#hope you like this glimpse into my twisted mind as i read this book

[a-court-of-moonlight-and-ire]

I finally read again today, chapters 34-39 this time

Usually I read these books in german while on the bus but today I forgot my book, but fortunately, I had some time to go to the library and they had it, but only in english. And since I was sitting at a table with my phone, I was able to take notes live as I read, and I'd like to share those with you rather than doing what I usually do and trying to sum up all of my thoughts a few hours later

Chapter 35:

the fact that NO ONE in the summer court recognized Feyre is absolutely ridiculous, it really is like her accomplishments from the first just vanished, no wonder so many people recommend just skipping ahead to MAF i bet that would make the reading experience wayyyyy less frustrating

shes cursing herself from being so out of shape despite Cassian's 'lessons' and that reminds me, at the start of ACOMAF her internal monologue and other characters kept remarking on how thin and frail she had become and I dont think its come up since she started staying at the NC permanently, great mental health rep girlie

"I let instinct, no doubt granted from Rhys, guide me forward." Come onnnnnnnn, can Feyre not be cool on her own for one (1) moment

"Amarathan did not break that kindness [from before UTM]." no, but Rhys sure did

Once again, Feyre is horrified at her violating Tarquin's mind, rightfully so, and yet she continues to hang out with His Majesty, The King of Violating Minds

Rhys tells Feyre that she "thinks like an Illyrian", which is very strange to me given that Illyrian women are literally not allowed to do anything other than housework and Illyrian men are seemingly all violent misogynists whom Rhys hates

Chapter 36:

"I'd bet they wouldn't have handed over that book" but you didnt ask them though??? Like, they couldve just told Tarquin about their plans, he seems reasonable enough, even if Cresseida and Varian dont agree, he as high lord should be able to override their opinions easily and if that doesnt work out THEN you can go ahead and steal it. Sure, maybe they wouldve trippled security and/or thrown them out of the SC but that should hardly be an obstacle for The Most Powerful Highlord In The History Of Prythian and his eldritch girl best friend

Okay, so Rhysand did pack illyrian leathers for her which is nice, but still, I see no reason why Feyre had to wear dresses for this (and be okay with wearkng dresses when she absolutely wasnt at the start of ACOMAF) when the NC clearly has more feminine fashion involving pants

Theres lead in this vaguely medieval fantasy world?? And theyve had for like centuries?? That seems weird to me I'll have to look into that i think

Okay, so Feyre shapeshifted into Tarquin and she says that she didnt let any part of herself that wasnt Tarquin shine through while she opened the books locks, but those shapeshifting powers are Tamlin's though. That has some very interesting implications but tbh idk if I trust sjm to have thought about it that much

"I am summer; I am sea and sun and green things" that just sounds kinda silly, also I feel like it shouldve been "I am sea and sun and golden sand" given the beach vibes that the Summer Court has

Chapter 37:

note to self: lookup what Leshon Hakodesh is exactly bc theres no way its not some random mythological term that sjm is just dropping into her world [edit: its just the jewish term for 'the Holy Tongue', im not gonna question the implications of that any more than im gonna question the existence of Nyx as a minor goddess or something in this world]

Rhysand doesnt tells anyone jackshit and Cassian is ready to stab Amren if she dares go against him, why are these jokers friends again?

Chapter 38:

granted, its been a while since I read this book and my memory isnt the best, but why exactly does Rhysand need to keep the 'why' of their mission secret? wasnt their mission just to find the cauldron before Hybern does and prevent a war with prythian and the human world?? I guess maybe Rhys doesnt wanna reveal his secret goodness or whatever, but he couldve just had Feyre act as some kind of emissary to the rest of Prythian, like, just have her pretend this is information she found out by herself at the Night Court and have her relay it to the other courts, Feyre has saved them before they have no reason not to listen to her

"'I think Tarquin wanted to be my friend.'" question, is Tarquin/Rhys a thing? Obviously Rhys doesnt deserve Tarquin but idk, there could be something there I think. they have some nice aesthetic contrasts

why would Feyre say stuff like "mother above" when thats not a deity she believed in for most of her life? Like, I already talked about how Feyre clearly had the impulse to pray in ACOTAR she just didnt do it because the names of the mortal gods have been long forgotten, but idk, I feel like her starting to embrace fae religion warrants more exploration. and fae religion in general warrants more exploration tbh

"'Its not the end of the world if you [make a mistake] every now and then'" hello??? Feyre, he made you steal from a man that has been nothing but kind to you for no reason and now theres a bounty on your heads!! And lets not forget that Rhys, Amren and Feyre are all highranking politicians in the night court, youre lucky the SC is too occupied with rebuilding itself to declare war on your asses

I keep saying this, its so infuriating how well Feyre and Rhysand already get along when theyve spent like, 2 or maybe 3 months if Im being very generous, worth of time together aside from their time UTM

god Feysand flirting is the most straight bullshit to ever straight bullshit I feel like im gonna die

Shes thinking about buying RED "lacy things" when that was meant to be a trigger for her, did no one edit this

"a sensual male voice chuckled with midnight laughter" istg the prose is so much worse in english

Feyre having to make herself focus to not look at Rhysand dick after he just had a horrible nightmare has the same energy as Bryce Crescent City thinking about how hot and muscular Hunt is while he just completely shut down because he had to kill someone

"The hole in my chest that was slowly starting to heal over" can you BE more unsubtle

Chapter 39:

Rhysand tattooing the symbol of the nightcourt onto both his knees because he "will bow for no one and nothing but his crown" is actually so funny, i wish he did more cringefail bullshit like that

I think out of all the inner circle relationships, I like Amren and Feyre the best so far and I absolutely do not believe that Cassian cares about Amren at all, much less sees her as family, that guy would kill her in a heartbeat if he could

forgive my aromanticness, but I really dont like the thing that Amren and Varian have going on, cant there be ONE character that doesnt have some stupid romance subplot in this world

Oh, so Mor telling Feyre very little of any specific plans they have is fine, but if someone from the spring court does it theyre the worst person ever

"[Cassian told me] that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females" oh but hes sooooo much better than all those other illyrians who are all sexist brutes

Why are Beron and Helion the only ones with a last name

"[Strolling through Velaris with Mor] was perhaps my favorite, and the female certainly excelled at finding ways to spend money" are you fucking kidding me, are there actually people who consider a book with this kind of blatant 'women b shopping' bullshit to be feminist?

"'I wanted to protect my people, change the perceptions of the Illyrians, and eliminate the corruption that plagued the land'" wow Rhys and youve done such a good job at all of those things in the 500 years youve been on the throne

"[Tamlin] resented being High Lord — and maybe... maybe that was part of why the court had become what it was" ???? girlie what are you talking about, the spring court is fine right now it doesnt get destroyed until ACOWAR. which is also you fault

so Feyre is once again wearing a chiffon gown for political reasons when she could very well be wearing pants and shes completely fine with that. great

And Mor is wearing red and Feyre is completely unbothered by it, why give her a trigger like that if it just stops mattering the second shes out of the spring court

[jasmines-library]

Hey, I love your Batfam work! Is there any chance you could do a whump/angst one of batsis being kidnapped by a villian(you can choose whoever you want) and she’s tortured for days with it being broadcasted to the Batfam while they try to track the footage. I feel kinda bad but can you do maybe some head trauma md severe burns? Maybe she has to be put in a medically included coma or smth because of the damage? Also is there any way you could include Barb and Duke along w/ the four robins? If not that’s totally cool! Sorry for the long request but I hope you have a great day!!

Anonymous Requested: batfam x batsib reader whos the youngest and newest robin and is just really goofy and doesn’t take anything seriously (ex: them blaring “who’s the (bat)man” on the comms during patrol [that songs stuck in my head i had to mention it]) and something happens, maybe their first close encounter to death or a run in with the joker and they just become a shell of who they were and stuff

Jokes On Me

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Note: My god im so sorry this literally took me forever to write, thank you so much for being patient. I've been trying to write this all week but just couldn't sit down for long enough to finish it.

Warnings: Torture, blood, burns.

Word Count: 2.5k

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

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“Y/N, turn that shit off.”

Jason grumbled at you over the coms. You had been blasting some wretched song that you’d found on the internet over and over again and it was beginning to drive him mad. 

“Nope.” You said, popping the ‘p’ loudly. 

“Seriously.” Dick deadpanned. He had found it amusing at first, but it was now beginning to test his patience. 

Agitated, you sighed and turned off the music. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Jason expressed gratefully, turning his eyes back to the road he was patrolling. The night was cool and quiet besides the odd dog walker or couple returning from an evening out. It was one of those nights where patrol would end early and he could return home to take a warm bath and read a book before turning in for the night. Or so he thought. 

You were rounding the corner, humming that tune that was still stuck in your head when his laughter ricocheted across the walls. You stiffened, eyes widening and hands fumbling for your weapon as your breath hitched. No amount of turning and craning your head allowed you to catch a glimpse of the dreaded figure, and you thought for a moment that perhaps it had just been a trick of your mind, or one of your brothers playing a cruel joke on you as payback for winding them up earlier. But then you heard it again, only this time to your left. You clutched your weapon tighter, eyes scanning the area with a new found sense of urgency. 

“Wing…” You whispered into the coms so quietly that you were surprised he heard it.

“What now?” He somewhat snapped. 

“We have a problem.”

Dick’s heart sank through the floor, his ears pricking up and his demeanour changing completely. “Where are you? What’s the matter? He was trying to let his panic show, but you hadn’t been patrolling as a vigilante for very long, and while you were well trained, you lacked the experience to deal with something big on your own. And from your tone of voice, he could tell that you were in some deep shit. 

Jason worked his legs harder to push himself to reach the direction he had seen you head off in. Albeit it seemed even his hardest wasn’t enough.

When he stepped out of the darkness, the first thing you noticed were his eyes. Wide and bright, easily mistakable for a cat’s as they flashed in the darkness; wild. Rabid. As he emerged fully with that infamous twisted grin splayed out on his face, you felt like a cornered animal; a deer in headlights. You froze, unable to move despite how your heart screamed at you to run as it pounded, trying to break free from your ribcage. 

“He’s here…” A mere whisper sliding over your tongue, so fragile that you weren’t even sure if you had actually said it aloud. Jason had heard it. 

“Who?” 

The Joker was circling you now, dragging out his strides in lazy circles. You should have fought but in that moment all of your training had drained out of you, along with the colour in your face. He smirked, leering down upon you as you tried to keep your trembling hand still. He pouted in mockery and at your silence, Jason repeated his question to you, but you never got the chance to respond. 

“Oh…Just an old friend, Jay-bird.”

“Joker.” Urging his body to move faster, Jason grit his teeth. 

Dick paled. “You leave them alone.” Dick spat. It tried to be a command, but the effect was lost somewhere in transmission.

The joker pursed his lips, tilting his head as he analysed. One of his hands had found his way to your jawline and he trailed it with a cold, gloved hand. You wanted to lean away, to run and find your brother but you knew that now he had you in his grasp there was no point in even trying. “And why would I do that? They’re right in front of me. I could just…snatch them up.”

“Don’t you dare!” Dick was frightened now. “Y/N, you stay there as long as you can, okay? You fight. We’re coming, you hear?”

The Joker frowned at you. “D’you hear that? Big brother birdy coming to the rescue. How sweet.”

His grip on you tightened. “Too bad you’ll be long gone by the time they get here.”

With one swift motion, he had thrown you harshly to the side, your head colliding with the wall with a sickening crack. 

The two boys skidded to a halt just a second too late. You were already gone. 

~

Your head hurt when you woke up. Your eyes squinted against the sterile light. They did no favours to your pounding headache. With a groan, you tried to twist, to roll over and soothe the crook in your neck but instead all that happened was the jinging of a metal chain. You craned your head and spotted the thick chain that had been wrapped around your wrist, confining you to the chair. Struggling, you tugged on them, trying to free yourself only for them to rattle and scrape against your skin. 

“Yeah, that’s not going anywhere, birdy.” The joker chided.

You glared at him through narrowed eyes, trying to mask the thumping of your heart. The joker grinned wildly at your frightened complexion. 

“It was such a shame that Grayson and Todd didn’t get to you in time, but it was far too easy to catch you, little bird: you completely froze.” He snapped his fingers to emphasise his point. “Didn’t batsy teach you better?”

“Don’t talk about them.” You snapped. 

The joker raised his hands, palms facing toward you in surrender: taunting you as if you were the one with the power in the situation. “Touchy subject I see. Too bad.” 

He gestured above you to an incessantly blinking light. “Smile for the camera, you’re live.”

~

Babs had been monitoring the street cameras when the computer beside her flickered to life. She had been searching for any sign of you ever since Dick and Jason came flying through the grandfather clock. Everyone was on edge. 

The moment the screen flashed on, her eyes perked up to watch it, alarmed. She hadn’t turned it on. And there were very few people who could bypass the caves system. So when she saw a small frame curled up in a chair she knew immediately what was up. 

“Duke…” she called to the dark haired boy who was trying to help decipher your whereabouts. “Go and get B.” 

It did not take long at all for everyone to gather around in the cave. Duke was fast, and everyone dropped what they were doing to race down: even Alfred had taken his leave from his duties to see. 

It was almost like some sick irony because as soon as they were all there, you began to scream. A guttering, perfect scream that cut that through them like a knife: unclean and pinging into them messily again and again. 

The joker had taken a knife to your left thigh, his smile dripping with malice as he watched the camera, somehow knowing that at least one of them would be watching. 

Your face was contorted in pain, twisting in agony as tears rolled flatly down your cheeks from fearful eyes. Damian felt sick, his stomach churning. Jason wanted to leave. But all of them were stuck watching. Barbra was tapping away, trying to locate the signal from the video to no avail. 

“I hope you’re watching this Batsy…” He moved round to trail your face with the edge of the knife. You whimpered. “I’ve got your little bird here and I must say, you need to work on their training. They were far too easy to catch.”

Bruce felt his jaw tightening and Tim had to place a hand on his arm to remind him of his place. 

“Anyway I thought we would play a little game… how long can little y/n survive for. I wonder if it’ll be any longer than our very own Jason Todd.”

Jason twitched. 

“I’m testing you here, Bat. Tick Tock.”

The transmission cut to black. 

~

It seemed hopeless. Even though they had been searching for days, they were no closer to finding you. And to make matters worse, they could see you. Not long after the first transition ended did it start up again. It had been lifestreaming since then, and although they had tried to block it from their minds, it was hard to ignore. Especially when your agonised screams ricocheted throughout the halls. 

You looked like hell. Dark bags occluded under your eyes and there wasn’t an inch of your skin that wasn’t marred or stained with drying blood. The burns were worse. Damian could still hear the scream you let out when the joker first brought the hot poker to your skin. It had bubbled and blistered as the skin peeled away; you had thrashed against your restraints violently. Tim was certain that they were going to get infected if they didn’t reach you soon. 

It felt as if they had searched everywhere. Dick and Jason had even asked around to see if anyone had heard anything, going as far to talk to the Jokers closest associates in Arkham, but even if they did know, nobody said anything. Duke had even gone as far to go back to the area to use his powers to see if he could trace anything, but nothing seemed out of place; they had hit a brick wall. That was…until a small light appeared on the monitor. Babs had managed to trace the signal to a small building on the outskirts of the city. 

They were suited up in minutes, making a beeline for the building. They stormed it, recklessly taking down the Joker's goons before Batman chased wildly after the Joker, his face stony and his fists burning with anger. The other four boys chased down the winding corridors, flinging open the doors until they found one that was locked. Tim wasted no time, picking the lock with ease he peeled it open. His breath hitched when he saw you. 

Your face was gaunt, hanging low by your chest. Your suit was torn and there was less of it on your body than there was ripped away. You looked so fragile as your chest heaved sporadically. 

Jason nearly had to take a step back. This place reminded himself too much of his own encounter with the Joker not too long ago. But he pressed forward, fighting his instincts. He had to be strong. Instead of turning back, he kneeled in front of you, whispering your name. His hand came up to cup your face. You flinched away. 

“It’s okay kid. It’s us.” He tried to reassure you, but you shrank back into yourself. 

“We’re so, so sorry kiddo.” Dick tried placing a gentle hand on your arm before moving to work on the cuffs around your wrists. “We’re going to get you out.”

You said nothing, just continued to stare at the black space before you, and Dami wasn’t sure if you even knew they were in front of you. But when Jason moved away from you to help remove your restraints, your fingers latched onto him and you squeaked in protest. 

He sighed shakily. “Don’t worry kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

Damian twisted from where he was guarding the door. “We need to leave.”

Dick nodded bluntly, finishing with the last of the locks. “I’m going to have to pick you up, okay sweetheart?”

You barely registered what he had said. Everything had grown numb, you nodded anyhow. Moving his arms underneath your legs and slipping one arm behind your back, Jason began to lift you. He nearly recoiled when you cried and whimpered with the way your wounds jostled as he sprinted out of the building to get you back to safety. 

