#but the book and the characters here DO. and i had to go with it while trying not to nitpick it too hard the entire time

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

���I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[thaumasilva]

OP if i may i'd like to add this bit of adam meta from page 240 of the raven king:

this is several minutes before ronan kisses him-- he finds a photo of ronan's parents, and lingers on it for a while, especially in how the niall in the photo is similar to ronan ("his face was ronan's.") the first thing this scene is doing is reinforcing the iconic adam parrish character trait of "finds older men attractive" but more importantly:

he's being set up in direct parallel to aurora here. both in the obvious in-hindsight that he is about to start a romantic relationship with ronan and that makes him metaphorically aurora in the same way ronan is metaphorically niall within the photo. but also in how aurora is described. adam is surprised that she "was capable of happiness and dynamism." ronan/niall is "ferocious, wild" and adam/aurora is "wild, happy."

so much of adam's journey in this book, aside from firmly stepping into his own power (re-gaining his hands magically, moving on from his parents emotionally), is about being happy for the first time and not quite knowing what to do with it. being surprised that he's capable of it. no longer being mild and quiet within his own life but fully going after what he wants. page 403: "adam could not decide if this was the worst thing that had happened to him, or if it felt that way because he had been so recently and senselessly happy that the comparison was making it so." he is moving on from his parent's household, page 428 when he visits for the last time: "this was not his real home anymore, so he knocked." 242: "he was ever so slowly moving himself out of that trailer."

in this scene what he's seeing is a vision of relational happiness that he really wants but he doesn't understand. he's seeing himself as aurora and doesn't understand it. in my opinion this happening before ronan kisses him isn't important as the entire book hammers in again and again that all of time is happening at once, and that's present in this scene too (adam playing with the toy car, "adam would have recalled that memory again and again," the repetition of "he did not understand anything" right after ronan kisses him.) 243: "he knew he had started his entire time at aglionby certain that all he wanted to do was get as far away from this state and everything in it as possible," but now he's unsure, because he's starting to see a future for himself here, and finding it's possible to be safe here, wanted here, at the barns: aurora's domain.

so to bring this all the way back to gender... yeah. i feel the same in that i don't necessarily read him as nonbinary, but this is pretty explicitly playing with his masculinity. like it rings true to me as expression of femininity within a masculine queer character. envisioning and perhaps confirming that the life he's going to have is not the life of a standard cis-straight man.

he is the secret third thing. "maybe i dreamt you."

okay. well. welcome to my genderweird adam manifesto. standard disclaimers: i’m not god, i’m not the author, i’m not the boss of you. this is one way to interpret things found in the text. you don’t have to interpret it this way. you don’t have to agree with me. stay tuned for part 2 — Ronan Lynch: Electric Boogaloo 🐦‍⬛

this interpretation, for me, is built primarily upon a few key moments.

exhibit a:

exhibits b & c:

exhibits d - g:

other things of note:

in BLLB adam is frequently described by others as “not” a boy, but something more, different, other, separate, a secret third thing that’s never explicitly named

adam is the only male psychic

adam lives under his father’s thumb, in circumstances that are inherently emasculating. adam’s mother is a non-entity. the conflict in the house exists between adam & robert—the discord exists between adam & robert. robert must be more of a man than adam—he won’t accept anything else. it is necessary for robert’s ego that adam be subservient, small, scared. it’s a crucial part of a young man’s development that they have the space/opportunity to exercise/build their masculinity. robert will not allow that—this means that adam must fit into a specific role when he is at home.

it’s noted that when gansey is polite, he takes control by using his manners. in contrast, “when adam was polite, he was giving something away.”

adam himself regularly observes that he is Not Like Other Boys, but instead some Secret Third Thing

all of his jobs are physical and extremely demanding, in typically male-dominated fields

in many ways he performs his masculinity, nowhere near as aggressively as ronan or as easily as gansey, but in a way that’s somewhat defensive, somewhat clumsy

in the same vein, he attributes gansey’s masculinity to his wealth and believes if he’d personally come from privilege he would have all the answers. also, he observes ronan’s relationship with masculinity & magic & is jealous of the way he’s able to present himself as A Dude despite the magic and its inherent otherness. adam isn’t able to do that, yet, and it bothers him. he wanted the only weird things about him to be the magic and the poverty, but it’s so much more than that

he puts himself in situations where he ends up being the one with power/the one who “wears the pants”, because it’s gratifying and validating for him to feel like he’s The Man

robert observes at one point that there’s “something not right about that boy” and that adam has “grown up into someone he doesn’t like very much”

adam fights gansey about moving into monmouth because he doesn’t want to “belong” to gansey. he specifically says: “i’m his [robert] now, and then i’ll be yours.” ownership of his body and autonomy over his person are a huge part of adam’s character and his journey. there’s also probably something to be said here about daughters & the way they are by and large expected to go directly from their father’s house to their husband’s house. the marriage pipeline—he identifies himself here as a housewife or a daughter, not in words, but in stating what he believes would become his role in life should he allow robert/gansey to be his parent/patron/landlord/supervisor

he’s often paralleled/yoked to blue in the text, which is partially about class, but blue observes that he “doesn’t go to aglionby like Other Boys went to aglionby” and she returns his compliment by saying “i think you’re pretty too”

trb chapter 20 when Ronan Who Isn’t Ronan outperforms him at groceries is just as much about him envying power and presence and masculinity as it is him envying money and privilege. that boy is better at being a boy than him—why can’t adam be a boy like that?

to sum up: i think he’s a little weird. i think he’s kind of like that tweet that’s like “im probably nonbinary but i have a job so i can’t worry about that rn”. i don’t necessarily read him as nb, but you get my point.

the other thing i think it’s really important to remember when taking this lens to adam is that he’s part of the gay community, but he’s not Culturally Queer. he collects lgbt friends in college like funko pops—he doesn’t think he’s one of them, he doesn’t think they’re capable of knowing or understanding him. he’s not assimilating himself into the culture/community—he’s hiding behind it—he’s identified marginalized people who “needed” him (where did he find you crying?) and has made himself their knight in shining armor.

i’ve said this before when analyzing adam’s character and i’ll say it again: he is going to possess a creeping sense of alienation and otherness for the rest of his life, and he is going to do everything other than think about or address it properly. he is going to be weird and insecure and A Secret Third Thing forever. hooray!

[suzukiblu]

istg youve awakened something in me w your jaykon agenda and im so here for it

Jaykon is an interesting pairing to me because if Jason had lived, he absolutely WOULD have been Kon's Robin, which, you know, could've gone either real bad or real WELL or real "oh god I regret ever even BREATHING near Metropolis" for Brucie Wayne, lbr. For one thing, Jason would've been . . . what, seventeen-ish when Kon dropped? Give or take. Which means he would likely NOT have been as "obedient" to his DAD as Tim was to his BOSS at FIFteen-ish, because from Jason's point of view that's his fucking DAD and his dad is just being goddamn paranoid and controlling and a total antisocial ASSHOLE again and ANYWAY he's like six months max from going to college and getting himself his own hero identity a la Dick getting Nightwing so fuck it, what's he care!!

( "I NEVER EVEN GOT TO BE A TITAN, B, YOU DON'T GET TO FUCK UP THIS YOUNG JUSTICE THING FOR ME, FUCK OFF. THEY'RE MINE NOW." )

And also, like, that's a very different Bruce, is the Bruce who didn't ever LOSE Jason. So hell, that version of Bruce literally might not've even TRIED to make Jason keep his name to himself in the same exclusively-just-on-HIS-terms "literally I will fucking NEVER let you tell them your name no matter WHAT" way he was acting with Tim, who he also would not let tell his LITERAL FUCKING GIRLFRIEND his name, but HE was totally fine telling her HIMSELF once it was convenient for him. Not even giving Tim PERMISSION to, just doing it HIMSELF without even telling Tim he was GOING to, Bruce Wayne you are the literal worrrrrst jfc--

ANYWAY OFF-TOPIC. Whatever that Bruce's opinion was, I can't help feeling that if JASON-Robin wasn't telling YJ his name or showing them his face at least after the first suicide pact or two, it'd be because HE didn't want to, and that is what he'd SAY to them. And I kinda think Kon would've taken that better than being told "we've been through all this shit together now and Batman is STILL more important than you" over and over and OVER every single time Tim found another excuse to hide his face or showed up in a new mask/disguise/set of glasses/goggles/whatever. Because like, that would be Jason choosing what he wants for himself, not Tim choosing Batman over literally every single member of Young Justice time and again and AGAIN and actually NEVER willingly telling them, they only found out in the end because of some dumb reality-getting-fucked shit selling his ID out accidentally.

I actually think Jason and Kon would have gotten along STUPID-well if they had met under those circumstances and it is SO rich an AU concept that I have literally never seen a single person even touch before. Though also in more canon-accurate land frankly the only understandable reason that I think Jason has Bizarro for his Super-buddy system is because Young Justice is just too insane about each other for Kon to have ever gotten put on a book like Outlaws, hah. Also, like, Kon is obviously not very murder-happy and Superboy has very different moral standards than Red Hood does, also that. But you absolutely COULD do some real interesting shit with Kon's character on a team like that, that's all imma say.

Like Kon is a dude who HAS and KNOWS that he has been convinced to be murder-happy a couple times/timelines before, is all--knows he's psychologically SUSPECTIBLE to being convinced of that--and THAT I think would be a much more interesting moral/ethical dilemma for his character development than "oh god I have Westfield/Luthor DNA so am I genetically DOOMED to be a bad guy??" No, you're not, and you are a grown-ass clone who KNOWS that!! But you are also a grown-ass clone who knows you have the CAPACITY to be a bad guy, and to actively CHOOSE to be a bad guy, to actively JUSTIFY being a bad guy to yourself, and who does NOT necessarily think Jason is wrong about dudes like the Joker never changing and the balance of that and the concept of fucking HARM reduction, if it comes down to it! Black Zero and future!Superman BOTH started out as good guys; that Superman in fact started out as HIS VERSION OF HIM EXACTLY, even! And then the two of them saw enough shit out in the world doing their superhero thing that they changed their minds ABOUT what being "good" even meant or entailed or if it was even possible at all, so if he's here and doing this, and doing this with someone like JASON who keeps KILLING people every time he takes his eyes off him, whether those people are unforgiveable bastards or not, is he gonna change his mind too? Is he gonna start thinking he's figured out what they "figured out"? Is this how "figuring out" that STARTS??

And Knockout saw SOMETHING in him, he knows, and he knows she wasn't wrong because he almost killed her. Because he WOULD'VE killed her, if she'd kept fighting when he'd held her under.

God I could do so, so much with Kon on the Outlaws and with JAYKON on the Outlaws. So, SO much.

But like, Tim Drake exists and I just cannot divorce Kon from his ride-or-die loyalty for his ride-or-die bestie so basically any time I wanna JayKon it up I gotta somehow make it Weird, hahaha.

. . . anyway, someone had something awakened in them or something??

[sicvitaest27]

I’d like to give my two cents on this subject, as an author myself.

Honestly, I consider myself quite a free speaker, and will ask if I have something to ask, just as I’ll comment, when I have something to comment. Also, when I’m done with the story, I’m more than happy to give feedback.

Of course, I understand that one of the beautiful things about writing WIP s is that real time interaction with readers, as the story progresses. But, for me personally, I do find myself waiting for the story to continue, without having the need to input anything. Not because I don’t care about the story, just because I understand what is going on, the direction, and everything else is just explained well, so there’s nothing really prompting me to ask anything, for it would, probably, be spoiler territory.

Now, of course, theories and whatnot are always welcome, but, there’s only so much theories that can be made about a story; and that heavily depends on how vague the story is being written, and don’t even get me started of people guessing and guessing, and then, by so many guesses, finish the story before you even get a chance to conclude it yourself. That’s a totally different can of worms, that I do not want to get myself into at the moment😂

Now, when an author explicitly asks a question to the readers, sure, it is always a welcome thing to answer, but, it should be considered that, unless they have enabled the notifications from a specific blog, chances are, that, if they follow a lot of blogs and people, they simply won’t see it, and for the ones that do, not all of them will feel the urge to respond. Why? I don’t know, that’s just their preference, and the reasonings are their own, and that’s okay. That’s how it is.

I’m relatively close to submitting a story of my own, and honestly, I would love to have interaction with the readers, for them to tell me how did they like the story, the characters, but I understand if they don’t, because, 9 times out of 10, I first, don’t find myself having the need to give constant feedback, and if that’s the case for me, I can’t put different expectations onto others.

But that’s just normal. That’s why you see games on steam, that everyone knows have sold millions, yet have only 300 reviews, or IF s on steam, that have authors on tumblr, and they are writing a second book for their IF, and there’ll still be barely any questions about it, or any theories.

Would I want for the community to be more active? Absolutely, but only because I want people to have a good time, and to feel free to have that good time, without thinking that they’re going to be subjected to whatever. But, if they are still here, following along, then that’s fine too, and that shouldn’t affect the authors, because, I understand that it’s always good to get that engagement, because that tells you that you’re doing something that’s worth doing, worth more than you may initially think, but, as an artist, you should do it because of yourself, first and foremost.

This is not a rant, and this is not a comment made against anyone who feels differently than what I just said; you’re justified in that, and I do feel you, trust me, but, as long as people want to stick around and enjoy your stories, then I say let them! And, if they wish to talk to the brilliant mind behind the story, then by all means, but I don’t see a point in trying to force something to do that. Because, even encouraging can be viewed like that, and I doubt that any of us want that.

So, to conclude this, yes, the community may have gone a tad bit quieter, and the reasons for that are unknown to me, but, should that change? Hopefully, but if not, then hell, it is what it is. There are certainly many factors and reasons that can be taken into account for that, but, what I advocate for, is for people to be comfortable and have a good time. And for authors, to do this because they truly like doing it, and, as Toni Morrison had put it, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” That’s how I view my writing. No one’s written this, in this specific setting or this specific way, with these specific characters, and so, I shall write it, and if people like it? That’s just icing on the cake.

Anyhow, to all my fellow authors, I feel you, I truly do, but hey, things change the way they do, but that shouldn’t demotivate you. People will express themselves when they wish to do so, for reasons only they have, and that’s also fine as well. Hopefully, folks will get more comfortable, for the IF community is a lovely community, which offers a safe space for everyone, but, if they just wish to follow along, let them. It’s all you can really do. Cheers to everyone, and love to all🥂🖤

I think a lot of authors have noticed this lately: Likes, comments, reblogs with reviews... everything seems to be getting quieter. Stories go on, chapters come out, but all too often, it's a great silent nothingness that greets them.

Are we at fault, or is it something else? Yet you're there, we can see you raising the view counters on our demos.

I'm not here to lecture or beg for anything. I'd just like to understand, as many other authors do, why ? Because this statement is the result of a growing concern? Depression?among our ranks. To the degree that some of us have come to say: What's the point?

I'd just like to remind you of one thing: a story is alive, yes, but ! It's alive thanks to you, not just to us.

Every word you read, every emotion you feel, every theory you silently formulate: it's all part of the magic of a story, and it needs to be shared. When you share it all, a comment, a reblog with a fews words, even a brief reaction, that's when it really comes together, you're blowing on the story's flame! You fuel it, make it tangible. You give it a life that an author, alone in front of their screen, can't always sustain over time. Believe me, we try... Some are more gifted than others, but I'm all for helping each other.

Because yes, we write out of passion, out of desire, out of need. Yes, we love our worlds. But the impetus, the joy, the motivation, the feeling of really being read, all that is also born from exchange.

So here it is, just a quick note to say that if you like or don't like something, please say so. No need for a big dissertation but there's nothing worse than silence, it's the great reaper of our aspirations and I don't want to let it win.

And to my author friends: you're not alone. 💙

[kamospeach]

(any pics without tags are bc i didn't know who they belonged to!)

plot: suguru's getting antsy, his ex-lover isn't looking his way on the field anymore

content warning:my sweet sugu is a little perverttt (we won't be seeing that yet), angstyyy, i love writing about trust issues and character development

dean's (aka peachy) yap: the last of the angst i promiseeee

“touchdownnnn!” the announcer yelled through the speakers of the stadium. that was the sound of the star football player of your university throwing a 45-yard pass. this was his third time making a play like that in this game alone. you wish you weren’t even there at this specific moment and time. you hated having to cheer on your ex as he won yet another game.

so it started a cycle, geto threw a pass, and you cheered. a pattern that was performed every saturday, in your home stadium or away. your reaction was what fueled his passion to play. yeah, you heard me right, he made plays and did the most because of you. whenever he assisted a touchdown, there you were cheering on his team. i mean, you had no choice, of course.

so that was why whenever suguru did something in the game, he’d look at you, always finding you looking right back at him. he read you like a book he knew you missed him, that or he was too cocky to admit that he missed you and he was now projecting. 

when the game was over, you sat around with the cheer team, talking about any and everything. the football team had won, of course, thanks to suguru’s never-ending efforts. before the game, suguru asked you to stay behind so both of you could talk. 

if you weren’t still slightly in love with him, you would've said no, but here you were waiting behind just to see him. he sauntered out hair down, wife-beater, and sweats. he walked towards you with a cockiness that clearly showed he was expecting you to stay behind.

“what?” was all you said, and he smirked. he had always loved your fiestiness.

“how did i do?” he asked, getting closer to you so he could tower over you. suguru was a self-proclaimed pervert; he liked seeing you look up at him. it reminded him of all the times you were on your knees, lips wrapped around his-

“seriously?” you scoffed, walking away from him, and he grabbed your arm. “let me go sugu… i mean- suguru- geto? fuck it just let me go.” you were conflicted on what to call him and he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t love the way you said his name.

“you can still call me sugu…” he says, letting go of you like you asked. “you’ve always liked calling me that,” he gave you his signature smile, and you laugh. it wasn’t funny, but the audacity of this man was hilarious. he knew you saw him as goofy, at least that’s what you called him when the two of you broke up anyway.

“really? you care what i like now? you’re full of shit geto.” you spat turning around walking to your friends. they were waiting for you so you all could go get ready for the after-party.

“ya okay love?” your friend asked, rubbing your shoulder, knowing how you get about geto. you

were very, very, very in love with him. you would do anything for him. he knew that you knew that, and yet your relationship still failed.

“i’m fine, yeah.” you say as you look out the window, reminiscing on the times you and suguru spent together, the breakup, all of it.

4 months ago

“see you tomorrow!” you yelled out to the other girls on your cheer team. practice was over, and you waited in your car for suguru to get out. he had a spring football game tomorrow, a few hours away from the university. you were supposed to cheer at the basketball championship game, so the two of you won't be able to spend time together.

so you waited an hour after your practice for suguru, the clock finally hit 8, meaning they should be done. but one hour turned into two, and two into three, three into four, and so on. you ended up falling asleep, and when you woke up, it was 1 am, going on 2. you checked your phone, seeing one text from suguru.

‘can’t come practicing late.’ 

he sent that at 9:30, about 45 minutes after you had fallen asleep. no missed calls, no extra texts, nothing. he didn’t even try to make sure you were safe, and that was the worst. so, without hesitation, you made your way to his apartment. 

you were prepared to make a scene, sure you had shame and self-control, but not today. you were about to make sure this conceited cocky- the door swung open to suguru with his eyes half closed. just boxer's, hair messy, and sleep in his eyes.

“you open the door like this for everyone?” you asked, and he just blinked, not sure what you were doing at his apartment. “why did you text me instead of calling me and telling me you weren’t coming anymore?” you asked, and he cleared his throat.

“thought you were asleep, so i just texted you and hoped you’d see,” he said voice still groggy, and he rubbed his eyes trying to adjust to all the lights you turned on around the apartment. “i didn’t get in until 12 anyway.”

“so you practiced until 10?” you asked, lightweight, not believing him, and he sighed, nodding.

“it’s our first game back since the fall, of course, i want to do the best i can,” he explained, and you nodded. you both were working on your trust issues he was getting better but you seemed to be stagnant. 

