how his body had - for just a second - moulded itself to hers.

He pointed at something, now, and Nesta couldn’t help the way her gaze snagged on his wrist, and the slice of skin revealed as the cuff of his jacket shifted with the movement. A silver bracelet encircled that tattooed wrist, chain links against dark ink, and there was something entirely inexplicable - something downright foolish - that had her suddenly wondering just how high those tattoos climbed. How much of his skin had been given over to the curling, curving design that she could only catch a glimpse of. She blinked. Tried to focus on what he was trying to point out to her, but all she could think of was how she’d watched him splay open the pages of a priceless manuscript with those hands. Those tattooed knuckles and broad palms.

She was not thinking about how they would feel on her skin.

Not at all.

Instead she forced herself to watch the way the early evening light slanted through the skylights above; the way the grey danced along his skin.

He was magnetic. The sheer energy of him commanding every ounce of her attention. His jaw was angled up, now, his eyes tracing the top of an ancient Greek frieze, and as he slid his hands into his pockets, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips as his eyes strayed towards her and lingered, she wondered if it wasn’t to stop himself from reaching out and touching her. 

“Well?” Cassian said, his voice quiet in the hush of the empty gallery.

It was deserted— one of those Greek and Roman galleries on the ground floor, labyrinthine, little more than a rabbit’s warren of ancient artefacts. Nesta blinked again, stepping towards a glass case containing an ancient black-work vase - Achilles and Penthisilea locked in an eternal embrace in the centre - and forced herself to shrug idly, like she had simply been distracted by nothing more than the beauty of classical art. 

“Well what?” she asked, sliding her eyes towards him.

He smirked, moving around the display case until he was looking at her from the other side of the glass. “I said aren’t you glad Rhys asked me for a favour today.”

Nesta snorted as she turned away, her heeled boots sounding on the tiled floor as she fought to keep her face blank. “For the sake of my manuscripts, I think it’s best I not answer.”

He hummed, the sound low and resonant as he caught up with her in a single stride. “I’ll take that as a yes then.”

She rolled her eyes. “Take it how you like. It’s not my fault you’ve never had a day’s worth of proper archival training in your life.”

Honestly— the image of his fingers splayed across the vellum would haunt her for the rest of her life. Never mind how stark those tattoos had looked against the ancient ink, how broad the spread of his palms were as he flattened them against something priceless. She sniffed as he fell into step beside her, winking - winking - as he slid those same hands into his pockets.

“Never needed it, sweetheart. I told you. I’m a modernist.” Another godforsaken wink. “I don’t work with those dusty old books.”

Nesta blinked flatly, sliding her gaze towards him. Letting it slip down from his face and along his arms. “Don’t like getting your hands dirty?”

It was perhaps the one thing nobody ever told you. What the books and period dramas never managed to replicate. How filthy your hands got after a day in the archives. 

Cassian only grinned, his eyes dancing as a wicked smile curved that generous mouth. “Oh, I can get them plenty dirty.” He shifted his eyes forwards, all ease and nonchalance as he added, in a voice that dipped so low Nesta felt it in her very centre, “How about I show you sometime?”

God— this man.

She refused to blush. Absolutely, categorically refused to fall prey to that look in his eyes, the spark there that said he was enjoying this. Instead Nesta shook her head, mirroring his indifference. Her steps didn’t falter as she walked through the silence of the gallery, and her eyes didn’t flick his way again. With effort, she kept her attention on the walk back to the atrium.

“I’m curious,” she deadpanned as the hallway narrowed before leading them out into a bigger gallery, right in the centre of the museum. Through a doorway, the light from the atrium poured in, the hushed voices of other patrons echoing on the marble. For a moment Nesta had forgotten there were other people inside the museum; other people existing in London at all. “Has that line ever worked for you?’

Cassian’s laugh echoed in the emptiness, a treasure in and of itself. It was deep and rolling, rich, and Nesta found her steps halting as it faded to a chuckle.

“Worth a shot, isn’t it?” he said, striding past her, hands still in his pockets. The very picture of a man at ease.

Smooth— he was so fucking smooth.

It was ludicrous, really. That a man who came into her archive and managed to manhandle a nine-hundred year old manuscript so badly that she’d genuinely stopped breathing for a moment or two now had her breath hitching and her steps faltering, her eyes gliding across his shoulders and lingering on the fucking bun he’d tied his hair in. 

She could only scowl as he walked ahead, aiming for the door that would take them back into the brightness of the atrium. 

“Besides,” he called over his shoulder, a wicked smile curving a mouth so sinful Nesta thought it should have been criminal. “It’s working right now, isn’t it?”

And for the first time in her life, Nesta Archeron was left entirely speechless as she watched him stride away, her mouth parting as she blinked furiously, searching for something to say. A counter-point; an argument that felt convincing. She searched and came up empty— so woefully empty it left her stranded.

Because - God fucking damn it - he was right. 

***

He knew exactly how to get her, she’d give him that.