~

You were yet to say anything since you came home. You had been back a few days and your wounds were healing up nicely thanks to Alfred’s handywork, but the air was eerily silent around you. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t been communicating with them; you spoke to them with gestures or writing but no one was used to not hearing your voice. The stark contrast between your loud and bustling personality and you now was unsettling. No one wanted to push you too far but the manor was beginning to grow lonely. 

It was one particularly rainy night when you finally spoke.  You were curled up in a large armchair by the window in the library, sinking back into the plush leather as you watched the raindrops race down the glass. Jason had been watching you from afar, contemplating whether to talk to you or not when he walked over. 

“What are you up to?” He asked you, making sure you knew that he was there before he spoke. 

You gestured toward the window,then to the half opened book at your feet and shrugged. 

“I see.” He nodded, taking a seat on the armchair opposite you. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. Jason wasn’t much of a talker. He knew more than anyone what you were going through, which was why it was nice just to know that he was willing to sit with you, just so you knew that he was there if you needed him. It made you feel safe. But you also couldn’t help but feel guilty, and frustrated with yourself for being in a place that made him feel as though he had to do that. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered. 

Jason had to do a second take. His heart swelled. “What for?”

You sighed. “This. When I saw him…i-i froze. If I had run then this would never have happened.”

“Shh. This isn’t your fault.”

“But-”

“I promise, Kid. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You nodded, looking away from him. But then you furrowed your brows and turned back to him. “How did you do it? How did you deal with this, Jay? Every time I close my eyes he’s there.”

“I guess I don’t, really. Or sometimes it feels like I don’t. I still get scared sometimes. I still see him in my dreams. But over time it gets easier. I had people around me to help me. And so do you, kid. We’re here. We’ll always be here.”

Jason shifted to brush away a rogue tear and you leaned into his touch and then wrapped your arms tightly around his middle. 

“I’m here. Always. We’ll get through this together.”

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BATFAM TAGS

@aestheticdaisies @hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @mamapucket @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff @alicedawitchbish

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[luvvictoria]

Hiiii i love your basketball au w/ sukuna sm!

Would you be ok with writting about reader and sukuna with him regretting letting you walk away after the last fight? With them actually getting together?

Ty for your time friend! ����🌸

Not the time to think about it pt.II

( ♡ ) pairing : Basketball player!Sukuna Ryomen x fem!reader

( ♡ ) warning : f!reader, NOT PROOF READ , kinda cringe, kinda sad, age gap , idk bro , angst to fluff (??)

( ♡ ) a/n : hi my love 💞 Thank you for your request 🤗 I love the idea of them actually getting together but of course I’ll make it a bit of angst 😋

Aftermath

You threw yourself into your studies, trying to drown in your textbooks, hoping that if you just worked hard enough, if you buried yourself deep enough in the endless pages of research and lectures, you could forget him.

But it never worked.

No matter how many nights you stayed up until dawn, staring blankly at words that blurred together on the the pages of your books, Sukuna was always there — lingering in the back of your mind like a ghost.

The pain clung to you like a shadow. It wasn’t the sharp, immediate sting you felt when you had first confronted him, when his silence had confirmed your worst fear. No, this pain was quieter, more insidious. It seeped into every part of you, weighing down your chest until it was hard to breathe, until even the simplest things — like hearing his name on TV or passing by the court where he practiced — felt like a knife slowly twisting in your heart.

Every time you saw him, even from afar, it was like tearing open a wound that refused to heal. You would catch glimpses of him on campus, surrounded by his usual crowd, his laughter echoing through the air. And every time, you had to fight the urge to cry. Because to the world, he was still the same Sukuna —charming, carefree, untouchable. But to you? To you, he was the man who had made you believe in something more, only to shatter it.

It felt cruel, how life continued as if nothing had changed, as if your world hadn’t crumbled the night you walked away. You tried to hate him, tried to convince yourself that he wasn’t worth this heartache. But no matter how much you tried to forget him, to erase the memory of his touch, his smile, his whispered promises, you couldn’t.

Nights were the hardest. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the silence pressing down on you — it was in those quiet moments that the loneliness hit the hardest. You found yourself remembering the way his arms had felt around you, how you had felt safe, warm, loved, even if only for a fleeting moment. And now, all of that was gone, like smoke slipping through your fingers.

You would dream about him sometimes. In your dreams, things were different. He hadn’t hurt you, hadn’t broken your heart. In your dreams, he still loved you, and everything was as it should have been. But then you would wake up, and the cold reality would settle over you like a weight you couldn’t shake. The man you had loved — the man you still loved —wasn’t coming back.

It was a cruel irony, really. The more you tried to move on, the more you felt trapped in the memory of what you had lost. You wanted to be angry, to scream, to let it all out. But instead, you simply existed, numb to everything except the quiet ache in your chest that reminded you, day after day, that he was gone, and you were left alone to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

And the worst part ? The worst part was knowing that you had loved him so deeply, with everything you had, only to realize it hadn’t been enough. That no matter how hard you tried to be what he needed, in the end, you couldn’t save him from himself.

For Sukuna, life continued as it always had. He went through the motions — attending practices, playing games, flashing that same arrogant smile for the cameras, surrounded by the fans and women who once made him feel untouchable. But now, none of it mattered. It all felt hollow, meaningless without you. The noise of the crowds became a distant hum, the adrenaline of winning a game nothing but a fleeting distraction from the aching void that had taken root in his chest.

At first, he had tried to shake it off, convincing himself that he didn’t need you — that he could keep living the way he always had, unattached and carefree. But it didn’t take long for the weight of his guilt and regret to settle in, pressing down on him like an unrelenting force. Everywhere he turned, he saw you. In the empty spot on the couch where you used to sit during his late-night practices, in the way the sunlight streamed into his apartment in the mornings, reminding him of the quiet moments you’d shared, tangled up in each other.

Every day, he replayed that night in his mind, the night you had looked at him with such raw vulnerability and asked the question that tore everything apart. "Did you cheat on me?" The silence that had followed felt like a lifetime, and now, every time he thought back to it, he wished more than anything that he had said something — anything. That he had fought for you, begged for your forgiveness, told you he was sorry.

But he hadn’t. He had just stood there, frozen, letting the best thing that had ever happened to him slip through his fingers.

In the days that followed, Sukuna tried to fill the void with the same distractions he always had. He surrounded himself with people, went out to parties, flirted with women who threw themselves at him. But nothing felt the same. The momentary highs only left him feeling more empty, more alone. He found himself searching for you in every crowd, his eyes scanning for that familiar warmth, that quiet presence that had once brought him a sense of peace he didn’t even know he was missing.

The nights were the worst. When the world quieted down, and there was no game, no crowd to drown out the silence, Sukuna would lie awake, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts would spiral, the regret clawing at him with every passing minute. He would think about all the moments he had taken for granted — the way you’d laugh softly when he teased you, the way you’d always ask him about his day, genuinely caring about the answers. He remembered how your fingers had felt in his hair, how you’d look at him with such tenderness, a tenderness he had never deserved.

He missed you more than he thought possible. It was an ache that wouldn’t go away, a constant reminder that he had ruined the one thing that had ever felt real in his life. And the worst part? He knew it was his fault. He had pushed you away, hurt you in ways he could never take back. He had let his pride, his reckless need for control, blind him to what really mattered. And now, you were gone, living your life without him.

Sukuna had always prided himself on being strong, untouchable. But without you, he felt weak, fragile in a way he had never known. He tried to tell himself that he could move on, that this was just another fleeting chapter in his life. But no matter how much he tried, the truth was undeniable.

He had loved you.

He had loved you deeply, more than he had ever been able to admit, even to himself. And now, it was too late.

In the quiet of his apartment, when the world had long since fallen asleep, Sukuna would sit in the dark, his hands trembling as he thought of you. He wondered if you were happier without him, if you had moved on. The thought tore at him, a bitter mix of jealousy and sorrow. He wondered if you ever thought of him, if you missed him the way he missed you. But he knew, deep down, that you deserved better —someone who could give you the love and respect he had failed to provide.

And that realization was the most painful of all. Because Sukuna Ryomen, the man who had always been in control, who had always lived life on his terms, had lost the one person who had ever truly mattered. And now, no matter how much he regretted it, there was nothing he could do to change that.

The guilt, the regret — it consumed him. It followed him every second of every day, a constant reminder of what he had lost. And no matter how many games he won, how many women threw themselves at him, it was never enough to fill the void you had left behind.

He had always loved you — deep down, in ways he could never put into words. But Sukuna had been too blind to see it, too arrogant to admit it, and far too terrified to confront the feelings that stirred in the depths of his heart. Love had always been something distant, fleeting, a game he thought he could play and leave behind. Until you came along.

But now… now it was too late. Or was it?

The ache of your absence gnawed at him constantly, a slow, suffocating weight that only grew heavier with time. Days turned into weeks, then months, and still, you haunted his every thought. The memory of your smile — soft and real in a way nothing else in his world was — burned behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The warmth of your voice, the way you’d say his name with that tenderness he didn’t deserve, echoed in the quiet corners of his mind, filling every silence with your absence.

For the first time in his life, Sukuna felt utterly lost. It wasn’t the fame or the women or the adrenaline of the game that he craved anymore. It was you. Just you.

He remembered the night you left—the look on your face, the pain in your eyes, how you had tried so hard to hold back the tears as you walked away from him. And he had let you. He had stood there, watching you leave, unable to say the one thing that might have kept you with him.

“I love you.”

Those words had been trapped inside him, buried beneath his pride, beneath the layers of fear and self-doubt. And by the time he realized the truth, you were already gone.

Now, every moment without you was an unbearable reminder of what he had lost. He’d see you in the smallest of things — the scent of your perfume lingering in the jacket you once borrowed, a song on the radio that had played during one of your late-night drives. And each time, the regret hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless, wishing he could turn back time, undo the hurt he caused.

But the most painful realization of all? He knew you had loved him too. You had given him your heart on a silver plate, placed your trust in him, and he had shattered it. He had taken you for granted, thinking you’d always be there, always waiting. But you weren’t. You couldn’t.

Sukuna thought about calling you every day. His finger would hover over your name in his phone, his heart pounding in his chest as he wrestled with the fear that maybe it was too late — that maybe you had moved on, that you were happier without him. He didn’t deserve your forgiveness, didn’t deserve another chance. But he also couldn’t live with the idea of never trying.

The Last Chance

One night, after yet another game that left him feeling emptier than ever, Sukuna found himself standing outside your apartment building. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his breath clouding in the cold night air as he stared up at the window where he knew your light used to shine. Everything in him screamed to turn around, to leave before he made things worse. But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He knocked on your door, his heart hammering so loud he could hear it in his ears. When you opened it, he was struck by how much he had missed you — how seeing your face, even for a moment, sent a shock of warmth through the ice that had settled over his heart.

You stood there, staring at him in disbelief, your expression guarded, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes. Hurt, yes. But also the smallest glimmer of hope.

“I know I don’t deserve to be here,” Sukuna said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, raw. “I know I hurt you, and I can’t take that back. But there’s something I need to tell you, and if you still never want to see me again after this, I’ll walk away for good.”

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t close the door either. So he continued, the words he should have spoken months ago tumbling out all at once.

“I was a coward,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought I could run from what I felt, that I could keep pretending I didn’t need anyone. But I was wrong. I need you. I love you. I’ve always loved you, but I was too scared to admit it, even to myself. And now, I’m standing here, asking — no, begging— for one more chance. Because losing you… it’s the only thing that’s ever made me realize what love really is.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and for a moment, Sukuna thought he had broken you all over again. His chest tightened with fear, and he was ready to turn away, to walk out of your life for good. But then, you spoke, your voice trembling but soft.

“Why now, Sukuna ? Why did it take losing me for you to see ?”

He swallowed hard, his throat burning as he fought to keep his composure. “Because I didn’t know what I had until it was gone. I was selfish, and I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m asking you for another chance. Let me prove that I can be the man you deserve.”

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. And then, slowly, you stepped aside, letting the door open just a little wider. Your eyes met his, filled with pain but also a spark of something that hadn’t completely faded.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you whispered.

And in that moment, Sukuna knew he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let you slip away again. He’d hold onto you with everything he had because now he understood — losing you had been the beginning of the end. But maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something new. Something real. Something that could last.

It wasn’t too late after all.

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

I don't know if you're still taking prompt requests at the moment? But if so I had an idea floating around in my head.

Raphael is reading to Tav in that deep, soothing voice of his while she's lying in bed with the flu or something. She thinks he's being sweet (and in some way he is) but she finds out he's aroused by the very sight of her so weak and vulnerable before him and he can't help but indulge so a little smut ensues 🤭

Keep up the amazing work, I loved the eex pollen fic! 💕👻

I merged these together, hope you don't mind. Thank you Goof and Kat for helping me make this more coherent, and Kat for finding the translation of the rancid poetry ☺️ if you're interested you can read the full poem here

Read on AO3

-

Fiends were not kind, or selfless, or sweet. Perhaps a few might dare to skirt the lines, but her fiend, her Raphael (as much as he could be hers), was not one of them. So when he perched on her bed beside her like a doting devil-spawn gargoyle, promising to read to her as she lay stricken with a common seasonal ailment (that he, of course, was in no danger of catching), Tav was more than a little suspicious.

“Poetry,” he said when she groggily asked him what, exactly, he would be reading.

If nothing else, Tav thought, he could put her to sleep with his gaudy, childish rhymes. Not that she didn’t enjoy Raphael’s deep, soothing voice, but his literary endeavours left a lot to be desired. Still, the effort was appreciated. A nice surprise, even.

It was only when Raphael began to speak, plucking words from the pages of his secretive little book like pulling wings from flies, that she began to understand why he was doing it.

“My love,” he purred with all his usual swagger and sultry bravado twisting his next morbid sentences, “do you recall the object which we saw, that fair sweet summer morn, at a turn in the path of a foul carcass on a gravel strewn bed. Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman. Burning and dripping with poisons, displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way. Its belly, swollen with gases.”

Tav stared at him. Struck dumb by sickness and shock. He continued, focused, grave. Only a hint of amusement turned up his thin lips.

“The sun shone down upon that putrescence as if to roast it to a turn, and to give back a hundredfold to great Nature the elements she had combined, and the sky was watching that superb cadaver blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed you’d faint away upon the grass.”

Disgusting. Compelling. Two words that described the poetry and the devil both, because as Tav listened, as she watched him talk, she saw the signs that answered her question. His expanding pupils, the glimpses of his fangs as he frequently licked his lips, the slight shifting of his legs, the flex of his wings and hypnotising sway of his tail…these things, she’d learned, were his displays of arousal. Her weakness, her vulnerability, excited him. She should have known.

What an awful creature he was. Yet it was more than the illness boiling Tav’s blood. Wringing the air from her lungs. A shame she was too weak to do much – not that it ever really dissuaded Raphael. It certainly wouldn’t now. Something slender, ropey, warm and firm slithered up her leg, underneath her flimsy nightdress. Wormed its way between her thighs. Kissed and caressed the sticky flesh. Dipped betwixt her mons to press itself against her tender sex, to roll and rub like a bitch in heat looking for attention. Teased her winking hole, let me in…

Tav inhaled sharply, her throat tight. Tongue thick and heavy. She’d wanted him to do this, use his tail this way, for some time. Of course he would choose this moment to indulge her fantasy. He grinned wolfishly when she spread her legs for it. For him. Worked her cunt until he could smear the first fresh musky slick of her interest around. Lather her clit to call it from its hood, come and play. Entered the snug cavern of her cunt to the symphony of her warbling whimpers – because gods his tail was thicker than his cock, oh the stretch was delicious and devastating and it just kept going – and his rancid words.

“The blow-flies were buzzing around that putrid belly, from which came forth black battalions of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid all along those living tatters. All this was descending and rising like a wave, or poured out with a crackling sound; one would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath, lived by multiplication.”

Perhaps it was the delirium of fever. The cloying heat beneath all the layers of her skin she couldn’t escape. The swelling of her brain as it pressed against the walls of her skull. Maybe it was none of these things. But the devil’s tail wriggling and writhing in her cunt, slender and serpentine and slippery and scalding, was the best sensation she’d ever experienced. It reached places, touched spots, nothing else – not even her own fingers – could. Its control, the nudging of its wide blunt tip probing deep into her sex, searching for the opening of her cervix, was making her gnash her teeth and buck her hips, feet flat on the bed. Her fingers like claws gripping the sheets. Nails shredding. The noises she was making were obscene but she couldn’t be quiet. Couldn’t be modest with her pleasure. It was the all-consuming kind. The kind that made people do stupid, awful, dangerous things just for a chance to feel. The kind that split nerves and yanked tendons and rattled teeth. The kind so good it hurt, so good she didn’t care about anything else except rubbing and fucking and touching and cumming.

The kind so good she could die.

She would never be the same.

Through it all, Raphael kept reading.