“i don’t like when you don’t respond it makes me over think.” you explained trying to use your hands to further explain your point. his face was deadpanned almost as if he was angry at you. 

“look no offense but i don’t care about what you like or whatever. we were supposed to work on our trust and i’ve done that for you but if you can’t focus on improving with me then do it without me.” he ranted and your eyes got wide. was that his shitty way of breaking up with you.

“are you breaking up with me?” you asked confused and he shook his head dropping on the couch. he didn’t say much just ran his hand through his hair as he thought.

“i’m not, i’m just saying that you’ve been fine since we’ve been close together for a while. we got together when things were slow and when i wasn’t as busy. so you haven’t had a chance to work on your trust issues, and so i guess the blame is halfway on me,” he grumbled head still in his hands and you stood there frozen as you listened to him. 

“so do you think i’m better off leaving then?” you raise a brow and suguru sighs with a shrug.

“i think i’m stunting your growth. if we do break up it would only be because i want you to be better,” he admitted. truthfully suguru didnt know the best decision himself. he wanted to be your boyfriend and to graduate with you, he even thought about after. how a few years later he’d work on getting married to you. but if you can’t trust him you’d just suffocate him.

“so then let’s breakup. that’s what you want that’s what we’ll do.” you nodded tears now running down your face. you wiped your tears but it was futile as the waterfall poured. suguru knew your crying voice and took it upon himself to engulf you in a hug.

“i don’t want to but i love you and i want you to trust me the way i trust you, before i end up resenting you.” he whispered in your ear and you nodded. you both pulled away from the hug he wiped your tears kissing your lips one more time before you left.

present time

the party was everything you expected it to be, loud, smelly, hot, and chaotic. you liked it because it meant you were bound to get crossfaded. you and your friends held each other’s hand as you navigated through the dense crowd. once you made it to the kitchen of the frat house drinks on drinks were poured. 

you were throwing shots back like there was no tomorrow wanting to forget about suguru for a while. but just your luck you had a filthy nerdy leech that was a constant reminder. satoru gojo. 

“what are you doing here?” you asked satoru who shrugged looking just as confused as you. 

“suguru invited me i’m just tagging along. met a girl too, she invited me so i’m following the crowd i guess you could say.” he laughed and you nodded understanding. you were kind of in the same situation as him just following the crowd.

“i getcha.” you say as you passed him a shot that was passed to you and he denied it. you shrugged your shoulders taking both shots in front. “well looks like my crowd moving, see you later yeah?” 

“yeah see ya.” he smiled as you walked away with your friends and they went to hang out with the football players. as if running into satoru wasn’t enough now you’re sitting in a circle of people. and dead across from you is suguru who was smiling and laughing with his friends.

the lighting was great but just for him, his jawline was enhanced in the light. this couldn’t be real here you are drunk (and in the process of getting high) staring at your ex almost lovingly. minutes were going by and your were getting higher and higher. and while you were getting crossfaded suguru was getting finer and finer. you felt it was practically illegal to feel this way about someone who you were no longer romantically affiliated with.

“are you okay?” one of your friends asked and you sent him a small smile.

“just peachy.” you mumbled standing up to go get water until someone came up to you. you’ve never seen him before but he was clearly flirting. his words were started to blend together and his face was almost not even there. he started to sound like a friend you knew so your body became laxed.

his hands gripped your waist and you spoke with him casually. you were now drinking whatever your ‘friend’ had poured for you. all you knew is that your blinking felt extra slow and the floor was spinning. 

after a while your friend who asked if you were okay came looking for you. he was getting suspicious as to what took you so long to come back outside with the group. until he saw your almost limp body leaning on some guy who he had never seen before either. he stormed towards the two of you both snatching the drink out of your hand. 

“what are you doing?” he asked you and you shrugged not even sure who he was at this point. he watched your behavior and then looked up at the man who was with you. “who the hell are you?”

“does it matter? who the hell are you?” he copied his question whispering in your ear to calm you down. but now it felt weird and your brain seemed to register that you may or may not be in danger. 

“do you even go to this school? i’ve never seen you before.” he questioned the man and his body became stiff against yours. strangely this was the only thing he did that raised red flags for you.

“so? do you know everyone at this school or somethin’?” he grumbled and your friend found him suspicious so he grabbed you arm to pull you away from the man but he didn’t get anywhere with that. “don’t touch her, come on let’s go. you do want to leave with me right?” he asked you and your head slowly tilted to the side as you looked up at him. you were still struggling to make out his face.

“no you won’t, she doesn’t even know you, she’s coming with me.” he said lightly pulling you towards him. you were now caught inbetween the two men one wrist in the strangers hand and the other in your friend’s.

“i-...” was all you could manage before you heard a voice. the only voice that you could identify throughout the foggy haze that was your brain.

“neither of you will be taking her home.” he said as he walked over to you. you didn’t need to see suguru’s face to know it was his. his long hair was enough for you to know it was the man you once and still do love.

“sugu…” you said walking towards him and the two men had no choice but to let you go. before you knew it suguru had his hand around your waist.

“he didn’t hurt you did he?” he asked and you shook your head. even though you weren’t exactly sure how you got into all of that. you both made your way outside to his car that you wasted no time getting. he pressed the 1 button, and it immediately went to your settings, the way you liked it.

“you never took that off?” you asked looking up at him with eyes that had him questioning his actions 4 months ago.

“why would i? this’s your seat.” he said putting on your seatbelt but before the door closed you had to say one more thing.

“thank you, sugu.”

“anything for you.” was all he said before he closed the door and got in the driver’s seat to take you home.

to be continued...

one two three four five six

university masterlist

taglist (open):

@grignardsreagent @stardollwrites @keraawrites @soldmysoulto @k-a-m232 @ac27dj @buttershea07 @ane5e @satorupied @charminstasia @miksolosss @nanamisbbygirl @beabamboo @sweetshrew @gurllss @rhicambo @v3rdee @vamppirez @y8zuriha @probablynotleahhhh @snapcracklen @emma-37 @thabiddie23 @sunset-euphoria @ami-s-k @angelita-uchiha @antikaiii @meganwiththebody @certifiedchangbinlover @desirehorizon @meowshiki

[nostalgebraist]

When you finish writing a big story and you became very close the characters, was there a time after where you were like "i kind of want to revisit these characters again, but i should probably just let the story be, they deserve to rest" Im not talking about wanting to write a sequel, is more about still coming up with fun ideas for them, maybe a little scene or something, but choosing not to do anything with it because it'd feel disrespectful to the ending you gave them?

This doesn't happen to me, no.

The reason is that, once I finish the story, my sense of "being close to the characters" suddenly vanishes. And, although there are rare moments where it (briefly) returns, it mostly stays gone.

I can't remember if I've ever talked about this in detail before, but – when I'm in the process of writing a story, especially near the end, the characters feel "real" to me in a very strong and kind of uncanny way.

I don't actually believe that they exist as independent entities from me (much less sentient ones), but it does almost feel like that's true, when I'm in the thick of the writing process.

I have no trouble intellectually distinguishing fiction from reality, even in the state I'm describing. But my emotional and intuitive relationship with my characters, when I'm in that state, is pretty similar to the one I have with real people I know in real life. And there are a bunch of... uh, mental phenomena?... associated with this that I'm slightly afraid to describe because I worry they'll sound like hallucinations or delusions if I don't add a lot of caveats.

For example, when I'm alone in a room writing (especially if I'm writing in the middle of the night), I sometimes feel like it's not just me in the room, that the character I'm writing about is "there with me," in much the same way I'd be aware of someone real person's presence if I knew they were in the room but didn't happen to be looking in their direction. Or: sometimes I feel like the characters' voices are "flowing through me," that I'm merely taking dictation from them – and will sometimes even think to myself: "man, I'm so grateful that the character is helping me write this part, because if I tried to do it all by myself there's no way I would get it right." And it takes a moment before I realize, wait, no, I am writing it by myself – at least in a literal and physical sense.

Basically if you read this post, and then sort of read between the lines of it under the assumption that I'm downplaying how weird the experience actually is because I'm worried an accurate account would make me sound kind of unhinged... then you will have roughly the right impression of what the writing experience is like for me.

Whatever is going on here, it feels like it's probably on some kind of spectrum that also contains stuff like tulpas, multiple systems, and maybe also the way that children can sometimes get really deeply wrapped up in their imaginary play. I don't know how common this stuff is among writers (maybe it is common but rarely talked about?). It's not something I've experienced anywhere else in life; I don't experience it with other people's fictional characters or stories, or with fantasies I have that aren't associated with a work in progress, and I don't remember ever experiencing it before I started writing fiction as an adult.

Anyway, as I said at the top, the moment I finish writing a story, this phenomenon simply turns off, suddenly and completely. The transition is very noticeable when it happens, and makes me feel something akin to grief or loneliness over the brief span between the moment it starts and the moment it is fully completed – like I've just lost a bunch of close friends at once.

With Almost Nowhere, I remember a very specific feeling – on the evening of the day when I finished writing – that the characters were "departing 'into' the finished book," reverting to a lesser existence as "mere words" rather than "real people," as though they had been plastic toys animated by Terra Ignota's Bridger, and were now turning back into toys again. It made me sad, for a little while, but once they'd fully "lost their reality" I no longer cared, because it was that same sense of reality that made me care, and now it was gone.

So, to finish answering your question: I don't feel an urge to return to my old characters, because it feels intuitively obvious that doing this is impossible. That anything else I wrote about them would be inauthentic, somehow, in a way that the original work wasn't. They were "there," before, but they're "gone," now. This difference is very stark, and very hard to ignore.

(As I noted above, they do sometimes "come back" to me – very rarely, and very briefly, but that is enough for a proof of concept. Perhaps, if I were to try, I could find some way to "bring them back" for longer intervals. But I doubt I will ever try that. I feel a bit afraid of the concept for several reasons – for one thing, the "inauthenticity" I just mentioned squicks me out and I'd prefer not to come too close to it, and I also have a baseline wariness of doing stuff that seems too much like messing around with my own mental health. There's also a "catch-22" involved here, where I don't feel motivated about the characters the way I used to, and that means I'm not even motivated to do things that would generate that motivation. The "target" of the effort won't appeal strongly to me until I've already gone to the trouble of obtaining it, which means the effort doesn't feel justified in the first place.)

[kathryn-writes]

Fanfiction is the reason I'm not as worried about AI (as a writer)

If you've been reading the internet at all in the last few years, you know, according to the CEOs with a vested interest in this being true, that the next Tolstoy is lying in wait in a server farm currently guzzling up so much power it's changing the climate somewhere in Nebraska. AI is going to write books so well that there won't be any need for authors anymore! People will be able to just put in prompts and magically vomit out the stories they have always wanted to their personal standards!

There are not-so-outrageous claims that publishers are flirting with AI-genned and possibly people-guided stories already. And several publishing houses popping up to publish all those amazing AI-generated stories! And I'm not going to pretend that the writer in me didn't feel a twinge of worry.

Are they coming for my stories? Are these server farms going to replace the hours and days and weeks that I put into having an idea, constructing a plot, filling in ALL the words that connect the plot, editing to make the work cohesive all while paying attention to characterization, prose, voice, pacing, world building, realistic dialogue, humor, continuity, theme, and all the infinite little flourishes and details that go into creating a story? Apparently, so say the AI company CEOs who are totally not trying to sell you snake oil!

These insta-stories that people seem to think are a huge market have a really interesting testing ground: fanfiction. Because if there's any place where there is an instant audience voracious for reading stories that often repeat the same themes and tropes and characters, it's here. Look up the two cakes meme if you don't believe me. It's the perfect market for AI slop, providing an endless stream of soulmates fics featuring our favorite blorbos.

But what have we seen in practice? At least in the fandom I'm involved in, the few folks who have tried to make AI slop happen have... had trouble. Not only do the stories get flagged by members of the fandom as being suspicious, but they get very little to no engagement. People aren't interested in these stories. They avoid them. I want to remind everyone that fanfic is free. It's a click and sometime scrolling AO3. The prompts one would need to feed into ChatGPT are really narrow, since you probably already have the tropes you want in mind and the names of the characters. It's exactly where one would expect AI slop to have an audience, and it just doesn't.

If these models have already used the entire internet to train (which they have, even when people have told them to STOP using their content), and the only people who seem to be claiming we're within arm's reach of artificial general intelligence are the CEOs who are trying to keep the venture capital money flowing, then... do I fear that they are going to be able to compete with human creativity? I don't.

Because it can't even get people who've trawled the depths of AO3, of FFN, and even of Media Miner in a desperate search for a bazillion Destiel soulmate ABO fics to turn to the slop that ChatGPT makes.

[papervenom]

✩ chapter nineteen: prefects' bathroom ✩

summary: your fourth year starts with the return of the triwizard tournament— and a relationship with cedric diggory that should feel steady, but doesn’t. when harry’s name gets pulled from the goblet, everything shifts. the trio starts to crack, and being with cedric only adds to the tension. you’re sure about how you feel , you love him. but someone else is pulling for your attention, and it’s getting harder to ignore. a slow-burn, character-driven take on goblet of fire, told through your perspective

chapter warnings: 18+. smut (penetrative sex (m/f), bathtub sex, praise kink, dirty talk, possessiveness, very loving sex, soft aftercare), canon-typical angst (cho confrontation.)

word count: 10.3k

INSATIABLE MASTERLIST⋆˙⟡

January 21st, 1995

We'd been back at Hogwarts for two weeks now, and every trace of Christmas had been wiped clean. The garlands were gone. The twinkling lights had vanished. In their place was that strange grey weight January always seemed to bring, like the air itself had thickened, pressing into the stone walls and sinking into our bones.

The halls felt colder, darker. Quieter.

It settled over everything, an ache in the atmosphere— damp and dull and unmoved.

The dorms were the worst.

The windows leaked cold, the corners smelled like mildew, the kind that crept back this time of year no matter how many scouring charms someone used. The scent of damp parchment lingered in the air, tangled up with the musty staleness of old socks and wet wool. It clung to everything.

It was good to be back. Still, the mood had shifted.

The holidays were over.

No more sugared puddings. No more Weasley twins detonating enchanted crackers over breakfast. No more sneaking kisses with Cedric under the mistletoe. No more evenings curled up in front of the fire with Ginny and Hermione, tucked under shared blankets, gossiping like our lives depended on it. 

It was all gone now, and in its place was coursework. And pressure. And that cold reality that came every January like clockwork.

Pages and pages of it.

Ancient Runes, a three-foot Transfiguration essay, and Snape's ridiculous demand for three more feet on bezoars. As if we didn't have anything better to do with our lives.

The only thing that stopped me from flinging my books off the Astronomy Tower was the promise of Hogsmeade weekend, the first one of the new year.

I'd bundled myself up in cozy winter clothes, wrapping that familiar black-and-yellow scarf tight around my neck. The same one Cedric had wrapped there after our first night together at the Burrow. It still smelled like him, cedarwood and amber and something warm and permanent, like home.

He'd insisted I keep it. Said it looked better on me anyway.

Most of Gryffindor was already scattered around the common room, slouched across couches, tangled in scarves and boots, waiting for the day to start properly. The fire crackled low in the hearth. The smell of smoke and damp wool drifted through the air. Everyone was bundled up and restless, like we were all waiting for something to snap us out of this midwinter trance.

I was curled up alone near the fire, legs tucked under me, Crookshanks making slow, deliberate biscuits into my thigh like I was the only thing worth kneading. The common room buzzed quietly in the background, but my head was somewhere else, drifting through the past two weeks, half-listening to the argument unfolding across from me.

Harry groaned from the couch, his body thrown dramatically over the cushions, looking like he'd lost a duel to gravity.

Hermione was mid-rant, of course.

"You've had weeks to figure it out," she said, tone clipped. "And now you're acting like the second task is years away. It's not."

"I've got until the twenty-fourth," Harry argued weakly, dragging a hand through his hair.

"That's in, like, five weeks," I muttered.

Hermione scowled. "Exactly. And the way you're going, you'll blink and it will be here, and you'll still be standing there with your mouth open and that egg screaming at you."

She had a point. February 24th had started feeling closer now that the holidays were behind us. Before, it lived in some foggy space after Christmas. Now it was looming. And Harry still hadn't figured out a thing about that bloody golden egg.

Back at the Burrow, I'd heard it enough times to haunt my dreams. Every night, Harry would drag it up to Ron's room, crack it open, and sit there listening. Waiting for it to sound different. It never did. Just the same shrill wailing, like thirty musical saws crying out at once. It scraped under your skin, got in your head. 

I'd tried to place the sound. Tried to think of anything I'd heard like it before. But there was nothing. It didn't sound like anything.

I'd even walked in on Harry once, just sitting on the floor with the egg in his lap, yelling at it like it might shut up and give him a real answer.

It didn't.

"But it might take weeks to work it out!" Hermione snapped. "You're going to look like a complete idiot if everyone else knows the clue and you don't. Maybe you should stay behind today. Figure it out while you've got the Tower to yourself."

"Leave him alone, Hermione," Ron cut in. He wasn't even looking up, just picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion like it had personally offended him.

Harry glanced over at me. "Did Cedric figure it out?"

I shook my head slowly. "He hasn't mentioned anything."

Which wasn't untrue.

His silence said enough. I'd seen the way his fingers kept drifting toward his tie lately, the nervous habit he always fell into when something was weighing on him. He hadn't said a word about the egg, but I'd caught him doing it more than once this week.

I started straightening it for him before he could, smoothing the silk down without being asked. He never said anything when I did, but he always relaxed after. His hands would fall away. His shoulders would let go of whatever they'd been holding.

So no, he hadn't said it was bothering him. But I knew it was.

You wouldn't guess by looking at him. On the outside, he was the picture of calm and collected. Polished. Golden-boy-champion energy. But he didn't need to say anything out loud.

I could see it anyway.

Fred and George wandered past just as Harry opened his mouth again. Clearly eavesdropping, they veered over without hesitation, each one dropping onto either end of the settee I was lounging on.

Crookshanks gave a grumpy meow and launched off my lap, clearly aggrieved by the sudden intrusion.

Both twins were smirking down at me like they'd been waiting for an excuse.

"I bet you've been keeping him very distracted," Fred said, waggling his brows.

"You little minx," George added, nudging me.

I rolled my eyes, cheeks warming. "Shut up."

It wasn't even worth pretending. More than half the school already knew about me and Cedric, and I hadn't exactly been subtle the night of the Yule Ball. And for the ones who missed that, the quickie on the train had filled in the blanks. Subtlety had left the station weeks ago.

Hermione, sitting across, shot both boys a sharp look, the kind that could probably curdle milk. She muttered something about "crude commentary" under her breath and went right back to glowering at Harry.

We were just getting to our feet when a soft chime rang through the common room, the bell that signaled the start of our Hogsmeade visit.

Students whooped and clapped. The low buzz of conversation spiked instantly, turning animated and loud as everyone scrambled to gather their things. Scarves were adjusted, boots stamped, bags slung over shoulders.

We filed through the portrait hole in a jostling blur of excitement and chatter.

Waiting just on the other side, like he'd timed it perfectly, was Cedric.

He leaned against the stone archway, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his cloak hanging open like the temperature didn't bother him at all. His eyes found mine immediately, and the smallest smile curved at the corners of his mouth.

"Top shagger," Fred whispered as they passed him, clapping him on the back.

Cedric didn't flinch. Just offered a polite nod, eyes flicking down to the scarf still wrapped around my neck. His scarf.

When our eyes met again, everything else dimmed.

"Thought we could walk down together," he said, voice quiet, like it was just for me.

Like this really was a date, not a freezing, school-sanctioned field trip layered in thermal socks and Hogwarts-issue gloves.

Still. I liked the way he said it. Soft. Intentional.

Hermione greeted him first, giving a polite nod andtucking her hands deeper into her sleeves. Harry managed something that resembled a smile. Ron didn't even blink in his direction. The performance was almost impressive at this point.