When presented with a map of the museum’s second floor, he hadn’t missed a beat when he suggested they head to the Medieval Europe 1050-1500 gallery first. He’d given her a small, knowing smile. Like he could sense it, somehow— the strings that pulled at her, the things that sparked her interest above all else. He’d even stood there and let her wax lyrical in front of the Sutton Hoo helmet, and asked her which of the Lewis Chessmen was her favourite. Not once did his eyes glaze over. He remained a solid, steady presence at her side. 

Cassian, she was starting to understand, was not like other men.

There were others - men she’d briefly dated - who had tended to switch off whenever she started to speak. Had merely pretended to listen, like her intelligence had threatened their own. 

Cassian had barely been able to look away from her. 

She drifted, now. Through a gallery with later medieval objects and more recent acquisitions. And there— standing isolated from the rest, in the centre of the room, like it had earned pride of place, was a tall, narrow glass case with black velvet lining the inside. Lights illuminated the interior, and even from a distance, Nesta could see the gold.

The museum’s most recent purchase— a stunning example of Tudor jewellery and artistry. 

Nesta paused before it, letting her eyes glide along its smooth surface. A pendant the size of her fist hung suspended on a golden chains, with a series of links thick enough to hold the weight of the solid gold heart at its centre. A Tudor rose bloomed across the pendant, inlaid with garnet that sparkled even now, all these centuries later. At the bottom, a scroll proclaimed in French, Always Yours. Five hundred years old— it was five hundred years old, and yet here it was, shining and polished, like it had been crafted only yesterday.

It made her wonder who had commissioned such a beautiful thing. What kind of love had inspired it; compelled somebody, five hundred years ago, to pay for such a priceless treasure.

Priceless— it was priceless. 

She hoped the woman who owned the thing had been treasured just as much. That she had been loved just as ardently. 

Slowly, Nesta blinked.

The man at her side stopped to admire the pendant in its case. Sliding his hands into his pockets, his eyes scanning the lines of text printed beneath the pendant’s glass case, he let out an audible breath.

“It blows my mind how old this stuff is,” he said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper, like to speak any louder might disturb the treasure inside its case.

Nesta tilted her head, her eyes tracing the heart-shaped pendant, the garnets set so carefully into the gold. “It’s not as old as the manuscript you were so brutally handling earlier.”

He gave her a slashing grin in response. “Are you ever going to forgive me for that?”

“It’s barely been an hour.”

Cassian laughed softly, nudging her with his shoulder. The weight of him was solid, warm, and she couldn’t help but lean into it— just a fraction. Just enough to stave off the chill from the tiled gallery floor.

She drew her gaze back to the pendant in front of her. The workmanship, the detail…

“Enough to take your breath away, huh?”

When her eyes flicked up, Cassian was looking at her, something soft in his eyes. A kind of wonder balanced there, like this moment was something wondrous in and of itself. The same curiosity, the same passion that she knew burned in her eyes was echoed in his own, like he understood - really, truly understood in a way no other man had before - what it was to spend half of one’s life in the past.

“Why did you become a historian, Cassian?” she asked slowly. Softly. Like she, too, was afraid she might break some spell if she spoke too loudly.

He huffed another laugh. “Don’t you feel it?” he asked. “When you see something like that,” - he nodded towards the locket - “don’t you feel it in your chest? That… wonder.”

It was her turn, now, to nudge him with her shoulder. “Of course I do,” she said tartly. “That’s why I became an archivist. To look after precious things.”

He tipped his head back, baring the column of his throat. “Alright, alright. If I apologise to the manuscript, will you forgive me?”

She pursed her lips, keeping her face blank even as her eyes danced. Something skipped through her, something light and airy, that made her want to laugh in earnest too.

“Maybe.”

“I’ll grovel,” he said, turning to face her fully. He dared a step closer, until his chest was almost brushing hers. And then— it was madness, but his hand raised in the space between them, the backs of his knuckles curled to brush lightly - so lightly - against her cheek. “Would you like me to grovel?”

Nesta swallowed. “If it will make you feel better.”

He smiled— all at once, rakish and charming and downright endearing. Nesta felt her heart tighten in her chest, like she’d stopped being able to control the damned thing. Slowly, his eyes slid to the cabinet beside them. That sparkling gold pendant, hanging at eye-level.

“Do you think he loved her?”

“Who?”

“Whoever he was. The man that commissioned it. For whichever woman he gave it to.”

Nesta tilted her head. Wondered silently at how he’d somehow read her mind.

“I hope so,” she said gently. 

She looked up, into his face. Something passed between them, something she didn’t have words for. Suddenly it felt like she’d known this man her entire life. Like she would be safe with him, no matter what. Despite how atrociously he’d handled her manuscript…

Oh, she was in trouble.

Her lips parted as she searched for some sharp remark, something cutting, but she couldn’t think. Her mind was blank, and she could only blink as her eyes scanned his face, taking in - for the first time - the scar in his eyebrow, the slight angle to his nose that said it’d been broken in the past. She looked at his eyes, the hazel bright beneath the museum lights, and found she wanted to reach out and brush his cheek in the way he’d brushed hers.