“And yet you will be like this corruption. Like this horrible infection. Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being. You, my angel and my passion!” He knew the text by heart. His dilated glittering yellow eyes, pupils so huge like twin eclipses, wouldn’t look away from her. Wouldn’t blink. She, sweat-slick and undulating like a mad thing. He, enraptured, his leaking cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. His voice, deep and raspy in the grip of terrible, demented lust. “Yes! Thus you will be queen of the graces. After the last sacraments, when you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers, to molder among the bones of the dead.”

“Raphael…!” Tav slurred. It was too much. He was killing her. His tail so long and alive and thriving in the hot and soft and spongy squeeze of her cunt. She dug her heels into the mattress and arched her back; to brace herself to accept him deeper or to make a feeble attempt to pull away, regain control, she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything except the agony and ecstasy of his play. The sick and succulent purr of his disturbing words. The things he said, his poetry so vile and so sweet, like the first sloughs of rotten flesh from a bloated corpse in the sun. She should have been horrified. Repulsed. She was, and she couldn’t get enough. He thrilled her in ways she didn’t understand. Ways that frightened her.

“Then, O my beauty!” Raphael, utterly impassioned, was reaching the crescendo of his piece and she, the crescendo of her rapture. The devil palmed and petted his erection, pressed a thumb hard into its damp head. Gripped its stiff shape through his clothes. He was going to make a mess. “Say to the worms who will devour you with kisses, that I have kept the form and the divine essence of my decomposed love!”

When Tav came, when Raphael finally released her from the torment of desperate want and need and desire by nudging the tip of his tail into the cradle of her womb – it hurt so good she bit her tongue her mouth tasted like blood she hated him she loved him she wanted to pull him apart – she screamed. Her climax, violent, unforgiving, shuddering, took it all. Her body responded to him, his cruel and feckless and greedy lust, by squirting her release over his tail. Over the sheets. A first for her. Powerful orgasmic contractions milked his tail for things it couldn’t give, but what it could do was squirm, leave her breathless and sobbing as it – he – drew out every scorching second of pleasure until she was a wet, babbling wreck.

“No more,” she begged. Wept. “Please…please, Raphael. No more. I can’t take it…”

“Oh, my little mouse,” crooned the devil, feasting on her with his hungry gaze. He’d come, she knew he’d come, by the familiar inflection in his voice. The flush on his cheeks. The dark wet patch between his thighs. Still, he fisted his cock. Not yet soft. Not yet satisfied. He let his tail slip from her twitching cunt slowly. Flicked her swollen clit as he went. Curled his devilish extra limb up to leer, to admire the shining coat of cum Tav had given it. Sleep, exhaustion, was taking her. Her eyelids were heavy. Closing. “My sweet little mouse…”

[muddyorbsblr]

feels like mine pt1

See my full list of works here!

Summary: You wake up in a bed that isn't your own, living a life that seems to be pulled straight out of your wildest dreams

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18+ | mentions of death; slight gaslighting (?) [let me know if I missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: everything is not what it seems; twist at the end

Your eyes squinted to adjust to the brightness of your bedroom awash with the morning sun. Looks like Mother Nature chose to be a little too chipper this morning and tried to blind you with its rays shining straight into your room.

You rose from your bed, your hands flopping on to the ultra soft comforter that sunk beneath the pressure.

Weird, you thought to yourself. I don't remember checking in to a hotel, and God knows my bed isn't this soft. You slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and alarm bells immediately ringing loud in your head when you looked down at the pristine white sheets.

"This isn't my bed," you said aloud, hopping down from the mattress and assessing your body, ensuring that you were free to move and your limbs weren't tied down in some capacity keeping you captive in what would have been a bizarrely cozy looking prison. You assessed your clothes next; mainly to see if you were even wearing any, your brows shooting to your hairline when your hands touched a lush satiny fabric covering your curves. "These aren't my clothes."

You rushed over to a mirror situated on a door that you assumed was a closet, your confusion growing by the second when you saw that the reflection looking back at you was…yourself. Exactly as you were last night before you went to bed, only clad in a navy blue nightie that looked like it cost over a week's pay. And wearing a ring that probably cost your soul.

The items on the nightstand by the side of the bed you'd woken up on raised even more questions. A black leather-bound journal with a gold 'H' pressed on the spine, a fountain pen, a laptop, a tablet, and a Kindle Oasis. An almost exact match to the items on the nightstand that you knew by heart, but each item was a more luxurious variant. For one, you wouldn't in your right mind ever buy yourself a Kindle Oasis. Or an S.T. Duponte fountain pen.

On the opposite nightstand were a stack of papers bound together with brass fasteners and a pair of reading glasses with a grade that moderately blurred your vision when you held it close to your eyes. You decided against looking at the contents of the book-bound papers in case there was anything confidential you weren't meant to glimpse in its contents.

You checked on the door next, seeing if it was locked from the outside. It wasn't.

You stepped out of the bedroom, assessing your surroundings to find any semblance of information that would tell you where you were and why you were here, only to grumble out of sheer frustration, "This isn't my apartment." To start with, apartments didn't have stairs. And your place didn't have nearly this much windows.

"Did I…shift?" Your voice softly echoed off the walls, staring in disbelief at the framed picture before you. Your hair and makeup impeccably done, a flower tiara delicately put in place at the top of your head, clad in a downright whimsical wedding dress and smiling brilliantly at the groom whose back was turned to the camera, your only hint at who he was being broad shoulders and brown slightly curly hair.

The unmistakable sound of vegetables being cut led you down the stairs and into the kitchen, desperately hoping it would lead you to who your mystery husband was and maybe start making some sense of this downright crazy predicament.

But catching a glimpse of the well over 6-foot lean frame dressed a white button-down shirt tucked into black dress pants that put a way too familiar butt on proud display had you itching to wake up because this was most definitely a concerningly vivid dream.

That is definitely not my husband.

No way on God's green Earth were you married to Tom Hiddleston. This just went from bizarre to downright impossible.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he greeted you in that low timbre that had your knees buckling, setting aside his task at hand and removing his apron before walking over to you.

"Hi…" you answered him, voice wavering. Before you could speak another word, he framed your face in his hands, thumbs softly running across your cheekbones, and then pressing a delicate kiss to your lips. "What're you--"

"We finished filming early," he answered, words murmured against your lips. "I caught an earlier flight so I could see you sooner. Oh I've missed you so much." He pressed his lips to yours again. "My darling wife."

Okay, I definitely shifted. This body you may have woken up in had your face, and probably your maiden name…but this wasn't your life. You were occupying space meant for someone else. Another Y/N.

"Tom, I think I have to--"

"Whatever it is can wait." He kissed you again, this time he pressed against you a little harder, your heart beating wildly in your chest when you felt a light, tentative lick to your bottom lip. "Just let me hold you a little while longer." He wrapped his arm around the small of your back, cradling your head with his other hand as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, sighing in contentment.

You knew you were seconds away from abandoning all your plans to try and get him to listen when he started pressing numerous open-mouthed kisses along your neck, your whole body growing weak when he started nipping and licking at the skin. "Please it's important. I don't think I'm supposed to be--"

The feel of him groaning into your skin made your knees give out, making him hold you tighter against him. He walked you backwards until your back pressed against the wall, your breathing labored as he kissed along the expanse of skin exposed to him by your negligee.

When his kisses started traveling south and he pressed his lips to the swell of your breast, you knew you had to get your words out before you gave in and let him have his way with you, however far that may be. "I'm not supposed to be here," you blurted out, pressing your palms to his shoulders and inwardly cursing at yourself for making him stop. "I know that I might sound like I'm not making any sense but…I think I shifted realities…? It's bizarre to me because I never actually succeeded until now but the point is--"

"Sweetheart, slow down." He began to rub his hands up and down your arms, calming you down some within seconds and once again making you question this reality. And how he knew what to do when you began to ramble and spiral in your own thoughts. "You say you're not supposed to be here. Where do you think you should be? Tell me what you know and perhaps I can help from there."

"My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I'm a software engineer in the middle of a career shift. Last night I went to sleep in a one bedroom apartment in Anaheim. I was no one to you. At most a faceless name that sings your praises online. Definitely not…" You waved your hand in a sweeping gesture across your surroundings. "This," you finished, your breath hitching in the back of your throat when you caught sight of his expression, eyes shining with tears that were seconds away from falling down his cheeks.

"What a bleak life," he breathed out, pressing his lips to your forehead as he pulled you into an embrace. "I can't imagine having to live in a world where I didn't know you. Didn't love you." He kissed your temple. "Thank God it was just a dream."

"A dr--A dream?" you sputtered, confusion overcoming your thoughts. Surely it wasn't that simple. That easily explained. You could remember in vivid detail the code you worked on last night, the bumpy bus ride on the way back to your apartment. The last story you read written by your friends online before you finally laid your head on your pillow and succumbed to an exhausted slumber.

Something about Tom's character on The Hollow Crown and barn sex before he was to face off against the Dauphin of France.

"Yes, my love. Nothing but an awful vivid dream," he reassured you, soothing you with the low velvety tone of his voice, partnered with the kisses he was softly peppering all over your face before stopping at the corner of your mouth. "Your name is Y/N Hiddleston. We've been together for five years, and you gave me the unique honor of becoming your husband less than a year ago. You were a software engineer amidst a career change when I met you all those years ago, and you've come so far since then. You have amazed me at every turn, and it's been a privilege to witness all that you've done. And all that you will continue to do." He captured your lips in a tender kiss, making you melt into his arms as you crossed your hands behind his neck, allowing him to pull you closer. "You just need a few minutes to readjust after waking up. Everything will come back to you soon enough. And any details that don't return to you I'll happily fill those blanks in."

It was almost like the protests that remained in your mind got muffled at his assurances. He spoke about you with such conviction and fondness and love that it made it sound beyond reproach. All that remained was the faintest murmur of doubt that you quickly recognized as those few hours of disbelief you would go through after waking up from a particularly vivid dream, much like those ones you had back in college where you mourned the loss of your best friend and you internally panicked for hours until he walked into the classroom looking every bit as alive as he had the day before.

"Just a dream…" You tested the words on your tongue, the explanation steadily becoming more and more palatable than your initial theory of successfully shifting. Your eyes met Tom's again. "Sorry I…kinda freaked out back there--"

He pressed a delicate kiss to your lips to stop you. "There's no need for apologies, sweetheart. You were disoriented, and I'm grateful you confided in me that you were instead of holding it all in." He brushed the tip of his nose against yours, the gesture bringing a smile to your face and causing a small giggle to escape your lips. "How about you head back upstairs and get ready for the day, and I'll finish whipping up breakfast?"

"That…sounds like a good idea," you agreed, unable to keep the smile off your face even as he kissed you again. "I'll go take a shower and then…I'll be back down here in twenty minutes?"

Tom loosened his hold on you, hands smoothing down your sides before he took a step back so you could make your way up the stairs. Before you passed him, he took your hand in his to call your attention again, bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to each of your knuckles. "I love you," he whispered against your skin.

"I love you, too," you said back, biting your lip as you gave him a smile before heading back up the stairs, your doubts calmed and your panic from earlier subsiding, allowing you to simply look around the house and appreciate the beauty and joy that your life granted you in stark contrast to last night's dream.

Just as you stepped on to the top landing of the stairs, a flash of green glinted at the corner of Tom's eye, diverting his attention to the visitor in the kitchen.

"She is a perceptive one, your mortal," Loki mused, staring down at the ingredients on the cutting board. "A part of her recognizes that she is no longer within her universe. That part could linger…fester, even. Are you truly certain you wish to continue down this path? To risk her finding out the truth and resenting you from stealing her away from her life--"

"What's the alternative, then?" Tom snapped, gripping the countertop so hard his knuckles were going white, hot tears finally falling from his eyes. "Go on the rest of my days without my wife? Let her go back to a world where she said it herself, she's no one to me?"

Loki let out a sigh, taking a few steps towards the door to the patio, the tension and frustration evident in his stance. "She did not deserve the life she was designed for, on that I do agree. But it will take time for her to fully acclimate to this new universe, if you truly wish to keep her here. And you must accept that no matter what you do, she may never fully fill the space that your late wife left behind."

Tom's eyes burned with more tears, indignation and grief making his heart ache even worse at the memory of you -- that is, the you that he lost not even three days ago. "I know that," he said through gritted teeth. "What of the people who heard news of her passing? The people on set who saw me when I got the call? They're going to ask her questions when they see her alive and well. Questions she won't be able to answer."

The god simply waved a hand dismissively. "Simple memory spell. Their recollection of events will simply be altered wherein they recall you receiving a call and you needed to leave and halt production to ensure her safety, not see to her funeral. Her record at the hospital has been expunged. Any and all evidence that suggests that the Y/N Hiddleston of his universe is no longer with us has ceased to exist."

"Thank you," he choked out, walking up to the god and extending a hand.

"Of course. You deserved not the life you'd planned with your wife taken so violently." Loki took your husband's hand in a firm shake. "Now, I know it may not be my place to tell you what you should be doing at this moment. But from where I stand, you have just been reunited with your wife. If you're open to suggestions, I would recommend putting the apron down, going upstairs, and simply enjoying the life that has been returned to you. Breakfast can wait."

With those words, Loki disappeared in a flash of green right as Tom turned around and headed up the stairs in your direction, heeding the god's advice.

A/N: Something tells me that when I told y'all there's a Centrum Ad Hiddles story coming your way, y'all probably didn't expect this…and to be honest I didn't think I was even gonna make a Centrum Ad Hiddles story, let alone one that took this direction. 😳👀 I hope you like it though, slightly dark twist and all 😅💖

‘everything’ taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @unlucky-number-13 @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @evelyn-kingsley @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989

Hiddles taglist: @spooky1980

[rottenpumpkin13]

Seph obv wants his mom but CONSIDER -- what on earth would she say if she found out her son was an overgrown cat thing surrounded by idiots (and Angeal)

*Lucrecia gets a glimpse into Sephiroth's life from her mako crystal*

*Sephiroth is reading a book*

Lucrecia: Aww, he likes reading.

*Genesis enters the room and sits on his lap*

Lucrecia: Aww, he has a...is he-is he gay?

*Sephiroth pushes Genesis onto the ground*

Lucrecia: Oh, they're just friends.

*Sephiroth immediately fights Genesis on the ground*

Lucrecia: Nope, they're definitely lovers.

*Angeal enters the room, points a laser at the wall, and this prompts Sephiroth to let Genesis go. He chases the laser*

Lucrecia: What the fuck

*Zack enters the room, goes "pspspspspssp" and Sephiroth comes to him to receive head pats*

Lucrecia: He has a harem.

You also get the bitter-sweet real answer because I listened to my go-to Lucrecia+Sephiroth song (Light - Sleeping At Last) and it inspired this:

Consider this: Lucrecia's consciousness hangs in a void state between life and death, a pervasive emptiness a constant companion as she remains in limbo. Her 'almost death but not quite' existence sometimes offers a twisted sort of mercy: happy visions of her past flood her mind—endless hours spent over research papers, laughter-filled conversations with Dr. Valentine, picnics with Vincent. But there are darker memories—Vincent's near-fatal injury, Hojo's cruelty, the profound transformations during her pregnancy, and the visions of her son’s inevitable fate.

But in fleeting moments of peculiar mercy, she glimpses the world around her. She sees him. It’s always him. He’s handsome, she notes, his smile so pure it fills her with gratitude for everything that brings him joy. She’s thankful for the sun that warms his face when her hands cannot, and for the food he eats that she cannot feed him. She watches him face the dangers of his job under Shinra's command, her heart aching with a worry she should’ve listened to the day she agreed to subject him to such a fate.

Her regret is almost numbed when she sees that he’s not alone. Friends surround him, offering a semblance of normalcy through their support. Despite what he was molded to be, Sephiroth remains kind, his hope undiminished even in the face of cruelty. He has dreams for a normal life, possessing his own likes and dislikes, things that make him laugh, a humor he keeps sharp. He’s human, and it makes her question the vision she had once seen.

She mourns her inability to provide him with the normal life he deserves, now confined to observing the one he leads. Nonetheless, she finds comfort in his joy, his friendships, and his capacity to find beauty in the world. She sees him diligently searching for clues to his past, and all she wishes is to reach out, to kiss his forehead, to tell him she’s sorry, that she loves him—his quirks, his personality, his ability to make his friends adore him for who he is. She is eternally grateful for those who love him in her absence.

[harry-on-broadway]

My Rock Star

Word Count: 3.6K || Rating: M 

A/N: I knew I wanted to write a Grammys fic and had drafted one a couple of weeks ago. But after last night, it underwent a major overhaul to capture the magic of the evening. I really enjoyed writing this one and hope you enjoy reading it. Would love to hear your thoughts! 

***

It was too soon.

And besides, he almost never brought anyone special to any of these events.

“You get that, right?” he whispered against your hair, fingers scratching lightly at the exposed skin of shoulder as he held you close in bed.