The snow hadn't let up much. It still covered the grounds in a thick layer, the kind that crunched and collapsed under your boots. The sky hung low and dull above us, stretched in grey like wet paper. Every window we passed was fogged over, condensation trailing in slow lines down the glass. The castle looked like it was holding its breath.

We passed the Durmstrang ship on our way to the gates, its hull slick and dark in the still lake water.

Then a flicker of movement caught my eye, up on the deck.

"What the hell," I muttered.

Viktor Krum had stepped out barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a pair of threadbare swimming trunks. His skin looked nearly translucent in the winter light, a pale blade against the slate-grey water. He barely hesitated. Just stretched his arms once and dove off the side of the ship— clean, sharp, and gone beneath the surface in an instant.

"He's mad," Harry breathed.

"It must be freezing," Ron said, staring.

"It's January!"

"It's colder where he's from," Hermione said, a little quieter. "He told me the Black Sea in winter makes this look mild."

I glanced at her, catching how she was defending him without even realizing it. Her voice had softened the way it did when something mattered, even if she wasn't ready to say why.

I smirked. "He told you that, did he?"

Hermione's eyes snapped to mine too fast. Her cheeks flushed pink.

Back at the Burrow over the holidays, late one night in Ginny's room, buried in blankets and half-tipsy from Firewhiskey, Hermione had told us everything.

They'd kissed.

At the top of the marble staircase, just after the Yule Ball. She'd whispered it into the dark like it was a secret too delicate to say out loud.

"He just leaned in," she'd said, her fingers tangled in the hem of her pajama top. "And it was... it was nice."

Ginny and I had squealed. Proper squealed. We buried our faces in pillows to muffle it, but it didn't help. Hermione had blushed all the way down to her collarbones. She told us they'd exchanged a few letters since. Nothing romantic, just sweet. Book titles. Little thoughts. Quidditch scores.

Both too awkward to say what they actually wanted.

It was almost tragic.

And it was absolutely our responsibility to push her toward him again.

Now, watching Viktor resurface in the middle of the lake like some kind of folk legend, I made a mental note: we weren't letting her talk herself out of this again. Not when she still blushed like that.

"He's really nice, you know," Hermione added after a pause. "He's not at all like you'd think, coming from Durmstrang. He said he likes it better here."

Cedric and I exchanged a look.

"You should go say hi when we get back," Ced offered, voice light but knowing.

Hermione shook her head instantly, pulling her scarf tighter.

We didn't press it.

Yet.

The path gave way to the slushy High Street, cobblestones half-lost under dirty snow and salt. The scent of baking drifted out from somewhere— warm sugar, cinnamon, vanilla.

And still, the stares started.

I felt them the way you feel wind shift. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. Boys elbowed each other. Girls scowled. The kind of attention that always came too fast, too loud.

After being intimate with Cedric, I didn't think it could get worse. But it had. If I had to guess, it was because I felt different. More sensual. Confident. Something had changed in me, something others clearly picked up on. The boys had more trouble containing themselves. And the girls? They didn't bother hiding their bitterness.

It was worse this time.

A Ravenclaw boy actually winked. Another mouthed something I didn't want to hear. I tightened my hold on Cedric's hand.

He squeezed back without looking. Like it was automatic.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

"I'm so over being looked at like this", I muttered.

His gaze swept the street once, slow and deliberate. "Let them look. Anyone crosses a line, I'll sort it."

"They're not exactly being subtle."

"They're not exactly worth your time."

I knew he was right. But part of me wanted to turn around and head back to the castle. And I knew Cedric picked up on that, too. We looked at each other, no words, just the kind of quiet communication that had been happening more and more lately. I was still amazed by how easily he could read me.

He paused a beat. Then added, softer, "Let's stay a little longer, yeah? I want to ask Harry a few things about his egg."

I nodded, grateful that he wanted that conversation and deciding not to let anyone ruin my weekend.

Soon, Cedric and Harry were deep in quiet conversation as we made our way around the village— careful, cryptic talk about the egg and the task ahead.

Hermione and I walked a little ahead, arms linked, our boots crunching through packed snow. Ron trailed just behind, scowling down at his own feet like they'd personally betrayed him. Clearly still peeved about Cedric's presence.

I didn't pay him any mind. I was used to it by now, his sulking, his silence. The way he turned passive-aggressive into an art form anytime Cedric was around.

I was just glad Cedric didn't either.

Harry was the first to speak up as the village buzzed around us.

"Wanna head to the Three Broomsticks?" he asked us. "I could use something warm."

Cedric agreed before I could say anything, and I nearly pouted. I'd been selfishly hoping for time alone with him, even just an hour. But I understood. They were trying, both of them. And with the second task closing in like a storm, sitting down somewhere was probably smarter than wandering the streets collecting stares.

The Three Broomsticks was packed, as usual. Warm and loud and crowded, thick with the smell of butterbeer and roasting meat. Scarves were draped over chairs. Steam rising from mugs. The windows were fogged, the floor slippery with melted snow.

We pushed through the crowd toward the bar and placed our orders with Madam Rosmerta, who barely glanced up, she was juggling at least five drinks at once, her wand flicking wildly between trays. We lingered off to the side, waiting, pressed in tight among clusters of other students doing the same.

Cedric stood just behind me, close enough that I could feel the light touch of his arm against mine, hear every word when he leaned in to make some quiet joke under his breath.

Hermione nudged me suddenly, tilting her head toward the mirror behind the bar.

"Doesn't he ever go into the office?" she whispered.

"Who?" I asked, following her gaze.

"Bagman."

I looked.

Ludo Bagman sat hunched in the far corner, talking to a group of goblins. He looked twitchy— nervous. His hands moved constantly in tight little gestures, like he was trying to talk them into something they weren't buying. The goblins sat stone-still, unimpressed.

"He looks rough," I said.

"Same as he did after the Dark Mark," Harry muttered.

Before we could say more, Bagman looked up. His eyes flicked toward the mirror, landed on Harry, and he froze.

"In a moment, in a moment!" he said to the goblins, already standing.

A second later, he was cutting across the pub, far too cheerful for someone who'd just been cornered by a goblin negotiation.

"Harry!" he said brightly. "Been hoping to run into you! Everything going all right?"

Harry blinked. "Fine, thanks."

Bagman's eyes scanned our group, lingering too long on Cedric, then me, then Hermione and Ron.

"Oh, hello, Cedric... Miss (Y/L/N)... Miss Granger, Weasley," he said, like he was trying to remember if we counted as important. "You don't mind giving us a moment, do you?"

Cedric, Ron and Hermione looked at me. I gave a little shrug.

Just then, our drinks slid across the bar. We grabbed our mugs and peeled off without a word, leaving Harry behind as we moved to a table near the frosted windows. The cold from the glass seeped through our coats. Cedric pulled out a chair for me like it was second nature. Before he sat, he leaned down and kissed the side of my head.

My chest ached a little at that.

We'd barely settled, hands still wrapped around warm mugs, when the front door swung open behind us with a gust of cold wind. Snowflakes blew in with it, scattering across the floor before melting instantly. A group of Hufflepuff boys spilled into the pub— laughing, loud, their hair dusted in snow and cheeks flushed from the cold. Their voices rose above the steady din, cheerful and carefree.

One of them spotted Cedric almost immediately and lifted a hand, waving him over.

Cedric's eyes flicked to me. "I'll be back, alright?" he said softly, his hand brushing my knee. "Promise."

I nodded. He kissed my cheek and headed over to them, slipping into their orbit with a kind of practiced ease.

I watched him go, trying not to sulk about it.

Tried not to feel like the whole table had dimmed without him there.

He gave them his full attention— nodding, laughing, listening, though I could tell he was still watching me out of the corner of his eye.

I turned away, sipping my butterbeer. The whispers were starting again.

Girls, mostly. Clustered in groups. Heads together. Eyes flicking toward me.

Some weren't even whispering. They were just staring. Like I was something rare and strange and possibly cursed. Like I was going to explode.

I looked down into my drink.

"What's that about?" Hermione muttered, eyes tracking a cluster of Ravenclaws across the room.

"I don't know," I said.

But I did.

I felt it. Something was coming.

Fred and George chose that exact moment to swoop in, cutting clean through whatever Bagman had been saying to Harry. They cornered Bagman with matching grins and a very pointed reminder about the World Cup bet he still hadn't paid back. Before long, they had him squirming in his seat. He stammered a few half-hearted excuses, then bolted, muttering apologies as he hurried out the door. The goblins followed right behind, their expressions unreadable.

Harry returned to our table, looking vaguely annoyed. Cedric was still across the room.

Ron looked up. "What did he want?" 

"He offered to help me with the golden egg," Harry said, already bracing for the reaction. 

Hermione's head whipped around. "He what? He's a judge! That's completely out of line— Dumbledore would never approve. He's supposed to be impartial!"

"I hope he's offering Cedric the same help," I muttered.

"He's not," Harry said quietly. "I asked."

Ron scoffed. "Who cares if Diggory's getting help?"

I shot him a look, sharp and silent.

Hermione, ever the diplomat, tried to shift gears. "Those goblins didn't look too friendly. What were they even doing here?"

"Looking for Crouch," Harry said. "He's still sick. Hasn't been in."

"Maybe Percy's poisoning him," Ron said, smirking. "Figures he'd think that's the fast track to promotion."

Hermione gave him her best do-not-joke-about-death face.

"Funny, goblins going after Crouch," she said, stirring her drink. "They don't usually work with the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

"Thinking of starting a new cause, Hermione?" Ron teased. "S.P.U.G.? Society for the Protection of Ugly Goblins?"

I smiled into my cup.

"Ha, ha, ha," Hermione said flatly. "They don't need protection. Haven't you been listening to Binns about the goblin rebellions?"

"No," we all said at once.

Hermione huffed, but before she could launch into a history lecture, Cedric returned.

His expression was soft, but serious.

"(Y/N)," he said, "can I talk to you?"

I blinked. "Now?"

He nodded. "Just for a minute."

I stood, suddenly aware again of all the eyes in the room. This time they weren't just curious. They were cruel.

Someone near the bar snickered.

Outside the booth, Cedric reached for my hand. His fingers were gentle. Steady.

"Cho's saying things," he said quietly, scanning my face. "That you used Veela magic. That it's why I dumped her."

My stomach dropped.

"She practically enchanted him," someone said nearby, loud enough for us both to hear.

Cedric's jaw tensed. "I won't let them speak about you like that."

I swallowed hard, but before I could speak, the pub door opened.

And my stomach dropped again.

Rita Skeeter had just walked in.

She was impossible to miss.

Banana-yellow robes, heels clicking like warning bells, and nails painted an eye-watering shade of pink. Her eyes darted around the pub— quick, sharp, and twitching, landing on me almost immediately. Then flicking away. Then back again.

Her photographer trailed behind her like a trained parasite, camera already half-raised.

She wasn't even trying to be subtle.

She stopped by a Ravenclaw girl, touched her hair like she owned it, smiling, whispering something. But her eyes never left me.

That smile curled wider.

I felt the nausea rise in my throat.

"I need to find Cho," I muttered to Cedric, barely hearing myself over the blood pounding in my ears. "Before this gets worse."

Cedric's grip on my hand tightened. "Whatever you need," he said, soft and sure. "I'm with you."

We returned to the table. I downed the rest of my butterbeer in a single gulp. Cedric's hand pressed into the small of my back as I sat, his touch grounding.

"You okay?" Hermione asked, brows pinched. "You look nervous."

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

The whispering had stopped.

Now they were just staring.

Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill was already scribbling beside her like a smug little ghost.

"She's talking about me," I said quietly. "Cho started a rumor, I used Veela magic on Cedric. I guess it's spreading."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "You're joking."

"I wish I was."

Harry shifted beside me, already slumping. I could tell he'd clocked Rita the second she walked in. His whole posture changed, the kind of defeated slump you only see in someone who's been burned before.

The last time he'd mentioned Cho, he sounded hopeful. Said she'd been writing. She'd gone skiing with her family over break, nothing weird, nothing hostile. Just space.

But this didn't feel like space anymore.

This felt like sabotage.

The crowd shifted again.

Rita was gliding toward us.

Her photographer raised the camera like he'd been waiting for a red carpet cue.

Cedric slid closer to me. His arm draped protectively across my shoulders. I leaned into him without thinking.

Hermione went stiff beside me. Ron's jaw clenched.

"Trying to ruin someone else's life again?" Harry said suddenly, cutting the air like a blade.

Heads turned.

The room fell into that hush only a good confrontation could bring.

Rita's eyes lit up. "Harry!" she said, beaming. "How lovely! Why don't you come and confirm some comments made about your American friend," she added, her gaze flicking to me like I wasn't sitting right there. Like I was just another name to slot into an article.

I opened my mouth, rage rising like heat, but Harry beat me to it.

"I wouldn't come near you with a ten-foot broomstick," he said coldly.

A few people laughed. Rita's eyes blinked behind her jeweled glasses.

"Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my—"

"Is that what you're calling it now?" I cut in. My voice was syrupy sweet. Mocking. "Funny, I always thought you just printed whatever bullshit got you off."

The pub went still.

"Answer the witch," George called from the corner, grinning. "You don't want to see a Veela upset."

Even Madam Rosmerta froze mid-pour, amber mead spilling over the rim of a tankard and soaking her fingers.

Rita's smile faltered for half a second. Then she straightened it again, snapping her Quick-Quotes Quill to attention.

"How about an interview, then?" she said, eyes turning on Cedric now. "Handsome boy. Triwizard Champion. Tell me, what's it like being enchanted? Or better yet, what's it like dating someone with... unusual influence? Would you say it's been hard to think clearly lately?"

Hermione stood so fast her butterbeer nearly spilled.

"You horrible woman," she said, voice shaking. "You don't care, do you? You'll say anything, twist anything, just to get a story."

"Sit down, you silly little girl," Rita scoffed. "Don't talk about things you don't understand. I'm a professional, sweetheart. I've heard worse than this. I know things that would make your hair curl, not that it needs it."

I stood, fists clenched, ready to lunge.

But Cedric was already pulling me back.

"Let's go," Hermione said through gritted teeth, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

We left, together. All five of us. And every pair of eyes in the pub followed.

Harry glanced back as we reached the door. Rita's Quill was already scribbling at lightning speed.

"She'll be after you next," Ron muttered to Hermione as we stepped into the cold.

"Let her try," she hissed. "First Harry. Now (Y/N). She's not getting away with it."

I didn't say a word. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

My jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

The wind stung my cheeks. But it wasn't the cold making me tremble. It was the shame, the heat of it. The rage. Knowing my name was already halfway to becoming some snide, pun-riddled headline.

I didn't want to cry in front of everyone. Not now. Not after all that.

"I'll meet you back at the castle," I muttered, stepping away from the group.

"Wait, are you okay?" Ron asked, surprisingly gentle. "You look—"

But I was already moving away from them.

Cedric followed.

He caught up without saying a word, crouching a little so we were eye to eye. He always did that, made himself smaller to meet me where I was.

I stared at the cobblestones between us.

"Where would she be?"

He didn't need to ask who I meant. His eyes scanned the square, sharp and quick.

"She likes Madam Puddifoot's," he said after a beat. "Used to drag me there."

I didn't respond. Just turned and started walking fast. Boots crunching through dirty snow, shoulders tight, heart hammering.

A group of boys leaned against a shop wall, laughing too loud. One of them saw me and called out, "You can enchant me anytime, (Y/N). I won't fight it!"

Cedric stopped in his tracks.

"Say that again and see what happens," he growled. Loud. Cold. Commanding.

The boy froze.

We kept walking.

I didn't speak. My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it.

If I hadn't been so furious, I might've found it hot.

When we reached the tea shop, I spotted her immediately, Cho, sitting with a group of girls near the foggy window. Her posture was perfect. Her hair fell in neat, silky waves. Her scarf matched her lip gloss.

She was laughing.

Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn't just kicked this whole mess into motion and wiped her hands clean.

I pushed the door open. The little brass bell above it jingled softly.

Cho looked up. Her expression shifted instantly, smile gone, brows lifted, eyes narrowing like she hadn't expected to see me again, much less like this.

"What do you want?" she asked, not even pretending to be polite.

"I need to talk to you," I said, steady. "Please."

She scoffed. "Why?"

"Because I'm asking."

She held my gaze for a second, then stood. One of her friends leaned in to whisper something, but Cho didn't respond. Her eyes flicked past me, to Cedric just behind, silent and watchful.

I turned to him. "Can you give us a minute?"

He hesitated, just a blink, but nodded and stepped aside to let us pass, his hands in his pockets.

I opened the door again, a small gust of cold air curling around us as we stepped outside. 

Cedric just inside the shop. He didn't sit or move far, just stood near the window, where he could see everything. Quiet. Present. Watching.

Cho and I sat down on the little bench just outside, across from each other. The chill bit through my coat. Everything felt sharper out here, colder. More exposed.

Cho sat like she had a wand to her spine. I could see the tension in her jaw.

"What did I ever do to you?" I asked quietly.

She didn't answer.

"I thought you and Harry were getting on," I said, keeping my voice even. "Cedric and I were happy for you."

Her eyes dropped.

"If you're not over Cedric, fine. That's your business. You two can talk that out. But don't drag Harry into it. And don't drag me into it."

Her throat bobbed. "I'm sorry," she said, voice tight. "About Harry. I didn't mean for him to get pulled in. He didn't deserve that."

I waited.

"But I'm not lying," she whispered, staring at her hands. "That's how it felt. Cedric and I... we were getting close. He invited me to his house. I was going to meet his parents."

She sniffed. It was quick, angry. "Then he just... got distant. I didn't know what I did. I went out with Roger. I flirted with Harry. But it wasn't the same."

Her eyes filled. She blinked hard, fast, but it was no use.

Tears started falling, quiet ones. No dramatics. Just wet cheeks and a broken kind of silence.

And the ache in my chest bloomed.

Because if it had been me, if Cedric had just turned cold, pulled away, I'd be wrecked, too. 

It would've ruined me.

Without thinking, I reached out and touched her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I said. And I meant it. "But Cho... you can't say things like that. My life's already turned upside down lately. I'm only just figuring out what I am. Fleur's been helping me, but... do you think I like this attention?"

She looked at me, really looked.

"I get harassed," I continued. "Girls glare. Their boyfriends stare. I feel guilty for just existing sometimes. For being... visible."

I swallowed hard.

"Like I'm some kind of monster. Like just walking into a room means I'm trying to steal something. I get looked at like I'm calculating. Manipulative. And I'm not. I never wanted any of this."

My voice cracked slightly. "I can't change what I am, but people act like I chose it. Like I'm using it. Like I'm dangerous just for being looked at."

Cho nodded, slowly. Her eyes flicked to the scarf around my neck.

The bell over the door jingled again.

Cedric stepped inside, cautious. His eyes went to me first, then Cho.

"Hi, Cho," he said.

She quickly wiped her eyes, blinking hard. Her voice was barely there.

"Hi, Cedric."

He stepped closer, slow. Careful.

"I didn't leave you because of anything you did," he said softly. "And I wasn't enchanted. I wasn't tricked. I just... wasn't the same person anymore. Things shifted for me, and I didn't know how to say it without hurting you."

He hesitated, then added, "Maybe this is all my fault. I should've been honest sooner. I should've communicated better, instead of letting you guess. I'm sorry, Cho. You didn't deserve that. Any of it."

His voice stayed steady, but there was guilt in his eyes. "I never meant to leave you with doubts."

He glanced at me.

Something in his expression softened, like he was seeing me all over again, not just as the person Cho had been comparing herself to, but as the girl standing there, still holding her breath through the aftermath.

My heart skipped.

Cho's eyes followed his, and I saw it— how it landed. How it confirmed everything she'd been afraid of.

She sniffled again, then ducked her head, wiping under her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Her voice was small, uneven.

"Sorry," she murmured, not quite meeting my gaze.

She stood and turned without waiting for a response, her shoulders tight as she walked back into the shop. Her friends looked up, watching her rejoin them like nothing had happened, like she hadn't just cracked open in front of us.

I stayed where I was, stunned by the weight of it all.