He was looking at her too— just as intently. Like she was something else for him to study, a lesson he so desperately wanted to learn.

And Nesta was about to reach for him, to let her fingers graze his skin when—

The museum will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin making your way to the exit.

The voice came over the speakers, shattering whatever peace Nesta had managed to curate in that little circle of space in front of a sixteenth-century golden pendant. She rolled her eyes, wishing she could drag this out just a little longer, make time still for just a little while. Just long enough to let her catch her breath, to figure out what it was that had her reaching for this man, the force that seemed to pull her into his orbit. Just a little bit longer— she wanted just a little bit longer at his side.

Cassian only offered her a crooked smile as the announcement faded, like he too was cursing the interruption, and held out a hand to escort her to the exit.

And Nesta didn’t know, as they walked towards the doors, if she was surprised or not as his fingers closed around hers.

***

“Is this it?”

Cassian stood a handful of steps away, his back to her as Nesta paused on the museum steps. The forecourt was empty, the sky turning gold as the evening light began to die. The white stone pillars of the museum facade surrounded them, and Nesta hesitated, knowing that to walk down those steps, to leave through the iron gates, would mean that whatever had just happened inside that museum…

It would be over.

The man before her turned. His eyes were wide, lost, like he’d reached a cross-roads and didn’t know which way to turn.

“Am I supposed to walk you to the station and then turn around and walk away?” he asked.

Nesta forced herself to shrug. “You’re not supposed to do anything.”

Except the air between them suddenly felt thin and stretched, and she wanted nothing more than for him to do the exact opposite of walking her to the station and leaving her there. She’d known it was a bad idea, accepting his offer of an evening trip to the British Museum. And now she was on the museum steps wondering where the hell they went from here.

A few hours ago, she hadn’t even known his name. How was it possible that saying goodbye to him now felt so damned difficult? 

He gave her a wry smile as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers snagging on the curls. She looked at those tattooed knuckles, wondering when the fuck that had started to be a turn-on for her. She forced herself to look away, folding her arms across her chest as she looked up at the sky.

“What do you want to do, Cassian?” she asked.

She could see the answer on his face, could hear all the things he didn’t say. He didn’t want to come into her archive on the orders of someone else; didn’t want to live by some set of rules that made no sense to either of them. He didn’t want to take her number and wait two days to call. Didn’t want to pretend that his brother asking for a favour hadn’t somehow led to the most interesting evening he’d had in a while. 

He scrubbed a hand along his jaw, hesitating for only a moment. A breath. A heartbeat.

And then—

“This,” he said, as he surged forward and took her face between his palms. 

It was a desperate kiss, one that wasn’t tentative or sweet or delicate. His lips moved against hers with a fervour that made her breathless, that had her turning molten in his arms. Only the arm he wound around her waist kept her upright, her entire body giving itself over to the way his mouth moved against her own. His hands turned to fists at her waist, gripping her, holding her against him, as he kissed her with such abandon, she forgot they were in public. 

She forgot how to breathe.

Did she even need to anymore?

She didn’t think so, not when that damned kiss seemed to be everything she had ever needed and more; more vital to her than air. 

Her hands travelled up his chest, across his collarbone. A groan reverberated through him as her fingers splayed across his jaw, tilting him towards her as he tore his lips away, gasping for breath.

His eyes sparked as he took in lungfuls of air, like he’d only broken the kiss because necessity had demanded it.

“Fucking hell,” he said, his chest rising and falling as rapidly as Nesta’s own, “I wanted to do that since the moment I saw you.”

“I was scolding you the moment you saw me,” Nesta pointed out, even as her body arced into his, entirely of its own accord. His hand lingered at the small of her back, his thumb pressing into her spine. 

He grinned. “Exactly.”

She laughed, in a way that she hadn’t for a long, long time. The sound of it seemed to make the smile bloom wider across his face, his hands tightening at her spine as he held her that little bit closer. 

He really was beautiful, she thought. In a rugged kind of way— the way that was so different to the men she’d been with in the past. He felt like something new, something exciting. Something that was about to turn her world upside down in every kind of way.

Slowly, she let herself smile too.

“Now what?” she asked.

Cassian hummed, letting the tip of his nose graze her cheek as he dipped his head towards hers. Still, he didn’t let go of her. And it surprised her— that she didn’t really want him to. 

“Now,” he said slowly, pulling back just enough to study her face. “Can I take you for a drink?”

Nesta looked into his face. The man she had glared at with such fury such a short time ago. The man who had strolled into her archive like he owned the damn place, caring little for the rules and regulations. Who had, somehow, worked his way into her good graces regardless.

She blamed the tattoos.

No man should be so good looking, she concluded. It simply wasn’t fair.

Still, she made an effort to consider his request. Made a show of casting her eyes about his face, like she was weighing up the merits of it. Of him. He blinked, that smile still lingering at the corner of the lips she longed to kiss again— and again, and again. She made herself hum, as though the answer needed careful consideration. As though she hadn’t made up her mind the moment the question had passed his lips.

And when Nesta laid a hand right above his heart, she smiled as she said,

“I suppose so.”

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