For anyone else, the two-year mark almost guaranteed attendance at your partner’s work events, but Harry’s situation meant you all played by a different set of rules.

“I get it,” you said, even though deep down a part of you felt hurt by his continued refusal to bring you into all facets of his life. You knew it came from a place of well-meaning, but that didn’t make it sting any less. You counted the freckles on his chest to distract yourself from the frustration brewing inside.

“I’m not happy about it,” Harry said somewhat forcefully. “If I could have you there I would.”

“And you can. You’re just choosing not to.” His hand stopped mid-scratch and you could feel him suck in a breath. “That was a low blow. I’m sorry.”

“You’re just being honest,” he said. It was clear he was trying not to snap back at you.

“No, I’m being petty and unfair.” You twisted and propped yourself up on your elbow to look him in the eye. “I know why you’re like this. It all comes from a place of love but sometimes I just want to celebrate my boyfriend. I want to support you.”

“And you do, love. Just because our situation isn’t traditional doesn’t mean it’s wrong or bad.”

You looked down at him. His eyes were clear, if a little tired, and you could see a faint puffiness under his eyes. He’d been working so hard recently, squeezing rehearsals, wardrobe fittings, and writing sessions in between shows. It was cruel to take out your anger on him when he hadn’t done anything wrong. You knew what you were in store for when you started dating and understood that this would always be part of your relationship. You ran your hands through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. “You’re right,” you said. “What we have is pretty damn great.” You planted a kiss on his lips. “Now how about we go to bed. I’m a little tired and I think you are too.”

Harry sighed. “I am. And I have to be up in…” He squinted, looking at the clock on your nightstand. “...five hours. Fuck.”

“Don’t think about it. Just go to sleep.” You rolled over and turned off the light, hoping to force him into getting at least a couple of hours of rest. “Goodnight, H.”

Within minutes you were listening to the sound of his quiet snores as your mind continued to swirl with thoughts of what it would be like to share just one celebratory moment with him.

***

Sunday afternoon and you were still in your sweats while the man of the hour was being helped into a sparkly patchwork jumpsuit.

You’d offered to step out and grab lunch with a girlfriend to give him some space, but he’d been insistent that you stay near. Which meant you’d been orbiting him and his team all day, sitting far enough away that you wouldn’t be in the way as Jeff came in and out of the room with updates and Lambert helped with last-minute fittings, but remaining close enough that you could see Harry when he went looking for reassurance.

You bounced between your book and phone, reading a few pages before responding to messages from Anne and Gemma, giving them the play-by-play and glimpses behind the scenes they so desperately wanted, until you felt someone tap your shoulder. Looking up, you saw Harry.

The room had cleared out, leaving the two of you with a moment of privacy for the first time all day. Harry pulled you into his chest, holding you tight.

“Nervous?” you asked, lips pressed to his chest. You felt him shrug. “It’s OK if you are. If you can tell anyone you can tell me.”

“I–I know I tell everyone shit like this doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t, but I really want to win. Prove to everyone that I matter.”

“You do matter, Harry,” you said, cupping his face in your hands. “And if it wouldn’t make you late, I’d make you sit down and listen while I listed off everything you’ve accomplished in the past couple of years.”

“I mean I wouldn’t be upset if you did that.”

You pinched his cheek, earning a giggle from him. “What I do want to talk about is this outfit.” He was decked out in a tight, low-cut jumpsuit in a sparkly geometric pattern that somewhat resembled an afghan that had rested on that back of your grandmother’s couch for a number of years. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not going,” you teased. “I wouldn’t have been able to match you, fashionista.”

“I would have liked to see you try.”

“I’m sure you would.” You stepped back to fully take in Harry’s outfit. “You look really good, baby.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“I’m the one that gets to take this off of you tonight.”

Harry licked his lips and you could have sworn you felt something stiffen below his waist. “Uh, I think I can make that happen.”

“Good. Because you owe me.” You pressed up onto the balls of your feet, wrapped your arms around his neck, and pulled him close, and slotted your lips over his. The kiss was gentle at first, but as soon as you got a taste, something came over you. You nibbled at his lips, and when he returned the gesture with even more fervor, you slipped your tongue inside, deepening the kiss and pulling a low groan from Harry. You dug your fingers into his shoulders and started to stroke his growing bulge when you heard a slight cough from the doorway.

You parted, only to find Jeff standing there, artfully avoiding eye contact. “Car’s here, H,” he said as you all caught your breath. “Need to head out now.” He nodded your direction before walking purposefully out the door.

“Going to need a sec, Jeffrey,” Harry called after him.

“Fuck, that was awkward,” you said, feeling your face grow hot with embarrassment.

“He’s seen worse,” Harry offered in an attempt to help.

“Not with me, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Oh stop, you know you’re my one and only.” Harry inhaled. “It’s going to be good, right?”

“Of course,” you said in one last attempt to reassure him and calm his nerves. “Just go out there and make me proud.”

“Don’t know if I’ll be able to do that.”

“Yes, you will. Just by being you.” You pinched his cheek again. “Bringing home the big one will just be a bonus.”

“H! Car is leaving now!” Jeff called from the hall. “Adjust yourself on the way there.”

Harry leaned down to steal one final kiss. “See you at the party?”

You nodded, acknowledging your plan to meet him at a private afterparty some of his friends had organized. “I’m counting down the minutes.”

“Alright…”

“Harry, you need to go.”

“I know.” He picked up his phone and sunglasses from the table. “See you later.”

“Mhmm. And don’t forget your promise.”

“I won’t.” A cheeky grin had returned to his face. “You’re the only one undressing me tonight.” He turned towards the hall. “OK, Jeffrey,” he shouted, smacking his palm against the top of the door frame as he walked through. “Let’s go. We’re already late because of you!”

You rolled your eyes, pretty certain that Jeff would not appreciate Harry’s jokes when they were 15 minutes behind schedule and already fighting a losing battle against Los Angeles traffic.

Alone in the room, you turned your attention to your own outfit, a simple party dress you’d worn to bachelorette parties and nights out. In fact, you’d been wearing it when you’d first met Harry. It had to have some sort of luck, right? You slipped it on as you said a silent prayer for the night.

***

You’d already downed a drink before the ceremony started and were almost done with your second. Which meant you weren’t sure if Harry’s category was first or second or later in the show, so you played it safe and settled onto a small velvet couch, attention solely on one of the many televisions scattered around the room. You chewed on the straw as the telecast ran through the nominees, bracing yourself to hear a name that wasn’t Harry’s, only to be completely shocked when his name was read off the card.

The room erupted in screams as people shouted with joy, jumping up to hug one another, you stayed still on the chair, too surprised to move. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe he could do it. Hell, he’d done it once before. But you’d spent so much time preparing for the worst, thinking about how you’d soothe the sting of losing that you hadn’t spent much time thinking about how you’d be celebrating.

By the time you’d calmed down and returned to normalcy, Harry was already walking off stage. You smiled, thinking of how his short and direct speech was so…him. Seeing him holding that trophy had you breathing easier. One thing checked off the list.

Things slowed down after the win, you could tell he was nervy the second he stepped on the stage to perform, and after that, several losses in a row had dimmed the energy of your group. With just one category left, everyone was preparing to hype up the man of the hour when he arrived. You had started to tune out the broadcast as album of the year was announced, and you were convinced you were hallucinating when Harry’s fan read his name off the card. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as you watched Tom and Tyler and everyone around him pull him into a warm embrace before he made his way on stage. You tried not to think about how you wished you were the one holding him up there.

Waiting for him to finish up his interviews and photo calls after the show was the most agonizing thing you’d ever experienced, and no matter how many people you talked to, no matter how many appetizers you ate, you couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. Countless minutes later, you were alerted to his arrival when you heard screams and cheers coming from the entrance. You walked over to the bar to get him a drink, pausing when you felt someone behind you.

“Have you ever slept with a Grammy winner?” a voice purred in your ear.

You turned around to find Harry, curls flopping over his forehead, body clad in a nearly all black ensemble, save for the low cut white tank he had on underneath.

“Actually I have,” you said with a laugh.

“Shit, I messed that up. I was supposed to say three-time Grammy winner,” Harry slurred.

“Started the party early?” you teased.

“There may have been some libations passed around the backseat on the way over here, but I could never start celebrating without my best girl.”

“Who me?”

“Yes you!” Harry leaned his forehead against yours. “I-I really wanted you there,” he said softly. “Was thinking about you the whole time. How you should have been there beside me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you murmured, stroking his cheek. “I get you all night.” You kissed him. “And tomorrow.” Another kiss. “And the day after that.”

“You have me forever, love,” Harry said, eyes clearer than they had been all night.

You were about to respond when Tom and Ben bounded over, jumping on Harry’s back. “Fuck yeah! Album of the year!” Tom shouted, pulling Harry back to the center of the room. You laughed, picking up your drink and Harry’s, finding a quiet corner to chat with the band while Harry made his rounds.

***

It had been close to midnight the last time you looked at a clock. Any other night, you’d be fading about now, ready to head to bed, cuddling with Harry if he was in town, but tonight, you felt energized. A lull had fallen over the party as revelers searched for a third – or fourth – drink or chased down one of the trays of appetizers that had been moving around the room. You were trying to decide what your next cocktail would be, when someone grabbed your hand, jerking you out of your stupor.

“Harry?”

“This way,” he said, pulling you over to a door that led to somewhere unknown.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” You all wound up in an empty room that might have been used to store tables and other furniture when they weren't in use. “So,” Harry began. “I know I promised you something today, but I’ve clearly not held up my end of the bargain.”

You were confused. “Uh, what are you talking about?”

“I promised that you would be the one to undress me. And while you didn’t specify which outfit, I have a feeling you were partial to the jumpsuit. I’m hoping this,” he gestured to his jeans and tank. “Will suffice.”

You took a shaky breath. “I think I can work with this.”

“Well, go ahead.” Harry lifted his arms as you blinked incredulously.

“Wha-here? Now?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “It’s not like anyone will hear.” You stared at him. “Love, you’re loud, but not that loud.”

“Harry!”

“Everyone has been drinking since noon, they’re not going to notice we’re gone.” You chewed on your lip, unconvinced by his reasoning. “You know what, we can wait,” Harry said after a moment. “We’ll head home soon and then –”

“No! I don’t want that.” Harry’s brows jumped up his forehead. “I want you. Here. Now,” you continued.

“OK, love,” Harry said softly, as if he didn’t want to break whatever trance had come over you.

You approached him, kissing him fiercely as you pulled the jacket from his shoulders. He kissed you back, his dexterity not impacted by the large amount of alcohol he’d consumed that evening. When the jacket hit the floor, you untucked his shirt, grazing your fingertips along his skin as you pulled the garment over his head, depositing it on top of the pile. His pants were next, and you took your time undoing his belt, unbuttoning the trousers, and slowly peeling them down the muscle of his thighs and calves. You could hear him inhale, then let out a slow breath when your hands grazed over his hips, face just inches away from the bulge in his pants that was growing by the second. He kicked off his pants and was left standing nearly naked.

“Now this feels unfair,” he said, teasing evident in his voice.

“This was my consolation prize,” you said with a smirk.

“Well what do I get for winning?”

“This.” You brought his hand up your thigh and under your dress, pushing your panties to the side.

“Fuuuuccckk,” he moaned, feeling the dampness between your legs.

“You can’t expect me to watch you parading around on the carpet like that, walking up on stage, winning a fucking Grammy and not get wet for you.”

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. His fingers swiped at your center, barely there, the teasing touch only winding you up more.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course.” You swallowed. “I got mine and now you’ll get yours.”

You could have sworn he growled as he thrust his fingers inside of you, thumb readily finding your clit. You were so slick that his fingers slipped out of rhythm several times before he was able to steady himself. The constant stopping and starting only built your desire, and you found yourself biting down on Harry’s shoulder to keep from crying out. He continued to circle your clit and you started to feel that sensation behind your belly button, like you were climbing up a hill and when Harry finally touched you just like that, you found yourself falling over the edge and into his arms.

“I’ve got you,” Harry said, his arms steadying you as you rode out your orgasm. “I’ve got you.”

You looked up at him, still dazed, and were only able to utter a single word. “More.”

Harry was quick to respond, stepping closer to you until you were backed up against the wall. “Up,” he said against the column of your throat where he was sucking kisses against every inch of exposed skin he could find. You jumped, or at least did the best impression of jump you could manage in your state, Harry’s arms catching you, and holding you close against him.

He could feel him, hot and hard against your core and in that moment you knew you needed him. All of him. Here and now in whatever room of this downton hotel you all had commandeered. You pawed at the waistband of his briefs, trying to pull them down. When they were pooled around his knees, Harry lined himself up with you, catching your eye and waiting for you to nod your consent before he pushed inside of you.

You all both cried out as you clenched around his cock. You always felt filled to the brim when he was inside of you, but tonight, it was like it had never been before. A perfect fit. Like you all were made for each other.

“Is this good?” Harry asked as you adjusted to him.

“Yes, so good,” you whined.

He rocked his hips, thrusting deeper, inching closer to the spot that drove you wild. He repeated the action again and again, moving farther each time until you were crying out with pleasure.

“H-, don’t stop, please,” you moaned.

You felt his fingers dig into your hips as he pulled you even closer to him as he increased his pace. His hips rammed into you, more aggressive than he usually was, until you could feel them falter. He was close and you needed to feel him spill over the edge.

“Come on, H, please baby, you’re close I know it.” You wrapped your fingers in the tangled curls at the base of his neck and tugged, pulling his face from your neck so you could look him in the eye. “Cum for me baby. My rock star.”

Harry groaned and when you felt his body shudder and that telltale warm wetness inside of you, you knew he’d finished. He was still for a moment, but when he adjusted, ready to pull out, he moved in a way that triggered your own orgasm, even better than the first. Numb and tingly in the best way possible, you gave him a hazy grin and leaned in to kiss him.

“Not the worst way to celebrate,” Harry said, breathless. “I should win awards more often.”

“There’s always Saturday,” you shot back.

“I like that way of thinking,” he said, patting your ass as you bent to straighten and adjust your panties. You’d need to clean up before you made your way back to the party. “That’s what I keep you around for.”

“My brain?” You smiled and tossed Harry his pants.

“Something like that.”

He’d just pulled his pants up when there was a knock at the door.

“H? You in there?” It sounded like Jeff and some others.

“Fuck!” Harry shot you an apologetic look.

“Go,” you urged, handing him his shirt and jacket. “They want to celebrate you.”

He pouted. “But maybe I don’t want to.”

“You were fine with celebrating a minute ago.”

“Yeah, because I was naked with you.”

“Go,” you repeated. “I’ll see you later.”

“Oh? You coming home with me?” He grinned and you swore you swooned. Dimpled grin and disheveled curls, he was a sexier version of a matinee idol.

“You know I am. I always come home to you.”

“Yes, you do.” He kissed your cheek, a surprisingly chaste gesture when he’d been knuckle deep inside of you just minutes earlier. “I really do wish you had been there with me tonight.” He cleared his throat. “Tom and Tyler might have helped make the album, but it never would have existed if it hadn’t been for you.” His eyes were watering and he swiped at them with the back of his hand.

“Well that’s bullshit.”

“It’s not,” he said, firmly. “I feel like I never treat you as well as I should and that you could do so much better.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze. “I have my reasons. Doesn’t make it better, but I do it because I care. One day, I hope I can give you everything you deserve.”

You were at a loss for words and settled for hugging him as tight as you could, until the crowd outside began to pound on the door. “I think your admirers are waiting,” you said. You pushed him forward. “Go, have fun.”

Looking over his shoulder, Harry walked across the room and opened the door. His friends embraced him and you had to fight the urge to intervene when a drunken Tommy and Tyler tried to hoist him onto their shoulders. Harry was laughing hard, and even from your distant vantage point, you could tell just how much love surrounded him.

There were a lot of challenges in your relationship, the chief one being having to share him with the rest of the world. But as you caught his eye and shared a smile, you were sure of one thing.

He’d always be your rock star.

[alls-fair-in-pride-and-prejudice]

Weaving Constellations Pt 9 - A Light in the Darkness

Part 8 / Part 10 / Part 1

This is an ongoing story of short scenes of Gale and my warlock Tav building off canon. If you'd like to be added to the tag list to get notified of new parts you can go here.

A/N: Gale reflects on Mystra's command and the party enters the shadow cursed lands. We're staying with Gale for another chapter because I needed to write what I imagine going through his mind before that "I once read a book" dialogue.

Tag List: @vespaer77 @lalectricedumonde @odd-dragon @aylin-the-barrel

The orb is quiet now.

Small mercies are afforded to the soon-to-be-deceased, Gale supposes.

He had forgotten what it felt like to not have that constant nagging, insistent pull. The absence of it is equal parts relief and… a strange sort of grief.