Then Cedric moved. Quiet, certain.

He reached out, took my hand in his, and held it like it meant something. Like he needed the contact too. His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady, and for a second, I just let myself breathe again.

"I'm proud of you," he said softly, barely above a whisper.

And I believed him.

I stayed there for a moment longer, hand still in his. The cold didn't feel quite as sharp with him standing close, steady as ever.

Then he gently tugged me forward.

"Come here," he said, pulling me into his arms.

I let myself fold into him, face pressed into the front of his coat. He held me like he meant it, one hand at the small of my back, the other smoothing up and down my spine in slow, even strokes.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

I nodded against him, even if I wasn't sure. "Getting there."

We stood like that for a while, the tea shop's noise fading behind the glass, the cold wrapping around us but not sinking in.

Eventually, we started walking back toward the castle, boots crunching through the slush. Our hands found each other again without thinking.

I let out a breath and glanced up at him.

"Well," I said dryly. "That Hogsmeade trip was ruined."

He smirked, stopping mid-step, and reached into his coat pocket.

"Hold on," he said. "Got you something."

He pulled out a slightly crumpled paper bag and gave it a shake. "Fudge. From the tea room."

I blinked. "You bought me fudge in the middle of all that?"

"I had a feeling you'd need it," he said, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He reached in, pulled out a cube, and held it up between two fingers.

"Say ah."

I rolled my eyes, but leaned in.

He popped the piece into my mouth, eyes bright with that playful look he got when he was proud of himself for making me feel better.

I giggled, the fudge melting instantly on my tongue— warm, sweet, and stupidly perfect.

༻✦༺

The castle was quieter after sundown. Most students were still in Hogsmeade or dragging their feet back from it, which left the corridors hushed and empty.

Cedric and I had claimed a table in the far back corner, half-hidden behind a crooked brass globe and a leaning stack of Divination books no one had touched in decades. We hadn't planned to stay long, but we'd sunk into the quiet. One small lamp glowed at our table, casting everything in soft gold. It lit the scattered pages between us, the curve of his knuckles, the lines of his face, warm and sharp all at once.

He was helping me study. Or trying to.

One of the perks of being a Triwizard champion was professors cutting you slack. The rest of us? No such luck.

Cedric sat across from me, scribbling something on my Arithmancy chart with neat, looping handwriting. He was left-handed. I hadn't realized that until tonight. He held his quill a little funny, crooked between his fingers like he was still figuring it out after all these years.

I was supposed to be reading.

I wasn't.

My textbook lay open in front of me, but the words had long since blurred into meaningless lines on the page. My eyes kept drifting, inevitably, shamelessly, to him.

Cedric sat across from me, bent slightly over my notes, brows drawn in concentration as he read. His quill moved steadily, the scratch of ink a soft, constant rhythm in the hush around us. He didn't seem to notice I'd stopped pretending.

I had my chin in my hand, elbow propped on the table, just watching him. The slope of his nose. The way his bottom lip curled slightly inward when he was thinking. How his hair kept slipping into his eyes, and how he never bothered to push it away, just leaned in closer to the parchment like the rest of the world didn't matter.

He looked calm here. Peaceful in a way that felt private, almost fragile. Like something only I got to see.

Not the boy on posters. Not the one whispered about in corridors or watched too closely in the Great Hall. Not Hogwarts' Golden Champion.

Just Cedric.

Mine.

He caught me staring and raised an eyebrow, a small curve of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What?" he asked, voice low, teasing.

I blinked, tried to look innocent, but the grin was already tugging at my lips. "Nothing," I said, drawing it out. "You're just... really nice to look at."

He leaned back in his chair, slow and deliberate, arms crossing over his chest like he was preparing to interrogate me.

"I knew it," he said, mock-offended. "You're using me for my looks."

I snorted. "Please. I've been using you for your notes too."

He gasped like I'd wounded him, hand pressed to his chest. "Unbelievable. Objectified and exploited. Is nothing sacred?"

His smile finally broke through as I tried not to laugh, my cheeks already too warm to hide it. I reached across the table for the parchment he'd just written on.

He grinned and held it just out of reach, arm raised casually like he was playing keep-away with my sanity.

"Cedric—"

I swatted at him, but he only leaned further back, smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

Then, without warning, he stood. Walked around the table in that slow, easy way of his. And dropped the parchment right in front of me.

Before I could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a kiss just behind my ear, light, warm, and maddeningly precise.

My breath stuttered. The air between us shifted.

He didn't move away.

He leaned in again, closer this time, and his voice dropped just enough to make my stomach tighten.

"You know," he murmured, "you're not helping my concentration looking like that."

And then he kissed me.

Not on the cheek. Not a tease. A real kiss, slow and warm and entirely consuming, like he had nowhere else to be but here, with me.

His mouth moved to the corner of mine, then lower, brushing the curve of my jaw.

I tried to exhale like a normal person. "Not everyone gets exam extensions, Diggory."

"Mmm," he hummed against my skin, his lips trailing down my neck.

Still kissing. Still completely uninterested in studying.

"Ced."

"Hm?" He sounded distracted— intentionally so.

His fingers brushed my thigh under the table, feather-light, almost teasing. I turned toward him, trying to glare, but it didn't quite land.

"You're distracting," I muttered.

"You're beautiful when you're flustered," he said, like it was just a fact.

I narrowed my eyes. He looked entirely unbothered.

"We could take a break," he offered, nudging his nose along the line of my jaw.

"I haven't even made much progress."

He tilted his head, lips just shy of my skin. "We can finish it later."

And the way he said it— low, certain, lazy with intent, made it very clear that studying was no longer the priority.

"I've got an idea," he said, voice low now—careful, like he didn't want to startle the moment. "Only if you want to. But... there's a place we could go. Warm. Quiet. Somewhere we can stop thinking so hard for a little while."

He paused, then added with a small smile, "Worth hitting pause for. Promise."

I looked at him, skeptical. Not because I didn't trust him— I did, completely, but because I still had homework waiting in front of me. Things to finish. Things to worry about. The responsible choice was to stay and study.

But then again... I was dying to spend time with him.

Curiosity tugged at me, quiet but persistent. And underneath it was something else, something gentler. I wanted him to breathe. To forget about the tournament for a minute. I knew how much the second task was eating at him, even if he didn't say it out loud. It showed in the way his hands fidgeted, in the tightness of his shoulders he kept trying to hide.

He must've seen it in my face, because he didn't push. Didn't explain or try to sweeten the offer. He just waited.

Then, gently, he kissed the corner of my mouth. Not rushed. Not trying to change my mind. Just reminding me he was there. Steady.

"Could help us both relax," he murmured.

I hesitated another beat.

Then slowly, I started closing my books.

He reached out without a word and started helping, gathering my parchment into a careful stack, slipping quills and folded notes into my bag with that quiet focus he always had when he was trying to make things easier for me. His hand brushed mine once, and something in me stilled at the touch. Not because it startled me, but because it felt purposeful. Gentle. Reassuring in a way nothing else had been all day.

I stood before he could say another word.

"Lead the way."

We moved fast and quiet through the castle, keeping to the edges, through narrow stairwells and winding back halls, places only someone who knew the building like a second home would think to use. Cedric didn't hesitate once. I followed without needing to ask where we were going.

A few portraits muttered as we passed. One winked.

Fifth floor.

We stopped in front of a tall statue, Boris the Bewildered, still looking very much bewildered, his top hat on backward, arms frozen mid-gesture like he'd just forgotten what he was doing.

Fourth door to the left.

Cedric didn't explain.

He just stepped forward, leaned in close, and whispered something to the thick oak door.

"Pine fresh."

It creaked open.

And I stepped into heaven.

The Prefect's Bathroom was marble from floor to ceiling, sleek and shining, the white and gold catching the light from a floating chandelier that swayed ever so slightly overhead. The glow was soft and amber-toned, reflecting off the polished surfaces like candlelight. Everything gleamed like it had been scrubbed by hand just minutes before. No dust. No trace of anyone else.

The centerpiece was impossible to miss: a massive sunken bath, wide enough to swim laps in, rimmed with hundreds of ornate, jeweled taps. They glittered like gemstones in the low light, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, ruby, each one promising something strange and lovely if you dared to turn it.

Curtains hung from high, frosted windows, pulled just enough to let in the blue tint of moonlight. A soft mist drifted across the tiled floor, curling lazily in the warm air. The scent hit me next— vanilla, lavender, and something sweet I couldn't name. Like spun sugar or warm honey. Something meant to make you forget everything else.

Fluffy towels were stacked in neat piles, thick and inviting. Above them, a large painting of a blonde mermaid snoozed in a shell-shaped chair. Her hair floated up and down as she snored, rising and falling like sea foam on a tide.

I took a few slow steps in, completely stunned.

"Merlin," I breathed.

Cedric grinned behind me. "Told you it was worth sneaking out for."

He set his bag down near the towels, and I caught a glint of gold inside, the egg. Its surface shimmered, catching the light in a quiet flash.

I knelt by the bath, curiosity pulling me in, and twisted a few taps at random. The pipes rumbled softly. Water poured in from three directions at once, one stream fizzed with pink and blue bubbles, another released violet steam that smelled like ripe plums, and a third spilled in thick golden foam, glittering and silky, like it had come straight from a dream.

I stared, then looked over my shoulder at him. "You're seriously allowed to use this?"

He shrugged, unbothered. "Perks of the badge."

I shook my head and turned back to the bath, a smile already tugging at my lips. Everything felt lighter now. Warmer. Like the weight of the day had started slipping off the moment I stepped into this strange, hidden world.

Cedric handed me a towel, his fingers brushing mine. His eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary— checking in, making sure I was still with him, still okay. I was. More than okay.

Then he started undressing.

Calm. Unrushed. Just a quiet rustle of fabric, the soft scrape of buckles and buttons undone with ease. His uniform fell away layer by layer.

Before I joined him, I dug through my bag and pulled out my Discman, tucked beneath books and parchment like a little secret. I flipped it open, slid in Cedric's CD, and hit play.

Music crackled through the tiny speakers. A sweeping overture, haunting and familiar. Opera House by Cigarettes After Sex. The intro bloomed through the steam, velvet-rich and echoing, as if the marble itself carried the sound.

Cedric glanced over, amused. "This one ours?"

His voice was soft, but his eyes were already hazy, already fixed on me, and said something else entirely.

I just smiled, slow and deliberate, feeling that flicker of power rise in my chest. 

He turned back to the bath and adjusted the taps again, testing the water with a sweep of his hand, making sure it was perfect for me. Water rippled golden, bubbles heaped like clouds, and a steady rise of vanilla-sweet mist curled over the surface like breath. It was nearly overflowing now— lush, glimmering, decadent.

His eyes then tracked me like I was gravity itself as I started to undress peeling off my clothes slowly, feeling the room's warmth curl around my skin as I did. The air buzzed softly, thick with steam and candlelight and the faint, sugary scent clinging to the mist.

Seductive, in control, sure of the way his gaze followed every move I made,I stood at the edge of the bath, completely bare now, skin flushed from the warmth in the air. 

One hand rested lightly on my hip, the other brushing back a damp strand of hair. I moved with intention, slow and fluid, stepping into the water like it was a stage and I knew exactly what I was doing to him.

The heat wrapped around my legs first, then higher, silken and golden. Bubbles lapped at my thighs. I sank deeper, every motion smooth, enticing, deliberate.

He didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

The look on his face, hungry, reverent, already wrecked, told me everything.

The heat sank into me instantly, wrapping around every inch of bare skin like silk. Like I was being held. I let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering closed as the tension in my body eased.

Behind me, Cedric moved, slow and sure, crossing to me through the water and wrapping his arms easily around my waist, pulling me back into him.

I melted.

It was hard not to. 

His chest was warm against my back, solid and steady, the heat of his skin seeping into mine. Water beaded along his collarbones, gliding down the lines of his body, catching the light as it traced muscle and bone. Every angle of him looked sculpted, deliberate, like the bath had been built to make him look this good. His arm tightened around my waist, drawing me closer, and the movement alone made my breath catch.

His hands found my hips, fingers moving in slow, grounding circles—warm and firm, his thumbs brushing the curve of my waist with just enough pressure to make my breath catch. Every pass of his touch sparked heat that unfurled low in my belly, steady and sure, like he was drawing me back into myself, coaxing tension out of my spine with nothing but quiet reverence. It wasn't just grounding—it was claiming, soothing and sinful all at once.. No rush. Just touch. My head tipped back against his shoulder, and his mouth found my neck, just a brush at first, light enough to make me shiver. Then firmer. Slower. He took his time.

"Better than studying?" he murmured, lips grazing my skin between words.

I hummed, smiling despite myself. "Slightly."

He laughed— a low, soft sound that rumbled through his chest and settled into mine like a second heartbeat.

Then he turned me in his arms.

The water shifted with us, sloshing gently, bubbles clinging to our skin like silk. My knees bumped his beneath the surface. I moved without thinking, straddling him, drawn in by gravity or something stronger.

His hands slid to my hips again, fingers curling tight, anchoring me as he pulled me fully against him.

The kiss started slow.

Intentional.

Like he was memorizing the moment.

But it deepened almost instantly— greedy, consuming, the kind of kiss that stripped away the rest of the world. His mouth moved over mine like he'd been starving for it, each kiss laced with the kind of urgency that came from nights spent dreaming and days spent holding back. 

Yet beneath the hunger was a tenderness that made my chest ache—like he was trying to say everything he couldn't put into words, needing me to feel it in the way his lips moved against mine, careful and wrecked, aching with all the things he'd been holding back too long.

My fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer.

The heat between us coiled tighter with every pass of lips, every breath we shared. His hips rolled beneath me, slow, deliberate, maddening in the best way.

I gasped softly against his mouth.

And he kissed me deeper. 

Like he was starving. 

Like this was the only thing tethering him to reality. 

And I kissed him back with the same wild need— mouth hungry, fingers tangled in his soaked hair, thighs squeezing tight around his waist when he ground up into me with a slow, sinuous roll of his hips.

He swallowed my moan, deep and breathless, then chased it with his tongue, brushing against mine with a slow, deliberate stroke that sent sparks down my spine. I was dizzy with it already, drenched in heat, soaked in want.

Then lower, his lips dragged down my neck, tongue tasting salt and steam, teeth grazing the soft spot beneath my ear that made my whole body flinch.

"Fuck, you sound so good," he rasped, voice low and filthy against my collarbone as his mouth kept moving downward. He worshipped every inch of skin he passed, hot breath and open-mouthed kisses leaving wet trails that had me squirming under his touch.

He paused just enough to look at me, eyes dark with want, water dripping from his lashes. His hands slid to my thighs under the bubbles, thumbs drawing slow, teasing circles that made my pulse thunder.

"You okay?"

I nodded fast, breathless. "More than."

That smile, the one that always undid me, spread across his face. Sin incarnate.

He kissed down my chest next, reverent and greedy all at once, taking his time, dragging his tongue along my skin. My fingers tangled in his hair again, tugging just enough to make him groan low against my breast.

Then his hand slid between us— no hesitation, just firm, practiced fingers finding where I was already throbbing for him. He circled once, twice, then pressed, slow and rhythmic. I choked out a sound, clutching at his shoulders.

"You're always like this for me," he muttered, mouth brushing back up toward mine. "Dripping. Needy. Fucking perfect."

I whimpered, biting my lip hard, as he found the exact pressure that made my thighs tremble.

"Tell me baby," he moaned. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasped. "Yours, Ced. Always."

He made a sound, half-groan, half-growl, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. My back met the cool marble of the bath wall, water sloshing around us. One hand guided himself to my entrance, the other cradled my spine like something precious.

And then—

He pushed into me.

Slow. Deep. Stretching me wide, filling every inch until my breath caught and my fingers dug into his arms. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead resting against mine as we both fought to breathe.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You feel unreal. So tight around me. Like you were made for me."

I nodded, jaw slack, eyes fluttering. And then he started to move.

Measured at first. Smooth thrusts that rolled through me like slow waves— each one deeper, heavier, more deliberate than the last. His hips rocked against mine in a rhythm that made my eyes roll back. His mouth hovered near mine, catching every whimper, every curse I tried to swallow.

"That's it, baby," he murmured. "Take it. Just like that. Fuck, you're gripping me so good."

I arched into him, nails raking down his back. The water lapped against our skin, thick with the scent of sweat and steam and sex. Music still played faintly in the background, but all I could hear was the wet slap of his hips and the desperate sounds he dragged from me.

He angled his thrusts slightly, hitting that spot inside me that made me jerk and cry out.

"Right there?" he asked, breath hot against my lips. "You want more of that?"

"Yes! Yes, Cedric, please—"

He gave it to me.

Harder. Deeper. Each stroke driving me closer to that edge but never letting me tip. My thighs shook. My back scraped softly against the tile. His hand found my throat, just enough pressure to ground me, and he groaned at the way I clenched around him.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he murmured, voice low and full of awe. "I can feel it, how your body's trying so hard to hold on for me."

"I-I don't want to yet—"

"Then don't. Hold it for me. I've got you. I could stay buried in this perfect little pussy forever."

He slowed, just a fraction. Long, dragging thrusts that let me feel every inch of him. His hand slipped between us again, fingers finding that perfect rhythm, synced with every movement of his hips.

I was shaking, sobbing his name.

"You're doing so fucking good for me," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Taking me so deep. Look at you, baby. My good little girl. Fucking gorgeous. All mine."

The pressure built again— hotter, harder. I felt like I was unraveling, held together only by the way he moved, the filth he whispered, the way his mouth claimed mine between every breath.

"Fuck, you feel so good, so perfect around me," he groaned, thrusts deeper now, voice wrecked. "My perfect girl. Can't wait to feel you cum, to feel you milk every drop out of me. Gonna fill you up so good, make sure you know who you fucking belong to."

And I broke.

The orgasm tore through me like lightning, sharp and endless. My body convulsed around him, every muscle clenching as I screamed his name into the mist. Cedric held me through it, hips stuttering as he followed with a deep, strangled groan, spilling inside me with a full-body tremor.

We collapsed into each other, panting, water rocking around us in slow, lazy ripples. My legs were still wrapped around him. My fingers dug into his back like I hadn't realized I was holding on so tightly. Every nerve in my body felt rung out, trembling, soaked in heat and something heavier, something holy.

I couldn't move. Didn't want to.

He held me through it, arms banded around my waist, one hand splayed against the curve of my spine like he was anchoring me to this moment. To him. His chest rose and fell beneath mine in steady, shallow swells, the rhythm of his breath syncing with mine as the aftershocks ebbed away.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along my temple, down to the damp curve of my shoulder, then lower, his mouth brushing the hollow of my collarbone like he was still tasting me. Still claiming me.

"Holy fuck," he whispered, voice rough and reverent. "You're going to kill me."

I laughed, hoarse and breathless, the sound barely rising above the shifting water.

Then he kissed me again, soft and reverent, lips brushing mine like a benediction.

The kind of kiss that said everything he didn't have words for. That carved something permanent into the silence between us.

The bubbles had started to fade, collapsing in clusters around us. Steam drifted above the surface like mist over a still lake, curling and catching in the dim candlelight. The chandelier above us swayed gently with the warmth, casting gold across his skin, turning the droplets on his chest into liquid fire.

I tucked my face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, soap and sweat and something sweeter, something that felt like him alone. 

His hand moved slowly on my back, drawing soothing circles, grounding me even now. His other arm wrapped fully around my waist, holding me there like I belonged, like I was home.

His cheek pressed to the top of my head. A hum rumbled low in his chest, soft and content.

"Definitely better than studying," he murmured.

I giggled, the sound slipping free before I could stop it, muffled by the curve of his neck. My whole body felt weightless and heavy all at once, boneless, satisfied, wrapped in warmth that went deeper than the bath. I could've stayed there forever, skin against skin, his breath soft against my temple, the water cradling us like a lullaby.

And so we did.

Tangled and trembling. Wrapped around each other while the world outside the tiles and steam and candlelight fell away.

