#we just get to feel like they are when we read from their perspective

[castieldelamancha]

Dean hits the side of the vending machine getting more and more frustrated with each passing second. He pointedly ignores the pain he can feel in his hand now.

Inside the machine the chocolate bar he has been trying to get for the last ten minutes stares back smugly at him. It doesn't even have eyes to stare back, or a face to look smug, but Dean can feel its condescending judgment anyway, same as those stale chips watching from the second row that probably expired back in 1986.

"All these stupid motels with their stupid, ancient, vending machines." He mutters.

He is well aware in some corner of his tired brain he isn't this mad about something as insignificant as a damn chocolate bar, he is frustrated because he hasn't slept more than two hours in a row, he is angry because neither him nor Sam seem to know what they are after, the trip here was long and the case seems overly complicated.

Right when he is about to give up with an exhausted sigh and go back to their room to stare at their files again, he hears that telltale flutter of wings he is so familiar with at his back.

He turns around, his exhaustion and frustration all but forgotten at the sight of Cas.

He looks tired too, but he is smiling at Dean, that small, private thing he has only for Dean and that makes his eyes shine bright. His trench coat is a bit wrinkled, as is the white shirt he is wearing underneath, he is not wearing a tie today, and Dean hopes Cas isn't annoyed at him for taking the blue one he prefers to use with him the last time they saw each other to wear it with his fed suit.

Cas doesn't say anything, he does stares past Dean at the offending vending machine, squinting his eyes at it, Dean turns around once more to look at it too when he hears the sound of something falling on the tray at the bottom.

"My hero," he exclaims, a little out of breath, he had wanted it to come out as amused but he sounds too in love for the joke to land, "thanks babe." He throws a glance and a cheeky wink at Cas over his shoulder before bending down to retrieve his loot. "Awesome." He had been sure he had lost his money and the chance to get any food but Cas has miracled him a bunch of bars and some water.

They could debate if his grace was intended to be used this way and then Cas would get that intense look on his face and say some shit like "it was created to help humans, to care for them, and I love doing those things for you, no better use for my grace, Dean." and Dean would get all teary-eyed and he is too tired for all of that.

He simply stands straight again and looks at Cas.

"Of course, Dean, always." He always, always, replies that to Dean whenever he shows he is thankful.

Dean transfers all the drinks and food he is carrying to the crook of his elbow, freeing one hand that he closes around Cas' own hand, allowing the angel to tangle their fingers together and slowly rock their hands back and forth as they walk back to Dean and Sam's room.

"You gonna stay for a while or is this just a quick visit? Because, huh, we need some new ideas and perspective for this case and all," he wants to smack himself, this is Cas, for goodness' sake, no need to act like a nervous teenager with a crush, he can just tell him 'it would be nice to have you around.' and Cas would be delighted.

Luckily for him Castiel's inability to read any human interaction or its meaning doesn't apply to Dean's own lacking communication skills, he just smiles again and nods once, "I would love to be of assistance." and what he means is 'it would be nice to be around you too.' Dean's heart can't almost take it.

"Cool, gotta tell Sam to get his own room, though."

[ijustwannabecool]

Somewhere Only We Know - Part 2

Lando Norris x Reader

Based upon this request:

Hi!!! First of all, I love love loooove your stories. I don't know if you're open to writing for Lando. Just wanted to maybe suggest this: we all know he's spiraling at the moment, maybe someone who he meets and steadies him? I know he has that typical athlete fboy image. But maybe someone who he changes for and really helps him mentally as well. Seeing that change from an outside perspective from people in F1 or fans would be pretty cool. Just a thought that popped up! Thanks! Will be anxiously waiting for your next uploads!

Summary... He wasn’t looking for anything when he found you — just a diner, a coffee, a moment to breathe — but somehow you became everything. This is the story of how he fell, how you stayed, and how together you built something louder than the noise trying to tear you apart.

A/N: I hope this story does justice to your request! I wrote it like a book, so it has chapters within the story. Also, the story was so long that I had to split it into two parts because Tumblr would not allow me to post it. I had such a blast writing it, and I hope you all have just as much fun reading it. As always, thank you so much for being here, for supporting these little worlds we create, and for sharing your love with the characters too.

Happy reading, and have a beautiful day today!! 🖤✨

If you enjoyed the story and feel like supporting my writing, you can donate a strawberry matcha through my Ko-fi! 🍓🍵 (No pressure at all — your kindness is already everything.)

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

DO NOT READ THIS PART BEFORE READING PART ONE!!

Chapter 14: Breakwater

The morning crept in slow and gold.

The lake shimmered in the early light, mist curling over the surface like a living thing.

Inside the cabin, it was warm — blankets kicked off, window cracked open, the air smelling like rain-soaked wood and coffee brewing somewhere down the road.

—

Lando woke up first.

Y/N was curled into his side on the small couch they’d crashed onto sometime after their second — or was it third? — kiss.

Her hand was pressed against his chest, fingers splayed over his heart like she was claiming it without even trying.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Just breathed her in. The softness of her hair against his jaw. The steady rhythm of her breathing.

The way the world outside could have burned to the ground and he wouldn’t have noticed because she was here.

His.

Finally.

—

She stirred after a while, blinking sleepily, her nose scrunching in a way that made him smile so wide it hurt.

"Mornin'," she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep.

"Hey," he whispered back, brushing his thumb gently over her knuckles.

For a moment, they just lay there — no rush, no noise, no weight.

Just them.

Y/N’s voice was still raspy when she teased, "Are we gonna pretend yesterday didn’t happen?"

Lando shook his head immediately. "Not a chance."

She smiled wider, her cheeks flushing pink, and burrowed closer into his side like she belonged there.

God, she did belong there.

—

They spent the morning wrapped around each other, half-tangled in blankets, trading lazy kisses and half-hearted arguments about who was responsible for getting breakfast.

"You drive," Y/N said, poking his ribs with a sly smile. "You’re the adult here."

"I’m not even qualified to own a plant," Lando protested, laughing as he caught her hand and laced their fingers together.

Eventually, they bundled up and wandered down to a tiny diner by the lake, the kind of place where the menus were handwritten and the waitress called everyone "sweetheart."

They sat across from each other, stealing bites of pancakes and grinning like idiots.

For a few precious hours — there was no McLaren. No cameras. No headlines.

Just this.

Just them.

Until the real world found them anyway.

—

It happened as they were walking back to the cabin, hand-in-hand, feet crunching over gravel.

Lando's phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

He ignored it at first — until it buzzed so violently it practically jumped out of his pocket.

He sighed, pulling it out — and froze.

Y/N noticed immediately.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, stepping closer, peering up at him.

Lando's jaw tightened as he tilted the screen so she could see.

Tweets. Instagram tags. News pings.

Photos.

Blurry at first — then clearer.

Them.

Leaving the diner last night. Laughing by the lake. Holding hands this morning.

The captions were already spiraling:

"New romance for Norris?" "Who is the mystery girl stealing Lando’s heart?" "Spotted: F1 star cozying up at hidden lakeside retreat."

Lando stuffed his phone back into his pocket like it burned him.

"You don’t have to do this," he said roughly, voice cracking a little. "You don’t have to stay."

Y/N just looked at him steady.

Sure.

She stepped even closer, slipping her fingers into his.

"Lando," she said softly, voice clear and unwavering, "I’m not here because it’s easy."

Her hand squeezed his once — firm, grounding.

"I’m here because it’s you."

And just like that — he knew.

No matter how high the waves got, no matter how loud the world screamed, no matter how messy it became —

They would fight for this.

Together.

———

Chapter 15: All the Noise, None of the Doubt

If you asked him, Lando would have said nothing changed.

Not really.

He still showed up for sim days and engineering meetings. Still suited up. Still pushed the limits. Still smiled for the cameras.

But something was different.

Not the way he drove — the way he lived.

The way he smiled wider when his phone buzzed. The way he laughed easier when he caught a glimpse of a photo Y/N sent him — some ridiculous thing, like a squirrel stealing a sandwich or her terrible attempt at latte art.

The way he counted the hours until he could see her again.

They carved out a world in the quiet spaces between all the noise.

Secret coffee dates. Late-night FaceTimes. Quick texts during media days

Soft mornings at the cabin when they could sneak away. Long car rides filled with bad music and even worse singing.

Tiny kisses stolen in parking lots. Fingers brushing under tables.

Nothing flashy. Nothing loud.

Just them.

Of course, the rest of the world wasn't blind.

At the factory, Max smirked as he caught Lando smiling down at his phone again.

"You’re disgusting," Max said, tossing a balled-up napkin at him.

Lando batted it away, not even pretending to hide the grin on his face.

"You’re just jealous," he shot back.

Max laughed. "Maybe. But I’m not the one getting meme’d into oblivion every time someone spots me looking like a lovesick idiot."

Lando flipped him off good-naturedly.

But later, alone in the simulator bay, phone screen glowing with a new picture of Y/N doodling all over his face in an old karting photo he sent her, he thought maybe he didn’t mind.

The media started circling too.

Soft at first. Little jabs in interviews.

"So, Lando, any truth to the rumors about a new girl?" "Someone special keeping you motivated this season?"

He ducked and weaved, smiling without answering, learning how to protect what mattered without lying.

They didn’t need to know. Not yet. Not when it was still this precious, still blooming in his hands.

But it was getting harder to keep their world untouched.

Photos slipped through sometimes — blurry ones of them at a gas station, a coffee shop, a grocery store.

Fans guessed. Fans speculated.

Some supported. Some didn't.

The noise was getting louder.

—

One night, they sat on the hood of his SUV under a wide, bruised sunset sky — the cabin just a small speck in the distance — splitting a bag of crisps between them.

Y/N leaned back on her hands, kicking her heels against the bumper.

"You know," she said lightly, "if you ever want to run... I’d go with you."

He turned to look at her, something sharp and warm catching in his throat.

"You serious?"

She nodded, smiling sideways at him.

"I’m not scared of the noise, Lando," she said. "But if it ever gets too loud for you... we’ll just find somewhere quieter."

He stared at her — this girl who had walked into his life on a rainy night with bad coffee and a soft voice — and realized that no matter how loud the world got, with her, there would always be a way back to silence.

To home.

To them.

—

He reached out, tangling their fingers together, resting their joined hands on the hood between them.

"I’m not running," he said quietly. "Not from this. Not from you."

She squeezed his hand, her smile small and sure.

"Good," she said. "Because you’re terrible at directions."

He laughed — a real, full laugh — and tugged her closer until she was tucked into his side.

And for the first time in a long time — maybe ever — Lando knew he wasn’t just surviving.

He was living.

With her.

———

Chapter 17: Our Little World

It wasn’t about hiding. Not really.

It was about protecting.

About keeping something beautiful just for themselves, tucked away where no cameras, no headlines, no strangers could touch it.

Their little world.

Their rules.

When they were apart — race weeks, sponsor events, the constant hum of everything — they stayed connected in the ways that mattered.

It became a routine without them even realizing it.

Late-night texts.

Y/N: Did you eat real food today or just Red Bull and regrets?

Lando: Pop-Tarts totally count as real food.

Y/N: Get a vegetable or I’m calling Max.

Lando: Terrifying. Ordering salad now.

Early morning FaceTimes.

"Hi," she’d say, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Hi," he’d whisper back, already smiling just hearing her voice.

Sometimes they didn't even talk. Just kept the call open while she painted, while he packed, while they existed on opposite sides of the world but somehow closer than ever.

When they could steal days together — God, those days felt like breathing again.

—

Tiny traditions started to form:

Y/N leaving doodles tucked into his suitcase before he traveled. ("I better see this stuck to your laptop," she teased once, drawing a lopsided cartoon of him driving a spaceship.)

Lando slipping notes into the sketchbooks she left lying around. ("Your art’s better than any trophy," he scribbled once, messy and embarrassed but meaning every word.)

Sharing playlists. ("This song is you," he texted her once, sending a track that was all messy beats and golden chords.)

Movie nights where they talked over half the film, cuddled under a mountain of mismatched blankets, and fought about who stole the popcorn.

("You," Lando accused, mouth full. "Me?" Y/N gasped. "You’re inhaling it like you’ve never seen food before!")

They built a language only they spoke — inside jokes, stolen glances, silent conversations across crowded rooms.

—

But the world kept buzzing louder outside.

Photos kept surfacing. Speculation grew.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She teased him about it sometimes, flicking through tabloids at the grocery store.

"‘Lando Norris and Mystery Girl spotted looking cozy at Starbucks,’" she read aloud dramatically one day, showing him a grainy photo of them with frappuccinos.

He snorted. "That’s peak romance. Frappuccinos."

"You sure know how to spoil a girl," she said, nudging him.

He grinned, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles right there between the cereal and the canned soup aisle.

"I’ll buy you two next time," he whispered.

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away.

The world could shout all it wanted.

She knew where home was.

—

One night — late, after a brutal race weekend that left Lando physically exhausted and mentally shredded — they lay tangled together on the tiny couch in his Monaco apartment.