Why in the world would he be grieving? This is the best news he has had in ages. He was always destined to die, really, he knew that all along. Now he can die with purpose. He can save the few friends he has had the pleasure to make in far too long, and have a chance to see Elysium on the other side instead of the endless gray skies of the fugue plane. He owes this to Mystra, she is offering a chance at forgiveness for his heinous actions.

This is good news!

Why does it not feel like good news?

Lyra is adamant that he will not be dying, that there is another way to stop The Absolute. She speaks with such conviction, such certainty, like he would be a fool to think that he will be meeting his end any time soon. How easily she disregards the command of a goddess, as easily as she would refute that the sky is green.

It’s that confidence, perhaps, that allowed hope to sneak past Gale’s defenses. He hoped that he would be able to cure his affliction and live.

He hopes still, despite his better judgment.

The shadow-cursed lands seem designed to sap all hope from a person.

Even with the dancing lights that Gale and Lyra cast, the torches that everyone carries, there is a heaviness that suffuses the air and seeps into their lungs. Shadowheart is the only one in truly decent spirits, unaffected by the deadly despair that permeates the land, but Karlach tries to keep everyone’s spirits light with terrible jokes.

It isn’t long before they come across the Harpers, joining together to keep close to the meager lights.

Then, the shadows attack.

It’s a fight unlike any other they have experienced before. These things that swarm them are not material, not really, but they are not ghosts either. They are whatever is left of poor souls lost to the curse, twisted into these wailing monsters desperate for company in their misery. Though they swirl like smoke, they grab and claw like ice-cold flesh. Gale favors lightning and fire spells now, desperate to bring some light to battle the darkness that presses in on all sides.

Gale is backing away from an oncoming wraith when a freezing, shadowy hand grabs his ankle and yanks, sending him face first into the dirt as it tries to drag him into the shadows. He scrambles to aim at the creature that has him, the incantation on the tip of his lips, but he cannot twist himself properly to get a proper shot. 

It almost has him outside the fragile protection of the torchlight when a bolt of sparking red strikes across his vision, striking the monster square in the center, forcing it to reel back and release its grip on Gale. He looks up, and wonders if someone has cast a slow spell upon the both of them, for time itself seems to slow when he looks at her. The image before him, though only glimpsed for half a moment, will be burned into his memory.

Lyra’s eyes are wild, burning with determination. Her hand is still outstretched and fingers still sparkling with the energy of the eldritch blast she fired off. Stray hairs that have fallen out of her careful up-do stick to her face from the sweat of her brow, and she is sporting a nasty cut across her upper arm, blood staining her robes mingling with dirt. The silver-white scales are even more like stars now, sparkling in the darkness.

Another wraith creeps up behind her, and the incantation that was just on Gale’s lips fires away easily now, sending a firebolt hurtling through the head.

She whips her head around in shock before she smiles at him, the breathless sort of smile of both “thanks” and “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Gale has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Lyra helps him up and they move back-to-back in sync, firing off eldritch blasts and firebolts to keep the shadow monsters at bay.

This is not the time to be distracted! But her body is pressed so close he can feel her warmth, drawn to it in this place that tries to sap it away. He can feel the curve of her hips pressed up against his, and she is gorgeous and strong and damn that shadow is getting too close. “ARDE!”

Finally, the creatures retreat, and they have a safe-haven to reach as well.

As they journey to the inn, Gale struggles to keep his eyes off of Lyra. This pull he feels to her is just as strong as before, just without the added inclination to sap the magic out of her soul. What a fool he has been, to not realize sooner just how much of the draw he feels to her is pure desire of a human nature, not a magical one. 

Of course he has known all along she is an attractive woman, with a sharp wit and a kind heart, but gods, he does not have much time left and the one thing he would like to do before he dies is her. It’s a crude thought, he admits, but perhaps the thrill of saving each other in battle has him more excited than normal. 

He could actually be with her, now that the orb is no longer the same danger it was before. Except… would she accept him? He feels she is attracted to him as well, those images from their magic lesson still vibrant in his mind, but perhaps she is still loyal to her patron.

If she rejects him, he’ll have a few days at most to feel the sting of it before his demise. A last fleeting chance at love is worth the risk. As soon as they reach this inn, he will make his feelings known.

[volterran-wine]

Hi Nat!

I saw you had said to ask away and that many people don’t ask about the history about the Volturi. I have always been curious about their history.

Like how did they all find each other? How did they decide to become kings? How did they decide that what the Romanian Coven was doing was dangerous to vampires and they needed order? How did they decide on a law? How did they get word out about that law? Is it really just the three kings and their spouses (Mainly Aro and Caius?) making decisions?

I just want to know so much about them. I really wish that there was a book diving into the Volturi. I really want to know more about each and every one their personality who they really are. If you don’t mind maybe diving into this? I know you said you’d like more people to talk about their history and I’m not sure if this would back in to that. Also what year was it they became a Coven. What year did they go to war… the same possible war that Didyme died in? I just have a list that goes on and I’m sorry if this is way to long I also want you to know that I am thinking of starting my own Fics about the volturi and they’re history just with a little twist that will dive into when Didyme was still alive and human… all the way ti the events of breaking dawn… it’s already breaking my heart that your leaving. I didn’t know until I got on tumbler today and yes I’ll be sad because you are an amazing writer I do understand that health comes first and I know sometimes writing can be a burn out. All the best ❤️

I am eternally apolegetic for not getting to this sooner.

It also needs to be said that I have seen your other questions as well, life took it's turns, and I knew this reply would be a long one. Or at the very least, I would have to use more of my brain capacity than usual.

By leaving them so blank, the author did us both a service and disservice. Though I am happy to be fleshing out the lives of the Volturi Coven. At this point I do not want a book about them, for I believe the fandom has shown them far more love than she ever will.

I am excited to hear you want to write for them! The endless possibilities of who, how and when is partially to blame for my initial interest in The Volturi. Enough so that I picked up writing again after over ten years of not putting pen to paper. If you have/will write, please send it my way, I love reading other people's interpretations of the character.

The last couple of days I have updated AO3 three times, something I have never done... it feels good to write again.

I sincerely hope I will be able to get to all the things you questioned me about. Some of the answers can be glimpsed here and there already, but I do think my anthology fanfic will be the place I delve into a lot of the smaller, yet important moments of The Volturi.

Wish you all the best.

― 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝑁𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑒

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (5/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~3.3k

A/N: All the typical Under the Mountain trigger warnings apply here. There isn't any weight talk in this chapter, but there is a brief mention of skipping meals. A few lines for dialogue are also lifted directly from ACOTAR book one.

Feyre goes Under the Mountain.

Read on AO3 or you can find the fifth chapter below the readmore.

ch. 1 - the altar is my hips | ch 2. - an arrowhead leading us home | ch. 3 - by the way, i just may like some explanations | ch. 4 - can't not think of all the cost | ch. 5 - honey i rose up from the dead

The next six weeks were the longest of my life—I didn't hear from Rhys again. Even with my own shields up, his feelings leaked through occasionally, none of them positive. Despair, guilt, rage, violation, pain, disgust.

At night, my dreams were glimpses through his eyes of Amarantha's cruel court Under the Mountain. When it was nothing more than heads on spikes or lashes across a back, I slept through the night. Sometimes, though, it was his hands and mouth all over Amarantha in her bedroom, and on those nights, the urge to vomit ripped me from sleep and sent me running towards the toilet. The dreams were so vivid, I could still taste her on my tongue when I woke up. I'd never thought the sick, burning taste of bile could be a mercy until it erased the evidence of what she'd been doing to Rhys.

I took to skipping dinner, just so there would be less to hurl up.

I could only hope that if it worked the opposite way for him, the sight of the city—Velaris, as I learned it was called—helped him through it. But he clearly didn't want to talk, so I couldn't be sure.

When Amarantha didn't feature in the nightmares, it was the Spring Court. Sometimes I dreamed about Andras killing me in revenge, sometimes it was Tamlin dragging me back and forcing me to kill and kill and kill. Those dreams never made me vomit, just left me with a sense of guilt that felt like a physical thing weighing me down and pinning me to the bed.

On those nights, I'd stare at the ceiling and wonder if the blame truly lay at Tamlin's feet for sending Andras to die, Amarantha's for cursing Tamlin in the first place, or mine for being so quick to shoot. I couldn't have known Andras wouldn't hurt me—and had every reason to believe he would—but maybe if I had something other than ice and hatred in my heart, I could have figured it out. The uncertainty meant I'd never be able to scrub that particular stain from my soul.

During the day, I trained. I had no hope of besting a faerie in combat, but that didn't mean it was useless to learn. Cassian ran me through drills intended to make me more nimble, harder to grab onto and winnow to another location. And after I'd mentioned chucking my hunting knife at Tamlin when he'd taken me away, Azriel found me a properly balanced set of throwing knives and taught me to use them. Even if I never landed a hit, the distraction of blades sailing through the air might buy me time to run and hide. Mor wrestled me to the ground as I practiced bargaining, making sure I could close loopholes even as she twisted my arm behind my back. Amren taught me to shield my mind, though it was slow going without an actual daemati to practice with. I didn't dare ask Rhys.

When we weren't in the training ring, I poured over maps of passageways Under the Mountain. There was always the chance that Amarantha had rearranged things in the last fifty years, but I memorized it all anyway. The four of them quizzed me on the key players in Amarantha's court and their allegiances, or at least, what we knew of it from the rumors that drifted back to Velaris. Information could also be its own sort of armor.

Amren was researching exactly what my unfinished bargain tattoo with the Night Court could mean. Every so often, she brought the books to the training ring and sat in the sun to read as we practiced and sparred. Cassian sometimes tried to goad her into joining us, but she never did. 

From what I could gather, Amren and Mor had their hands full keeping the Night Court running in Rhys's absence, and their inability to leave Velaris only complicated matters. Cassian and Azriel were often pulled away to attend to their own duties, too.

Even with so much work to distract us, we were all anxious and restless.

After a few days, I moved my things to the House of Wind, tired of feeling like an invader in someone else's house and a burden for needing to be flown to the training ring. Mor, Cassian, and Azriel were staying there too, and we had an unspoken agreement not to discuss how little we were all sleeping. I wasn't the only one who overtrained to the point of exhaustion—sometimes it was easier to be too worn out to feel or think.

Perhaps it was just because at this point, I might have been able to get used to anything, but after a week at the House of Wind, I realized I was comfortable here. There was less formality than in Spring, and even as she sipped blood, Amren was less frightening when she dropped by just to sit at the dinner table and bicker. Mor and Cassian both offered to pick up paints for me, but I declined every time. It felt selfish to sit and paint while Rhys was suffering.

And I wasn't sure I was ready to face whatever would be staring back at me from the canvas when I was done.

The four of them took to playing cards, something Cassian told me they'd done with other soldiers during the War, when everything either had been short bursts of danger or long, dull periods of waiting and dread between battles. Killing time before Tamlin's curse ran out felt like the latter. Azriel offered to teach me the rules—and some of the strategies that won him more games than the others combined—but I was content to just watch, sitting on the sofa with a blanket around my shoulders and listening to them talk. At times, I was still acutely aware that everyone there but me had centuries of shared history, but I could live with that.

In Night, I was just Feyre, not Feyre-the-human, and that made all the difference.

The night before I left, we didn't talk about what I was going to do. I didn't want to be fussed over, even if I was preparing to run straight into danger. And now I knew that they'd seen enough comrades off to war that all four of them knew how to navigate the situation. Fretting too much might just make me panic and lose my nerve.

That morning, I changed back into the clothes I'd come here wearing—it wouldn't do to let anyone conclude where I'd been. I took my bow and a few knives, ones that wouldn't have a maker's mark that could be traced back to the Night Court. Mor winnowed me to the very edge of the wards, glamoured me to hide my scent and tattoos, and gave me one last wordless hug.

I headed south for the caves.

Something akin to relief washed over me as I walked. Part of it was almost certainly the mating bond—I'd always feel a bit better when I was getting closer to Rhys. But beyond that, it felt good to be actually doing something for once. Nothing rankled me more than inaction in the face of a problem, whether that was my family's money troubles or Amarantha.

When I crossed the Night Court's border, back into the cave, my stomach flipped. I stood stock-still in the entrance for a while, just letting my eyes adjust before I pressed forward. I took a few deep breaths, willing the instinct to turn and run back to safety to subside.

I followed the path back the way I'd come after Calanmai, not sure where I was going beyond a general direction. Save the occasional drip of water in the distance, the cave was silent. This wasn't like hunting in the woods, where there was still distant birdsong or rustling leaves. This was a place devoid of life.

I lost all sense of time, but at some point, the cave walls became something unnatural, deliberately hewn out of the rock. A hall. I was close, then. A part of me wanted to tug on the bond, to send out I'm here I'm here I'm here, but that would likely prove deadly. I needed to get my bearings.

I turned another corner and found myself in a passageway lit by torches. The firelight wasn't strong, but after so much darkness, the light hurt my eyes. I pressed against a wall, trying to conceal myself in a shadow while I let them adjust again.

As I waited for the pain to fade, long, bony fingers wrapped around my arm. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back a scream.

"Hello," a voice said, and at least it was a voice I recognized, even as I suppressed a shudder. The Attor. "What's something like you doing here?"

I let it drag me and realized we were heading towards the throne room. Or at least, that's where it was on the maps. The thought of getting closer to Amarantha ignited my anger, burning away the last of my fear. Faeries we passed leered at me, not a single familiar face among them.

As the Attor pulled me through the enormous carved stone doors, I felt the bond light up in my chest. Music played in the distance, and the throne room was crowded with fae—a party of sorts, and Rhys was among them somewhere.

The Attor hurled me forward, and I stumbled but didn't fall to my knees. I raised my head and looked at Amarantha through my own eyes for the first time. She lounged on an ebony throne, picking at her nails, the nails I'd seen scratching Rhys's skin too many times to count.

But the sound of my name pulled my attention away from her.

"Feyre?" Tamlin said from his place next to her. "You're alive?"

Even with the golden mask still covering his face, he looked rattled, almost as if he'd seen a ghost. I hadn't known how he'd react, but I hadn't expected him to go so pale.

Amarantha looked right at me and smiled like an adder. "Don't tell me this is the one and only Feyre Archeron," she said.

My blood ran cold. She was not supposed to know my name.

But I couldn't let her see the fear that was clawing at my insides—if my time in the Night Court had taught me anything, it was how to put up a front. I held my chin high and said, "So my reputation precedes me, then?"

Amarantha actually clapped at that, as if I were nothing more than a trained animal who'd just done a trick for her amusement. The crowd tittered behind me. Good. They'd hold off on killing me if I was more fun for them alive.

"Tamlin, you didn't tell me she was so mouthy. It must have made all your attempts to get her to fall in love with you so much more aggravating," Amarantha purred. Tamlin just sat in stony silence, though even from a distance I could see his jaw tighten. He must have recovered from the shock enough to realize that saying anything would just be giving her the satisfaction. Undeterred, Amarantha continued, "But that does beg the question: if Feyre is alive and well, whose corpse did you leave in Tamlin's garden, Rhysand?"

I followed her gaze over to where Rhys was sauntering through the crowd. By now, I'd thought I'd gotten used to the mating bond, but it took every ounce of self-control I had not to run and fling myself at him. And though I really should have been more concerned with who he might have murdered, all I could think about was how unfair it was for anyone to have that refined perfection of his, even when he looked at me as if I were something unpleasant he'd stepped in.

"She wasn't the only mortal out near the Wall on Calanmai, and humans all look the same. I must have mistaken the other one for her," he said.

A lie, of course. Rhys could never mistake someone else for me. I wasn't sure what he was up to, but if it made everyone else believe he'd kill me without a second thought, then we were both safer for it.

Perhaps this had been the dirty work he'd taken care of after sending me away.

Amarantha's voice went sharp as she said, "You're getting sloppy, Rhysand. Don't."

Rhys inclined his head at her, moving with the fluid grace of someone who'd been raised as courtier. "Apologies, my queen," he said, all polish.

I almost lunged for her right then. The hatred must have shown on my face, but I didn't let it go beyond that. Even if I could have killed her with my bare hands, Rhys deserved to be the one to pry her apart, not me.

Amarantha turned her attention back to me, and I stared back, waiting for her to look away first. She didn't scare me, even if she should have. "And the other question," she said, her voice now dangerously soft, "is what brought you here and why I shouldn't just kill you now."

A test, but one I was fully prepared for. Without hesitation, I said, "I'm here to claim my High Lord."

"Your High Lord?" Amarantha grinned and turned to Tamlin. A fatal mistake. I'd chosen my words carefully, practiced just so she'd wrongly assume instead of asking exactly who my High Lord was. "Oh, this is just marvelous. You actually got a human worm to love you after all. But she's here just a little too late, and isn't that a tragedy? I don't think I could come up with something more deliciously ironic if I tried."

Tamlin just continued to sit in silence, which was probably for the best.

"You tricked him and bound him unfairly," I said, all righteous anger. Never mind the fact that I was also tricking her at that very moment.