Eventually, I stirred. Not because I wanted to, but because I remembered why we were here in the first place. We'd come to take Cedric's mind off the egg, to give him a break from the weight of it all, but watching him now, submerged and searching, I felt a sudden urge to help. Maybe if I looked closer, really studied it, I'd see something he missed. Something we both had.

"You brought your egg, right?"

He hummed against my shoulder. Nodded.

I shifted slightly, dragging my fingers lazily through the water. "Can I see it?" I asked, soft but curious.

Cedric groaned, playful, dramatic, not bearing to be away from me for a minute. But he was already leaning in to kiss my temple, warm and quick, like he couldn't help himself.

Then he waded away from me through the slowly cooling water, and I watched him go— watched his muscles shift under the candlelight, droplets tracing the clean lines of his back and shoulders. 

When he reached the edge of the bath, he bent to his bag and retrieved the golden egg, cradling it carefully in both hands like something sacred.

Even now, it gleamed like treasure, round and ornate and pulsing faintly with magic, its seams glowing gold beneath the softened light.

He brought it back to the center of the bath.

Instead of opening it himself, Cedric handed me the egg.

Carefully.

Like it might bite.

I took it with both hands, surprised by its weight. It was smooth and cold against my palms, surprisingly dense for something so beautiful. I turned it slowly, inspecting every curve, every etched detail. Gold glinted under the candlelight. I squinted, trying to see if there was some kind of writing hidden along the seam, some tiny mark or rune that might explain what it held.

Cedric watched me from across the bath, arms resting on the edge, his gaze calm but attentive, curious, amused, a little wary.

Without thinking, my thumb brushed over the small, almost-invisible screw at the top.

And I turned it.

The egg cracked open with a click.

And instantly, it screamed.

The sound tore through the air like a curse— high and piercing and shrill, like a banshee let loose in a cathedral. I flinched violently, nearly dropping it right there. Cedric winced, jerking upright, hand half-lifting out of instinct.

Even the mermaid in the stained-glass window behind us clamped her hands over her ears, her face twisting in disgust.

Panicking, I let go.

The egg slipped from my fingers and vanished beneath the surface with a soft splash, sinking like a stone into the golden water. The moment it disappeared, the screeching stopped, cut off as if someone had slammed a door shut on the sound.

The silence that followed was deafening in its own way. We sat still, breath caught in our throats, both of us blinking, the echoes of the screech still ringing faintly in our ears.

Then, faintly, from somewhere below, the water began to hum.

Not with the sharp, violent wail from before, but with something deeper. Lower. Sadder. A sound that shimmered beneath the surface like a secret waiting to be heard.

A melody.

It tugged at the edges of my awareness, strange and sweet and aching, as if the bath itself had shifted into a portal. I turned toward Cedric, wide-eyed. His gaze met mine at the same moment. We didn't speak, didn't have to. The realization passed between us in a heartbeat, silent and charged.

He inhaled, deep and calm, and then he slid beneath the water.

One fluid movement, shoulders rolling forward, arms slicing down. Focused. 

I didn't think. I just followed.

The moment I dipped beneath the surface, the world changed.

Sound warped around me, soft and strange, muffled like a dream. Cedric's body moved ahead of me, shimmering in the golden light that filtered through the bubbles. He was already at the bottom, crouched over the glowing egg, hair floating like silk around his face, his fingers braced against the marble floor.

And then I heard it.

Truly heard it.

The melody was no longer just a hum, it had taken shape. 

A song, woven from currents. 

It filled the water like light, glowing with a magic that wrapped around my limbs and spine and heart, sinking deeper with every note.

Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above the ground, And while you're searching, ponder this: We've taken what you'll sorely miss.

An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took, But past an hour, the prospect's black, Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.

I stared, wide-eyed, the last notes still ringing in my bones. The water shimmered with the echo of the song, golden bubbles drifting upward like they too had heard something sacred.

Cedric burst through the surface with a gasp, water streaming down his face in rivulets, his chest rising and falling fast. His hair was slicked back, eyes bright with something wild, triumph and disbelief wrapped into one.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, panting, voice low and electric.

I nodded, stunned. "We have to tell Harry."

He blinked once, then his whole face lit up. It was like watching sunrise happen all at once. His smile spread quick and wide and completely unguarded.

Then he laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a polite little puff of air.

A full, loud, triumphant laugh that echoed off the marble like celebration.

And before I could react, he lunged forward, wrapped both arms around my waist, and lifted me out of the water. I let out a yelp, half squeal, half laughter, as he spun us in the center of the bath, droplets flying everywhere, bubbles sloshing over the edge in glittering heaps.

"Cedric!" I shrieked, holding tight to his shoulders, laughing so hard my sides hurt.

He kissed me, fast and breathless and smiling against my lips. Then again, slower this time. A kiss that said thank you. That said we did it. That said I can't believe I get to share this with you.

"I could kiss you forever," he whispered, forehead pressed to mine.

My smile softened, heartbeat still wild. "You just might get to."

And there it was again, that grin that broke through clouds. He looked at me like I was the whole reason the bath still glowed. Like the clues, the pressure, the looming second task, none of it could touch this. Not tonight.

Because right now, it was just us.

Wrapped in candlelight and steam, glowing water lapping at our skin, the echoes of an ancient song fading gently into silence.

The mystery had begun to unravel.

But in this moment, we weren't thinking about what came next.

We were just standing in the middle of it, laughing, soaked, kissed breathless and weightless.

And I knew, without question, I'd remember this night for the rest of my life.

♱ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♱

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[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

I mean...genuinely confused here because they're still queer? Having gay sex? And they're still using erotic blood drinking like they did in the books? (and they sure as fuck have chemistry, at least according to me me and a significant chunk of the audience, but "chemistry" is an inobjective statement anyway, lol. just because you didn't personally enjoying watching it doesn't mean the chemistry isn't there).

like YES, the books are queer. the show is also queer. these facts can coexist. Anne Rice wasn't trying to create a form of "queer intimacy" that was more radical or cooler than gay sex, she was trying to write gay sex in the seventies. if she could have written gay sex as explicitly as she's written heterosexual sex and still have mainstreams success under her own name (unlike the sleeping beauty books) she probably would have. and now it's not the seventies so we don't need to rely on Just blood drinking to communicate queerness. if we're not going to call tvc straight for Anne Rice not writing twenty+ pages of her characters doing anal, it doesn't make sense to criticize the show for not having twenty minutes of sex per episode or whatever.

ntm we've had the same amount of sex (both blood-based and otherwise) as we'd get in a typical Anne Rice novel, just spread out over two seasons and adjusted to make room for plot (well, tva probably had a lot more sex, but considered most of the sex in that books *specifically* was adult/child it wouldn't really fall under the "queer" umbrella anyway). like I agree those scenes could have been longer, but in that case we'd have to see more gifsets of Sam Reid's ass, not fewer, lol (I'm sorry if people weren't trigger tagging their nudity, though, that sucks).

like...we don't have to fight. it can all be queer.

happy pride, if I see one more rainbow colored gifset of sam’s ass i’m gonna commit atrocities

[feeeeeeeeeesh]

An analysis of Corvus Corax and Konrad Curze’s Relationship

There is so much potential between those two that isn’t explored in canon, with them being designed as narrative foils. However, much of what the fandom understands of their relationship comes from their primarch novels, as that is where most of their canon interactions lie, besides the scene at Isstvan V. However, the characterisation of Corax in these two novels is very inconsistent with his backstory, other novels and codexes, so it is not an adequate source to understand Corax’s character, or his relationships. I would recommend anyone that wants to learn about Corax to read Deliverance Lost instead of his primarch novel.

Here I will first break down the issue with Corax’s characterisation in his primarch novel, and then analyse the relationship between Corax and Curze with this mind.

I will put the conclusion here, and the detailed explanation with quotes below the cut:

Before the Heresy, Corax did not hate Curze, and overall had positive views of him. Curze has complicated feelings about Corax, stemmed from jealousy, and views him as a better version of himself which he projects his feelings onto.

Whats wrong with Corax’s primarch novel

Note: This section is long, and exists because most of the fandom’s perception of Corax and his relationship between Curze comes entirely from this novel alone. However, his characterisation in this book largely contradicts other canon material about him. This section will aim to explain why that is the case, and why this novel is a terrible source for character analysis. OP has very strong opinions about this. You can skip it if you want. I have also translated another lore post regarding Corax which can be found here.

Corax’s primarch novel and Curze’s primarch novel are written by the same author, Guy Haley, while most of Corax’s other novels and short stories are written by Gav Thorpe. In his own primarch novel, and in his appearances in Curze’s, Corax is characterised as sheltered, arrogant, naive, obsessed with the idea of “justice” and ignorant of the grim nature of their world. This is intended to juxtapose with Curze, who is presented as more mature in his outlook of the world, and less hypocritical in his actions. While this characterisation of Curze is compliant with the rest of canon and accepted by the fan base, the way Corax is characterised here is a direct contradiction to his other appearances in novels and codexes, and is only here to serve as a foil to Curze, who is presented in a more positive light in these two novels. Hence, I would argue this novel should be excluded when analysing Corax’s character, and especially when concerning his relationship with Konrad Curze.

Once again, anyone interested in learning more about Corax should go read Deliverance Lost first. Do not start on his primarch novel. In fact, I would not recommend reading it until you have finished all other HH novels and short stories about him, and only if you want to experience psychic damage.

The battle of the Carinaean Sodality, the major focus of his primarch novel, is also covered in the HH Black Books, albeit in less detail. There are two major differences in the turn of events: the first being how the Raven Guards made the incorrect strategic decision to chase down Arch-Comptroller Agarth, the second being there is no mention of Konrad Curze or the Night Lords whatsoever. Clearly, these elements were added by the author for his own agenda. While it is common for there to be contradicting knowledge about the events in the WH universe, in this case, one version is clearly more compliant with the rest of canon.

It is revealed in Curze’s novel that the disastrous campaign at Carinaean Sodality in Corax’s primarch novel occurred as a result of Curze’s doing, intending to teach his naive younger brother a lesson through practice:

'Corax affronted me, ordering me about like that. When the call came for the Eighth Legion to terrorise the Carinaen Sodality into submission, I arranged to be elsewhere,’ he told the flesh sculpture. 'I foresaw the event, and what would occur there when I was too far away to assist, and how poorly Corax's failure while acting in my stead would reflect on him. I assume he learned his lesson.’

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

The author’s intention is very clear here: the entirety of Corax’s novel is to compare him to Curze, portraying Curze in a more positive light in that he is not a hypocrite in his wrongdoings, and up-playing the relationship between them for this effect. Corax’s characterisation is changed specific for this reason.

The second major difference is how the Raven Guards made the mistake that caused great losses in the campaign. his primarch novel, he was insistent in deploying his entire Legion to hunt down one person in the name of justice, despite vehement objections from all his closest commanders.

Corvus Corax faced the crew upon the command deck of the Saviour in Shadow. ‘Arch-Comptroller Agarth is to be hunted down. Fleet to adopt wide search patterns. Find him. Bring him to me.’ There were mutters of agreement. But not all were convinced of this course of action. ‘What about the rest of the system?’ asked Agapito. ‘The Twenty-Seventh Expeditionary Fleet will make an immediate assault upon the Thousand Moons, as per Fenc’s plan.’ Agapito hesitated before speaking. ‘What is it, brother?’ asked Branne. ‘If we are not there to support them, they will struggle. With us at their side, we can end this quickly before the cities reach optimal firing situation. Without us–’ Corax’s pale white face leaned towards his old comrade in arms, interrupting him. ‘Agapito, Agarth has denied us the opportunity to show convincing force. He has escaped. If we allow Agarth to go free, we will undermine the Carinae Sodality’s understanding of Imperial justice. The elite will see themselves free of consequence, the populace will despair that we cannot save them. We cast ourselves as saviours from tyranny and the bringers of civilisation to all men. We lie if Agarth does not face justice. Those who commit outrage cannot be allowed to escape. We will hunt him down and destroy him.‘

Corax: Lord of Shadows, Chapter 15 - Guy Haley

There are several things wrong with this. Firstly, if anything, the one obsessed with justice has always being Curze, not Corax, so it’s quite strange how this is cited as his motive. Secondly, Corax has always valued independent thoughts in his subordinates, and he had always found it important to listen to and heed their counsel. Even if there are disagreements, he would choose to explain his thoughts rather than yelling at them from the start. His behaviour here does not correspond to how he is characterised literally everywhere else.

‘We can’t let them attack again,’ argued Reqaui. ‘They got thousands more troops to send and don’t care none about their losses. It don’t matter that we have an army of men willing to lay down their lives, we just can’t match them. They’ll come again and again and again until we’re dead or back in the cells.’ ‘I wish I had never considered it,’ said Corvus, staring at the orb of Kiavahr through the wide window of the guard officers’ mess. The couches were ripped and bloodstained, the ornately carved and lacquered tables and cabinets riddled with bullet holes and scarred by las-fire. ‘It is too extreme. There are millions on that world who labour under the yoke of the guilds as much as we did, and who have committed no offence against us.’

‘Break the power of the guilds,’ urged Reqaui. Corvus nodded reluctantly. There was no other way. ‘Great,’ said Nathian. ‘Let’s get a move on, no time to waste.’ ‘It has already been arranged,’ admitted Corvus. He sank down into the couch vacated by Nathian, long legs stretching out across the burnt carpet. ‘Turman and Wing One have loaded five atomic charges into drop-shuttles. Their guidance systems have been locked on to Nairhub, Toldrian Magna and Chaes. All I have to do is send them the order.’ Ephrenia pulled herself up with a grunt of pain and hobbled across the room. She lowered herself to the floor beside Corvus and rested her arm on his knee. ‘Time won’t make it any easier to give that command,’ she said, looking up at him with soft eyes. With a sigh, Corvus gestured to Agapito, who pulled the radio from his jacket pocket and tossed it across the room. Catching it easily, Corvus flicked the switch to transmit. ‘Turman, this is Corvus,’ he said slowly. ‘Launch the shuttles.’

Deliverance Lost, Chapter 17 - Gav Thorpe

Corax had always been good at listening to counsel from his subordinates, even from the days of the uprising in Lycaeus. In this passage, he asked the opinion of every single one of his commanders, and changed his mind after their counselling. While all primarchs are, at heart, ill-tempered and prone to violence, Corax is comparatively mild-mannered, and usually only his enemies face his anger.

The event here is also an important note on Corax’s view on war. Here, he chose to drop the atomic charges despite the civilian casualties, a “path of least resistance” approach characteristic of the Imperium. He is not so innocent like he is portrayed in his primarch novel that he does not understand the sacrifices in war, and he certainly does not need Konrad Curze to teach him this.

Curze has a much stronger moral compass than Corax. If he was faced with the same decision, he would find it much more difficult to choose to drop the atomic charges, because it involves the death of innocents, something against his values. Meanwhile, Corax would explain this as a necessary sacrifice, a view more consistent with the rest of the Imperium.

If anything, the Nev brothers are even more hot-headed than Corax. It makes no sense they’re the ones holding him back.

Sealed within their sable battle plate the Raven Guard suffered little ill-effect, but the ordinary citizens of Zenith-312 and the soldiers of the Imperial Army were reduced to a frothing, mindless horde that numbered in the tens of thousands. Immediately, the Raven Guard found themselves under assault from all sides by the clawing mass of stricken humanity. Within minutes many had exhausted their supplies of ammunition and had to hack a path onwards with combat blades and gore-slick chainswords. In the hours that followed, the Raven Guard were forced to slaughter the maddened population of Zenith-312 and the men who had stood as their allies for so long, granting them the mercy of death as the Legion swept the voidcity clean. In the aftermath of the fighting, it was discovered that the Arch-Comptroller Agarth had used the massacre of his own people to shroud the escape of his personal shuttle, carrying a cadre of loyal servants and Zenith Guard. This news is said to have incensed Lord Corax and many of the usually stoic Raven Guard, recalling the brutal methods of the Kiavahran overlords who had once held Deliverance in their thrall, and the Raven Lord swore to bring the Arch-Comptroller to account for his actions. The Raven Guard abandoned the prosecution of Carinae’s conquest, and focussed all of its efforts into locating the escaped Arch-Comptroller.

The Horus Heresy Book III Extermination, p. 153

In the HH Black Book, which would’ve served as a template for the plot of the primarch novel, it’s stated that many Raven Guard commanders, as well as the primarch himself all chose to impulsively go hunt for the Arch-Comptroller, because they had to kill their own allies and because they were reminded of their oppressors on Kiavahr. This action is stemmed from a collective personal vendetta rather than Corax’s own abstract desire for justice. That seems more of a Curze thing. This change was introduced entirely so Corax can be compared to Curze. While Corax normally does peak of justice as well, to him it’s less of a priority than to Curze, and the way it’s addressed in this novel is entirely Curze’s opinion copy-pasted.

While Corax has always being presented as an idealist, he is certainly not hopelessly naive as characterised in his primarch novel. Even if Corax had very good parent figures growing up, he still grew up in a prison world, and not all prisoners there were kind like the political prisoner that found and raised him.

The primarch was no stranger to moral compromise. During the uprisings in Lycaeus he had needed every able man and woman for his freedom fighters and not all of the prisoners on the moon had been political internees. Some had been justly convicted murderers, rapists, thieves and wretches of the worst order. The overthrow of the corrupt regime had meant compromising the punishment – and justice for the victims – of these miscreants, but such was the necessity. In turn, once the techno-cults had been overthrown those that survived had been granted pardon for their deeds during the war, as Corax had been forced to promise them.

Soulforge, Chapter 2 - Gav Thorpe

Some of those criminals were included in his Legion after, because he recognised the need for cruel people, and the rest he freed as promised, even if it goes against his ideals. This is very characteristic of the in-universe values, and demonstrates that while he is an idealist at heart, he recognise the need for compromise in politics.

As well as this, the Emperor had felt fit to reveal the secrets of the Warp to Corax, pretty early on. The details of when and what the Emperor told him differs between versions, but the point stands. The Emperor felt that he could be trusted with this knowledge, and it is a secret he kept well, even from his sons. This would make no sense if he was the way he was characterised in his primarch novel.

While it is known that the Master of Mankind and the XIX th Primarch spoke for long hours, what passed between them remains a matter of conjecture. With the benefit of hindsight, some have claimed that the Emperor spoke to Corax of things men, even some other Primarchs, were not yet ready to hear; of the truth of those powers that seethe within the Warp and the darkness soon to come. Certainly, it appears that when the full horror of the Warmaster’s treachery unfolded there were elements Corax seemed to have been forewarned of, though he only ever passed such knowledge on to his forces as and when they needed and were ready to assimilate it.

Horus Heresy Book III Extermination, p. 133

When considering other sources and Corax’s characterisation from other novel, it seems that the result at Carinaean Sodality is due to a collective impulsive act from the entire Legion, which reveals the unique character of the Raven Guard. However, in the primarch novel, this event is presented as the primarch’s own strategic blunder caused by his own naïveté, exacerbated by his refusal to accept counsel from his commanders. This was done to reveal Corax’s character flaws, in order to contrast him with Curze. However, none of the traits raised in this correspond with other canon material, therefore, this book is not a good source for any character analysis involving Corax.

This also brings me to the next point. His primarch novel had the highest mentions of “Curze” and “Night Haunter” in any novel or short story about Corax. Curze gets mentioned more in this book than the ones taking place straight after their fateful encounter on Isstvan V. While Corax does think about Curze sometimes after the Dropsite Massacre, other traitor primarchs, notably Angron, also gets mentioned together. This makes sense because the entirety of Corax’s primarch novel was intended to act as a foil for Curze, so he kept comparing himself to Curze in story. However, he rarely does that in any of the other novels. And as mentioned above, due to the rampant discrepancies, this novel is not a fit source for character analysis, so this point will largely not be considered.