Y/N traced lazy circles over the back of his hand, her voice soft against the darkness.

"You know you don’t have to pretend with me, right?" she said.

He turned his head, watching her with tired, adoring eyes.

"I know," he said quietly. "You’re the only place I don’t have to."

She smiled — small, warm, breaking his heart a little more in the best way.

"You’re stuck with me, Norris," she teased, nose brushing his.

He kissed her gently — sweet and tired and so full of everything he couldn’t find the words for.

"Good," he whispered against her lips. "Because I’m not going anywhere."

And for now, that was enough.

Their little world held strong — soft, stubborn, untouchable.

For now.

———

Chapter 18: Say It Like You Mean It

It started with a headline.

Bigger this time. Louder.

Not whispers anymore — shouts.

"Is Lando Norris Losing Focus? Friends Fear New Romance May Be a Distraction."

And worse — comments. Speculation. Ugly words flung like stones.

They picked her apart — her looks, her job, her life — like she was nothing but an accessory to his downfall.

Lando saw it before Y/N did. His phone buzzing nonstop. His manager sending cautious texts. Max even texting him once:

Max:

You good, mate? Ignore the shit. You know whats’s real.

He barely read the rest. He couldn’t think straight.

He was supposed to protect her.

And now — they were using her name like a weapon.

—

He found her at his place, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of his race gear he’d dumped there last week.

She looked up the second he slammed the door behind him, her smile fading when she saw his face.

"Lando?" she said, standing quickly. "What happened?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just crossed the room in three strides, pulling her into his arms like he needed to be sure she was still real.

"Lando," she said again, softer now, hands sliding up his back. "Talk to me."

He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

"They're saying shit," he muttered. "About you. About us."

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"I know," she said gently.

He blinked. "You know?"

She smiled — sad and strong all at once. "I’m not blind, Lan. I knew what I was signing up for."

His chest tightened painfully.

"I hate that it touches you," he said, voice rough. "I hate that I brought you into this."

"You didn’t bring me anywhere," she said. "I walked. I chose this."

"But you don’t deserve it," he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. "Neither do you."

—

An hour later, he sat in his car outside the McLaren building, staring at his phone, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

His manager had sent another text.

PR Team: No need to comment. Stay quiet. Let it pass.

But Lando couldn’t.

Not this time.

He opened Twitter. Stared at the blinking cursor.

And typed.

@LandoNorris: You can say whatever you want about me. But leave her out of it. She’s the best thing that’s happened to me. End of story.

He hit post before he could second guess himself.

Then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat like it was on fire.

He didn't care about the fallout.

He cared about her.

—

When he got home, she was curled up on the couch, a blanket around her shoulders, flipping absently through a book she clearly wasn't reading.

He dropped onto the couch beside her, heart hammering.

She set the book down.

"You posted it," she said softly.

He nodded once, his throat too tight to speak.

She smiled — small, shaky — and climbed into his lap without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I’m not going anywhere," she whispered against his ear.

He closed his eyes, burying his face in her hair.

"You better not," he whispered back.

Silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

"I love you," Lando said, the words tumbling out — messy, raw, desperate. "I love you so much it scares the hell out of me."

She pulled back, cupping his face in her hands.

"Good," she said, smiling through the tears gathering in her eyes. "Because I love you too, you idiot."

He laughed — choked and wrecked — and kissed her like he was drowning.

And maybe he was.

But if he was going under — he was taking her with him.

Together.

Always.

———

Chapter 19: The Afterglow and the Storm

The first few days after saying "I love you" felt like living inside a bubble.

Warm. Safe. Weightless.

They clung to each other like kids hiding under a blanket fort, pretending the real world couldn’t reach them.

—

Late one night, lying tangled together in his bed, Y/N pressed her nose into his neck and mumbled sleepily,

"Are we gonna talk about it?"

Lando smiled into her hair. "Talk about what?"

"You know," she said, poking his ribs, "the whole 'I love you' bomb you dropped on me."

He laughed, grabbing her hand and bringing it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"I regret nothing," he said.

She lifted her head just enough to glare playfully at him.

"You didn’t even give me time to process."

"You kissed me back!" he protested.

"I panicked!" she teased, laughing.

He rolled them over, pinning her gently to the bed with a grin.

"Say it again," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

She pretended to think about it, tapping her chin dramatically.

"Hmm... I love—"

He leaned closer.

"You," she finished, nose bumping his.

He kissed her — soft and slow and smiling the whole time.

"Best panic attack ever," he whispered against her mouth.

She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Idiot."

"Yours," he said.

"Mine," she agreed.

Always.

—

But outside the walls they built, the world kept spinning.

And not all of it was kind.

—

Another headline dropped the following week.

This time nastier. Sharper.

"Lando’s Focus in Question Again: Sources Say Romance Is a ‘Major Distraction’ for McLaren’s Golden Boy."

And worse — an anonymous "source" claiming Lando was “changing” — not as serious, not as hungry.

It was bullshit.

Lando knew it. The people who mattered knew it.

But still — it stung.

—

He found her sitting on the balcony that night, sketchbook in her lap, a cup of tea cooling by her side.

She looked up when he slid the door open.

"Hey," she said softly. "I saw."

He sank down onto the chair beside her, rubbing his hands over his face.

"You don’t have to keep doing this," he muttered.

"Doing what?"

"Dealing with the fallout," he said, voice tight. "It’s not fair to you."

She shut the sketchbook and set it aside.

"Lando," she said gently, "I don’t love you because it’s easy."

He looked up, heart aching.

"I love you because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me," she continued. "Even when it’s messy. Especially then."

He blinked hard, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.

"You’re sure?" he asked, voice cracking just a little.

She smiled — small, fierce, beautiful.

"Positive," she said. "Now shut up and come here."

He crossed the distance between them without hesitation, letting her pull him into her arms.

They sat there — curled up together under the dark sky, the world screaming beyond their little balcony, but the noise unable to touch them.

Not when they had each other.

Not when they had something this real.

—

Later, scrolling through his phone before bed, Lando grinned when he saw her latest text pop up.

Y/N: Tomorrow = karting rematch. No excuses, Norris. Prepare to lose.

Lando: You’re dreaming.

Y/N: I'm building a trophy shelf.

Lando: You're delusional. I love you.

Y/N: Love you more.

He turned off the screen, smiling into the darkness, and fell asleep with her heartbeat steady against his ribs.

And for once — the noise didn’t win.

They did.

———

Chapter 20: A Quiet Place, A Loud World

Their little world kept growing.

Not hidden. Not ashamed.

Just... theirs.

—

Late one night, curled up together on the battered old couch that had somehow become more home than anywhere else, Y/N pressed her cheek to Lando’s chest and whispered,

"Tell me a secret."

He smiled into her hair.

"Like what?"

"Like... something no one else knows."

He thought about it for a minute. Then said, "I used to dream about quitting."

She lifted her head, surprised.

"Quitting what?"

"All of it," he said softly. "The racing. The noise. The expectations. When it got bad, I used to think about just... disappearing."

Her eyes softened, her hand sliding up to cup his cheek.

"But you didn’t," she said.

"No," he said. "Because... because maybe I was waiting for something better to find me."

He looked at her — eyes wide, vulnerable, raw.

"And then you showed up," he whispered.

Her throat tightened painfully.

"I love you," she breathed, blinking back tears.

He smiled — small and broken and whole all at once.

"I love you more," he said.

—

They started talking about futures after that.

Not big sweeping plans. Just... dreams.

"What if we lived somewhere quiet?" Y/N said one night, curled into his side, tracing invisible lines over his chest. "A little house. A dog. Maybe a cat if you stop pretending to be allergic."

"I’m definitely allergic," he mumbled, half-asleep.

"Liar."

"Fine," he grinned. "But only if I get to name it."

"Deal," she said, laughing. "But I get veto power."

"Deal," he agreed, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

They talked about road trips across Europe. Late-night drives with no destination. Sunday mornings spent fighting over who had to make pancakes.

It wasn’t if anymore.

It was when.

But the world wasn’t content to stay quiet forever.

The invitation arrived three days later.

McLaren Gala. Mandatory Appearance. Formal Attire Required.

An event. A spotlight. A battlefield.

And this time — they couldn’t hide.

—

They talked about it that night, sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptops open, tabs pulled up of tux rentals and dresses she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel comfortable wearing.

"You don't have to come," Lando said quietly, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. "I’ll cover for you. Say you're sick. Say you’re busy. I don’t care."

Y/N closed her laptop and looked at him.

"Lando," she said firmly. "I'm not hiding. Not if you're not."

He searched her face, something wild and terrified and hopeful tangled in his eyes.

"You’re sure?" he whispered.

She reached across the bed, threading their fingers together.

"I’m sure," she said.

A beat of silence.

Then she smiled — wide, mischievous, a little shaky.

"But if we’re doing this," she said, "we’re doing it properly."

He laughed, the sound cracking open something deep inside him.

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning we’re gonna look so good they’ll have no choice but to talk about how lucky you are," she said, sticking out her tongue.

He lunged forward, tackling her onto the bed, both of them laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

The night of the gala, he saw her standing at the top of the hotel stairs — black dress hugging her curves, hair swept up, eyes catching the light like stars.

She was breathtaking.

Terrifyingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

He met her at the bottom of the stairs, taking her hand in his without hesitation.

"You ready?" he whispered.

Y/N squeezed his hand once, sure and steady.

"With you?" she said. "Always."

—

The cameras exploded the second they stepped onto the carpet.

Flashes. Shouts. Questions.

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

Not once.

Not when the world stared. Not when people whispered.

He kept her close — proud, steady, unapologetic.

And when they finally slipped inside, breathless and laughing, he pulled her into a shadowed corner and cupped her face in both hands.

"You’re the bravest person I know," he whispered.

"You make it easy," she whispered back.

He kissed her, soft and sure, and if anyone caught it on camera, he didn’t care.

Let them see.

Let them know.

This was real. This was forever.

And nothing was going to tear it apart.

———

Chapter 21: The Space Between Heartbeats

They didn’t plan it.

They just... needed it.

Needed to get away. Needed a place where they weren’t Lando Norris and the girl everyone was watching. Where they could just be Lando and Y/N.

So they ran.

—

They packed the bare minimum — jeans, hoodies, sunglasses, battered sneakers — and drove hours out of the city until the world thinned out around them.

Fields. Mountains. Empty roads.

The cabin was tiny. Hidden in a tangle of trees, overlooking a glassy stretch of river.

Perfect.

Untouchable.

The kind of place where no one knew their names.

—

The first night, they sat on the porch, legs tangled together under a shared blanket, the sky spilling stars across the darkness.

Y/N leaned against him, her voice sleepy but sure.

"I missed this," she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head. "Me too."

"You know," she said after a long pause, "sometimes it feels like the rest of the world... doesn’t matter here."

He smiled into her hair. "That’s because it doesn’t."

—

Inside, the cabin smelled like woodsmoke and old books.

They moved around each other easily — brushing teeth side by side at the creaky sink, arguing half-heartedly over which side of the bed was "better" (it was the left, obviously, and Y/N won, obviously).

No makeup. No cameras. No rules.

Just them.

—

It happened quietly.

Softly.

Not rushed. Not planned.

—

Lando brushed her hair back from her face as they lay sprawled across the bed, the old mattress squeaking under their weight.

She smiled up at him, lazy and beautiful, and whispered, "What are you thinking?"

He ran his thumb gently along her jawline.

"That I’m really fucking lucky," he said.

Her smile faltered — not because she doubted it, but because sometimes love still felt too big to hold.

"You know you don’t have to say that, right?" she said quietly.

He frowned, shifting closer.

"I’m not saying it because I have to," he said. "I’m saying it because it's true."

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in.

When she opened them again, they were shining.

"I love you," she whispered, voice cracking.

"I love you too," he said instantly, like breathing.

He kissed her — slow, careful — and she kissed him back like she was anchoring herself to the only thing that had ever felt steady.

—

Clothes fell away in clumsy, breathless pieces.

Laughter slipped between kisses.

Fingers shook a little — not from nerves, but from how much it meant.

Every touch said it louder than words ever could:

I'm here. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere.

When he finally sank into her, it wasn’t frantic or desperate.

It was slow. Reverent. Real.

Their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling.

No noise but the soft rustle of sheets and the quiet, broken whispers they shared between kisses.

—

"You're everything," he breathed against her skin.

She pressed her mouth to his shoulder, holding on tighter.

"So are you," she whispered back.

—

Later, tangled in the sheets, hearts still pounding, Y/N pressed her fingers over the steady thud of his pulse.

"The world can get louder," she said softly, tracing a circle over his chest. "I don’t care."

Lando caught her hand in his, kissed her knuckles.

"Let it," he said. "We already won."

Outside, the river whispered over stones. The trees creaked and sighed.

Inside — only the space between heartbeats.

Only them.

———

Chapter 22: Borrowed Time

The next morning felt like waking up inside a dream.