"And you think you're going to do something about it?" Amarantha said with a laugh that revealed her too-sharp teeth.

Perhaps it was reckless, but I said, "Yes."

Her laughter died, and she snarled at me like the beast she truly was. "I should kill you just for that, human. But since the curse has ended, I've been desperate for some new amusement. I'll make a bargain with you."

A familiar, sick sort of satisfaction washed over me, the same feeling I got as I watched the loop of a snare tighten around a rabbit's leg. I hadn't even had to suggest a bargain myself—she was walking into my trap all on her own.

"Complete three tasks of my choosing, and he's yours. Three little tasks. How hard could it be?" she crooned.

"If I complete all three of your tasks, you'll return his magic immediately," I said.

Perhaps it was a leap of faith, but if Rhys's power was returned to him, that was all we needed. He wouldn't let her kill me. Maybe it was the mating bond clouding my judgment, but that was the one thing I'd bet on every time. I decided to take the risk of leaving some loopholes open—if I seemed too adept at bargaining, she might suspect something.

Even that was enough for Amarantha to narrow her eyes at me. I was tempted to glance at Rhys for reassurance, but I couldn't give in to that. Instead, I did my best to look poised—not defiant enough that she'd change her mind and snap my spine, but not cowed, either.

"Lest anyone here think I'm anything but a generous queen—and just to see how smart you really are—I'll give you a faster way out. Before the third task is complete, you just have to solve a riddle to return his magic. You can answer at any time, but if you're incorrect, I'll have your dear Tamlin kill you in whatever way strikes my fancy. How does that sound?"

I turned that over in my mind and didn't find any loopholes to close, at least not with the riddle. The tasks, however, were a different story. "Tell me more about the nature of the tasks."

"One each month, at the full moon."

"And in the meantime?"

The words had left my mouth a little too quickly, and I held back a wince. Amarantha's eyes flashed, and I might have pushed too hard.

"You'll remain in your cell," she said pointedly, "or earn your keep doing whatever work I require."

I hesitated, thinking of the work Rhys had to handle that wouldn't leave him clean. She might make me a murderer again.

For Rhys, I'd do it.

It still left too many other ways for her to rig the tasks, so I said, "Running me ragged would put me at a disadvantage."

"Nothing beyond basic housework. Human filth earns its keep in my court. Are we agreed?"

As she waited for my answer, she tapped her nails on the throne impatiently. The hall had gone silent, the entire court seeming to wait with bated breath for my answer. There would be no more negotiating.

And that was fine with me because I'd gotten exactly what I needed from her, a viable path forward to return Rhys's magic. I suppressed a triumphant smile as I said, "We are agreed."

I'd won the first round, and I'd done it in true Night Court style—concealing everything so well that she didn't even know she'd been bested.

I let her sit back on her throne looking like a cat that had just caught a canary. Magic swept through the room. It left a faint trace in the air, the way the smell of lighting lingered after it struck.

To someone behind me, Amarantha said, "Give her a greeting worthy of my hall."

On instinct, I braced myself to take a hit just how Cassian had taught me—jaw clenched so it wouldn't shatter, knees bent, elbows and forearms protecting my liver and spleen. The Attor hissed. Something hard collided with the side of my face. I rolled my torso to minimize the damage, planting my feet so I wouldn't fall. I tracked the movement of leathery wings and dodged the next punch.

I took two more hits before I finally fell. My bones cracked. By then, I was in too much pain to count how many of them were beating me. All I could do was make a feeble attempt to protect soft places—my eyes, my stomach—until I passed out.

I woke in a cell, laying on my side as if someone had placed me there to ensure I didn't choke on my own vomit. My head swam, but I forced myself to my feet anyway, bracing a hand against the stone wall for balance, even as my legs trembled.

Each breath hurt, which probably meant bruised or broken ribs. I swirled my tongue along my teeth and sighed in relief when I confirmed for myself that all of them were intact despite the taste of blood in my mouth. That must have come from my swollen, split lip. The worst of it all was the throbbing pain in my nose, compounded by what were surely two black eyes. I didn't dare touch my face, but I suspected my nose was broken.

I took deep breaths and willed myself to stay calm enough to think clearly. The injuries hurt, but there was nothing that seemed to need immediate attention or threatened my life. That seemed like a deliberate choice on someone's part.

Fine. I would be fine. It was just pain, and I could white-knuckle my way through that, the way I had endured hunger for years.

Just as I felt confident enough to step away from the wall and bear my own weight, the light from the torches beyond the cell door winked out. I wasn't afraid. There was only one person here whose arrival would be heralded by darkness.

As if on cue, Rhysand appeared. It was the first—though certainly not the last—time that I saw my mate looking absolutely furious with me.

[doloresdisparue]

“Like a twist in a classic horror tale, there comes a moment when Humbert eventually acknowledges the brutal truth: he knew from the beginning that Lolita was terrified, vulnerable, and desperate, and he didn’t care. “It was always my habit and method to ignore Lolita’s states of mind while comforting my own base self,” he says, noting coldly that she would “mail her vulnerability in trite brashness and boredom” because it was her only defense against him. He admits to having glimpsed, years earlier, a “look on her face…an expression of helplessness so perfect that it seemed to grade into one of rather comfortable inanity just because this was the very limit of injustice and frustration.”

“I hope you will love your baby,” he exhorts Lolita on the final page of the book, adding darkly, “I hope it will be a boy.”

To call Lolita a love story is to misread it. Nabokov’s novelistic intent is clear. We read Lolita for the kinetic beauty of its language, the depth of its characterization, the humor, the pathos, and the overwhelming sense of heartbreak we feel at the end. We read it for its unsettling depiction of a sociopath. Humbert’s confession could not be starker; he forced a “poor, bruised child” to live “in a world of total evil,” he says. “And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one. Lolita girl, brave Dolly Schiller.””

- Christina Baker Kline || Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury

[bookaddict24-7]

REVIEWS OF THE WEEK!

Books I’ve read so far in 2023!

Friend me on Goodreads here to follow my more up to date reading journey for the year!

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180. Hotline by Dimitri Nasrallah--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I knew I wanted to read HOTLINE from the moment I saw the cover and read the synopsis months ago. It offered everything I love in literary fiction: Immigration, a character growing through their experiences, and an interesting point of view that differs from my own when it comes to the immigration experience.

Reading HOTLINE was like seeing a story from the perspective of my immigrant parents. Much like the son in Nasrallah's novel, I came to Canada at a young age. My parents fought tooth and nail to make ends meet and to make sure I had a better future than the life they left behind. Our country wasn't war-torn, but it was going through a special period where food was incredibly scarce and the police handed out jail sentences for too many things. Many people had "one foot at home and one foot in jail" because of all the side hustles they had to do in a country that frowned upon that.

So, seeing a mother striving to do what she could with what little resources she had was incredibly eye-opening. Making the incredibly hard decision of leaving a child alone so you can provide for them was another relatable instance. HOTLINE was such a captivating exploration of how parents sacrifice and compromise in the present for a hopefully better future. It is a complicated story of grief for both someone lost and a dream destroyed by the stereotypes and biases that live in a new country.

It was also jarring to see how life might have been like in the 80s in comparison to today's society, much like the differences between the 90s (when we immigrated) and today. The hustle was real, but (in this case) it paid off in the end--which was a welcome surprise, even if it wasn't entirely a roses and rainbows story. I liked the reality of how messy life can be and how even though a job we never thought we'd have is the only thing keeping you in a less-than-perfect home.

HOTLINE also had a unique level of community that I loved to see. It proves that a village-full of support makes a massive difference. While there were moments of the MC's self-doubt and fear, there were many moments where the reader is reminded that hope can exist even in the darkest moments.

I felt like I was catching a glimpse into a real home and I'm so grateful for the opportunity. Beautifully written! I highly recommend this, especially for those who are constantly seeking out immigration stories.

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181. Some Shall Break by Ellie Marney--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I loved the first book in this series (duology?), so I was so incredibly delighted to see that there was a sequel!

I think one of the huge benefits that the first book had was that I knew absolutely nothing about it. I wasn't expecting it to be a YA fictional version of MINDHUNTER, which was an incredibly intriguing nonfiction text about how Forensic Profiling came to be and the process behind it. Seeing a fictional story from a teen POV was interesting and darkly fun.

In this sequel, we don't get as much of that exploration that we did with book one, instead we're mainly focusing on catching the one big bad person and while there are cameos and many, many twists and turns, it wasn't as great of a read as the first one.

This isn't to say that I didn't still enjoy this book! I remember thinking, "Wow, I really do enjoy this author's writing." I was hooked and I really wanted to see where the story would take these characters. It was also kind of sad seeing where trauma can take a person and how far they are willing to go to run from said trauma.

There was a certain level of madness to this book and the evil mastermind behind some of the characters. My mind is doing a bunch of twists and turns just trying to write this review.

I highly recommend the first book in this series, especially with the Fall season upon us. Spook yourself with a YA crime thriller. I think knowing that this is YA makes it all that much more creepier.

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182. The Book of Accidents by Chuck Wendig--⭐️⭐️⭐️.5

I've been eyeing THE BOOK OF ACCIDENTS ever since it came out. I wanted to read it, but I won't lie: the size of it intimidated the hell out of me. I finally bit the bullet when another book I was reading recommended it and I thought, "Why not? It's the perfect season for it."

I'm glad I finally read it, if not for the creepy atmosphere of it, but for the writing itself and how reminiscent it was of Stephen King. I love a good spooky King novel and this one delivered!

Some of the twists in this book were a bit wild, but they all worked together in the end. By the conclusion of the book, the length made sense because we needed to get a well-rounded story. However, during the reading of the story, I did start wondering when it would end. I enjoyed the multiple perspectives, but I kept thinking, "Okay, what's next? Why do I still have five hours left in this audiobook?"

I DO think the concept of THE BOOK OF ACCIDENTS was really intriguing, especially when we start to consider the potential meanings behind the book. Wendig's novel explores boyhood and the consequences of actions and generational trauma. The What-if's of THE BOOK OF ACCIDENTS is probably, to me, the best part because we get to meet a cast of characters that give us a bigger picture of what could have been.

By the end, I did have some questions that were left unanswered, but for the most part, it was a pretty satisfying conclusion. I didn't like the mom and how her mentality worked at times--but it also shows how imperfect we can be as humans. I think that's one of the things I love the most about Horror. Too often we look for the shock and awe in the genre, but forget how complex the exploration of humanity can be in Horror.

Anyway, I'd recommend it if you're a fan of Stephen King. While Wendig isn't exactly as verbose as King, his ability to set a mood and a setting was very reminiscent of the Horror master. If you don't mind the length, then definitely add this one to your TBR list!

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183. The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion by Margaret Killjoy--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I really enjoyed Killjoy's novella and how it creeped me out while reading it in the middle of the night. Although short, it felt heavy enough that I couldn't read this in just one sitting. Which is both a good and eh thing.

The heaviness of the novella is a good thing because it means that I felt like the pages held a lot of meaning. THE LAMB WILL SLAUGHTER THE LION explored grief, the power of love (as cliche as that sounds), family, society and its downsides, and of course, the topic of Power. What does it mean to have power? What do the different kinds of power look like?

The heaviness of the novella can be a bad thing because it sometimes lost my interest. I felt like even though it was short, it lagged in some parts. I wanted answers, but the writing sometimes felt cluttered enough that the answers were always on the next page and, sigh, I was already worn out from reading what I had just read. This is most definitely a me problem, but having just come off two novellas that didn't give me this issue, I found it noticeable enough to note in this review.

I AM super excited for the sequel, though. The way things were left at the end of this book had me genuinely excited to see where Killjoy takes the story!

The characters were all interesting and occasionally morally grey (as can so often happen when magic is involved alongside the concerns we may have for modern-day society), and the topics explored were timely and interesting. If you're looking for an entertaining Queer horror novella with a beautiful cover, then this one is for you!

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184. The Salt Grows Heavy by Cassandra Khaw--⭐️⭐️

I'm either too dumb to understand this book, or I'm one of the few who fell through the cracks with this one and just didn't enjoy it. Some of my friends have read this and they've all enjoyed it thoroughly. Me? I read this and as I'm writing this review, I still have no idea what this book was about.

I know the...general gist of it. But for the most part, this was a blur and I'm lowkey disappointed because I really enjoyed Khaw's haunted previous book.

I'm glad others were able to enjoy this so thoroughly, but it was truly not for me.

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185. Those Across the River by Christopher Buehlman--⭐️

THOSE ACROSS THE RIVER, at its core, had an interesting story premise. Did it have creepy moments? Yes, it certainly did. There were some scenes that were downright gruesome and I'm sure will serve as someone's nightmare fuel. The pacing was great and the twists were entertaining, if a bit predictable. So, why am I giving this a one star rating? Well...

As a historical fiction Horror novel, I expected some of the language in this book. Having read some of Stephen King's older books, I'm no stranger to derogatory language in the Horror genre--especially when they're historical fiction novel. This book, however, was published in 2011 and used racial slurs with such relish that I started to flinch at the words (not that I normally don't--I do, but it was so prominent in this book that it started to overshadow some of the Horror of the book.)

I've also never commented on the descriptions of women in older Horror books because well...given the time they were written in, it was expected. I don't condone it, but some of these books are truly a product of their time. But a book published in 2011 referring to a woman as a dog during sex and then just...treating her as both a sexual and plot device in this book was...a lot. And the irony is how strong she is as a character in her own right. This strength could have been further explored if she had been given a chance by Buehlman. Instead, she is first the property of one man at a young age and then the property of another man, who dehumanizes her during sex.

"Dayla, the book is set in the 1930's!" That's fine, but you can write a woman set in that time without dehumanizing her like you're writing her character in a 70's-80's era of Horror.

So, while the horror of the book is creepy and the twists were great, there were some jarring moments of discomfort in this book that were too much for even me, a King fan. (And that's saying a lot, because those who've read older King know how messed up his writing can be.)

ALSO: Super creepy how there is a scene where a FOURTEEN year old girl catches the male main character's attention. And he actively has to remind himself that SHE IS FOURTEEN. I had finished writing my review and had to come back to add this because I had blocked it out of my head. She is described as "simple", I believe, and while he catches himself "flirting" with her, his wife mentions that she's a little jealous. Like, wtf. LMAO.

Anyway, read this if you'd like, but be prepared. I don't know if I'll read more stuff by this author. We shall see!

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186. I Survived the Joplin Tornado by Lauren Tarshis--⭐️⭐️⭐️

I knew close to nothing about this tornado, but it was definitely fascinating to read about it, especially from the perspective of a child!

I think one of the things that makes these books a bit of a challenge for an adult to read (me, I am this adult) is the suspension of disbelief. I'm glad these characters always have hopeful endings full of miracles, especially because the readers these are targeted for are super impressionable. But...the more I read of these, the harder it is for me to believe all the happy endings. I'm definitely happy that characters like the mc in this one are able to walk away from this disaster, but it's just something I've been noticing.

Maybe I'm growing a little jaded from these books LOL.

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187. Don't Fear the Reaper by Stephen Graham Jones--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Oh this book was FUN. Yes, the context is dark and murderous, but this one definitely had a lot more going on in it (action-wise) than the first book. I didn't know what to expect with this one because while I enjoyed the first book, I definitely thought it was more of a slow burn horror. This one dived right into the horror!

If you've ever watched the SCREAM movies from the very first one, then you are familiar with Sidney's progression as a character. We see her go through so many stages of PTSD and during all of that, she becomes the ultimate Final Girl. We see the same thing with Jade, the MC of THE INDIAN LAKE trilogy. Her denial, PTSD, and disassociation with her past self was unexpected but also realistic. She's the one who cried wolf once, wasn't believed, and now is watched again to see if she will cry wolf again. She has the pressure of being a survivor and she tries over and over again to pass on that legacy to someone else who could potentially be another Final Girl.

Jones's novel takes place during the holidays, which means that we are in a blizzard of snow and blood. Imagine if all of the killing in the first book were spread out throughout a whole novel and you'll have a better understanding of just how wicked this book was. It felt like I was reading a cursed sequel of a horror classic that was actually...really, really good? It was campy, heartfelt, had many twists, and some pretty intriguing Indigenous touches that made this all the more unique.

I so highly recommend DON'T FEAR THE REAPER. It was such a great read for the Autumn season (any season really), and lived up to my expectations. Will definitely be picking up the final book in the trilogy when it comes out!

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Have you read any of these books? Let me know your thoughts!

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Happy reading!

[archonadeptus]

A/N: This is my favourite ship ever I'd simply perish for them. This is going to be a series on tumblr, and once its complete I'll be uploading it to ao3! It's my first Alhaitham x Kaveh fic, so please be kind! I hope you guys like it.