[End of why Corax primarch novel is toilet paper section, you may skip to here]

However, it is true that despite the vast potential, there is very little actual canon interaction between them. Here are the sections I will be looking at:

Curze’s primarch novel While I have established that the characterisation of Corax by Guy Haley is bad, it seems that the consensus regarding the characterisation of Curze in his primarch novel is accepted by the fan base. Corax’s appearance in this book is short enough that his characterisation is mostly alright, and his response to Curze here is supported by other sources, so it will be considered.

A Raven Guard artefact, intended as a gift for Curze

Their fight at Isstvan V

Two Lords of the Night

The meeting between Corax and Curze that occurred in the flashback of Chapter 6 of Curze’s primarch novel is one of the two canon interactions between them, and this passage revealed a lot of information about how they feel about each other.

'We followed similar paths. We should have had so much in common, and yet Corax always hated me. He thought I was barbaric, cruel. Him! The noble freedom fighter who incinerated untold thousands in atomic fire to secure his great moral victory. He understood the value of atrocity well enough, even if he pretended not to.’

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

This is the passage commonly quoted as proof for how Corax hated Curze. However, as this is taken from Curze’s monologue, it can only prove that Curze thinks Corax hates him, and Curze thinks everyone hates him. In fact, if you look at how Corax treats him in the flashback, the opposite conclusion can be drawn.

One important thing to note about this section is that the flashback section written from Sevatar’s perspective, and he is very biased towards Curze. His comments about either primarch should not be taken as face value. It should also be noted that while it is canon that the Raven Guards and the Night Lords do not like each other, and do not like collaborating on campaigns, it does not mean their primarchs must hate each other extra.

'Brother,' said Corax. 'I come to you without violent intent, but please, explain to me what is going on in this city.’ His voice was soft like the Night Haunter's, though not as sibilant, and with a more measured tone. Sevatar refused to let it beguile him. The threat Corax made was clear enough.

Corax broke the silence first. 'What is the meaning of this, my brother?' he said, gesturing metre-long claws at the mess of the slain. 'What happened to your warriors?' Unable to help himself, the Night Haunter snarled. He caught it and turned it into a mocking smile, but not before all present had seen his anger. He was a predator challenged by something just as dangerous. For a moment, Konrad Curze exhibited weakness. 'I happened to them,’ said Curze evenly. Corax looked over the ruined flesh in the room in disbelief. 'What have you done?' Curze smiled blackly. 'An internal dispute, Lord Corax,’ he said airily. 'A Legion matter, that I have resolved. You must understand, there are many criminals in your Legion also. You have your ways of dealing with those who stray too far from the bounds of good conduct.’ He poked a blade of Mercy through the shattered eye lens of a helm and held it up for Corax to see. ‘This is mine.’ Corax's eyes lingered on the blood staining Curze's chin. ’Then perhaps you could tell me why you are bombarding this already compliant sector?'

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

Throughout this entire exchange, Corax’s demeanour was calm when he asked Curze for answers. Despite the fact that he arrived with his Shadow Wardens fully armed, he left without any violent exchange, meaning he accepted Curze’s explanations.

Curze described this exchange as Corax “affronting“ him, but there is actually nothing aggressive or judgemental about Corax‘s demeanour the entire time. Curze thinks Corax is attacking him, because he thinks everyone hates him, and lashed out briefly in anger, as he felt challenged by Corax’s questioning. This is quite characteristic of their interactions. Curze feels challenged by everything Corax does, and in the following moments of vulnerability, he retaliates through the use of sarcasm and intimidation. He is trying to rile Corax up, for if Corax reacts in anger it shows they’re more similar.

Corax registered that Curze probably ate parts of the Legionaries he killed, but did not comment on the fact, and he is not disgusted by it as Curze expect, as he doesn’t register the moral problem with that. His lack of response is not silent judgement. He genuinely do not think there’s a problem with it, or he would’ve commented. One important point to note is that Corax appears devoid of emotions because he actually does not have opinions on most things, nor does he have a clearly defined moral compass the way Curze does. He also does not process sarcasm, which is partly why he is not offended at all.

Curze's narrowed eyes crinkled with a smile. A little tension bled from the room. 'We are the weapon of fear no other Legion dared to be. We are the glorious Eighth. You think I am a monster. I am a simple tool, like you. We have different uses, though identical edges.’ 'I do not think anything about you,' said Corax. 'Other than the disgust I feel for your methods.’ Curze shrugged. 'You may join the line of all the others who feel the same. I don't care. I am exactly as the Emperor intended me to be. Are you really any better than I, Corax shadow-skulker? The Eighth are open in our murders. The Nineteenth are assassins. We are all killers. We are brothers in method as well as in blood.’

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

This is the entire conversation in a nutshell:

Konrad: You hate me

Corvus: No I don’t

Konrad: It’s OK if you hate me. Everyone hates me

Corvus: But I don’t?

Corax did not, at any point, say he hates Curze. He has no personal opinion on Curze; his main issue here is with Curze bombarding a compliant sector and wasting the Imperium’s resources. Curze’s insistence that everyone, especially Corax, must hate him stems from his self-hatred, and this is especially elevated because Corax is the one out of his brothers most similar to him, a point he also emphasise to Corax. He is the one that likes comparing himself to Corax, not the other way around.

Curze’s insistence that Corax must hate him is stemmed from his own self-hatred and jealousy. He feels better about his hatred for Corax if it’s reciprocated, and believes Corax should hate him, because he hates himself. Everything Curze accuses Corax of calling him is his perception of himself. He thinks he is a monster, he thinks everyone hates him and he thinks Corax is better than him, so he attempts to put those words into Corax’s mouth. It doesn’t matter that Corax denies it, because this is Curze’s perception of himself.

Because of their similarities in physical appearance and designation, Curze is constantly comparing himself to Corax, and considers him to be the better one out of them. Curze is jealous of him, and tries to provoke him and belittle him by insisting they are on the same level. Everything he attack Corax with is something he feels about himself. He does not like that he is a tool of the Emperor, so he provoke Corax with this. Corax is actually aware of this and accepts this role, unlike Curze. He does respond to Curze’s provoking and may not even be aware of it.

He sneered, gnawing at his skin until blood ran. 'I'll tell you why. Envy of his mastery lay behind my hatred. I haunted the night, but Corax owned it.’ Breath hissed through dagger teeth. 'He owned it. My stupid, short-sighted sons thought the Ravens' abilities came from technology given only to the Nineteenth. I saw it was innate. Imagine what I could have done had you given the same gifts to me? How much more perfect a monster I would have been had the shadows loved me as much as they loved Corax!'

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

To Curze, Corax represents a better version of himself, a better possibility. His existence reminds Curze of his own faults, and it pains him, which is why being in Corax’s presence makes me feel challenged. It doesn’t actually matter too much to him what Corax thinks of him, as Corax to him is more like a reflection in a mirror that he projects his feelings onto. He thinks Corax hates him because the better version of himself should hate him.

Corax's black, unreadable eyes rested on Curze for several seconds. 'I will return to my ship. Stop this bombardment. The conquest is falling behind schedule. We risk turning the population further from the Emperor's light.’

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

Corax’s main issue with what Curze was doing here was that bombarding a compliant sector is a waste of the Imperium’s resources and delays the progress of the Great Crusade. He had no issues with Curze personally, nor with the methods he used to dispose of miscreants in his Legion.

'First Captain,' that silky, miserable voice said. 'Does he believe it to be true, that your Legion is a weapon of fear?' 'He does.’ 'Do you believe it?' Sevatar did not reply. ‘I say many of the other Legions see you as a coterie of sadists and murderers,' said Corax. His voice was totally isolated from outside noise, and spoke eerily into Sevatar's helm. 'So I ask you again, do you believe it?' 'My Lord Curze, Sevatar said stiffly, and severed the vox.

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

Ignoring all of Sevatar’s pointed commentary, we can come to the conclusion that Corax is reaching out to him out of concern for his brother. He’s asking for a second opinion because Curze is difficult to communicate with. He reiterated these opinions about the Night Lords neutrally. However, Sevatar is also unwilling to communicate with him.

This is what happens when Corax actually hates someone:

In answer, Perturabo accused Corax of seeking to avoid battle, a crime verging on dereliction for a Primarch of the Legiones Astartes. The two very nearly came to blows, with only the intervention of Leman Russ staying bloodshed.

Horus Heresy Book III Extermination, p. 135

‘I struck Horus once for usurping the victories of the Raven Guard for his own glory, a moment that no doubt festers in the Warmaster’s thoughts. I aim to repeat the insult, whenever I can.‘

Ravenlord, Chapter 7 - Gav Thorpe

No Night Lord was harmed in this exchange, despite the fact that Corax came fully armed with his elites, who clearly wanted a fight as much as the Night Lords. If he hated Curze as much as Curze believes, he would not had left peacefully.

For some unfathomable reason, that made Curze cringe, and he nodded like a rebuked child. His sons wavered in their adoration, then Curze gathered his dignity and his wits. Standing from the pile of the dead, he clothed himself in a primarch's majesty, obliterating memories of the pitiful, cannibal thing he had been a few moments before.

Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Chapter 6 - Guy Haley

As soon as Corax left, so does his influence, and Curze recovers his composure. Being in Corax’s presence makes him go really defensive.

From this exchange, it can be seen that Corax does not hate Curze, and shows concern for him. Curze has complicated feelings for Corax, stemming from jealousy. He sees Corax as a better version of himself, and projects his own self hatred onto Corax. He constantly tries to rile him out, with limited effect.

A Gift

EX TENEBRIS Ex Tenebris is a masterwork bolter fitted with an incredibly sophisticated telescopic scope system. Chapter legend has it that the weapon was forged by Corax himself, as a gift for his wayward brother, the Night Haunter. But the Horus Heresy turned the two Primarchs’ Legions against one another, and Ex Tenebris was instead borne into battle by heroes of the Raven Guard.

Raven Guard Codex 8th edition, p. 58

This is highly unusual because while Corax does create weapons and artefacts, most of these were made for his sons or himself, and there is no record of him crafting such gifts for other primarchs, not even for the ones he is known to be friends with such as Leman Russ and Roboute Guilliman.

The weapon is also designed to fit Curze’s fighting style, a gift with much thought put into it. Clearly, Corax must have like Curze a lot to make such a gift for him.

There are also a lot of implications as to what may have happened. What exactly caused Corax to not give out the gift? The most likely explanation would be that the Heresy happened, but that would mean that the gift was completed quite late, and by that point the Night Lords have already accumulated a reputations among the Legions, and Curze’s mental state has been steadily deteriorating. That means Corax must have cared for him despite all that. If the gift was completed earlier, then another event would’ve been the reason that Corax didn’t give it out. Or perhaps Curze rejected the gift? There is a lot of room for speculation regarding the details, but one thing is clear: There was a point in their relationship where Corax liked Curze enough to craft him a weapon, a treatment normally reserved for his sons.

Battle at Isstvan V

The fateful battle at Isstvan V is also an important point in the relationship. Very little detail was included in the original codex, so the author of the novel had free reign, and his choices here are very interesting, and most likely setting up for future interactions, which unfortunately never happened because Curze went ahead and died.

The most interesting thing about this section is the differential treatment of Corax and Curze of each other, compared to how they treated Lorgar.

And there he stood at the heart of the killing fields, winged and haloed by amorphous contrails of psychic fire, shouting his brother’s name into the storm. Corax answered with a shriek of his own – the call of the betrayer, the cry of the betrayed – and the raven met the heretic in a clash of crozius and claw.

The First Heretic, Chapter 26 - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

This is the start of the fight between Corax and Lorgar. They do not acknowledge each other and get straight into the fighting.

‘What are you doing?’ Corax cried into his brother’s face as their weapons locked. ‘What madness has taken you all?’

‘Answer me, traitor,’ the Raven Lord grunted. His dark eyes were narrowed at the sickening light that haloed Lorgar. ‘You… are a poor reflection of our father… with that psychic gold.’ Lorgar felt himself slipping back in the mud, his boots grinding across the earth as his brother’s strength leaned heavier against him. He couldn’t break the weapon lock this time. Both Corax’s claws clutched at Illuminarum’s haft, burning the handle and the Word Bearer’s hands. ‘I am bringing the truth to humanity,’ Lorgar breathed. ‘You are destroying the Imperium! You are betraying your own blood!’ The wildness in the Raven Lord’s black eyes was something Lorgar had never even imagined before. Corax had always seemed so taciturn, so devoid of passion. That this warrior lay beneath the albino facade was a horrendous revelation.

‘But he lied to us,’ Lorgar spoke through lips that produced more blood than language. ‘Father lied.’ The claws jerked, snagged against Lorgar’s enhanced bones. Corax tore them free, inflicting more damage than the first impaling had done. Blood hissed and popped as it evaporated on the force-fielded blades. ‘Father lied,’ Lorgar said again. He was on his knees, hands clutched over the ruination of his stomach. Corax’s black eyes gave nothing away. He stepped closer, his one functioning claw raised to execute his brother.

The First Heretic, Chapter 27 - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Corax is questioning Lorgar here, but he is not actually interested in the answer. His words here are more just him venting his anger at betrayal, and by the end of the exchange he is no longer responding to Lorgar at all except with his lightning claws.

Corax looked to meet eyes as black as his, in a face as pale as his own. His claw strained against a mirroring weapon, both sets of blades scraping as they ground against each other. One claw seeking to fall and kill, the other unyielding in its rising defence. Where the Raven Guard primarch’s features were fierce with effort, the other face wore a grin. It was a smile both taut and mirthless – a dead man’s smile, once his lips surrendered to rigor mortis. ‘Corax,’ said the other primarch. ‘Curze,’ Corax said the name as the curse it was. ‘Look into my eyes,’ said the progenitor of the Night Lords Legion, ‘and see your death.’ Corax sought to wrench his claw free, but Curze’s second gauntlet closed on his brother’s wrist. ‘No,’ Curze’s laughter as was joyless as his smile. ‘Do not fly away, little raven. Stay. We are not finished, you and I.‘ ‘Konrad,’ Corax tried. ‘Why have you done this?’ Curze ignored the plea. He turned his void-like eyes on the prone Lorgar, with disgust written plain across his carcass face. ‘Rise from your knees, you accursed coward.’ Lorgar sought to do just that, using his brother’s midnight-blue armour as a crutch to haul himself to his feet. Curze bared his sharpened teeth. ‘You are the foulest weakling I have ever seen, Lorgar.’

The First Heretic, Chapter 27 - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Contrast this with Corax’s reaction to Curze joining the battle. They address each other by name and look into each other’s eyes. The scene is presented as intimate, and highlights their similarities to each other. If you compare the way Corax asked Curze this question to how he questioned Lorgar before, there is a very obvious difference. In using his personal name and taking on a softer tone, Corax is actually looking for an answer here, and the betrayal he felt here is clearly more personal compared to Lorgar’s.

Curze’s response is very interesting too, the level of insult he is throwing at Lorgar is so much more offensive than what he is saying to Corax, and Lorgar is supposed to be his ally. He is calling his hated enemy pet names while calling his ally ‘coward’ and ‘weakling’.

We have already established that Curze feels challenged in Corax’s presence and shows vulnerability, which he compensates for by sarcasm and intimidation. This is really obvious in this passage as well, Curze uses flowery language which Corax probably does not comprehend. However, comparing to what he is saying to Lorgar, which is his usual level of art of language, what he says to Corax is so tame. He ignores Corax‘s question because he does not know how to answer him, and instead makes a dig at Lorgar, because that’s something he can do easily without losing his composure further.

At this point, Corax only has one functioning lightning claw, and is already spent from his fight with Lorgar. But all Curze did was hold him in place by locking his functioning claw and grabbing his wrist. He has the chance to do a lot more damage if he wish, but he does not. He sees Corax as a better version of himself, and despite how much he claims to hate him, he cannot truly bring himself to actually hurt Corax, because that would destroy the “better future” that Curze could not have. However, he does take sadistic pleasure in seeing some of Corax’s composure break, in dragging the “better one” down with him.

There is very little information about this fight in the codex, however, the author made one very deliberate change: Corax’s lightning claw was broken by Lorgar in the novel, while it was broken by Curze in the codex.

He had lost one lightning claw in battle against his twisted kin, the Night Haunter, but where the other lashed out, his every blow cut an enemy Legionary to ragged shreds and cast steaming viscera on to the thirsting black sands, and when he took to the sky upon his blackpinioned flight pack, it was to descend once more to scythe down scores of Traitors and to rescue pockets of Loyalists who had been cut off and surrounded, falling like lightning on their attackers and allowing them to break out of the killing ground.

Horus Heresy Book III Extermination, p. 33

The Word Bearer smashed the first claw aside, striking the fist with enough force to shatter the gauntlet completely, but even as scythe-long claw blades span off into the surrounding melee, the second claw struck home.

The First Heretic, Chapter 27 - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

This had to have been a deliberate choice on the author’s part, and comparing their battle prowess it would've been more likely that Curze broke it rather than Lorgar. This further emphasises the point that Curze couldn’t physically harm Corax as he symbolise a better possibility.

As well as this, from what Curze has been saying, he does want them to meet again. He wants to continue their state of entanglement, and he does not actually want to kill Corax.

‘Thank you, Konrad.’ Curze spat at Lorgar’s feet. ‘I will let you die next time. And if you…’ The Night Lord trailed off, his black eyes narrowing as he watched the figures appearing at Lorgar’s side. Their armour was crimson ceramite and ridged bone. Great claws, both metallic weapons and fleshy, jointed talons, extended from bestial arms. Every helm was horned. Every faceplate was split by a daemon’s skullish leer. ‘You are so much more than merely foul,’ Curze turned his back. ‘You are rancid in your corruption.’

The First Heretic, Chapter 27 - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Curze actually hates Lorgar because he perceives him as weak, and this is the level of insults that is thrown. There is no ambiguity and no pet names. Curze makes his distaste known. The mention of a ‘next time’ might be relating to Corax rather than Lorgar. This implies he came here to gloat at Corax rather than to save Lorgar, so if there is a next time, which presumably wouldn’t involve Corax, he would not come save him.

ADB also really like the relationship between Curze and Corax, and contributed the most famous “little raven” line. It is quite unfortunate that there was no further interaction between those two, and unlikely for there to be any more interactions in the future, as Curze went and died, and, for the sake of the integrity of the story, personally I do not think he should be brought back.

This entire passage gave the impression that Curze came here just for Corax, but at the same time could not actually hurt him outright. Corax felt personal betrayal at the appearance of Curze on the traitor’s side. Lorgar existed to serve as a mark for how special their treatment for each other was, since neither of them had a close relationship with him.

After the Heresy

After the Heresy, Corax does indeed hate Curze, because he hated all of the traitor primarchs. He hated them for betraying the Imperium, and for the losses suffered by his Legion on Isstvan V. It is, however, not a personal feud towards Curze, unlike Curze’s feelings about him, which was very much personal.

Konrad Curze and Corvus Corax’s complicated feelings about each other is very interesting, and it’s not as simple as mutual hatred, which is how most of the fandom presents it. Due to their similarities, Curze views Corax as a “better possibility” for himself, and projects his self hatred onto him. Seeing Corax reminds him of his own flaws, which is why it makes him uncomfortable and lash out, claiming to hate him, but he also cannot bring himself to actually destroy this vision of a “better” him. What Corax thinks about him doesn’t actually matter that much to Curze; he believes Corax hates him because by his own values he should.

Corax doesn’t have opinions on most things, and he does not actively seek out relationships with people. However, from his actions, it can be deduced that he does care for Curze before the Heresy. Unlike Curze, he does not have a strong moral compass, so he does not really have a problem with Curze’s methods, not even as much as Curze hates himself, as they all serve the Emperor. It’s also quite likely that he doesn’t register Curze’s sarcasm at all. He is not a man of many words, and his silence can usually be interpreted as acceptance rather than judgement. After the Heresy, Corax hated all traitor primarchs.

Another interesting point about their dynamic is their complete inability to communicate with each other. Curze immediately goes into defensive mode, and start talking exclusively in sarcasm, with the intention of riling Corax up. Corax on the other hand cannot not process this at all, but Curze will treat everything he does as a personal attack. On the other hand, if Corax actually reacts to his provocation, I think their relationship would only be worse. In the end, Curze did succeed, in a way, to make Corax hate him, after the Heresy, just not the way he wanted.