Sunlight spilled across the bed in soft puddles, the air cool and crisp through the cracked window.

Y/N stirred first, her arm thrown haphazardly across Lando’s stomach, her face smushed into his chest.

He was already awake, just... watching her. Committing every little detail to memory. The way her nose scrunched when the breeze hit her toes. The way her lips parted slightly, breath slow and even.

He never wanted to forget this.

Eventually, she cracked one eye open.

"You’re staring," she mumbled, voice raspy from sleep.

"Can you blame me?" he said, grinning.

She groaned and buried her face further into his chest.

"Gross," she said. "You're so gross."

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"You love it."

"I tolerate it," she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

They stayed like that — tangled up, half-asleep — until their stomachs rumbled in unison.

Y/N lifted her head, mock serious.

"Pancakes?" she asked.

He nodded solemnly. "It’s the only way."

—

They destroyed the tiny cabin kitchen together.

Flour everywhere. Eggshells in the sink. Syrup dripping down the counter.

Lando flipped a pancake so dramatically it hit the ceiling.

"LAN," she shrieked, laughing so hard she doubled over.

"Ten out of ten landing!" he yelled, throwing his arms up like an Olympic gymnast.

"You’re banned," she said, snatching the spatula from him.

He just grinned and stole a kiss while she was distracted, syrupy fingers slipping against her waist.

They ate standing up, giggling, licking syrup off their hands, stealing bites from each other’s plates.

It was stupid. It was messy.

It was perfect.

But reality doesn’t wait forever.

—

Later that afternoon, as they lounged lazily on the porch, Lando’s phone buzzed against the wood.

He ignored it at first.

Then a second buzz. A third.

Y/N reached over, grabbing it before he could.

"Who's spamming you?" she teased, pretending to squint at the screen.

Her smile faded.

"Lando," she said quietly, holding the phone out to him.

He took it, frowning.

A string of notifications.

Emails. Texts.

His PR team. Zak. Even a few drivers.

New headlines splashed across the top:

"Norris Romance Heating Up: Is the Pressure Getting to McLaren’s Star?" "Sources Suggest New Relationship May Threaten 2026 Contract Negotiations."

Beneath it, pictures — Him and Y/N at the gala. Holding hands. Laughing.

Frozen in a thousand flashbulbs.

Turned into clickbait.

—

He set the phone down carefully, like it might bite him.

Y/N didn't say anything right away.

Just scooted closer, resting her head against his shoulder.

"You’re gonna have to deal with this forever, aren’t you?" she said quietly.

He sighed, staring out at the river.

"Yeah."

A long beat of silence.

Then:

"You don’t regret it, do you?" she asked, so softly he barely heard her.

He turned immediately, cupping her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"Not for a single second," he said fiercely. "I’d choose you every damn time."

Her eyes softened, filling with tears she didn’t try to hide.

"Good," she whispered. "Because I’d choose you too."

—

They sat there as the sun dipped lower — the world buzzing just outside the treeline, the future heavy but waiting.

Not easy.

Not quiet.

But together.

And that was enough.

———

Chapter 23: Choosing Forever

It wasn’t a decision they made overnight.

It wasn’t made with big speeches or ultimatums.

It happened like everything else between them — quietly, naturally, inevitably.

Y/N sat on the floor of Lando’s apartment, surrounded by half-packed boxes, holding up one of his old race suits like it was a sacred artifact.

"You’re seriously keeping this?" she teased, grinning.

"That’s vintage," he said, grabbing it from her hands and pressing it to his chest like a wounded soldier. "Historical."

She laughed, tossing a hoodie at his head.

"Fine. But it’s going in the 'shrine' closet."

He grinned, tackling her onto the pile of clothes, both of them laughing too hard to breathe.

They were doing it.

Building a real life. Moving in together.

Not because they had to. Not because the world expected it.

Because it was the next right thing.

Because home wasn’t a place anymore.

It was each other.

Of course, the world didn’t exactly make it easy.

The pressure didn’t stop.

If anything, it grew sharper.

A headline broke two days later:

"Sources Inside McLaren Concerned About Norris’ Focus Heading into 2026."

An anonymous quote — someone "close to the team" saying Lando’s relationship was a "distraction."

That he was "different."

That he was "softer."

The whispers turned into noise. The pressure turned into weight.

Team meetings got tense. Fans speculated. Media circled like vultures.

He got the call late one night.

Zak.

Serious. Careful.

"Lando," Zak said, voice crackling through the speaker, "we need you focused. The board's watching everything right now."

"I am focused," Lando said, jaw tight.

"You need to look focused too," Zak said. "Publicly. Especially now."

Translation: Choose carefully. Choose wisely.

Choose.

—

He hung up and found Y/N sitting on the couch, scrolling through a ridiculous meme account she swore kept her sane.

She looked up immediately.

"Bad?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside her, burying his face in her shoulder.

She ran her fingers through his curls, silent, steady.

"You don’t have to say anything," she whispered.

He lifted his head, heart pounding.

"I want to," he said.

He cupped her face in both hands, holding her like she might disappear if he let go.

"I choose you," he said fiercely. "Over the noise. Over the pressure. Over everything."

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them.

"I choose you too," she whispered back.

And that was it.

Not a flashy decision. Not a press release.

Just two people choosing each other again and again and again — no matter how loud the world got.

———

Chapter 24: Win or Lose, It's You

The race weekend was brutal before it even began.

Everywhere Lando turned — reporters. Questions. Speculation.

"Has your relationship impacted your performance?" "Is the pressure getting to you?" "Is this the distraction McLaren was worried about?"

He handled it. He smiled. He answered carefully.

But inside, a knot twisted tighter and tighter with every word.

—

Y/N stayed out of the spotlight, like they agreed.

She didn’t want to make it harder. Didn't want to become another headline.

But she was there — quiet, steady, just beyond the paddock fences.

He caught glimpses of her between practice sessions — sitting cross-legged on the grass, sketchbook open in her lap, pretending not to watch his every move.

Their eyes would meet.

She'd smile — small, sure, like a lighthouse through the storm.

He'd breathe again.

—

On race day, it rained.

Not a drizzle. A full, chaotic downpour.

The track slick. The sky angry. The world holding its breath.

It was the kind of race that chewed up rookies and spat out veterans.

Every mistake magnified.

Every move scrutinized.

And Lando — Lando drove like his heart was on fire.

Not reckless. Not desperate.

Alive.

Sure.

—

Midway through, after a pit stop from hell, he dropped three places.

The team buzzed in his ear.

"Focus, Lando. You can still fight back."

He closed his eyes for half a second — saw her sitting in the rain, soaked but smiling, refusing to leave — and opened them with new clarity.

For her.

For them.

For himself.

He fought his way back — aggressive but smart, carving through the spray and the chaos.

Lap by lap. Corner by corner.

Until — P2.

Not the win.

Not the trophy.

But victory all the same.

—

After the checkered flag, soaked to the bone and shaking from adrenaline, he found her waiting by the barriers.

No cameras. No microphones.

Just her.

Y/N pushed the wet hair out of his eyes and smiled.

"You," she said, cupping his face, voice breaking, "you were incredible."

He laughed — half a sob, half a grin — and pulled her into a hug so fierce it lifted her off her feet.

"You’re my win," he whispered into her ear.

"And you’re mine," she whispered back.

They stood there — soaked. Laughing. Crying.

And for once, it wasn’t about headlines.

It wasn’t about contracts.

It was about this.

Them.

The only finish line that ever mattered.

———

Chapter 25: No More Hiding

The photos hit social media within minutes.

Not official portraits. Not staged PR shots.

Someone caught it — Lando, still dripping from the rain, still in his race suit, wrapping his arms around Y/N outside the paddock barriers, burying his face against her neck like the cameras didn’t even exist.

And for the first time — they didn’t care.

They didn’t flinch.

They didn’t run.

—

The internet exploded.

"Lando Norris and his girl: Paddock’s New Power Couple!" "Norris shows where his heart really is after stormy podium finish." "Real ones only: Lando and Y/N melt fans’ hearts after emotional race day."

The world finally saw it — not rumors. Not scandals.

Love. Real. Raw. Loud.

And they didn’t apologize for it.

—

The next day, Y/N sat beside him during a press day — quiet, off to the side, thumbing through a worn book while he fielded questions.

A journalist finally asked it straight:

"Lando, care to comment on the... touching moment we all saw after the race?"

He leaned into the microphone without hesitation.

"No comment," he said at first — then paused, glancing toward where Y/N sat curled up in a hoodie three sizes too big.

He smiled — wide, wrecked, unapologetic.

"Actually... yeah," he said.

He adjusted the mic slightly, the entire room hanging on his every word.

"I’m just lucky she puts up with me," he said, voice steady. "That’s all there is to it."

The reporters laughed. Cameras clicked.

But Y/N knew — because he looked at her when he said it — it wasn’t a joke.

It was the truth.

Simple. Unshakable.

Them.

—

Later, when they escaped the crowd and crashed onto the couch of his hotel room, Lando tugged her against him, pressing his mouth to the side of her head.

"No more hiding," he murmured.

Y/N smiled against his shoulder.

"Weren't hiding anyway," she whispered.

He laughed softly.

"No," he agreed. "We were just... waiting."

"For what?" she teased.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"For the right person," he said simply.

Her heart cracked wide open in the best way.

"I guess we both won," she whispered.

He kissed her — soft, sure, forever.

And in that kiss was every promise they didn’t have to say out loud.

Because they already knew.

Together.

Always.

No matter what.

———

Epilogue: A Place to Land

Six months later.

The apartment was still a work in progress.

Half-finished photo walls. Plants that survived only because Y/N whispered threats at them. Lando’s old race suits shoved into the back of closets she was slowly conquering.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was home.

—

Sunday morning spilled sunlight across the kitchen, dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

Y/N leaned against the counter, sipping coffee out of a chipped mug Lando had refused to throw away because it "had character."

She wore one of his old shirts — faded, too big, sleeves slipping past her elbows.

Lando shuffled in a few minutes later, hair messy, sweatpants low on his hips, yawning like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"You look like death," Y/N said cheerfully, raising her mug in greeting.

He flipped her off half-heartedly and stole the rest of her coffee with a grin.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She snorted, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

"Big day," she teased.

He groaned dramatically.

"Don't remind me."

They had a dinner to attend later — something small, just close friends and family — to celebrate his latest podium.

A real, hard-fought one.

The first one after everything — after the storm, after the noise, after choosing each other loud and proud.

Y/N set her mug down and looped her arms around his neck, rocking them gently side to side.

"You nervous?" she asked.

He shrugged, nuzzling into her shoulder.

"Not about the dinner," he said quietly.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

"But about...?"

He smiled — that small, shy, completely wrecked-by-love smile that still undid her every time.

"About asking you something later," he said.

Her stomach flipped, heart slamming against her ribs.

She opened her mouth — then closed it.

Then opened it again.

"Lando," she breathed, hands tightening around his hoodie, "if you’re asking what I think you’re asking... you already know the answer."

He kissed her — soft and slow and sure.

"I was hoping you’d say that," he whispered against her lips.

Later, tucked into the chaos of their tiny, perfect apartment, a small velvet box sat hidden at the back of a kitchen drawer.

He wasn’t nervous about it.

Not really.

Because some things — the real things — don't need grand gestures or fireworks or perfect timing.

They just need a place to land.

And he had found his.

Right here. Right now. With her.

Forever.

—

One year later.

The living room was a mess.

Half-unpacked boxes. A dog barking at a rogue sock on the floor. Lando wrestling with a flat-pack bookshelf like it had personally insulted him.

Y/N leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a stupid grin pulling at her mouth.

"You know," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "most people read the instructions."

Lando looked up, hair sticking out wildly, an allen key clutched between his teeth.

"Instructions are for quitters," he mumbled around it.

She snorted, walking over and plucking the key from his mouth.

"You," she said, dropping a kiss onto his forehead, "are a menace."

"And you," he said, grabbing her wrist and tugging her into his lap with a dramatic grunt, "love it."

She laughed, arms wrapping around his neck automatically.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," she teased.

He grinned — wide, wrecked, unashamed.

"You’re stuck with me, remember?" he said.

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," she said, resting her forehead against his.

—

The dog barked again — a yappy, ridiculous sound — and Lando groaned.

"You wanted a dog," he reminded her.

"You named him Max!" she shot back, laughing.

"It was that or Toto," he shrugged.

She laughed harder, burying her face in his neck.

"You’re an idiot," she whispered, affection bleeding through every word.

"Yours," he said.

"Mine," she agreed.

Always.

—

Outside, the world spun on — headlines, races, flights, pressure.

Inside, they built a life in stolen moments. Messy. Perfect.

A home with fingerprints on the walls, dog hair on the couch, and love tucked into every corner.

A place to land.

Always.

———

The end! :’)

[writer-logbook]

favorite things to write about?

Hello 👋

I hope things are going well for you. Thanks for getting in touch ! 💖 (Take care, sweetling, in case you decide not to read the post, at least you hear it now lol. And don't hesitate to share what you like to write as well !)