Warnings: Ship fic! Alhaitham x Kaveh, if you dont like then please don't read♡ Light description of a breakdown. Angst, no comfort just yet! Pre-relationship. (They're crushing so bad why can't they communicate I stg) Not fully proofread, I'm lazy rn I'm sorry -

Light of Kshahrewar - Part One

Everything had been absolutely draining and much too loud all day. Alhaitham was extremely grateful to have his soundproof earpieces with him at all times, otherwise he was certain he would have snapped at the other sages. How dense does a being have to be? Let alone those who are considered sages of Sumeru, one of the highest positions throughout the nation blessed by Nahdia, the god of wisdom. Why must they argue about such trivial things, something that could be fixed so easily with the slightest bit of communication? The thought of somebody without a decent mind like Alhaitham taking over as the true grand sage truly concerned him. If anything the thought itself was rather daunting. Sumeru, instead of being known as the land of wisdom, would be known as the most idiotic land throughout the seven nations of Teyvat.

Shoving his key into the door, which was comically still tangled up with Kavehs, was twisted and pushed open. Immediately upon entering, books and blueprints were scattered all over the floor. Shutting the door with his foot, he locked it and tossed the two keys into the intricately designed key dish, courtesy of Kaveh. He had designed it himself, despite Alhaitham paying for the materials. Kaveh had begged to design 'decent furniture' for inspiration. Alhaitham finally agreed and let him. He couldn't let his roommate sulk otherwise that would cause problems for Alhaitham himself and he most certainly didn't want that. Thus, he practically shoved the bag of mora in his hands with a silent prayer to the god of wisdom to shut Kaveh up. It did work, and after designing said key dish, Kaveh finally had his inspiration back for a project he dubbed to be 'even better than The Palace of Alcazazaray'. How one would get a giant design like that from a mere key dish truly baffled Alhaitham, but whatever kept Kaveh happy right? Back to the matter at hand, he had decided to slowly make his way through the room following the trail of mess and various ink stains. He hated to admit it to himself, but after the day he had faced full of idiots he was finding himself growing angrier by the minute. He didn't want to deal with his own idiot he kept at home. Usually on any other day, he'd come home, ignore whatever mess was made and remind Kaveh (for the hundredth time) to do his share of the chores. Of course he knew that would fall on deaf ears, but he'd then retreat into his room and read until dinner. Alhaitham didn't think he'd be doing that today.

"Kaveh." His voice spoke as he pushed open the door to the architect's room where the mess seemed to be its greatest. He expected to see Kaveh hunched over his desk as per usual, in a world of his own whilst he would mumble incoherent things to himself and scribble on a half finished design. This time though, he saw Kaveh in the middle of his floor with a broken pencil before him and a ripped up piece of paper.

"If you're here to nag then I'm not in the mood."

'Neither am I.' Alhaitham thought, deciphering the rather sorry sight before him.

"I wouldn't have to nag if you kept things tidy and actually did your share of the chores." Kaveh had his head buried in his knees, his hand gripping onto his arm to shield his face and cushion his head.

"I just said that I'm not in the mood, Alhaitham." His eyes were fixed onto the ripped up paper and his legs seemed to drag him to it. Moving to pick it up, he caught a glimpse of a very detailed set of sketches before they were ripped from his hands. "Don't touch that!" Alhaitham was completely used to Kaveh shouting at him, it brought him great amusement so he'd jab at the architect to get him to yell more. It was a wonderful stress reliever and he couldn't help but adore Kavehs dramatics. However, this time felt different. It didn't feel light hearted, there seemed to be real weight behind his words - not that there wasn't usually but this felt a little more serious. You could slice a knife through the sudden wave of silence.

"Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself when you could be working on that design you've tried to destroy?" It was beautiful. He paused as Kavehs sharp crimson gaze met his own, they were glassy. He needs to stop talking, he should give Kaveh some space. "So when you complain that you have no ideas, it's actually that you destroy them instead? Is it that you don't want to make a living for yourself for once?" Why is he still talking? Alhaitham knows that it's not the time to lecture him, but some horrid part of his anger seems to enjoy blowing off steam like this.

"Stop. Just... Just get out!" Kaveh threw the broken pencil at Alhaitham, but he just moved away and glared.

"That's rich, get out of the room I pay for? Surely you remember you didn't pay your half of the rent this month either." Kaveh hated the way Alhaithams gaze remained so calm, even as fat glistening tears made their way down Kavehs cheeks.

"If you don't want me here anymore then just say that! I'm sick of you dancing around things like they mean nothing to you!" … 'Like I mean nothing to you.' Kaveh wishes he added on that bit, but he didn't want to know the truth. He doesn't think he can face Alhaitham saying that he hates him.

"Fine, if that's what keeps you happy. I'm sick of the mess, I'm tired of coming home to your yelling. You're just as bad as the sages I dealt with today."

'Ah,' Kaveh thinks, 'he's had a bad day too then.' Maybe Sumeru was out to get them.

"Oh really? That's a miracle, the mighty 'Acting Grand Sage' of Sumeru who's known to be completely emotionally unavailable, is getting irritated by his colleagues!" Alhaitham narrowed his eyes. "It's not my fault I've got so much work to do before I even think about getting paid to meet your absolutely ridiculous rent deadlines!" The scribe simply rolled his eyes, ignoring the way more tears fell from his crimson eyes. Kaveh may be a dramatic person with rapidly fluctuating moods, but he hadn't ever seen him cry before. This was… new territory. One which both Alhaitham and Kaveh didn't seem too sure about stepping into.

"Ridiculous deadlines? Kaveh, it's the basics. They're bills, I don't control these deadlines. Don't be so dense." Alhaitham simply crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at Kaveh who was still curled up on the floor. Did the architect always look so vulnerable and small like this? Why's he crying? Alhaitham's eyes trailed around the room, but he couldn't piece it together just yet. It was too messy. "Usually people can pay them on time, unlike you." He paused for a moment, hearing Kaveh sniffles. "Aren't you going to tidy this all up?" I need to see what's wrong, I can't figure it out like this. You're worrying me.

"I'll get to it! Just leave!" Kaveh yelled, hair scrunched up in his hands with his eyes shut tightly. Those tears were falling so much quicker now, Alhaitham couldn't handle it. How can he make it stop?

"Leave yourself, you're clearly not bothered." Kaveh's eyes grew wide, glossy and doe-like as he met the scribe's hardened gaze.

"Seriously? You're kicking me out right now? This is ridiculous! Every single time you swoop to a new low, Alhaitham!" He simply turned and began to leave the room only to return and throw Kaveh's individual key toward him.

"Leave." With that, Alhaitham dodged the mess as he made way for his room quicker than he'd like to admit. Kaveh's crying was soon muffled once again as he activated his earpieces. The sound was too much… Too heartbreaking. By morning, things would be like they never happened. They'd eat breakfast, nag at each other, and continue their work like usual - it was their routine. That didn't happen this time.

Upon waking, the morning sun filtered through the wider windows. Kaveh designed those. He had told him he needed more sunlight, especially if he were to read his books all the time. He didn't want Alhaitham to damage and strain his eyes, the architect said it would cause trouble for him else and he didn't want to deal with it. Thus the large pretty window in his room allowed sunlight to bathe him every morning, and the moonlight to shine upon the book's words every night. Opening his eyes fully, he sat up as the warm blanket fell from his body. It was… strangely quiet. Peaceful even. Alhaitham wondered when that would be broken by a certain roommate of his. Standing up, he kept on his nightwear for the time being for breakfast and stepped out into the hall. It's clean. Why was it clean? He was certain that there were ink stains and blueprints all over the floor… Did Kaveh truly take what Alhaitham said to heart? Hm, it was about time he supposed. Finally, a helpful roommate. However, upon entering the kitchen, Kaveh was nowhere in sight. Nevermind, maybe he was sleeping in today after all of this apparent cleaning last night. The scribe didn't mind, especially if the chores were done which, by some miracle, were done. Preparing himself breakfast wasn't exactly unusual, so he made himself something easy though the scent didn't exactly make things feel the same. It didn't taste as good as when a certain architect made it either. Kaveh's dishes were rather extravagant, Alhaithams were bland. After shoving the food into his mouth and swallowing, he stood and placed the bowl and cutlery by the sink. As an apology for not making breakfast today, Kaveh could wash up. Walking back out, he passed his room. It was silent and there were no loud and irritating snores that he usually heard at night that usually unfortunately sent him to sleep, there was nothing. Maybe he should check on him? Knocking lightly, the door seemed to push open. Why is it empty? Where's the mess?

"Kaveh?" Pushing the door fully open, he stepped in. Where was the colour? Where was his Light of Kshahrewar? Where is Kaveh? He… Truly moved out? "Kaveh… You fool." He took a deep breath in, Kavehs scent of pardisarahs filling his lungs. It was overwhelmingly comforting. "You didn't have to go." I didn't want you to go. He'd bring him back, he'd go out, find him drunk out of his mind somewhere and bring him back. It would go back to normal, the way it's always been - the way it should be. "Kaveh. Wait for me." He immediately left the empty room and returned to his own, getting his usual clothes on after having what felt like the quickest shower of his life. Something which of course Kaveh would scold him for… A scolding he strangely missed. Putting on his soundproof earpieces, he grabbed his key and opened the door once again. "Don't be too far, my Light of Kshahrewar."

[zarlina]

How is this book not a bestseller with thousands of reviews? It went straight to one of my favourite reads of the year before I was even halfway through, and I was so worried it would be one of those books that had a fantastic start just to fall short in the end.

It didn't. I loved every second of it.

So this books start with a glimpse of what happened Taggart in the past, and then it jumps to quite a few years later where we get to follow Cassie, whose life gets turned upside down when she loses her sister in an accident where both Cassie and Taggart are present. First blaming her sister's death on Taggart, and also disliking him even before the happening, these two characters have a rocky start, but as their relationship grows and we get to know more about Taggart, neither Cassie or the reader can help falling a bit in love with the complicated young man.

I have so many feelings for this book that I don't really know where to even begin, but let's start with the story itself.

Unlike many other books much like this one, this didn't feel over the top unrealistic. The characters did some typical stupid stuff, but they didn't put themselves into such dangerous situations that would have me rolling my eyes at how stupid they are. Not once did I want to pull my hair and scream at them to just call the police, because they were right. With what they had, the police wouldn't listen. There wouldn't have been anything to really listen to. It felt realistic, and gave you the suspense without it being stupid. I really enjoyed that. The ending was maaaaaybe a little bit overdone, but not so much that it in any way changed how much I loved the book. It worked. I wish there had been some more hints through the story, that the ending would have been the kind of twist that just made so much sense when all the pieces fell into place, but somehow I don't really mind the info-dump the author decided to throw on us in the end, because it somehow just... worked.

Now to the characters;

Cassie, the main character, was slightly boring, but I didn't hate her. I liked that she was willing to accept that maybe she'd been wrong in the past, and to give Taggart another chance. Sure it started out to be out of guilt, but I think she had a good character development and in the end I kinda liked her. I rarely care much for main characters anyway, but at least I didn't feel constantly annoyed by this one.

Delta I didn't care for at all. She felt rather bland, more there just so Cassie could have a best friend. Her way of finishing everyone's sentences is the kind of touch that works in real life, but comes off as a bit annoying in written text. I wish she'd had a bit more personality, but again, I didn't hate her, so I didn't mind her either.

Taggart, oh what a darling. We all love the misunderstood outsider, right? And Taggart is no exception. The way he spoke, the little smiles, the not giving a damn about anyone unless it was actually important... He's the kind of guy that we all just fall so hard for, and I loved every second of getting to know him. The author really nailed this character. I couldn't get enough of him.

Chewy was fun, dorky. I would have liked to get to know him more, but oh how I cried for him in the end. That hug. Please. Darling. He deserved the world.

Tunes, sweet Tunes. I can't pinpoint why, but I loved this character. The quiet side character who just... don't really say much, unless it's important. His little quirks, the sweet little crush... I don't know, I just really loved him.

This is a book that will stay with me for a long time, and I so hope more readers will find this author and his work. I loved every second of it, and I can't wait to dig into the next one in the series.

Highlights:

“That must have stung,” I said, which earned me a real smile in return. Becca was right… his whole face did change when he smiled.

“So… Tunes speaks and he’s a nerd,” I said. “I prefer the term geek,” he corrected, smiling.

“Not only do I prefer solitude, but being around other people makes me extremely anxious. Most of the time I feel like I’m being smothered. At best I can be dismissive and uncaring, and when I’m at my worst, argumentative and unruly.”

At twelve it was butterflies in the stomach, now it was dragons clawing at my intestines.

“This is not your fault. This has been happening TO YOU, not because of you.”

You’ve always had great scores, but you have the common sense of a fence post, don’t you?”

[aglimpseintomysoul]

I hear your voice singing to me on the way to work in the quiet comfort of my car, replacing names in songs with mine

During fall you’re everywhere, I can’t watch the shining without seeing you, Halloween has your name written all over it, my once favorite holiday is ruined now

I hear you explaining director cuts to me of your favorite films, Stanley Kubrick, Quentin Tarantino, & Martin Scorsese were household names to me

The books that sat on your shelves for years that I turned my nose up to because I only read romance are now staples in my bibliography, I wish I could tell you how fantastic they were, I can hear your laugh when I tell you I had to google the big words and deeper meaning of the plots

I can smell your baked beans, I can hear you clacking on your keyboard at three in the morning…somehow that was the only time you could get work done

I found your old guitar pick & hoodie in the attic, I smelled it hoping for a reminder of what you smelled like, cigarettes & mint maybe?

I can hear you singing to me, playing me music that I didn’t appreciate when I was younger, I wish I could show you the music I listen to now, you would be proud

You learned Taylor swift songs for me when you longed for me to sing Lou Reed

I see you in my dreams, I know it’s not real but it feels so real like you never left, like you’re saying hello to me somehow from somewhere else

I found your short stories & folder of lyrics you wrote on a type writer many moons ago, it felt secret like it wasn’t for my eyes but I can’t talk to you anymore and I wanted a glimpse into your mind as it was incredibly creative and magical

I wish I could tell you amongst many things you are a terrific writer & my band now plays those songs that you never showed the world, it feels wrong in a way, I can’t ask you if it’s okay but it feels like I’m paying homage to you in a twisted way

It’s been three years and these feeling still hit me like a tidal wave, I never want to forget your voice and it seems like I have, I go back and watch videos of you although it pains me, to hear your voice, I can’t allow myself to forget

It’s so unfair. Incredibly fucking unfair.

Why did I only get twenty years with you, I envy the people that got to know you longer

I see you every time I go to the river, I remember when you took me there for the first time

I see you everyday on my route to work, when I was a kid you would drive the same way to put me to sleep as a car ride was the only thing that would work at the time, I’d pretend to fall asleep so you’d carry me inside

I don’t even remember our last conversation.

Our relationship was horrible when you left. I will regret that everyday until I die. I wish you could see how much better off I am now. I wish you could see dad.

Now I see your name on a plaque at cemetery, I can’t even reach it to put flowers up, I leave a cigarette for you instead, you’d laugh at my gesture

I talk to a wall hoping that you can hear me like I still hear you, I’ve cried enough tears to fill a dam, I don’t think it will ever stop hurting and there’s a sick part of me that hopes it doesn’t because if it does then I feel like I’ll forget you

[ifancyharry]

The bookshop in the corner (part II)

YN owns a bookshop, and Harry needs a hiding spot.

Hi my loves!!! i'm sorry this is kind of short, but i'm planing big things for next chapter so stay tuned 😌. I wanted to thank you for all the love on part one, i really wasn't expecting it so thank you so so so much!!!!!!!

Word count: 3.9k+

Warnings: none

(read part one here)

Harry follows quietly behind YN as they walk across the shop. He isn’t used to being this quiet and he’s feeling unease; he’s always hated silence, and he really hopes she was joking with her little ‘no talking’ rule, as he’s not so sure he could easily comply. 

It’s so silent between them Harry can hear her soft breaths coming from her parted lips and the sound of her shoes patting against the wooden squeaky floor. He really wants to say something. Silence is suffocating to him, gives him too much time to think and he hates that. He’s never really gotten the saying ‘comfortable silence’: It’s rather oxymoronic to him. What could ever be comfortable about silence? 

“Where are we going?” He decides to ask her, only to break the silence, really, because he knows already where they’re going. 

She turns her head around quickly, her eyes lowered in two slits as she glares at him. She doesn’t say anything, though, and she just turns her head back and keeps on walking 

Harry isn’t sure he wants to test her more, and opts for staying silent, looking around the place instead. He figures he’s going to spend quite some time here so he might as well get to know the place. 

It’s mostly books on shelves, though, and he reads the titles in his mind as a way to not think too much about the suffocating quietness that lingers between them.

He can admit, it’s a great collection. He was never much of a reader as a kid, but after XFactor and while he was in the band, he felt the need to improve himself. He felt uncomfortable when he had to tell people he never finished school, so he decided to at least get a culture on his own.