[chan-hvgs]

Okay the part 1 was cute and fluffy where we got to see the reader meeting seungmin and the fluff stuff where he helped her translate and dropped her back home. The reader is shy after this and starts doing her research on stray kids and their music and content. She really sees seungmin as a good human being and all members love and accept her. So she takes the passion for learning Korean on her own so that she communicates with members and so she asks seungmin questions about how you became an idol and what made so passionate about. Seungmin asks her on a date in a shy manner. They have their first date on the mall without minnie being recognized she wears heels and a dress that makes minnie heart flutter so the reader tells her life journey and all of sudden she faces a show bite without telling her. Minnie being soft he is lifts reader in her arms she is shocked checking to see whether anyone recognize him she feels fluttered and touched

The photos above are not mine! They're from pinterest and belong to their rightful owners.

Ship(s)/Characters: Kim Seungmin x Fem!Reader, Ot8

Word count:1,348

CW: Fluff, mentions of food, friends to lovers, *Some info may not be accurate, Its just what the internet told me/ Or its just fiction completely!, injuries (Very lightly described blisters),

Bold is texted

Summary: You came to Seoul to pursue your dreams as a graphic designer and animation. You met a certain someone while you were there, what happens now? 

Pt.1 here!

It had been a week since you had that game night with Seungmin and his friends. You had been texting throughout the week and you had to admit, you really liked the boy. You had unpacked and were finally getting comfortable in Korea, having already fallen into a system. 

Currently you were taking a break from your Korean studies using the books Felix provided you with (and they were really helping, you'd have to thank him next time you see him), but instead of flipping pages you were sitting in front of your computer, Google open, your lips parted in shock. You scrolled through different pages about Stray Kids, having searched them on a whim when a nagging feeling wouldn't leave you– And now… That little liar. He wasn’t just a fan of Stray Kids, he WAS a part of Stray Kids. And his friends, the friends you were joking and laughing with weren't just his friends– They were his groupmates. You leaned back in your chair, no wonder Chan was so suspicious of you, being the leader and all, you wouldn't expect anything less. But why’d Seungmin keep this a secret? I mean sure he hinted at it but did he think you’d start treating him differently? Get obsessed?  Well you wouldn’t be shocked, he must have had some pretty terrible experiences to not tell you directly. You tapped your phone nervously, debating telling him you knew but decided to go ahead and bite the bullet.

You:

Hey…

Can we talk…?

Seungmin:

What? You tired of me already 🙏

You:

You know that’s not it..

You’re a vocalist of Stray Kids?

You watched as his text bubble appeared and reappeared multiple times, once, twice, three times before finally revealing a message. 

Seungmin:

So.. You figured it out. I'm so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

I was just scared. You don’t know just how scary some people can be.

You:

I’m not mad Minnie,  I understand. 

I don’t care that you're an idol. I like hanging out with you because you’re you.

Seungmin:

Thanks… I’m sorry again.

Do you want to hang out? There’s a mall I want to show you.

You:

Oh? Asking me on a date?

Your smile widened as his reply appeared

Seungmin:

If that's what you want to call it, then yeah it’s a date. See you at 5.

You smile, cheeks heating up as you look at the text. A date.. An actual date. The heart throb wore off when you realized the time. You only had about an hour and a half to get ready. Pulling yourself out of bed you quickly showered and began getting ready, your phone playing a Stray Kids playlist, you might as well get familiar now. Brushing out your hair and doing your makeup, casual but still nice. You wore one of your prettier dresses, blue and floral, and the shoes to go with it were a pair of dainty heels with bows on the buckles. You picked your phone up and winced when you realized the time, 4:55. You did one last once over in your full-length mirror, spraying yourself down with perfume before grabbing a purse and dropping your phone, lip gloss and wallet into it just as there was a knock on your door. You rushed to open it and there he was, dressed in a beige sweater and light wash jeans, white converse on his feet, A small bouquet of beautiful roses in his hand. You watch his face flush a light color of pink up to his ears as he takes you in. 

He blinked, quickly snapped out of it when he realized he was staring. Holding the bouquet in your direction “These are for you” He smiled shyly as you took them, fingers grazing his for a split second. They smelt heavenly, and they were so beautiful. “I’m gonna put these in a vase if you wanna step inside?” He smiled, stepping inside your apartment as you filled a vase with water, he looked around for a second “This is a really nice place” You nodded, smiling. “Yeah… My job provided it. It’s really big for an apartment” You set the vase by a window and moved towards the door again, looking over when Seungmin offered his hand, looking away. You smiled, taking it as he led you out the door and started towards the mall.

On your way to the mall you looked over at the male, who was obviously more flustered and reserved than he was the last time you walked together, your hand still in his. “So… “ You said gently “What made you decide to become an idol” You didn't want to come off as pushy but you were genuinely curious and he looked happy to have a conversation starter. “Well when I was younger I wanted to be a professional baseball player” He giggled a little, but you could see the longing in hius eyes “But plans fell through because of–- injuries and… other things so I turned towards entertainment. My friends convinced me to audition for JYP and now I’m here” You nodded with a smile, he obviously gave you a short, cut blank explanation but it was enough fpr now. By the time he finished talking, we’d reached the entrance of the mall. 

You realized Seungmin didn’t have a mask on and you looked at him curiously “Aren’t you worried about getting recognized?" You asked, voice low. He shrugged, walking over into a store. “This mall isn't very popular, and it's 5pm on a Tuesday so I’m not too worried. Idols come here more often than you'd think” You nodded, letting go of Seungmin’s hand as she looked around the store. He stood beside you, looking at you, eyes wandering your form. “So.. what about you?” he smiled “I told you about me so it’s your turn” You smiled "I've already told you most of it.” He shrugged “Still” So you told him about growing up in Japan and what led you to your current job and how you got the offer that brought you to Korea. The two of you walked store to store as he listened to you, nodding along, occasionally asking you a question or two, his hand holding yours anytime you weren’t using it, You could even swear you could see hearts in his eyes as he listened. 

 It wasn’t until you stopped at a food court and sat down to get something to eat that you felt the pain radiating from your heel. Sure, you knew wearing heels when you would be walking around wasn't the best idea and now you had a painful blister covering your heel. Seungmin came over with two Korean corn dogs and handed one to you, eating one himself. The two of you ate in relative silence, having talked so much while shopping. And when you finished eating Seungmin stood to continue, offering his hand. He must've noticed the look on your face and the way you falter when you stood because he immediately put his hand on your shoulder. “Hey, you ok?” You nodded with a smile. “Yeah… just have a blister from these heels” He looked down with a nod. “Then let's call it here for the night, yeah?” You smiled at his consideration and started walking when suddenly his hands were on your waist and your feet were off the ground. You looked at Seungmin, his face was flushed, his ears basically glowing, obviously flustered by his own actions, but he continued to carry you as if you weighed nothing. Warmth bloomed in your chest, the closeness, the gesture—it all felt like a dream.

Seungmin carried you all the way home, not once putting you down once until he reached the front of your apartment, allowing you to open the door. You walked in and turned around, Seungmin still red from embarrassment with the smallest smile on his face. You smile, eyes meeting his. “Let's do this again?” Seungmin nodded, smiling so widely it made your chest ache “of course” 

(A/N: Pt.2 yay! I hope you like it @vernorica123 ! It was fun to write! Sorry this took me so long to get out! I had no motivation and was a little burnt out but hopefully I'm back now! Thank everyone so much for the support I've had recently! As always, feel free to send requests and remember to eat, drink some water and get rest! Have a great day/afternoon/night! I love y’all!-🐝)

[emeraldserenade]

thunderbolts reaction to reader getting a cat?

Getting a Cat ~ Thunderbolts* plus Joaquín Torres

synopsis: How they react to you getting a cat

tw: fem!reader, established relationship for everyone, cat's name is Elsie, it gets suggestive with Joaquín (breeding kink goes crazy with him), barely edited.

I've never done something like this but I have it separated by character. I know I said I wasn't writing for John Walker yet, so I guess take this as me trying my hand before I dive head first into him. I also added Joaquín as a bonus because I love him!!

➽──────────────❥

Bucky Barnes:

Bucky had Alpine so his first thought was to make sure the two got along. As soon as he realized they did, your little baby was just as spoiled as Alpine. You laughed constantly as Bucky got baited into giving both the cats more treats, even if they were just fed.

"I swear, they don't care about us," Bucky grumbled one night when he saw he was being blocked from cuddling into you by both cats, again.

"Awe, you poor baby," you joked, reaching out to stroke his cheek. The actions stirred the cats before both jumped down to curl up by the window. "See now you can come cuddle," you opened your arms and Bucky made himself at home. His head falling on your chest as he wrapped his arms around your middle, you were his grounding presence. The only one he never felt he had to be completely strong around, he could be just him.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Yelena Belova:

Yelena would be so excited and automatically try and make Elsie and Fanny friends. You watched as she tried her hardest only for Elsie to run every time Fanny got too close.

"Just give it time, love," you cooed at Yelena's crestfallen face. "The shelter said Elsie's skittish," you reminded her and she nodded.

"I just want them to love each other," she told you and you smiled at her.

"And they will, just not yet," you said as went back to reading your book.

The second you saw Elsie and Fanny were curled up and napping together, you took a picture and sent it to Yelena with the caption "See, I told you."

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Bob Reynolds:

Bob would be terrified at hurting your cat, he would be scared that he would forget his strength and accidentally pet her too hard.

"Here, give me your hand," you told him, holding your dominate one out. Bob placed his hand in yours gently and you moved it over to your cat curled up next to you. With gentle movements, you guided Bob's hand over the cat a few times before letting go.

You watched with a small smile as Bob kept petting her, occasionally scratching her head. "She's soft," Bob mumbled and you hummed.

"Yeah, she is. And see, you aren't hurting her. Trust me, cats will make it known if they dislike something," you told him, relaxing back against the bed as your attention turned back to the TV.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Ava Starr:

Ava would act all uninterested in Elsie but you caught her holding Elsie tenderly one time after a harder mission. You said nothing but you did sit next to her and pet Elsie. Offering silent comfort and to let Ava know you were ready to talk when she was.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Alexi Shostakov:

He would be all loud and happy about you bringing in a cat. Constantly taking any affection that Elsie gave him as a sign that he was her favorite. You would roll your eyes and let him have it, after all, there was no way you would argue about it. Elsie did seem to like Alexi the most.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

John Walker:

John is a dog person and is completely uninterested in Elsie. But then he turns into one of those 'dads with the pet they didn't want' and Elsie is spoiled. Any joke you made about it was met with a huff but it only made you laugh harder.

"You love her, admit it!" You called from your spot on the couch.

"I do not, I just tolerate her more than normal cats," John huffed.

"You're literally cutting up a salmon filet for her!"

"She needs the fatty acids and proteins."

"Yeah, ok, you health freak," you pretend to not notice his offended look.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín Torres:

Joaquín is a dog person but loves you more, so the second you get excited over bringing Elsie home, he's already changing his pet preference. Your shared house is full of top tier cat toys, perches, and beds. Only for Elsie to like sleeping on either of you and messes with your hair ties.

"This is why I like dogs, at least they play with the things you buy them," Joaquín grumbled but planted a small kiss to Elsie's head anyway.

"She just loves us more than what we give her, the perfect kid," you joked without looking up from your book.

"Perfect kid, huh?" You missed the insinuation in his tone so you hummed. "Let's go make one," Joaquín said, pulling your book out of your hands before marking the page and pulling you into his chest.

"Joaquín Torres!" You laughed but let him pull you into the bedroom anyway.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[holylulusworld]

Play your cards (4)

Summary: You played your cards well…so far…

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: mafia au, grumpy/cocky reader, banter, tension, threats, voyeurism, mentions of oral (fem rec not the reader)

Characters: Steve Rogers

A/N: This is the twin series to Roll the dice.

Cardsharp = A gambler skilled in card games.

Catch up here: Play your cards (3)

Play your cards masterlist

Calling Bucky Barnes intense would be an understatement.

Everything must be in order. His place looks like you could eat from the floor. It’s tidier than the clean room in semiconductor physics.

"Put the suitcase and bag there. I’ll check on it later. We don’t want you to bring lice or stuff into my home.”

“Whoa, dude!” You angrily glare at Bucky. “You dragged me out of my home and forced me to enter this shitty place. I didn’t ask to join you in your clean room!”

“Watch your tongue!” Bucky points his gloved index finger at you. “Or else, I’ll get my knife back out!”

“Coward!” You snap at him. “Psycho! Sick bastard! Possessed cockroach!” You throw insult after insult at Bucky. “You had to ruin my perfect life.”

He laughs in your face, acting like his life is so much better. “Perfect life?!” Maybe his apartment looks like it came straight out of a magazine, and his car cost more than your whole home, but you won’t let him get away with laughing about you. “You are living off scraps and stealing from people.”

“Fuck you!” You slap Bucky across his face, earning a growl from him. You step back to bring distance between you and the bastard. “I was exactly where I wanted to be in life. At my home, avoiding people!”

“Yeah, right.” Bucky scoffs. “Avoiding people by stealing from them. Do not try to lie to me. You’re not as sly as you think you are.”

Gesturing toward Bucky, you say, “People like you are the reason I mostly stay to myself. You have been harassing me since the moment we met. A cat and a book mixed with Italian food are much more tempting than going out and getting involved with the likes of you.”

He steps toward you, that stupid smirk on his lips again. “Well, now you have my full attention, Cardsharp. No more hiding in that stinking apartment.”

“Stinking?” You take off your shoe to throw it at Bucky. He easily catches it, but you don’t care. Taking off the second shoe, you throw it at him too, hitting him square in the chest. “It was a cute little apartment until you waltzed inside and put your stink on my couch.”

“You did it!” He storms toward you, throwing your shoe over his shoulder. Bucky grasps for you, but you easily dodge his attack.

“In your dreams!” You go for a sprint, leaping over his expensive couch and knocking a lamp over. Bucky will mourn the loss of his lamp later. He’s engrossed in watching you run through his penthouse, cackling as if you lost your mind.

“She’s crazy.” Bucky shrugs his jacket off. He looks at the broken lamp, laughing loudly. “I brought a lunatic home. Great…”

He goes for a chase, calling your name as you try to outsmart the bastard ruining your life. You look left and right, deciding to hide under his bed. Not your smartest move, but it can’t be helped.

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” Bucky shouts through the apartment. He silently sneaks toward his bedroom, stopping right in front of the bed.

You press one hand over your mouth, stopping yourself from giggling. “I know you are in here. Do you want me to huff and puff and blow your hideout down?"

Biting your hand, you fight with yourself. You don’t want to, but you burst into laughter, giggling and snorting.

“You want to blow someone so bad? Why don’t you call your boyfriend and suck his cock?” Crawling out from under his bed, you giggle. “You’re not even close to being a wolf. Just a lonely dude throwing knives at women he kidnaps.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and another. If not for the raging boner you gave him with only your presence, he’d gladly kick you out of his penthouse, never looking back.

“Fine, I’ll bring you to Steve and let him decide on what to do to you!” He growls and stalks toward your position.

You snort and crawl back under the bed, dodging the angry knife enthusiast. “Stop running. You little shit.”

He goes on his knees to crawl under the bed, but you are long gone.

“Loser!” You stick your tongue out before running again. “Catch me if you can!”

“I swear, I’ll kill her one day!”

“Where are we going? Why are we at the casino? Did you not tell me to never come back here?” You growl at Bucky, who drags you toward a double door. “I’m talking to you, dumbass!”

“You wanted to settle things with Steve, so we will ask Steve what punishment fits your crime,” Bucky grins before opening the door.

You gasp. Right in front of you is the infamous Steve Rogers, about to bury his face in some girl’s pussy.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky clears his throat, making the girl on the poker table freeze.

“Fucking shit, Buck!” Steve growls against the woman’s cunt. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I see you found a way to punish her,” Bucky laughs, but shamelessly stares at the woman’s body. “I wanted to introduce you to my girl, but I see you’re busy down there.”

You grunt and try to wiggle out of his grip. You call him a jerk, asshole, and worse.

“You found true love this time, huh?” Steve lifts his head to look your way. “How about you leave me to my meal and eat your own cunt?”

“He wishes,” you growl and elbow Bucky. “You fucking pervert. Do you often watch people fuck?”

“No, I love doing it myself,” Bucky growls and drags you out of the room. You yell at him, kicking and screaming, until he finally releases you. You take the chance to twist his nipple, earning a pained noise.

“You are even worse than these guys wanting to grope me or shit!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, looking you up and down. Bucky scowls before he says, “You think I’m worse than these guys? Fine, let’s find these men and see if I’m worse!”

[nalyra-dreaming]

I feel like I've been bombarding you with many asks 😅 But unlike myself, you seem to still be caught up with TVC books and the IWTV tv show, and I love how much thought you put into your answers. I'm hoping you can help me with another ask about the tv show, as I am now getting confused here!

I know, canonically, Armand is Daniel’s maker and that Devil's Minion will be in the show... but I started noticing people theorize that Armand is not Daniel's maker in the show. These theorists point out the scene where Daniel asks Louis if he has heard from his maker (of course I automatically thought Armand), and then state why would Louis hear from Armand after the fallout they had.

They also pointed out the scene where Louis is revealed to have lied about how Claudia's turning went, and then he tells Daniel to go with Lestat's version--implying that Daniel is already in contact with Lestat. As far as I know, Daniel has yet to even meet him? Did I miss something??

Mhhhh. So I do not see that as an implication that Daniel is already in contact with Lestat - for me it seemed very clear that Louis was referring to what Lestat told during the trial there.

Also, the thing about why Louis would hear from Armand... is circumstantial and conjecture at best (as an argument), imho.

Remember, there is a time jump at the end of season 2 - whenever the reunion happened (or not), and when the interview ended to vampire Daniel killing someone and communicating with Louis there is at least two to three years.

A LOT can happen in those years.

I do NOT think that the show will have Daniel be turned by someone else than Armand. I also do not think that Daniel will have eyes other than the book-canon purple.

The show is too good in the details for that. All the characters have their eye-colors (if they were given in the books), why-ever would they choose to do it differently there... except, of course, it is a clue. A hint. Like so many things in season one were, and I remember people calling others delusional for pointing them out, and lo and behold - they were.

So, with that in mind, let me get to why I emphasized Daniel here... as we know, the "body switching" parts have already been set up - Raglan is there, certain comments re body switching, Daniel asked what he had to "pay" for getting the trial script. @cbrownjc has talked about it all as well, but there is imho a real chance that the "vampire Daniel" we see there... and who could definitely have been turned by someone else (!) ... is not really Daniel.

Rolin Jones has talked about establishing the concept of a soul, which will be important in the upcoming arcs. Not just for Claudia, but also for the body switching arcs.

So, what if that is not really Daniel? What if Louis does not know though? What if Daniel has asked him to contact "his maker"? What if ... more has happened?

There are a lot of little puzzle pieces floating around right now, a lot will click into place as soon as we know if Daniel interviewing Lestat is still mortal... or not.

Even more will click into place if and when we will know for sure if Daniel... is, in fact, Daniel. Because in the VC there is a canon difference between body-somebody, and soul-somebody, and I have a feeling that will come into play rather heavily, as it does in the books, something that I talked about with Cbrownjc, and the details of which she actually came up with first.

I think by now, that, in the "present time" we are already in the middle of the body switching plot mixed with the PL era plot and the QotD-Akasha-rising plot. Which does not mean that they won't do the books book-by-book - but they are setting it all up already, so they can hook into it all later.

[deardiarywrites]

make lemonade with the lemons life throws at you - dealing w the blues alone . . .