I am a fan of writing descriptions. So… how about we make a blog entry about it ?

HOW TO... MAKE A GOOD DESCRIPTION

A good description of a space gets all five senses going. For example, if I'm describing a bedroom, I might talk about the furniture placement or the curtains (what I see), the sound the floorboards or tiles might make (what I hear), if the floor is cold (what I touch), or if the room smells musty or has a specific odor (what I smell). In this example, I don't have to worry about taste, lol. It's just like real life: when we walk into a room, our whole body is involved. However, if it serves the plot to emphasize one particular sense, just do it.

If we use metaphors or comparisons, they have to represent the character they follow. That means sticking to their level of world knowledge, vocabulary, and language use. If someone lives in the city and has never been to the countryside, they probably won't use comparisons specific to it. They might do so using phrases like "He thought that must be what wheat looked like." Using the verb "thought," which expresses an opinion, makes the uncertain comparison seem valid because it's presented as perceived rather than factual. Also, descriptions are rarely just factual. They got a lot of emotional depth. This appreciation can be explicit or implied (e.g., pathetic fallacy). And often, this comes through in the use of figures of speech, like comparisons, metaphors, and personifications.

Stick to what's essential. It's not so much about saving time, but more about being practical. Everything in your text has a purpose. Descriptions should do more than just let readers imagine what you're showing them; they should also explain why what they see is important. For example: If your main character (MC) walks down a hallway with photos but doesn't stop and look at them, don't go into detail about the photos. No one will care. BUT, if MC spends a lot of time in their bedroom, it might be interesting to show their "living space" to help the reader understand who MC is and why they stay in their room. This can help the reader connect with the character and understand the plot better. Gentle reminder: keep your story flowing. That doesn't mean it has to be a bunch of actions, but the general rhythm should stay the same. A descriptive moment, which is basically a "pause in the action" because of its reflective nature, has to serve a purpose and shouldn't be gratuitous.

Showing vs. Telling. I have mixed feelings about this approach to writing. It's personal and reflects MY own style, so I'm speaking from MY perspective. I like it when things have a name. I use "telling" a lot, but I use "showing" a lot too, as a process. For example, when I write about fear, I'll describe the states my character goes through and end with "he was afraid." Yeah, okay girl, we get it. If I've given a clear enough description beforehand, this shouldn't be an issue. But I've noticed that ending a passage with its name makes it more emphatic and cuts out any doubt. It's not anxiety, and it's not terror. It's fear—nothing else. This helps me create the effect I'm going for. My character basically goes through phases, analyzes them, and draws conclusions (but that's just because I write sci-fi lol).

CONCLUSION: All these tips should help you write descriptions that give an ATMOSPHERE to your text. The choice of words and narrative voice ensure that your prose is SOMETHING OTHER THAN a biology textbook (but no offense, i love biology ).

BONUS: Here's an example of one of the last descriptions I wrote (which I unfortunately had to translate...):

Auxanne complies. Her steps make the staircase boards creak. She no longer remembers which step to avoid to prevent making noise, so she presses a bit harder than necessary on each one to try to compose a new score of silence. She ignores the photos covering the walls, closes her eyes to the portraits of Julien embracing her in some of them. When she closes her bedroom door, the young girl can't tell if the sad squeak she hears is coming from the rusty hinges or from her single sob that was almost immediately stifled.

It hurts to be here. It's hard to return. But she says nothing, she cannot. So her eyes embrace the room in its entirety, taking in the patchwork on the bed, the stains on the curtains, the beanbag in the upper left corner. There's even still the jacket (too small now) that she left during her last visit five years ago. The only real change she notices is the bath towel placed on the bed and the dust that seems to have frozen on the window frame. Auxanne timidly advances into the room then drops her bags on the floor. Then she lets herself fall flat on the mattress, which gently sags under her weight.

Eyes fixed on the peeling paint on the ceiling, she can't help thinking about her brother and the unfathomable void he left in her young heart. She still doesn't grasp what happened, didn't see it coming. And in the middle of this child's bedroom drowned in memories, sheltered from the bustle of the hallway where footsteps scrape against the floorboards, Auxanne remembers how alone she has felt since Julien's suicide.

[innerclouddaze]

TrWater and TrBad "break up" convo transcript

VOD ID: 2445230880

trBad found a blue shulker box named "Your Treasure" with trWater's armor & weapons he helped made for her, one bottle of "mikes hard lemonaid", and a book titled "Treasure." trBad rushes to the Orange Faction base but only met Oli. As he depressingly walks back to the cathedral, he met with trLukey. trBad told him what happened and trLukey decided to help him. Then, trBad messaged trWater to come talk at the catheral. trLukey hid beneath the floors.

trBad: “Hello?”

trWater: “Hello.”

trBad: “Oh, hi, Water. Water! How are you doing?”

trWater: “Yep.”

trBad: “...Um…So what's up? I got your book…Also, you hit Nirvana! Congrats!”

trWater: “Yeah, I hit it…alone.”

trBad: “Let's go! Congratulations! I'm so proud of you.”

trWater: “Cool…Um…I'm going to go then.”

trBad: “N-no, no! Wait! Why are you leaving? Why did you return the shield? Why? Why did you return all the items?”

trWater: “So you give gifts to your friends and…That's over…”

trBad: “What? But why do we have to stop being friends?”

trWater: “I wrote it all in the book.”

trBad: “No, I read the book, but the book is silly. You realize? Like it doesn't-”

trWater: “You think my feelings are silly?”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “You got this!!!”

trBad: “No, I think your feelings are valid. But I'm saying maybe you should look at things from another perspective.”

trWater: “Like what? Lukey's?”

trBad: “No. Like, what if- what if instead of having just one friend, you could have many friends?”

trWater: “I'm not interested. Thank you.”

trBad: *trWater walks away* “Wait, Water! Look, we need to…think about this…in a di- look, you’re…valid in wanting to have only one friend. But I need to have other friends…too. And so can you. It's- it's this thing called boundaries.”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “Your perspective!! You deserve to have other friends too! And soo does water”*

trWater: “Ew.”

trBad: “Huh?”

trWater: “Ew.”

trBad: “Ew? Ew what?”

trWater: “That sounds horrible.”

trBad: “Having multiple friends?”

trWater: “When did you get healthy?”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “Red flag….”*

trBad: “Huh?! H-huh? H-Healthy?”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “LMAO”*

trWater: “Who taught you “health”?”

trBad: “No, think about it. The multiple people you've got, the better.”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “You just want the best!!” “for both of you!”*

trWater: “No, thanks.”

trBad: “N-no, thanks? Like, you don't want to...H-healthy? Wa-wait, I'm so confused.”

trWater: “I can't stay out here long. I only have really bad diamond armor. Um…”

trBad: “Yes! Take the other armor back.”

trWater: “No.”

trBad: “That was a gift for you.”

trWater: “And now it can be a gift for somebody else who needs it.” *sigh*

trBad: “YOU need it.”

trWater: “No.”

trBad: “You're still my friend, Water like-...”

trWater: “…But not in the way that I want to be. So does it really count?”

trBad: “Yes!”

trWater: “…”

trBad: “You just have to learn to accept that people are going to have more friends, otherwise you're gonna be- you might be forever alone.”

trWater: “I was alone before. I can be alone again.”

trBad: “You don't have to be…”

trWater: “…I think I do.”

trBad: “No, you don't.”

trWater: “Well, if I don't know how to be someone's friend in a way that makes them happy, and you don't know how to be my friend in a way that makes me happy, then what's the point?”

trBad: “...Well, it's like. We can still be friends. We're just...It's just different. It's like…you know, like think about it.”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “You can help Water make other friends too!”*

trWater: “But you aren’t just my friend.”

trBad: “Uh-huh. But…you're my friend. Like we can learn together, think about it.”

trWater: “But you're my treasure.”

trBad: “And you're literally like my treasure too. I really liked hanging out with you, helping you level, spending time chatting about how-”

trWater: “I don't need help anymore.”

trBad: “Yeah, but it doesn't mean- it doesn't have to stop at help.”

trWater: “…”

trBad: “Like, think about it. It doesn't have to stop at leveling up.”

trWater: “You said you've met my kind before, right?”

trBad: “Yeah.”

trWater: “Have they ever been good at sharing?”

trBad: “No. But they didn't have someone to help them learn how to share.”

trWater: *distracted* “Who’s placing blocks? Hello?”

trBad: “Hello?

trWater: “I thought I heard someone.”

trBad: “No, sorry the cathedral has mice.”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “that actually wasn’t me…”*

trWater: “I don't want to have to share my treasure.”

trBad: “No, I understand. But you don't have to.”

trWater: “I do! You already told me I'm not your favorite.”

trBad: “Yes, but look, think about it like this, right? Burying your treasure allows you to not only appreciate your treasure, but also you get to see the joy that other people have. Think about it like that. Like it makes it more valuable. Like the more happiness you're put- it's a different type of happiness, Water, right? Think about it like this. I help you level up. It doesn't directly bring me joy, but YOUR joy Is what I take joy from. So it's like that.”

trWater: “There's someone here. Hello?”

trBad: “I think it's the mice. The cathedral is infested.”

trWater: “I don't think it's the mice, Bad.”

trBad: “No, the cathedral's infested with them. There's lots of mice in the cathedral.”

trWater: “If it's Zam, you can kill me now. I'm weak.”

trBad: “What? Does Zam want to kill you?

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “I’ve genuinely not made a sound”*

trWater: “Probably. I'm friends with you. Well. Was.”

trBad: “Look, take your armor back.”

trWater: “No, I don't want it.”

trBad: “Yes!” 

trWater: “No!”

trBad: “Yes!”

trWater: “No!”

trBad: “You have to. *stares at her eyes* Yes.”

trWater: “No.”

trBad: “Yes!”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “If there’s sound, its someone else”*

trWater: “…”

trBad: “Look, I need you to be safe. I can't have you dying to a random skeleton or zombie.”

trWater: “That's not your responsibility anymore.”

trBad: “I know, but I still care about you.”

trWater: “Find a way to stop.”

trBad: “I don't think that's how that works. Is it really that difficult for you to accept that someone has like other friends?”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “Chip is here LMAO”*

trWater: “I don't know how easily to explain this to you in a way that I haven't already tried to explain in the book, but I have spent CENTURIES in a cave ALONE. The only friends I've ever known are the people that came to slay me. And you expect me to just be fine with all of this. This is completely new to me. I don't know what any of this means. I don't get it. And you were the only person who ever really showed me proper kindness. And then you say, well, you're not even my favorite anyway. You ARE my treasure. You say I'm yours, but I'm NOT. And that's fine. But I don't want to be a part of that.”

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “You can help Water make other friends too!!”*

trBad: “But you can have more than one treasure. Think about the joy that you had, like becoming friends with me. You said you never had any friends, right? Except for the people who came to hurt you. But now not only do you have a friend who really cares about you, but you have the opportunity to make even more friends, more people who can care about you. You can not only have the same experience you have with me, you can have that with so many other people. It's a whole new opportunity in your life.”

trWater: “……I'll think about it.”

trBad: “All right. I guess that's good…”

trWater: “…Right. Give me some torches again.”

trBad: “O-Okay, uh I have one.”

trWater: “I need more than that. *rifles through the storage chests in the cathedral* This is ridiculous. You need to light up underneath this place.”

*trBadwhispers to trLukey, “RUN”*

trBad: “Yeah, there should be some coal and sticks in there.”

trWater: “Can't find the coal.”

trBad: “Is there wood? We can make some.”

trWater: “There is wood. Have you got a furnace?”

trBad: “Oh, yeah, right here. Look, here's some coal. Here you go.”

*trBad whispers to trLukey , “RUN” “RUN”*

trWater: “Thank you. *breaks a block and heads under the cathedral* What's this?”

trBad: “Structural support.”

trWater: “On one side?”

trBad: “Yeah, I know. I- I noticed it was sagging a little bit here. So I was like-”

trWater: “You could probably make it better.”

trBad: “I think it looks pretty good. It just helps keep the building up, you know”

trWater: “But a straight line is not as stable as a curved line.”

trBad: “Really?”

trWater: “Yeah.”

trBad: “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind when I make the other supports. I should probably replace this one.”

trWater: “You have lit it up. Where's all the mobs coming from?”

trBad: “I think there's a couple dark spots they crawl out of, like the corners. This one right here.”

trWater: *places down a few torches lighting up dark spots* “I can still hear them. Where are they?”

trBad: “I think there's other caves over here too. Yeah, they're just down there. I'll- I'll figure it out. I can light it later.”

trWater: “Yeah, I'm going to go now.”

trBad: “Okay. You think about it. All right? Keep this shield for now. That way we have something to talk about later.”

trWater: “I don't know if I want to…”

trBad: “Then, just keep it as a gift for now.”

trWater: “Okay…”

trBad: “Maybe keep this armor too? *places down the box with all of trWater’s armor and weapons*

trWater: “No. I can't do that.”

trBad: “I can't have you walking around like that. What if you get hurt?”

trWater: “Do you have an upgrade template? I can just make it look like the old one. For now.”

trBad: “You know what? How about you just hold on to this till I get you some different upgrade templates that you can add to that diamond armor. What do you think? Like alone?”

trWater: *sniffles* “Okay, yeah, I'll make a deal with you. How about that?”

trBad: “Okay. Yeah, just hold on to it.”

trWater: “Transactional. Um, I need to put some stuff into my ender chest…”*sorts out her things in the chests*

trWater: *sigh* “I'm gonna miss you.”

trBad: “Wha- I mean, we don't- we don't- I mean, we're just- you're thinking about it for now. Like it's not- friendship, not over.”

trWater: “Can you say it back?”

trBad: “I'm gonna miss you too for now until we talk later?”

trWater: “Okay, that'll do.”

trBad: “…”

*trWater walks out*

trBad: “You got to put the armor on.”