His interest in reading came in phases, really, and he could’ve sworn he read a book from each genre. He laughs through his nose, as he’s still following behind her, when he remembers reading a book about a serial killer who killed women because he liked the way they smelled. He doesn’t know why he’s laughing, it was rather a creepy book and he had nightmares for weeks up to the point he had to ask Jeff if he could book a double and sleep in the same room with him.

He even had a self-help book phase, but that was more for his personal wellbeing rather than general culture. He recall they did help, but he stopped buying them after that one time Jeff accidentally opened his Amazon package and found inside the ‘How to live with anxiety: A guide’ he had bought the previous day. 

He was so embarrassed Jeff could get even a glimpse of his true, internal being he told him he bought it for a girl he was dating at the time. Jeff didn’t question him, it’s not like he cared. Harry knew there wasn’t anything wrong with his anxiety, of course he did; he was more embarrassed about people perceiving him as a real person with struggles and feelings. He had gotten used to being the funny guy everywhere he went, so he thought he wouldn’t be perceived as fun if people knew he suffered from anxiety.

They come to a stop once they reach a wooden door in the back, and Harry watches as she fishes inside the front pocket of her jeans and takes out a single gold key. She twists it inside the door’s lock and the lock opens with a pop. 

“C’mon” she says, when she notices Harry didn’t follow her inside. 

“What is this place?” 

She sighs at his words; he had already broken her rule twice, and she wasn’t sure she could put up with him any longer. She’s beginning to ask herself if the money’s really worth it, but 500 pounds a week sound like new heaters for the bookshop and at least two first editions of Jane Austen’s, so she bites her bitter remark ready to come out, and says instead: “What do you think?” She gestures for him to come inside, and he does, albeit hesitantly.

“Do you… live here?” Harry says once he enters the room. 

It’s a rather small space, a small green kitchen in the corner where he guesses they’ll be cooking, a nice rug adorning the floor. Behind the cream sofa, there’s a big window overlooking the street (the opposite one he came from) with a cozy reading nook where he imagines she likes to read sipping a cup of coffee (Harry doesn’t know whether she’s more of a coffee or tea person, he likes to think she’s a coffee person because he’s a tea one, and that just makes sense to him), and even if he can admit the big window is a little intrusive, he likes the idea of watching outside. He’s always loved people watching, and with a window as big as this, it’s almost like having a personal tv show playing all day. 

As he walks a little further inside the room, he notices there’s books everywhere: on the coffee table in front of the couch, on said couch, some splattered across the floor, some against the wall.

Harry jumps a little in his place when he hears her closing the door. He likes this place, it’s definitely a nice extent of her bookshop, but he’s feeling rather uncomfortable as he takes a big breath and his nostrils are filled with the warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon. Is this her… home? He always thought homes were so personal, he didn’t think he’d ever see hers. Of course he’d been in his friends’s homes, but it was always a matter of minutes, sometimes half hours, he never stayed around too long. He didn’t feel comfortable seeing people’s personal spaces. He didn’t like thinking about them decorating, picking the furniture, choosing the color of the wall’s paint. He didn’t like knowing people on that level, because he didn’t want people to do that with him. The wondering, the thinking about him. Not Harry Styles him (he was fine with that), but Harry him; Harry who buys anxiety guide books and likes cream sweaters, Harry who sometimes feels like he’s not that fun and kind, Harry that has to try so hard for people’s approval he analyzes everything he said In social gatherings instead of sleeping. 

“No.” She says, “I just come here when I need a break from people”.

That doesn’t really make sense to Harry, because he was never one to need a break from people (or at least, he was never one to allow himself that feeling), and he doesn’t understand why would someone ever enjoy being alone; but he somehow felt more at ease after her words. It wasn’t her home. She probably didn’t even pick the decor, she probably doesn’t even like green, he figures it just came already furnished with the bookshop. He knows the books are all her doing, but those don’t make him uncomfortable to the point of suffocating, it just makes the space a little more warm, and he somehow likes that.

“No dining table?” He notices, pointing towards the open space kitchen. She doesn’t know what that question means to him when she shrugs: “never needed one.”

She blushes a little when she adds: “When I eat here, I eat on the couch.”, maybe that was too much information?, she thinks, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He seems at peace with her answer, and she doesn’t question it.

She doesn’t know Harry doesn’t own a dining table too. He likes knowing something she doesn’t, it gives him a power over their newly formed relationship, and he recalls he’s never much in power of anything. He feels safe knowing this about her, without having to explain why he cares so much about dining tables. She would get it, he thinks, but then he’d had to tell her he doesn’t like to eat alone, and that, he thinks, she wouldn’t get. How could she? Harry doesn’t blame her. He was never one to crave alone time, but if he’s being completely honest with himself, he sometimes wishes it could be easier being alone. 

“Oh, no.” She says, “I’ve run out of flour.” She looks up at Harry from behind the kitchen counter, all furrowed brows and arm stretched before her as she holds open the cabinet above the stove. 

“Okay - he sighs - I could just run to the store. Do you think Tesco’s open on Sundays? I don’t really know Tesco’s opening hours, I never do my own groceries shopping, I know crazy, right? I could just go while you-“ he’s already pacing towards the door when she stops him with a groan.

“It’s fine.” She mumbles, closing the cabinet and tossing a packet to Harry. He grabs it before it could fall on the floor and reads aloud: cocoa powder.

“We could just make hot chocolate today and bake next weekend.” She says firmly, like she already decided without letting him know. She probably would’ve agreed to him going to Tesco if he hadn’t put on such a scene, with his incessant rumbling and paced walk.

“Hot chocolate? That doesn’t count as baking!”

“Who cares?”

“I do.” He scoffs, furrowing his brows and pouting his lips. He has his arms crossed over his chest like a child and she can’t help but look at him amazed by his behavior. 

“Mmh, what if we make it on the stove and not in the microwave? That way it doesn’t, technically, count as baking, but it does as cooking!” 

“I guess that will do. But you should know I take cooking very seriously, so I expect the same from you.”

She gives a firm nod of her head at his words, telling him she will. 

“And” he adds, “I don’t drink whole milk, makes my stomach funny. Do you have plant based?” 

YN lets out a small chuckle and opens the fridge’s door, taking out a box of oat milk and shaking it towards him: “I don’t drink whole milk either, I’m lactose intolerant”.

(…)

“Can I talk now? I really need to talk. It’s strictly necessary.”

YN rolls her eyes, “I highly doubt that”, she says, standing beside him in front of the stove. 

They’re both watching the chocolate boil in the pot, and Harry is stirring slowly to make sure it doesn’t stick to the bottom and burn the aluminum (she told him specifically to be careful as it’s the only one she owns, and even if Harry offered to buy her new ones, she declined with a roll of her eyes). 

They’re standing side to side and their shoulders are touching with every flex of Harry’s arm. She wonders if he’s aware of it, because she certainly is.  

“Okay, it’s not. But I can’t just… keep quiet!” Harry exclaims, turning his head to look at her.

“Why not?” 

“Because! What if I burn the chocolate but I can’t tell you because you said no talking?”

“You’re not going to burn the chocolate, Harry.”

It was the first time she’d ever said his name, and Harry feels himself blush. His name rolls off her tongue like a sweet syrup he wants to taste. 

“I appreciate the confidence boost.” He nods, continuing to stir the thick dark liquid with a wooden ladle.

“Wasn’t trying to.”

Harry rolls his eyes, smirking at himself; at least, he thinks, he got her to talk. 

He doesn’t understand where the fascination with this girl is coming from. He sees thousands of girls everyday, some prettier, some uglier, and he’s never been one to hyper fixate on a person. He prefers to have a lot of options so he never really has to worry about hurting anyone’s feelings, or worse, get his hurt. He doesn’t think he’d survive that.

It’s not a matter of physical appearances with her, it’s something deeper, primordial. Of course she’s cute, he’s not completely blind, but she just carries herself around with this sort of melancholy, she wears it as if it were perfume, and Harry really understands melancholy.

“If I paid you, say… a hundred more, could you rethink the rule?”

“You’re really careless with your money,” she says, furrowing her brows and pouting her lips, “but no, I wouldn’t.”

“Damn, you’re brutal”.

Harry admires her, really. She seems completely careless with everything. She turned down 600 pounds because she doesn’t fancy talking to him; he wishes he had that self control. He’s one to splurge a thousand pounds on groceries just because he was invited to a Christmas party once and didn’t know what the host would’ve liked him to bring. That’s why he’s not allowed to do his own groceries shopping anymore; of course he would never tell her that, because she already thinks he’s careless with his money. And he would like to scream: hey! I’m not careless, I could never be! I sometimes overthink too much and end up buying stuff I don’t need.

So what. She’s one to talk. Harry thinks it’s careless to pay six hundred pounds for a chat as much as it’s careless turning them down. 

So they both keep watching the chocolate boil, in silence, and Harry keeps stirring even when his arm starts to hurt, because he doesn’t want to ruin her precious pot and because he likes when his sweatshirt brushes against her sweater. Every once in a while, she stands on her toes and looks over his shoulder — “it looks almost ready” — and Harry can feel her hot breath on his neck. He stiffens and prays she doesn’t notice, his mind racing a thousand thoughts a second, wondering if she’s doing it on purpose, if she still thinks he’s unfunny or if he managed to be a little more pleasing to be around (he figures he didn’t, otherwise she’d want to at least talk to him),  then he prays in his mind the chocolate is going to taste good, because it would really suck if he couldn’t even make a silly hot chocolate. When he hears her phone’s timer go off, he turns the heat down and lets the drink cool on the stove. He frowns to himself: he really wishes he could be more careless.

(…)

“You don’t have to help me, I’ve got it” 

It’s around six now, and YN is getting ready to close the bookshop, carrying back to their places the books she read over the week. Harry still hasn’t left, she’s not sure why, but he kept quiet while they drank their hot chocolates and he didn’t question her when she told him she didn’t feel like going back out yet once they finished their drinks, so overall it wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. She figures Harry managed to keep quiet because he seemed like he had a lot in mind. She found herself wanting to ask him what he was thinking about, but she held back. She never shared that level of confidence with anyone, so she’s not sure how he could’ve taken it. And she’s not sure he would’ve been honest either, I mean, why would he?, so she didn’t bother. 

Sometimes she wishes she had a little bit more courage to understand others. It’s a lot of work, and people haven’t always been kind with her, so she finds it hard to open up. But sometimes she finds herself thinking about how nice it would feel to share an intimacy with another so deep she’d never feel lonely ever again. Contrary to Harry, she’s not scared of being alone. What scares her is the emptiness the bookshop carries and the feeling that no one really could ever understand her. That’s scary. 

“Is ‘The Da Vinci code’ considered thriller or is it a novel?” Harry asks; he’s holding a pile of books with both his arms, raising his head a little so he can read the title of the first book in the pile. 

“Thriller”, she answers, pointing towards the isle where she keeps the other mystery and thriller books.

Harry nods and walks toward where she pointed, laying the pile of books on the ground so he can move more freely once he reaches the shelf.

Once he’s done reorganizing the books, he wonders if he should call Jeff and ask him to pick him up. He doesn’t want to walk back to the hotel alone, it’s gotten dark and he fears he wouldn’t handle another half hour walk in silence. He’s been quiet enough for the day. He feels like his brain could explode.

“You should go, it’s late.” YN says after a while. 

“Yes.”

“Are you taking the tube?” 

“What?” 

YN shrugs: “the tube.”

“Oh. Yes, are you?” Harry’s never really taken the subway, actually. It certainly wasn’t in his plans to lie, but he figured if she says yes, then he didn’t have to call Jeff and wait for him on the sidewalk like a child, and if she says no, he could pretend to walk towards the tube and then call Jeff. 

“Yes”.

“Mh. Okay, cool.” He gives her a swift nod and then hides his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt.  

YN looks at him with an expression Harry can’t read, and then she turns around and closes the bookshop’s front door behind them. 

They’re walking side to side now, Harry has his arms crossed over his chest to somehow keep his body from freezing, and he really hopes YN doesn’t think he’s silly for not wearing a coat in the middle of November. She probably didn’t even notice, and if she did, she doesn’t say anything. 

“Do you live far from the bookshop?” He says, and YN thinks he says it like he’s genuinely interested, she isn’t uncomfortable when she answers him: “no, a couple of stops.”

Harry nods: “I own a house in Hampstead Heath but I never really… uh I never really go there when I’m in London. I prefer to stay closer to the venues.”

He doesn’t know why he said that, it’s not like she asked. She probably doesn’t even care, or doesn’t understand why he would do such a thing. He already knows she thinks he’s careless with his money, and Harry gave her another reason to add to the list of how silly and pretentious he is.

“Oh” she nods, “I get it. With London’s traffic, you’d never make it to your concerts on time.” 

“Yes! — he laughs, she gets it — I mean, could you imagine that? Singer misses his own concert. That would be all over Daily mail.”

YN laughs too, mostly because he’s laughing, as she doesn’t really know why would that make the Daily mail, but he’s funny when he’s laughing. She thinks he looks like a little frog and he has that type of contagious laughter she likes. 

Once they reach the subway, YN takes out her metro card and Harry widens his eyes. 

“I… I’ll go make the ticket” he says.

“Shut up.” She grabs his arm and swipes the card, tugging him with her so they can both go through the gates before they close. 

“Oh God.” Harry lets out, looking at her with a bewildered expression on his face, “is that even legal? I have money, I could’ve just paid!”

YN rolls her eyes at him: “shut up. You already owe me 500 pounds, I wanted to return the favor.”

“Oh! You’re right. Here.” Harry digs inside his shorts pockets and takes out his wallet, opening it in front of her.

“Are you crazy!” She places her hand on his wallet and lowers it, trying not to draw too much attention on them, looking around to see if someone saw how much money he was carrying with him. “Let’s not do that here. Next time.”

“Oh, you’re right.” He blushes, closing his wallet and putting it inside the front of his sweatshirt this time.

(…)

When Harry returns back to the hotel it’s almost dinner time. He walks slowly towards his room, his head lowered on his phone as he’s dialing Jeff’s number.

“Yes?” 

“Jeff!” Harry answers, “are you in your room?”

“No, actually. I needed to do some shopping so i— did you need something? I’ll make it on time for dinner” 

“Great! Yes, actually, could you buy at least three cooking books for me? Easy stuff like, pies, cookies, pastries…” 

“Okay. — jeff says, and Harry knows he put him on speaker so he could write it down on his notes — like… baking books?”

“Yes, yes, exactly. You know what… buy everything they have on baking.” Harry’s now reached his room’s door and he holds his phone against his ear with his shoulder as he takes out the card from his pants, he then swipes it and opens the door once the light turns green. Once he’s inside, he removes his shoes and plops down on the bed.

“Okay. Anything else?” Jeff asks.

“Mh, yes. I also need a new beanie, big sunglasses and maybe like a fake beard? I don’t know. Something that makes me unrecognizable.” 

“Harry, I don’t really—“ Harry can hear Jeff sigh through the phone.

“Don’t worry, it’s not urgent. We have a week to figure it out.”

“We?” 

“Yes. C’mon hurry, I’m starving.” After Jeff’s okay, Harry hangs up the phone and throws it on the other side of the bed.

He feels so tired he figures he could take a quick nap before dinner while he waits for Jeff. He falls asleep almost immediately, and only when he wakes up an hour later to Jeff shaking him awake, he realizes it was the first time in a while he managed to fall asleep without thinking about anything other than green kitchens and cream sweaters.

(…)

“Oh my God!” YN shouts, laughing hysterically once she sees Harry walking through the front door. 

“Heyyy!” he pouts, “you said no one had to see me come in.”

“I know!” She exclaims, “but I was thinking more about window climbing and less about Santa Clause costumes”

Harry feels himself blush so hard he thinks he’s the same color of his pants. He really wants to punch Mitch now. When he suggested buying a Santa costume, Harry really thought it was the perfect idea, so he didn't stop to think about how embarrassing it would be to actually dress as Santa Clause. And dressing as Santa wasn’t the most embarrassing part about it all; her seeing him was.

“Don’t worry. — YN pretends to dry a fake tear from the corner of her eye — I think the Dumbledore beard really fits you. It would go soooo well with your Gucci loafers!” 

“You’re not funny” Harry whines, removing the beard from his face and tossing it on the counter where she’s sitting.

“Thank God you are, then.” She says, smirking at him. She plops down from the counter and gestures for him to follow her.

She thinks he’s funny. Harry smiles. Guess he’s back to being that version of himself he practiced so well over the years. 

“What are we baking?” He asks her once they reach the kitchen. He feels much more comfortable in her space now, and he isn’t even thinking much about the candle that’s burning on the coffee table, wondering if it’s her favorite or if she found it discarded somewhere and decided to lighten it so she could toss it away once it was empty.

“You decide, Santa.” She laughs lightly, “you’re the baker.”

Harry pretends to think about it for a moment before he nonchalantly tells her he was thinking about apple pie.

“Okay, I like apple pie.”

Thank God, Harry thinks, it’s the only recipe he managed to learn from the baking books. 

(read part three here)