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

hey guys! how are you all? oh, me? im doing a little meh.. i am someone who feels a lot and yeah you guessed it right. that means whenever i am upset, i feel really really upset and my mind starts bubbling up and slowly starts to disintegrate. that is exactly why i am creating this post. to help myself and you to heal and get better, even when we have no one by our side. especially if we don't have anyone or feel like no one gets us. teeny tiny fix - there are people who care abt us ok? it's just our cute little minds being a bit under pressure rn so it feels like everyone is against us.

tip one : acknowledge your feelings

be upset. be depressed. cry. yes, let it all out. no toxic positivity here. who are we without our shadowy bits? there is nothing wrong to be upset and it's fine if no one gets it. they don't have to get it for it to be real. you are going to be okay. listen to songs that totally describe your situation and mood and let yourself be sad. feel it. and accept it. but don't make it your identity.

pls note ! : please don't harm yourself as it will further ruin your mood. it is possible to allow yourself to feel w/o inflicting damage upon yourself or others. yes, others too. just because you are upset, try not to bring down other people. if u feel like you tend to be extra mean when you are upset, i suggest taking deep breaths before answering someone and don't be afraid to be vulnerable, if you are upset, don't act like you're on top of the world.

tip two : create something even if it sucks

create something. literally anything. paint rocks. braid grass. try a new hairstyle. make a stickman comic strip. make a quiet book (so so so fun). create a notion template. write a short story. write a poem about how you are feeling. draw yourself. choreograph a popular song. cook smth. draw on your body. try a makeup look. cut your hair. write letters you'll never send. write a script and act. create cute costumes. cosplay as your perfect character.

it doesn't have to be perfect. just create. and not for any kind of validation. create something and don't tell anyone about it. it will be your little secret. let it age, like fine wine and fix it every now and then. and then later, when you're feeling better, look at what you created and smile !

tip three : have a "boring" hour

select an hour when you can be left alone, undisturbed and basically do absolutely nothing. don't do anything at all. stare at a wall. no sleeping, reading, showering etc. like nothing, ykwim? for one whole hour, let yourself do nothing. maybe at first you will feel like you are going insane, but it helps. trust me.

maybe you'll figure out parts of yourself, thoughts, emotions, memories you almost forgot about. let yourself be bored. <3

tip four : therapy sessions with chatgpt

i had one today. and trust me when i tell you that i bawled my eyes out. ask chatgpt to act like a professional therapist and just start talking to it, it is honestly an amazing alternative for real therapy if you're unable to get that due to certain circumstances.

why i love this : it actually makes you feel heard and seen and brings light to different kinds of prespectives. helps decode + validate your feelings while guiding you on how to change and get better.

pls note ! : don't get too emotionally attached (lol) to chatgpt cuz it is an ai after all. keep that in mind.

tip five : pretend to be your favourite character for a day

choose someone you look up to and act like them for a day. research about when they wake up, their habits, what do they do when they are upset, and totally lock in in that feeling. and at the end of the day, reflect. how did you feel? which parts of your day were your fav? which parts of your fav character would you like to keep with you?

have fun ! be quirky ! be cringe ! do things you love !

tip six : spend time naked but don't look into the mirror

just relax and feel your body in its barest form. this is all yours. nothing that belongs to someone else. all yours. and just exist. let shame fade away into the background and just have fun with your body. give it hugs, tell it that it's loved and is beautiful.

look, life won't just suddenly start feeling better. you will have to put in the work. and also, there is no pressure. do it as slowly as you can. but do it okay? take action! nothing changes if nothing changes!

xoxo,

@deardiarywrites

[wrestlersownmyheart]

"Yeet Of Fate" Chapter 16 (Jey Uso X Female Reader)

Title: Yeet Of Fate Pairing: Jey Uso X Reader Summary: When you, an aspiring author, decide to take your skills to the world of wrestling, you decide to shadow and tag along with a couple of wrestlers to learn more about the sport for your upcoming book debut. None other than the Royal Rumble winner, Jey Uso, is the male wrestler you will be working with, and needless to say, that makes you nervous. You tell yourself, things will stay platonic. You tell yourself that…

Jey Uso is at the top of his game, the last thing he needs is a fan trailing around after him and fan girling all over the place. He wants to do his job, bask in the glory of it and call it a day. Not have to answer questions all day long from a wannabe writer. That's how he feels, until he meets Y/N face to face. She isn't what he expected. And he doesn't like to be wrong. As beautiful as she is… He will keep things platonic. He tells himself that…

Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination. Content/Trigger Warnings: Just your basic Gunther who's completely lost his mind. 👿

Chapter 16

Gunther was choking you with his bare hands. You clawed at them with your nails, trying to free yourself. But it was all to no avail. Gunther was crushing your throat bit by bit.

"St-stop…" You tried to cry out, but it came out weak and barely there.

"Breathe, Mama!"

Suddenly, your hands would not go to your throat to fight Gunther anymore. They were pinned down by an unseen force.

"Breathe!"

You could hear Jey, but you couldn't see him.

Gunther leaned in close to your face, "If I can't have you neither can he!"

You felt a hand pat your face gently but firmly.

"Wake up, manamea (sweetheart)!"

You blinked, and then you found yourself in bed, Jey sitting on the edge of the mattress with you in his arms.

"Jey?" You whispered. "I-I… Oh, Jey!" You reached forward and latched onto his neck, holding him close. His arms went around you like a safe haven.

"You had me so scared, Mama," he said, his lips against the side of your head. "I couldn't wake you up, and you were literally clawing at your neck."

A raw soreness at your neck attacked your senses then, and you became aware of the pain.

"I thought you left me," you cried, sobbing into his neck.

"Never." He said softly, rocking you back and forth. "I'll never leave you again. Not without the intention of coming right back. I was just in the hallway, dozing. I heard you scream. And then when I came in you were clawing at your neck, and you weren't breathing. At all."

"Gunther was choking me," you cried softly. "He was trying to kill me."

"It's okay," Jey whispered, "He isn't going to hurt you. It was just a nightmare. If he comes around when I'm not here, just promise me you won't go to the door. Just pretend you aren't here. Call the police if you have to. File a report, try to get a restraining order, whatever you have to do to be safe."

You nodded, "Okay."

"I'm going to see about taking some time off and-"

"No Jey, you can't! You're the world champion now, you have to show up or you could face repercussions. Do you know how long you've fought to get this world title? If you make the higher ups upset, you may never get another opportunity like this!"

"I don't want it if I don't have you."

A tear spilled from your eye and to your temple. "I don't want you to lose anything because of me."

"I don't want to lose you," Jey said, running his finger over the trail of your tear, wiping it away. "I lost you once, because of my stupidity. I don't want to do it again. I've been miserable the past several months. I love you, Y/N."

You looked away. You wanted to believe him. You did. But you couldn't. It was too much to hope for.

"I know I'm gonna have to work hard to earn back your trust. And I intend to."

"I don't know, Jey. I don't know if I'll ever trust anything you say anymore."

Jey sat there and stared at you, like he had a habit of doing. And it made you nervous, like always.

"I deserve that." He said. "But mark my words, Mama. I'm not giving up on you."

You said nothing, and then your gaze settled on him, "Would you stay in here with me, for the rest of the night? I feel safe with you."

"I wasn't planning on leaving," Jey said. "You couldn't make me leave now."

He laid down beside you in the bed, and held you close against him. You dozed off again quickly, and started another nightmare, but like a beacon of hope, you heard Jey's voice telling you everything was okay. And then the nightmare went away.

Any time you jolted in your sleep, Jey was instantly awake and reassuring you gently with soft whispered words, that you were perfectly safe.

And so, the rest of your night passed peacefully.

The next time you awoke, sunlight filtered through your windows and you blinked against the harshness of it. You turned your head to the side, and noticed that Jey was gone. For a moment, your heart sank. But then you heard a noise downstairs and noticed that your bedroom door was open.

You deduced by the smell of pancakes and eggs that Jey was downstairs fixing breakfast.

Surprisingly, your stomach rumbled, and you managed to get to your feet. Slowly, and sleepily, you padded down the hallway and down the stairs, through the living room and dining room to the kitchen.

Sure enough, Jey was in the kitchen, cooking up pancakes and eggs on the stove top. He was jamming to Usher's U Got It Bad playing on his phone.

"Morning," you called over the music.

"Morning," he called back, and put down an egg turner. Hurrying over to you, he put his arms around you and began swaying to the music with you.

"What are you doing," you giggled.

"What's it look like? I'm dancing with you," he answered.

You placed your arms around his neck and danced with him in your kitchen, snuggling your cheek against his shoulder.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," he whispered into your hair.

"We can't. I have babies to bring into this world, and you have a job you have to do. It's what you were born to do."

He kissed the top of your head then, and continued swaying with you to the music. "I know. But it doesn't mean I won't miss you."

"I-I… I'm afraid, Jey, to admit anything to you now. I'm just afraid you'll hurt me again."

"Shh, I know," Jey replied, "I'll make it up to you, so that one day you'll know without a doubt I'll never hurt you again. I'll give you all the time you need."

You nodded and pulled away then. "So what are you fixing?"

"Pancakes, bacon and eggs," he replied, moving back to the stove. He flipped the pancakes and eggs and waited as they finished cooking. "Scrambled eggs okay with you?"

"Perfect," you said with a small smile. "I don't think my stomach would deal with over-easy too well right now."

Jey nodded, as he plated up two pancakes, two pieces of bacon, and two eggs for you.

"Now, go. Sit down and eat up, Mama. You and the babies need it."

You obediently took the plate of food and went to the breakfast nook to eat it. You poured some syrup over the pancakes, and immediately forked up a bite of them.

"Mmm, these are so good," you replied, forking up another bite. "Could you get the ketchup out of the refrigerator, please?" You asked.

"Ketchup?" Jey asked, heading to the fridge.

"Yep. For the eggs."

Jey pulled the ketchup out and placed it on the table in front of you. "Weird cravings, huh?"

"No, not really. I've always eaten ketchup on my eggs," you replied with a cheeky smirk.

"I've missed that sass," Jey replied, with a grin. "I hope I get some more of it soon."

"We'll see," you teased, taking a bite of your bacon.

You managed to eat three quarters of your pancakes, both eggs, and one strip of bacon.

"Oh, my word…" You groaned patting your stomach. "I'm stuffed."

"Babe, that wasn't that much food, and you're stuffed? You've gotta start some better eating habits. For the babies' sakes."

"I know," you replied. "I just am normally so sick I can't eat. It just comes back up."

"Well, you still need to try. A little bit is better than nothing. Try saltines, and soups, if nothing else."

You nodded, "Okay."

"Good girl."

You smiled, glad that you'd pleased him.

Jey cleaned the dishes and stove, after instructing you to go sit on the couch to rest a bit. You went and sat on the sofa, with your feet on the ottoman. You'd nearly dozed off when Jey came in and sat down beside you.

He put his arm around you and pulled you closer to him. "I'd really like to talk more about us, but I know you're not up to it at the moment. Let me get a few shows under my belt and we'll talk more then, okay?"

You nodded in relief, "Okay."

"I have to get going in order to make it to the show on time, but I'll be back in a couple weeks if not sooner."

You nodded again, missing him already.

"Do me a favor?"

"Yes," you said.

"Unblock my number? So I can reach you and check in with you?"

"Okay," you said softly. "I'll do it right now." You said picking up your phone. You went into the appropriate settings and unblocked him.

"Done."

"Thank you, Mama."

"You're welcome."

"I need to go, but I don't want to."

"But you need to," you said. "Jey, really. You've got to go."

"I know."

He stood to his feet, and helped you to yours so you could say goodbye to him at the front door. You walked with him through the foyer, and to the front entrance.

"I promise I'll come back for you," he said, squeezing your hand. "Soon."

"It's okay, Jey. I'll be fine, don't worry. I have work friends I can call that are nearby, and I'll keep you updated on me."

He nodded, reluctantly, "Okay, please do that."

You nodded in return and reached up to his face, kissing his cheek. He turned his face then and captured your mouth with his. He groaned softly, and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips. He tasted your mouth as if he'd never get the chance again. Then he pulled back slowly.

"You don't have to say it back, but I love you."

You stared into his eyes. You could see he meant it. And you loved him too. You were just afraid to say it now.

"Okay, I'm gonna go now. Be safe for me, Mama. Call me if you have to call the police."

"I will. Don't worry. We will be fine."

He gave you another meaningful stare, and then he stepped out the door. "Lock up behind me," he ordered gently.

You did lock the front door as soon as it clicked shut behind Jey.

He was gone.

And you had never felt so alone in your life.

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

You watched from the front windows as Jey pulled out of your driveway and drove away in his rental.

Sad that he was gone, you went back to the living room and sat down on the sofa again. You contemplated what you wanted to do that day, and you decided quickly, that the first thing you were going to do was veg out on the sofa and take a nap. You were so tired, and even though Jey helped you sleep, you still didn't get enough.

You'd just managed to get laid down, when the doorbell sounded.

You groaned softly, not wanting to get up. But it could be Jey, so you rose to your feet gingerly and made your way to the front door. You did remember to look out the peephole first.

And you didn't like what you saw.

Gunther.

He knocked on the door now, and called out to you.

"Y/N, open the door. I know you're in there. And I know Jey was here. We need to talk about it. OPEN THE DOOR!" He shouted suddenly. He pounded on it, and frightened you to death. You hurried back into the living room and grabbed your phone off the coffee table and dialed 911.

"9-1-1… What is your emergency?"

"I need the police to come to my home. There is a man that's been stalking me and he is on my porch right now, demanding that I open the door to him."

"Have you filed any reports on him prior to today?"

"No, I haven't. I thought he'd give up on trying to talk to me. I'd like to start today by making a report though."

"I'll have a policeman at your home soon. What is your address, ma'am?"

You rattled off your address and the dispatcher reiterated that an officer would be there soon.

You hung up and could still hear Gunther banging on the door.

"LET ME IN, NOW!"

You covered your ears with your hands. "Please, go away," you whispered. "Just go away."

He didn't, but you heard a siren in the near distance. It grew closer, and closer. And finally stopped once the patrol car reached your driveway.

You looked out the windows and watched as a cop approached your porch. You could hear him talking to Gunther, so you opened the door to greet the cop.

Gunther turned and looked at you, pure rage in his blue eyes. "You called the police on me?"

"Of course I did! You're harassing me!" you cried.

"We need to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about!"

"Sir," the cop interjected, "She's made it clear she doesn't want you here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Now."

"Fine. I'm going." Gunther replied calmly. A little too calmly. He turned and went down the porch steps and headed out to his car.

"Thank you, sir." You told the cop. "I'd like to file a report with the intent to get a restraining order in the near future."

"Okay, can we step inside and I'll just ask you a few questions, and be on my way to file the report."

"Yes, of course. Come right in," you said, opening the front door to him and he stepped inside.

Over the next hour, you answered questions and gave as much information as you could. The cop took it all down on his pad and form and then stood to his feet. "If you want a copy of the report, it should be available within seven to ten business days."

"Okay, thank you. I'll be sure and pick up a copy."

You showed the policeman out and closed the door behind him, quickly locking it.

"I should call Jey," you thought out loud. "'Should' is the operative word," you continued to talk to yourself. But I can't worry him. He could wind up losing the title or even his job if he were to take time off for me. And he most definitely would with me being in the condition I'm in.

No, you couldn't call him. Not yet. If Gunther pulled anything else you would, but you wanted Jey to feel free to do his job. It was better this way.

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

Jey walked into the arena from the parking garage and went to the elevator to reach the main floor.

He walked as if he had an agenda.

And he did.

Once he got off the elevator he went backstage to the offices and walked to Hunter's door. Knocking on it, he waited impatiently for Hunter to open it.

Once he did, he smiled warmly at Jey and offered his hand to shake, "Jey! Good to see you. How's it going?"

Jey reached out and took his offered hand and shook it. "It's going great, thanks. Can we talk for a few minutes?"

"Sure, come in." Hunter moved aside and let the younger man into the office.

Jey took a seat in front of the desk and waited to start until Hunter took his own seat.

"What's on your mind?"

"Well, I know this is a bad way to possibly end my title reign, but if I have to relinquish the title I am fully prepared to do that-"

"Whoa, what's wrong," Hunter cut in. "Are you injured or something?"

"No, nothing like that. But I do have an emergency that requires my presence for the next few weeks. I need three to four weeks off, man. It's my girl. She's pregnant with my twins and Gunther is still after her. He's rented an apartment in her town and everything. He's stalking her and harassing her. It's keeping her upset and worried. I need to be with her. I have to be."

Hunter sighed, and leaned back in his desk chair, deep in thought.

"I'm fully prepared to do what I have to do, Hunter. If you have to fire me, so be it. I'm going to be with my girl."

"I don't want to fire you, or make you relinquish the title. You just defended it against Seth, so you have thirty days to defend it next. Will that work–thirty days off? We'll work a storyline out where you have to be out on "injury" for a few weeks but when you come back you defend it against the person who "injured" you. How does that sound?"

"It works for me. Thank you for this, Hunter. I won't forget it."

"Just keep your girl safe. And congratulations on the twins!"

"Thank you. And can I ask another favor?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Can you reinstate Gunther? If he has to show up to work he can't very well have time to bother Y/N."

"Done. Effective immediately. I'll call him in to do the show tonight. I'll have him cut a promo or something."

"Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it."

Jey got up to leave the office and walked out the door, giving a parting smile to Hunter.

THen he was heading back to his rental and driving back to Y/N to surprise her. He calculated he should be back to her by that night, and he was excited to have the next month off with her.

Picking up his speed a bit in his eagerness, he glanced at the clock. It was already five o'clock. If he wanted to make it by ten o'clock, he needed to pick up the pace.

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

Gunther was ignoring the repeated calls from Hunter. He knew somehow that Jey had cooked up for him to go back to work.

"Not yet," Gunther muttered as he drove to Y/N's house that night. "I have one last thing to do."

He sped down the road and finally pulled off to the side of the road the equivalent to a couple blocks from Y/N's house. He walked the rest of the way and carried a door security bar, and a can of gasoline, along with a box of matches in his pocket.

To say he was up to no good was an understatement. He was just thankful Y/N lived out in the country so there'd be privacy.

He had the short walk made in less than five minutes. Then he sat the red gasoline can on the porch along with the security bar, and picked up the welcome mat. Already having his plan in his mind, he went to the front window and placed the welcome mat against the glass and punched the window through the rug. The effect was a soft cracking sound and nothing more.

Gunther smiled, proud of himself. He used the rug to clean away any shards that would cut him, and grabbing the gas can and security bar, he climbed through the window into the house.

Once inside, he wasted no time. He knew by Y/N's schedule that she'd be in bed asleep, so he went for the stairs and silently climbed them, in search of her bedroom.

He quickly found it by poking his head into every door and looking for her. He came to the second door from the landing and saw her laying on her side, facing away from the bedroom door.

Leaving the security bar by the outside of the door, he waltzed into the bedroom as if he owned the place, and strode to her bedside. He looked down at her and watched her sleep for a few moments, before stroking her cheek with his finger. Then as if daring her to wake up and see him, he leaned down and kissed her mouth softly.

Almost as if she knew it was him, she cringed and subtly pulled back. "No," she murmured in her sleep. "Not you…"

Growing enraged all over again, he pocketed her phone off the night table, so she couldn't call for help. Then he opened the gas can and began pouring a stream of the gasoline from the bed to the door. Then he silently clicked the bedroom door shut, and spotting a skeleton key in teh door lock, he grinned and locked the door for good measure. Then set the security bar up against the door knob.

No way is she getting out of here alive, he thought to himself.

Then he resumed pouring out the gasoline down the hallway, and stairs and to the front door.

Unlocking and opening the front door, he stepped out into the night on the porch, and then pulled the matches from his pocket.

He struck one, and gazing at the flame for a moment, he flicked the match straight into the gasoline at his feet.

The fire ignited instantly, and flew across the living room and up the stairs, to her bedroom he could only presume to think.

He shut the front door, locking it first, and then walked out into the yard and watched her windows. He wanted to see it all.

There was a sudden orange glow in her room flickering about. Soon she'd awaken and her true horror would begin.

"You deserve this," he thought aloud. "You deserve it all."

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