*trWater stops and puts her armor on*

trBad: “There you go.”

trWater: “…I meant what I said in the book on the last page.”

*trWater flies away*

…

*trBad lies down, starts crying and mumbling*

*trLukey whispers to trBad, “I’m in a group, you’re welcome when you’re ready”

*Chip appears and gives trBad a bottle of “mikes hard lemonaid”*

 trBad: “Chip, how are you doing today? *glug* I hope you're having a good day, Chip.”

[good-to-drive]

Hi 👋.

What can you tell me about George and John relationship?

Hi anon! 

Before I get into it, I want to recommend this writeup of their dynamic here. “Maybe they just genuinely liked each other” is a wonderfully straightforward explanation, because while their relationship was complex and sometimes fraught (as were a lot of John’s relationships, as often happens for people with serious childhood trauma and a personality disorder) the two of them make so much more sense if you accept that they just genuinely liked each other. 

I think this is sometimes overshadowed because their relationship didn’t really have the “everyone in the world must witness the specialness of this connection to prove to ourselves that we matter” of John and Paul, but then, George was generally a bit more adapted than Paul and hadn't incurred the same kind of attachment trauma, so it makes sense that his relationship with John would be a bit quieter and less desperate. (No hate to McLennon, I love McLennon too. )

I know I can't give you a thorough overview, so I just want to hit a couple of beats. There are some very erudite and articulate people on this website who can give you a beat-by-beat breakdown of their relationship, but my general understanding is that it was a sometimes fraught relationship, but a loving one, and far too short. 

The conversation around their relationship is often dominated by the fight they had shortly before John passed (John was angry that George didn’t mention him more in his memoir), to the point that a surprisingly large number of people are convinced they never liked each other in the first place and would have been at each other’s throats for the rest of their lives. Which is weird, because John was very much in the process of letting go of that pain when he was killed, he just didn’t have the time. 

This post really opened my eyes about just how painful it must have been for John to feel forgotten. I’ve talked about this a bit before, but microdosing abandonment trauma to punish a child is extremely cruel, and it’s not surprising that being rejected or ignored was extremely painful for John even as an adult (as is true for a lot of people with BPD). We can say that John may have taken it a bit too personally that George didn’t discuss him more in his book, and also that it makes a lot of sense that he would feel that way and it’s impressive that he had the strength to recognize he was being triggered and push back on those enormously painful feelings to recognize that he still loved George. 

I also think – and I’m just tinhatting here – that it might have hurt a little to see George basically reinvent himself after he disengaged from their dynamic. By the time The Beatles broke up George’s self-worth and sense of normalcy were pretty much totally shredded, and I’m not saying being on his own was universally positive, but, like most people once they’ve disengaged from an unhealthy system dynamic, he did reestablish his identity based on his new environment, relationships, and feelings. This new identity might have looked to John like it had little to do with the group dynamic that they had shared, and that might make him feel like he didn’t matter in George’s new life. Having his impact (arguably) underrepresented in George’s memoir would just be the cherry on top. 

I do think there’s also a bit to be said about control, need, and possession between John and George, but frankly nothing beyond what’s typical of someone with John’s particular issues. I’m reading a book right now called I Hate You -- Don’t Leave Me about borderline personality disorder, and while I didn’t pick it up with John in mind, it’s definitely interesting to get this perspective on his relationships and just how much pain he must have been in for so much of his life. 

That deep, deep need and equally deep fear – and the resentment and anger that come with living with that kind of pain – do seem characteristic of how John experienced close personal relationships. George set very firm boundaries with him, and while I’m sure he admired John in many ways, especially as a young teenager, he didn’t ultimately give John the hero treatment or hyperidealize him in the way that others did. It was more like a younger kid thinking an older kid is super cool, and then slowly growing up and realizing that the older kid is just another kid, and maybe even kind of a difficult one. It’s tempting to connect that to George’s disillusionment with fame and gilded idols in general, but to be honest, I think realizing that super cool dude is just a dude is actually probably a pretty normal coming-of-age experience. 

But the love was still very much there on both sides. You can see that with how hard John worked to get past his own pain and trauma to forgive George for (unintentionally) hurting him, and maybe even to forgive George for setting boundaries with him and, in some ways, moving on from the life they shared and becoming a separate person. And you can see it with George’s ready forgiveness of John’s anger, how the two of them kept coming back together again after every stupid fight. 

They were both rather difficult men (I know I said George was more adapted than Paul and John, but, if we’re being real, that’s a very low bar) and I think they really must have cared about each other to weather each other’s difficulties. There was a strong bond between them not based on hyperidealization or a need for validation but just on genuine love. It’s unfortunate that they were fighting at the time of John’s death, but they were also mature enough to know that they still loved each other underneath the hurt, and I think that’s what really matters. 

[papervenom]

✩ chapter eighteen: winter break 94' ✩

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

chapter warnings: smut (mature sexual content— reader and cedric are deeply in love and very physically intimate, with detailed description), alcohol use and a christmas drinking game, brief mentions of pot.

authors note: surprise! christmas in spring. I know the timing’s a little backwards, but I couldn’t not write this moment. I really wanted to give reader and cedric this soft, almost tranquil little pocket of time together before everything kicks off again. there’s just something about winter and falling in love: the comfort, the way the world quiets down, that just felt so right for them <333 this chapter has been living in my head for awhile now <3 thank u sm for reading

word count: 10.5k

INSATIABLE MASTERLIST⋆˙⟡

December 24, 1994

"Ced, when's the timer going off?"

"Any second now, angel," he says, half-distracted, crouched down in front of the pantry with one hand braced on the door and the other rummaging around for the powdered sugar. Flour is dusted across his jumper, and there's a smear of dough on his jaw that he hasn't noticed yet. I've been meaning to wipe it off but I keep getting distracted.

Behind us, the Burrow is a blur of Christmas chaos. In the next room, Molly hums to herself, floating ribbons around a wobbling stack of presents. Arthur keeps wandering in and out, a tragically tangled garland of red and gold tinsel slung over his shoulder like some glittering, defeated python. His eyes flick nervously between Cedric, me, and the ancient Muggle mixer rattling away on the counter, blinking hard every time it lets out a strained whine or jolts violently when it hits a clump of brown sugar.

He hasn't asked about it yet, about how it works, but I can see it, the way curiosity keeps slipping past the caution in his eyes.

Cedric and I had found the mixer that morning at a secondhand Muggle stall in the village. It was scratched up, missing half its paint, but it was charming in a way I couldn't resist.

Cedric carried it all the way back, smirking at how absurdly proud I looked, kissing my forehead as I gushed about the cookies I was going to spoil everyone with.

The oven dings behind me, pulling me out of the moment. I gasp, twisting around to grab a dish towel and yank the oven door open.

A blast of heat rushes up my arms as I reach in too fast. The tray hisses when I grab it, too hot, and I curse under my breath, dropping it onto the stovetop with a clatter.

"Shit, ow!" I hiss, shaking my fingers out.

"Let me see," Cedric says, already at my side. He takes my wrist in gentle fingers, lifting it closer to his face to inspect. 

The burn isn't awful, just an angry red welt blooming across my knuckle, but he still treats it like it's life or death.

He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing it once, then again. His lips are warm and soft, his tongue flicking out slightly to soothe the sting.

I try not to giggle but fail, my stomach flipping.

"You're ridiculous," I whisper.

"Mm," His lips part, and without breaking eye contact, he sucks the tip of my finger into his mouth. "Tastes like cinnamon."

"Because we're baking, you lunatic."

He grins, wide and boyish, then conjures a cube of ice into his palm and runs it across the burn. The cold shocks my skin, making me shiver.

And that's when the twins barrel into the kitchen.

"Oh, my stars," Fred gasps, clutching his chest. "Are we interrupting?"

"Looks like we walked in on something steamy," George adds obnoxiously, biting his lip and humping the air because of course he does.

"We made cookies!" I blurt out, way too defensively, waving at the tray like it's proof of our innocence.

"Brilliant," Fred says, moving to grab one. 

I smack his hand instantly. "Don't you dare. They're cooling."

"Bloody hell," he grumbles. "You two are insufferable."

"I don't see you helping out," I replied coolly, grabbing the wooden spoon and licking a smear of dough off the side. It's warm, a little too heavy on the nutmeg, but still pretty good considering we eyeballed most of the ingredients.

When I glance up, Cedric's staring.

Not just looking, but focused. Mouth slightly parted, a slow flush creeping up his neck.

I drag the spoon back through the bowl, slow and deliberate, and lick it again.

When I look back, his breath hitches.

I smirk. "Eyes up, Diggory."

He steps in close behind me, one arm sliding around my waist, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "You're a menace."

"You like it."

"I love it."

"For Merlin's sake," George mutters. "Get a room."

Things had shifted between Cedric and I after the Yule Ball.

Something unlatched inside me that night, something I didn't even realize had been locked up. Suddenly, it felt safe to want. To ache. To take up space— in the way I kissed him back, the way I moved against him, the way I pulled him closer without waiting to ask.

It wasn't just Cedric I felt closer to. It was myself.

I knew what I liked. What he liked. And neither of us was afraid to chase it.

We had a few precious days before the Hogwarts Express brought us back to Devon, and we spent nearly every hour of it locked in his room. Barely clothed. Mouths on each other. Hands everywhere. Making up for months of drawn-out tension with a hunger that felt like it had been simmering since September.

But it was more than sex. More than the heat, the gasps, the high. 

He took his time. He listened.

He memorized me like he was afraid to forget. And I let him.

I wanted him too much to pretend I didn't.

He ruined me in the best way. Over and over again.

Cedric taught me that intimacy wasn't meant to be terrifying. With him, it felt natural— like something my body had always known how to do, just waiting for the right person to remember it with. He was soft when I needed softness, rough when I craved more, and quietly attuned to every place I didn't know how to ask for yet.

I learned how to make him lose his composure; he learned how to hold me there, right on the edge, until I broke apart with his name on my lips. And when he was inside me— deep, slow, like he had all the time in the world, he looked at me like I was holy. 

Like I was everything.

We'd grown a little obsessed with taking care of each other during those few days. 

Especially over lunch hours.

I was pretty sure I was the only thing in the world that could make Cedric Diggory skip a meal, or at least eat half of one just so he wouldn't be too full to fuck me senseless between classes. 

Thursdays were our favorite. We had a two-hour block where we could eat, digest, and then disappear. 

His dorm. A broom closet. A bathroom. An empty classroom.

Against the stone wall of a corridor where the torches burned low and the castle kept our secrets.

Cedric Diggory was a drug.

It's only been two days since we left school, since we said goodbye, but it felt like weeks. 

I was going through withdrawal.

I couldn't stop thinking about him. His touch, his taste, his weight pressing me into something solid. His voice, hoarse and desperate, saying my name like a prayer.  The way his hair felt between my fingers, the way his lips dragged slow and heavy over my throat when he couldn't get close enough. 

He told me, more than once, whilst he was inside me— how my whimpers drove him crazy. How the way my voice caught when he hit the right spot made him lose his goddamn mind. 

How he'd never wanted anyone like this before. Never had anyone like this before.

And I believed him.

The desperation didn't burn out after the Yule Ball. It clung to us. Followed us home. Made us reckless.

We barely made it onto the Hogwarts Express before we were all over each other again. Somewhere between dodging the trolley cart and finding an empty Prefect carriage, Cedric had me pinned against the door, my leg hitched around his waist, our kisses too messy and frantic like we didn't have time to be careful.

It was thrilling— the blurred frost on the windows, the secret touches, the muffled gasps. 

We didn't even make it to the cushioned seats. 

He took me standing, my palms pressed flat against the door, his voice low and sweet in my ear, whispering praises that made me come undone around him.

We dressed in a rush afterward, limbs still trembling and faces flushed. 

We didn't even realize we'd mixed up our ties until we stepped out of the compartment when we arrived at Kings Cross. 

My red Gryffindor one ended up draped around his neck, the knot sloppy and twisted. His bright yellow Hufflepuff tie hung loosely around mine, both of us looking exactly like what we'd just done.

By the time we made it ten steps off the platform, it might as well have been posted on the notice board at school.

My friends were waiting for me. Fred and George were already doubled over in laughter, practically elbowing each other with glee.

"Looks like we've got a confirmed shag!" Fred called, loud enough to turn heads across the platform, his voice cracking with laughter.

I rolled my eyes, cheeks burning, and turned to Cedric.

He didn't flinch, just smirked like he was proud of it. His fingers brushed mine, casual and warm, like he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

He glanced over my shoulder, spotting someone in the crowd, probably his parents, then leaned in slightly. "I'll write to you," he said, low and certain.

"Okay," I murmured, then gave him a quick, soft goodbye before turning toward my friends, trying not to look like I'd just been shagged on a moving train.

Harry looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, throwing an apprehensive glance to Ron who, for his part, stood stiffly, like he'd just taken a bludger to the gut.

Ginny's eyes found mine instantly, her smirk slow and smug.

"About bloody time," she muttered under her breath.

Hermione wasn't as subtle. The second I stepped into our circle, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me a few paces away from the others.

"Are you being safe?" she whispered urgently. "I brewed this on the train. Take it as soon as possible."

It was a contraceptive potion, discreet by design, but in that moment it may as well have been glowing. I felt like the entire train had been gossiping, and now I was holding proof. 

Mortifying, sure— but it was going to happen sooner or later.

I nodded quickly, cheeks burning, and tucked it into my pocket like it was a lifeline.

I knew I was being reckless. I knew it but I didn't care.

Because when it came to Cedric, getting swept away was starting to feel like the only way I wanted to go.

But then... I didn't see him for a few days.

My heart was full— really, it was. The Weasleys had this magic about them, something that made a home out of even the most chaotic mess. I was warm and fed and constantly being dragged into games and loud, happy conversations.

But I missed him.

Ached for him.

So when an owl started pecking frantically at Ginny's window one morning, I sprinted across the room to untie the note— recognized his handwriting instantly.

I miss you so much, I could kill the next person I hear from that isn't you.

Cedric asked if I could sneak away for a while. Said he wanted to show me the village nearby— his version of giving me a tour, which was really just an excuse to have me to himself. After a few letters back and forth, and one very excitable conversation with Mrs. Weasley, the plans started falling into place.

She had beamed when I asked, clapping her hands together like I'd just suggested something wonderful. "Oh, you must invite him! And his parents too— for Christmas Eve dinner!" she said, already half-planning the menu out loud.

And just like that, I was scribbling a letter back, fingers shaking, trying not to explode with nerves and excitement.

The idea of baking had started back at the castle— one of those late-night hobbies born out of smoking the stash of pot I'd smuggled in from the States. We'd get the munchies and end up sneaking down to the kitchens, where Cedric would lift me onto a counter and make something to satiate me whilst I giggled at him, stoned out of my mind. 

The house-elves would watch in horror, absolutely mortified that a wizard was doing anything as laborious as kneading dough or whisking batter by hand.

It became our thing, me kicking my feet from the counter, Cedric moving around the kitchen like it was just another Quidditch pitch he had to conquer, grinning at me the whole time.

I was smiling at the memory when I felt him crowd in closer, his body slotting between my legs, cornering me against the kitchen counter with his hands braced on either side of me.

"When am I going to see you next?" he murmured, dragging me out of my thoughts.

I blinked up at him, the weight of him, the warmth of him, making my chest feel stupidly full. "Mrs. Weasley asked me to invite you and your parents for Christmas Eve dinner tonight," I said, voice hopeful.

"Oh yeah?" he said casually, brushing my hair back behind my ears. "I'll let them know."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Why does that sound not likely?"

He hesitated, his mouth pulling into a grimace. "It's just... my dad's having some friends over from the Ministry. He wanted me there to talk about the Tournament... but I'll try to get away."

My face must have fallen because he immediately leaned in to kiss me, quick and sweet and soft.

"I miss you," I mumbled against his mouth, pouting as he smoothed his hands up my sides. "I feel like we haven't spent any real time together."

"I know." He kissed me again, lingering this time. "It's just hard, with family. But we'll find time. Why don't you come over to mine for dinner? My parents have been asking about you."

I hesitated, nibbling my bottom lip. "I feel bad leaving Mrs. Weasley after she's been making such a fuss getting everything ready... but I'll see what I can do. Maybe I can sneak out after dinner. Although that might be too late, Ced, seriously, listen to me—"

I broke off into giggles as he started kissing down my neck, ignoring every word, his lips brushing over the spot that made my knees want to buckle.

"You're the worst," I giggled, trying to squirm away half-heartedly.

From the next room, I could hear Fred and George whispering to each other in fast, hushed voices— the kind of mischief-heavy tone that meant they were back to testing their joke treats. The idea made me smile. Of course they couldn't leave things alone, not even for Christmas.

I was half-listening to Cedric's response when I heard one of them break away, footsteps padding toward the kitchen.

George strolled in, clearly mid-snack mission, and made a beeline for the now-cooled tray of cookies. But the second he spotted us, me by the counter, Cedric pressed in close, lips trailing lazily along my neck— he froze, then barked out a laugh.

"Damn," he said, shaking his head. "That little bird's got you by the balls, mate."

Cedric didn't miss a beat. He just grinned, still nosing against my neck, and said, "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Cedric broke off just in time when Fred wandered back in, whispering something fast under his breath to George. They were definitely back to scheming— voices low and sharp, the telltale sound of joke-treat plotting. I barely had a second to clock it before Mrs. Weasley and Arthur followed close behind, Mrs. Weasley brandishing a small hand towel like a weapon.

"Oi! Hands off those cookies, you'll spoil your dinner!" she chirped, swatting Fred and George both in the stomach as they cackled and darted away.

Cedric excused himself, laughing, brushing flour and streaks of dough off his jumper. "Mind if I use the restroom to clean up?" he asked.

"Right through there, dear," Molly said, beaming and pointing down the hallway.

As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs. Weasley turned toward me, wiping her hands on the towel. Her whole face lit up.

"Oh, darling," she cooed, practically vibrating with excitement. "He's beautiful! You two make such a gorgeous couple. Are the Diggorys coming over for dinner?"

I smiled awkwardly. "I asked... but he claims he's busy. I don't think he wants to impose."

"That's nonsense!" she declared, tossing the towel onto the counter with a flourish. "I've seen that boy grow up, he used to run around here with Fred and George, as perfect a little gentleman as you could find. It would make me so happy to have them. The more, the merrier!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," I said, warmed by how genuinely she meant it. "I'll try again."

Cedric reappeared a moment later, hands freshly washed, his hair a little damp where he'd splashed water on his face. Molly beamed at him, reaching up to pat his cheek fondly.

"Such a handsome boy," she said warmly.

Cedric gave her one of those soft, easy smiles that made my brain static. I grabbed his hand, tugging him gently toward the living room just as more of the Weasley brothers descended into the kitchen, lured by the smell of cooling cookies.

He dropped onto the couch and pulled me down with him without hesitation, his arms curling easily around my waist.

Across the room, Charlie and Bill were now getting scolded by Molly for trying to sneak cookies too. I laughed under my breath, settling back against Cedric's chest.

"Molly's asked me to get you to come by tonight again," I said, nudging him playfully.

"(Y/N), I want to," he murmured, brushing his nose against my temple.

"Then come," I insisted.

"You know I can't do that," he said, voice low, regretful.

"Then I won't see you until we're back at the castle," I said, pouting.

He frowned. "Thought you said you'd sneak out?"

"Yeah? After dinner, when everyone's asleep? What will we even do then?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at him, smirking.

Cedric's mouth twitched. He leaned in, pressing a kiss just below my ear. "I can think of a few things," he whispered.

I giggled, swatting at him just as heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Ron burst into the room, face flushed, but the second he saw us— legs tangled, Cedric's arm resting lazily along the back of the couch, his whole expression soured.

Cedric straightened up fast, clearing his throat and sliding a few inches away from me, though his hand stayed linked with mine.

Ron stomped over to the cookie tray, snatching one without a word, too busy glaring at us to notice how good it was— which said a lot, considering how much Ron Weasley loved food. 

The hatred practically radiated off him.

Cedric followed Ron's retreat with his eyes and sighed.

"I should go," Cedric said under his breath.

"Why?" I asked, concerned.

His grey eyes flicked back to mine, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I mean, he doesn't really like me, does he? Never did."

I exhaled, dragging my fingers through my hair. "He thinks he has a crush on me and he's being dramatic about it."

Cedric's smile widened. "He has a massive crush on you."

I rolled my eyes. "No, he doesn't. I mean... he does. But it's the veela effect."

Cedric groaned loudly, throwing his head back against the couch in mock agony.

"What?" I said, laughing because he looked so devastatingly beautiful sprawled out like that— his chiseled jawline, his chest rumbling with laughter. I wished we were alone so I could throw him down on this couch and climb on top of him.

"You need to stop excusing everyone's infatuation toward you as the veela effect, (Y/N)," he said, punctuating each word with a kiss, one to my cheek, one to my jaw, one just below my ear.

"You are fucking gorgeous," kiss, "and perfect," kiss, "in every single way—"

"I don't excuse everyone," I protested, breathless and grinning.

"You thought I was under your spell," Cedric teased, his eyes twinkling.

"Well, yeah... but Ron really is," I insisted. "He gets all hazy when he looks at me, same way he does with Fleur. I mean, did you hear how he asked her to the Yule Ball? He was mortified. He had no control over himself."

Cedric shook his head, still smiling. "He might get like that around Fleur. But when you're both in the room, he still looks at you. And it's not the same hypnotized, veela-dazed look everyone else has. It's different. He's in love with you."

"Ced..." I said, soft, unsure.

He squeezed my hand. "It doesn't bother me. If anything, it just makes me grateful. Grateful that I get to have you in my arms. But... I can tell the difference between someone enchanted by you and someone who's just plain lovesick."

Before I could respond, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were the last to wander into the kitchen.

"Cookies?" Harry asked hopefully, peering around.

"Oh, hi, Cedric!" Hermione greeted brightly.

"Hello," Cedric said warmly, standing up and smoothing his jumper. "Help yourselves, we made plenty."

He shook Harry's hand, exchanged a few polite words, and then turned to me. I quickly wrapped a few cookies in a napkin for him, pressing them into his hands.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, fast but full of feeling, and then nodded toward Ron, who still hadn't looked at us once.

"Tell your mum I said thanks for letting me visit, Ron," Cedric said, his voice polite.

Ron grunted something under his breath, too busy staring at the floor.

I shot him a glare as Cedric headed for the door, heart already aching.

"These are so good," Hermione said around a mouthful of cookie.

"Muggle made," I said proudly, heading back into the kitchen to find a towel, Ginny and Hermione trailing after me. "Cedric and I went down to the village to buy a mixer and some supplies."

Ginny giggled at the way I beamed, and I couldn't help it — I did a little happy dance right there on the kitchen tiles, my giddiness so contagious it made Hermione and Ginny squeal with laughter too.

By the time the last cookie was snatched, the Weasleys had dispersed again — some off to clean up for dinner, others back to wrapping presents or sneaking in naps before the evening chaos really kicked off. The kitchen looked spotless, like Cedric and I had never even been there. Counters wiped, floors swept, dishes stacked neatly to dry.

I slumped into one of the chairs, elbows propped on the table, launching straight into a hushed, giddy retelling of everything to Ginny and Hermione.

It had become our thing, almost without trying — sneaking off to gossip in corners, slipping into conversations the boys had absolutely no patience for. Which honestly suited me fine. The girls gave me exactly the reaction I wanted: wide eyes, gasps, hand-over-mouth giggles. They ooh'd and ahh'd like they were watching a soap opera unfold live.

"Shit, I need to call my mum and wish her Merry Christmas," I said suddenly, grabbing the nearest towel to wipe my hands. "It's easier here, actually. Dumbledore lets me make weekly calls during the year, but he always sits in the room and it's... weird. Hard to update her when I have to censor everything."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "That's awful."

"Yeah," I said, nodding — then grinned sheepishly. "I told her about Cedric."

"Ooh," Hermione leaned forward, eyes wide. "What'd you say?"

"Just... 'remember that boy I told you I liked?'" I shrugged. "And she immediately went full mom-mode. Asked if we were being safe. I said yes and hung up immediately," I told them, mortified,  and we all burst into laughter.

Still giggling, we made our way back toward the living room where Ron and Harry were now parked, both looking at us with varying degrees of caution, like they weren't sure if it was safe to be around us yet.

I was nice enough to wait until the giggling died down before regrouping.

"Did I hear something about your mum?" Harry asked, looking relieved for a topic he could safely latch onto. "How's she doing?"

"She's fine," I said, dropping down onto the couch. Hermione plopped down beside me, and I immediately flopped my head into her lap, kicking my feet up across Harry's. "I talked to her yesterday. She already misses us. Asked if we'll be coming home for the summer."

"Wicked," Harry said, brightening.

I grinned. "What do you say, Hermione? Summer in the States? It's not as pretty as Europe, but it could be fun."

"Oh... I assume my parents already have next summer's trip all planned out," Hermione said, stroking absent-mindedly through my hair. "But I'll ask!"

Across the room, Ron still pretended I didn't exist. He sat stiffly in an armchair, arms stretched across the back, glaring at the fireplace like it had personally offended him.

Hermione gave me a pointed look,  that wide-eyed, do something expression that felt way too familiar.

I sighed. Preparing myself to be the bigger person, again.

"You, Ron?" I said lightly, still stretched across my friends like a cat. "You still up for our plan of amusement parks and greasy American fast food?"

Ron didn't miss a beat. "Sure, as long as your bellend boyfriend doesn't come."

"RONALD!" Hermione exploded.

I just laughed, half-expecting that exact answer.

"I don't like him," Ron snapped. "He's so full of himself. Walks around like he's already Merlin's almighty Triwizard Champion when Harry has a better chance than he does."

"Oh, don't try to twist this into being about the tournament," I said, sitting up now. "Cedric is not full of himself, and Harry doesn't give a shit about him in terms of competition. You're mad because he's with me."

"Whatever," Ron muttered. "I still don't like him. And I don't appreciate you bringing him into my home."

I blinked. Then blinked again.

"Neither your mom, your dad, your brothers, or  Ginny have a problem with it. So why should you?" I said, voice rising. "He's my fucking boyfriend, Ron. Maybe if you stopped being so miserable all the time, you'd actually enjoy being around him. And I'd enjoy being around you again. Jesus fuck."

Silence.

Hermione's mouth dropped open. Ginny looked up sharply. Harry froze.

"Wait," Ron said, voice like a shot. "He's your boyfriend?"

I stammered. "I mean... I think he is. I mean, we—"

The silence dragged.

I was fuming. 

So was Ron. 

The tension was so thick it felt like one wrong word could snap it in half.

"Okaaay," Harry said quickly, clapping his hands. "Let's... let's do something. Before we murder each other."

The tension didn't vanish, it just cracked enough for us to breathe again.

There were only so many things to do around the Burrow, and most of them involved lounging around, playing half-hearted games, and trying not to trip over enchanted Christmas decorations.

So we spent the few hours before dinner doing exactly that.

There was a mountain of homework looming over us, but none of us even thought about touching it. That was out of the question.

Except Hermione, of course— already buried in a book the size of a paving stone, while the rest of us sprawled across the living room in various states of post-cookie laziness.

Ginny and I had my Discman between us, one earbud each, quietly sharing music and mouthing the lyrics. 

Harry and Ron were hunched over the chessboard, locked in another ruthless round.

"You really ought to have a look at that egg, you know," Hermione said suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence. "Start working out what it means..."

"Hermione, he's got ages," Ron snapped.

Hermione gave Harry a look. He sighed.

"Come on, how am I supposed to concentrate right now?" he muttered. "Can't it wait 'til after the holiday?"

"I suppose it can," she said with a dramatic sigh, setting her book down with an exaggerated thump.

Ron's chess pieces were as violent as ever. The match proceeding with a reckless pawn sacrifice and an unnecessarily brutal bishop decapitation. Harry picked up a piece, turning it over in his fingers.

"Sirius is supposed to write me back tonight," he said casually. "I asked him more about Karkaroff."

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," I said, sitting up straighter. "At the Yule Ball, Karkaroff was being really weird. I overheard him talking to Malfoy— told him to say hello to his parents, and Malfoy just got... really tense. Afterwards Karkaroff started asking me strange questions, too. About my dad."

I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I overheard him arguing with Snape in the dungeons after the Ball."

Ron, finally sounding like himself again, added, "Snape looked ready to hex him into next week."

Hermione frowned. "That's not surprising... But definitely something to keep an eye on."

We all agreed. 

The signs were there. 

Sirius might be right about him.

The evening quickly arrived, and before we knew it we were seated around the long kitchen table, digging into Christmas dinner. Prime rib, parsnip and carrot purée, praline chestnuts, sprouts, pigs in blankets, golden roast potatoes, Christmas pudding, and Harry's favorite— treacle tart.

We ate until we couldn't move. 

Mrs. Weasley had truly outdone herself.

And then, once the plates were cleared and the sky outside turned inky blue, Fred and George returned with shot glasses and dangerous smiles.

Fred dropped the first bottle on the table with a loud thunk. 

"Alright, you lot. Christmas Eve drinking game."

"You're joking," Hermione said, already backing away.

"Not even a little," George grinned.

Before Fred could explain the rules, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stood up from the table, stretching and rubbing their eyes, clearly ready to call it a night after a long day of gift-wrapping, wand-waving, and pulling together Christmas dinner.

"Not too much now," Mrs. Weasley warned, gathering a few stray plates. "And absolutely no encouraging Ginny to overdo it," she added, shooting a look at Fred and George like she already knew exactly who the culprits would be.

"We'd never dream of it, Mum," Fred snickered, Ginny whinging under her breath because her parents were babying her. 

"Model citizens, the both of us." George added. 

Arthur chuckled under his breath, patting Mrs. Weasley's shoulder. "Let them have their fun. Just don't burn the house down."

With that, they disappeared upstairs, footsteps creaking on the old staircase.

Percy left not long after, haughtily sweeping from the room as if a drinking game was far beneath him, muttering something about "more important things to tend to."

His departure was met with immediate relief.

Which left Bill, Charlie, Ron, the twins, Hermione, Ginny, Harry, and me gathered around the kitchen table, all exchanging looks— half excited, half bracing for impact, as Fred and George began preparing whatever chaos they had in mind.

Fred spun the bottle lazily between his fingers, grinning like he'd just invented mischief.

"Alright," he said. "Who's ready to regret their life choices?"

George snatched the bottle from him and raised it like a toast. 

"Simple rules," he announced. "Spin, point, drink, dare. Refuse the dare—two shots. Do it— just the one. Winner gets bragging rights. Loser gets their eyebrows singed off."

"That's not a real rule," Hermione said flatly.

"It is now," George replied with a wicked grin.

Bill leaned back in his chair, sipping his butterbeer. "God help us."

The bottle spun and clattered across the tabletop, landing on Ron.

"Dare," he said immediately, trying hard to sound cool and not at all nervous.

George's eyes lit up. "Sing Celestina Warbeck's 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.' Serenade style."

Ron looked like he'd rather eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but he stood up anyway, wobbling slightly, and belted the first verse so dramatically that Ginny broke into a fit of laughter and nearly fell off her chair.

The second spin landed on Hermione, who was clearly praying for divine intervention. 

Her dare? Chug half a glass of eggnog without gagging. She failed spectacularly, sputtering halfway through, and Fred cackled as he handed her two shots.

Charlie, amused and surprisingly competitive, picked dare and had to switch clothes with George for the next round. 

Watching a grown dragon handler squeeze into a twin's jumper was enough to make half the room cry laughing.

Harry got dared to kiss Ginny on the cheek, which turned him so red he looked like he'd caught fire, and then he took a second shot anyway to save himself from further humiliation.

When the bottle finally spun to me, I didn't hesitate. "Give me your worst."

Fred and George exchanged a long, exaggerated glance before Fred leaned in with a grin.

"Alright, darling. Give us your worst pickup line. And you have to sell it."

The room stirred with anticipation.

"Oh, you want bad?" I said, rising to my feet like I was taking center stage. I rolled my shoulders, tossed my hair, and leaned in with mock intensity.

"Are you a Dementor?" I purred, voice flat and low. "Because every time you come near... I lose my will to live."

George let out a strangled cough. Bill cracked up, laughing into his drink.

I held up a finger. "Wait for it."

I took a slow breath, locked eyes with Fred, and added casually, "Also, I'm not wearing any knickers."

That did it.

Charlie burst out in laughter. Hermione slapped both hands over her mouth. Ron made a noise like he'd swallowed a Quaffle sideways.

Fred just blinked at me. Once. Then again. Hands raised, he leaned back like he'd been hit.

"I said worst pickup line, (Y/N)," he said, almost stunned. "Not most effective. Bloody hell."

And okay, yeah, it was the alcohol that made me so bold. But even through the laughter, I caught the look Ron and the twins were giving me— half impressed, half scandalized, and just barely this side of turned on.

Not the result I'd planned for.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't proud of it.

When the time came that the bottle got back to Hermione, she was flushed and giggling, not even pretending to argue as she tipped back another shot.

The room grew louder. The dares got sloppier. Ron ended up wearing Bill's old boots. Harry had to serenade a mince pie. Fred attempted to duel the Christmas tree and lost spectacularly. George drank straight from the bottle when nobody could agree on a dare good enough to top the last.

Everyone was getting drunker by the minute— flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, voices rising with every passing hour.

I wasn't immune to it,  there was a warm buzz under my skin, but I stayed careful. 

Sipping water between rounds. 

I wanted to remember tonight. 

Wanted to stay clear-headed enough to enjoy it without losing myself.

One by one, people started peeling off. 

Charlie left first, muttering something about needing to be up early. Bill followed not long after, clapping Fred and George on the backs and calling them "bad influences." 

Ron and Harry fell asleep half-upright on the couch, snoring lightly.

Soon it was just Ginny, Hermione, the twins, and me still awake— and even Ginny was slumping sideways in her chair, eyelids drooping.

I was just thinking about helping clean up when there was a sudden, frantic tap against the kitchen window.

An owl.

I blinked, sobering a little as I crossed the kitchen. Everyone else was still too drunk to notice.

The poor thing looked slightly windblown, its feathers puffed and ruffled, eyes wide like it was carrying urgent news. I cracked the window open, careful not to let in too much cold, and untied the small parchment tied to its leg.

The handwriting was unmistakable — slanted, neat, a little rushed.

I miss you terrible. Can you sneak out?Please? I want to see you.

— C

My stomach flipped.

He missed me. He wanted me. And the moment I imagined his voice behind those words— low, teasing, warm— I was already looking for my coat.

"Be right back," I murmured to no one in particular, tucking the note into my pocket.

Ginny was curled into an armchair, mumbling about something incoherent as she kicked off her shoes and pulled her sleeves over her hands. Fred and George were still buzzing with drunken laughter. 

No one paid me any mind as I slipped into the hallway and grabbed my shoes.

I moved quietly, slipping past creaky floorboards as if I'd done it a hundred times. 

Coat, scarf, wand. Door eased open. Cold air hit my cheeks like a secret.

And just like that, I was gone—  stepping into the night, already flushed, already buzzing with the thought of him.

Of Cedric.

Of where this was going.

And what I'd let him do to me when I got there.

By the time I reached the edge of the Diggory's property, I was about to head up to the front door when I heard him.

"Over here," Cedric whispered loudly from his window, barely visible through the frosty glass. I turned and found him leaning out, grinning like a boy sneaking sweets before dinner.

He disappeared for a second, then the window creaked open wider, and I saw him reach out a hand.

"Come on, before someone sees you."

His grip was steady, warm despite the cold. He pulled me up with practiced ease, helping me over the sill and into the room with a muffled laugh. My boots thudded softly against the wooden floor as I landed inside, snowflakes melting off my coat.

He looked gorgeous, clearly dressed for Christmas dinner in smart trousers and an adorable cashmere sweater that made him look equal parts cozy and kissable.

"Sorry," he said, brushing a hand through his hair. "There are a few of my dad's coworkers here tonight. All Ministry. Very boring. Thought I'd spare you."

The room was warm and dimly lit, smelling faintly of cedar and something sweet and spiced,  maybe mulled wine. A record was already turning in the corner, the soft scratch of vinyl filling the quiet space between us with soft music.

"It's okay," I giggled, starting to peel off my layers— coat, scarf, gloves, my fingers clumsy from the cold.

Then I felt him.

His body pressed close behind mine. His breath warm against my neck. One arm snaking around my waist, the other holding something above our heads.

Mistletoe.

He grinned, cocky and gorgeous and utterly unbothered, like he'd been waiting all night for this exact moment.

And I giggled before I could help it because of course he had mistletoe.

I didn't expect any less from this beautiful, maddening, perfect boy.

"House rules," Cedric said, voice low and pleased, lips already brushing my cheek.

I turned into the kiss without thinking, our mouths finding each other easily, like it was a ritual. Like we'd done it in every life before this one.

My back hit the wall with a dull thud as he moved into me fully, the mistletoe falling to the floor, forgotten. He smiled into the kiss, all warm breath and flushed skin.

"Missed you," he murmured against my lips, his hands cupping my face, thumbs grazing over my cheeks. "So much."

"Show me," I whispered.

His fingers slid under my jumper, warm palms tracing up my sides until he found bare skin. He sighed into the kiss when he felt it, like he'd needed to touch me just to breathe again. I reached for the hem of his sweater, yanking it off with one pull and he stood there in the low light, shirtless and golden and glowing. 

I don't think I'll ever get over how beautiful he looks. Not when he's like this. Not when he's mine.

He dipped his head, lips dragging over my throat. Open-mouthed kisses trailed along my collarbone, wet and slow. I could feel him, hard through his trousers, thick and hot against my thigh, and I gasped when I rocked into him.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already soaked, aren't you?"

I nodded, incapable of forming words. His hand moved between us, sliding into my waistband, fingers seeking and finding the heat between my thighs.

"Mmm," Cedric hummed, his forefinger and thumb tilting my chin toward him. His nose brushed mine, breath catching. "You're throbbing for me, baby. So fucking wet."

When he pressed his finger against my clit, circling slow and devastating, I let out a breathless sound, more whimper than word. His other fingers teased at my entrance, just the barest hint of fullness. It was enough to make my legs tremble, not nearly enough to satisfy.

The only fullness I wanted was Cedric's cock. That thick, heavy weight pressed against my hip. No finger could match the stretch of him, the ache I was begging to feel.

"I need you," I whispered, and he moved me toward the bed, step by step, kissing my jaw, the corner of my mouth, the shell of my ear. Every touch burned.

When I peeled off the rest of my clothes, he dropped to his knees. Hands curling around the backs of my thighs, he tugged me forward until I was perched right at the edge of the bed, bare and trembling. He looked up at me like I was the feast and he was starving.

Outside, there was laughter— faint and distant. I was grateful Cedric's parents and their guests were distracted. No one would hear the filthy noises I was about to make.

Then his mouth was on me. He licked a slow stripe through my folds, the tip of his tongue flicking over my clit with maddening precision. My back arched. A moan tore from my throat. He groaned into me, like he'd been craving this.

"Taste better than I remembered," he murmured, mouth wet against my thigh.

He didn't stop until my thighs were trembling, my hands fisted in the sheets, hips bucking for more. Then he stood, undid his trousers, and shoved them down with one hand, his cock springing free— thick, flushed, and already glistening at the tip.

He crawled over me, dragging the head of his cock through my folds, teasing me until I whined, begging without shame.

Then he pushed in.

One long, slow thrust that filled me completely, made my spine curve and my lips part in a moan.

"Merlin," he choked, arms braced on either side of me. "You feel so good."

I couldn't speak. Just wrapped my arms around his shoulders and clung to him, my legs locking around his waist.

He started to move— slow, deep thrusts that hit every nerve ending. His hips rolled in a rhythm that felt like worship. And ruin. My fingers dug into his back. I could hear myself mumbling, gasping, nonsense.

 Cedric just chuckled, kissing my cheek.

"You're so gorgeous when you fall apart for me," he said, dragging his lips down my jaw. "I love you, princess."

"I—" I tried to say it back, but his next thrust knocked the air from my lungs. I dragged my nails down his back, moaning. He hissed in pleasure, bucking into me harder.

Each thrust was measured, perfect. He was making love to me, but with a purpose, building up his release slowly, like he wanted to feel every second. Our eyes stayed locked, our breathing synchronized. I hooked my fingers around the back of his neck, his nose brushing mine, his moans getting rougher, raspier, more desperate.

"You're so perfect," he gasped. "So fucking perfect, Gods."

I kissed him, hungry, messy. He groaned into my mouth, and I could feel him start to throb inside me.

I was right there with him. My body wound tight, hips rolling to meet every thrust, every press of his pelvis against my clit. I was burning up, every inch of me trembling.

"Ced, I'm—I'm gonna—fuck—!"

"Go on," he growled into my ear, hand clutching my hip as he quickened the pace, voice breaking. "Come for me, sweetheart."

My orgasm tore through me like lightning, my body arching into his as I cried out his name. He kept thrusting, fucking me through it, relentless even as I clenched around him.

"Ah, fuck—" Cedric groaned, hips stuttering. "You gonna let me fill you up baby? Pump you full of my cum?"

"Yes, yes— please," I whimpered.

That did it.

He moaned my name, hips slamming into me one final time as he came hard, hot pulses spilling inside me. His body collapsed over mine, still twitching from the aftershocks, lips pressed to my cheek.

He stayed inside me for a long moment, breathing hard, our bodies still tangled, still slick with sweat. His forehead rested against mine, noses brushing, eyes locked. He kissed me— soft now, unhurried.

When he finally pulled out, slow and careful, I whimpered, more from the absence than anything else. He kissed down my bare stomach, slow, warm presses of his lips as he worked his way lower, humming softly between each kiss. I squealed when he kissed the curve of my bare ass, and he only grinned, crawling back up to hover over me again.

"Can we stay like this forever?" he whispered, brushing his mouth across mine.

I laughed, breathless. My fingers tangled in his damp hair as I pulled him in for another kiss. "I'd love nothing more."

So we stayed like that for a while— our bodies pressed together under the weight of the moment. Everything was soft now. Mellow. It was one of my favorite things about us, how naturally we shifted from heat to hush. No awkwardness. No tension. Just a shared, breathless calm.

I loved how comfortable we'd grown with each other. How easily we fell into conversation after sex, limbs tangled, hands tracing patterns along bare skin, hearts still beating like war drums in our chests.

We were lying on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, fingers laced between us, when I broke the silence, "During the summer, Harry and I caught this weird documentary on Muggle TV. It was about this filmmaker who tried to build an opera house in the middle of the Amazon for a movie called 'Fitzcarraldo'. Total chaos. Everything that could go wrong did— bad weather, budget disasters, cast changes. The original lead actor actually got sick, and they had to recast and reshoot most of it. But the director, Werner Herzog, kept going. He literally dragged a full steamship over a mountain. And somehow, he made the film anyway."

Cedric turned his head toward me, interested, silent.

"And there's this band I love, Cigarettes After Sex, they wrote a song inspired by the film. You can hear the opera piece from the movie in the intro. I was so excited when I made the connection. I put the song in your—" I stopped, my mouth clamping shut mid-sentence. My heart lurched.

"In my what?" he asked, already smiling like he knew.

My cheeks burned. "Never mind."

"No, you cheeky girl. Come on, tell me. You can't just start something and leave me hanging," he said, tugging gently at my joined hand.

I sighed, face hot. "Fine, before I forget..."

I slipped out from under the covers, reaching across the floor for my bag— the one I dropped while climbing in through his window. 

 I dug until I felt the plastic case— the one I'd tucked away before sneaking out of the Burrow. I handed it to him wordlessly, hoping he wouldn't notice the blush creeping up my face.

It was labeled in sharpie, 'Cedric's CD'. 

Inside was a folded sheet of parchment, handwritten with all the songs I'd picked, a little note beside each one explaining why it made me think of him.

He sat up, instantly alert. "You made me a mixtape?"

"I burned it back home. I know it's dumb. And small. I just— I didn't have anything else to give you."

"You give me everything just by breathing," he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world.

I wanted to roll my eyes but it landed too hard in my chest, like my heart didn't know how to take a compliment that honest.

He opened the case slowly, like it was something sacred. His eyes scanned the tracklist, lighting up as he read the names.

"I can't wait to put this on," he murmured.

He stood up— completely naked, unbothered— and it just made me smile. There was something easy about us now. I watched him cross the room, soft light catching on his skin, and all I felt was warmth. Not nerves. Not insecurity. Just comfort. Just him. And that familiar, swelling feeling in my chest that made it impossible not to smile.

He held the CD in his hand like it was something personal— like he was holding a piece of me and it mattered more than I realized.

At the record player in the corner, he stopped the vinyl, then flipped open the CD tray beneath it. A low hum filled the room. The first track came to life: Opera House by Cigarettes After Sex, the haunting intro echoing in the quiet like a memory neither of us had lived yet.

My chest ached at the sound.

He came back to bed, that perfect face lit in warm lamplight, and slipped under the covers, pulling me into him again like it was instinct. Like he couldn't stop touching me even if he tried.

His arms were heavy around my waist. The song played. I pressed my cheek to his chest and let my fingers trace the shape of his ribs through soft skin.

"I love you so much, Cedric," I whispered, the words barely audible over the music. But I knew he heard them. Felt them. "I've been so happy since we've been together. Happier than I thought I could be."

It came out softer than I meant. A little breathless. A little too raw.

I said it like a test.

Because part of me still needed to hear it back.

Not just for the sake of it. But because earlier, when Ron had said what he said, when the doubt had slithered in, I started questioning things I didn't want to. 

So I waited.

And when he didn't answer right away, when the silence stretched longer than it should've, my stomach dropped.

It was only a second.

But it was enough.

I pulled back, stiff, like I'd been stung. "What?"

Cedric's face changed instantly— his whole body jolting upright like I'd shocked him back into the moment. "No, wait— no, no, no."

"Then why did you hesitate?" My voice wavering. I was already sitting up, wrapping the sheet around me like armor. "Do you not want to be with me? Are you still—" I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Are you not over Cho?"

He stared at me, stunned. "What? No. Gods, no. Baby..." He moved fast, reaching for my hands, tugging me back toward him. "How could you even think that? You're all I think about. You've been it for me since day one."

"But you hesitated."

"Because I'm scared." His voice broke on the last word. "Not of you. Of me. Of this. Of getting it wrong. I don't want to mess this up. I want you to be mine, more than anything— but I'm in the middle of this goddamn tournament, and I'm drowning in it. I can't be the boyfriend you deserve right now. I'm exhausted. I'm scattered. I'm scared I'll end up hurting you."

I looked at him, heart thundering, unsure if I wanted to scream or cry.

"You won't," I said quietly. "You already mean more to me than anyone ever has."

He exhaled, shakily. "After the tournament. When I can give you all of me... can I ask you again then? Properly? Can I make you mine?"

I didn't answer right away. The song shifted to the next track, slow and low and hazy.

Eventually, I gave a small nod. "Okay."

He let out the smallest breath of relief. Like he'd been holding it for days.

"I'm so in love with you," he murmured, reaching up to cup my cheek again.

"I love you, too," I whispered. "Even when you're a div."

That made him smile. He kissed me, and I melted into it— gentle and slow and aching.

"I'm not seeing anyone else," he said again, like it was important that I heard it. "I don't want anyone else. It's just you. It's always been you."

I blinked hard. My throat burned.

Then, from the drawer beside his bed, he pulled out a tiny velvet box. Held it for a beat, like he was waiting to see if I'd let him.

"I was going to wait until morning," he said. "But I want you to have this now."

He handed it to me. Inside sat a delicate gold necklace, thin as thread, with a single charm: the letter C.

"Cedric..." I cooed. "It's beautiful. You didn't have to—"

"It's not a big deal."

"It is," I said, staring at it. "Especially when all I got you was a burned CD."

"Your CD is everything," he said. "It's your music. Your taste. Your heart. You made it with your hands. That's what matters."

I went quiet for a second, the weight of it settling in my chest. Not guilt, exactly. Just this stupid ache, the way I always felt when someone saw more value in me than I knew what to do with.

He reached out, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

"You whingy little thing," he said, teasing, warm. He pulled me into him until I was curled against his chest. "It's lucky I like when you get pouty. Means I get to kiss it better."

And he did.

Then he whispered it all, how I was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. But not just in the surface way. It was my laugh. My voice. My stubbornness. My way of seeing the world. He said he couldn't put it into words, but that being near me felt like being pulled toward a light he didn't know he needed.

I didn't say anything.

I just kissed him again, fingers combing through his hair.

And sometime after that, with the CD still playing and our bodies tangled, we fell asleep. His fingers were tracing shapes into my skin— soft, lazy, aimless. Like he didn't even know he was doing it. Like he just wanted to feel me under his hands.

I fell asleep thinking about how lucky I was.

I was in love with this boy whose eyes lit up when he talked about Quidditch. Who scrunched his nose when he laughed, like he was trying to hold it in but never could. Who made me feel like the most important person in any room, just by looking at me like I mattered. Who'd break into a fit of boyish giggles that made my stomach braid.

I fell asleep thinking about how, when he held me, there wasn't a single place I'd rather be.

And I knew, without a flicker of doubt, I was in love with Cedric Diggory.

And I'd wait a lifetime for this, if I had to.

༻✦༺

The morning came gently.

I woke slowly, somewhere between a dream and the warmth of his body tangled with mine.

For a second, I couldn't remember where I was— just that it smelled like him and I was warm.

Safe. 

My legs were draped over his, our bodies fitted together like we'd always belonged like this.

The room had gone quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the hush of wind brushing against the windows.

His arm was heavy across my waist, his face buried against the crook of my neck. I could feel each slow breath he took, soft and steady.

I didn't move. I just stared at the ceiling, trying to memorize it all. The early light seeping in through the curtains. The faint trace of his cologne still clinging to my skin. The way one of his curls had fallen into his eyes.

I could still feel where he'd kissed me. The necklace he gave me sat cool against my chest, catching little glints of silver light. I traced it lightly, fingers brushing over the tiny C on the charm, and felt something bloom in my chest all over again.

This was real.

Him. Us. All of it.

I didn't want to wake him. I wanted to freeze this moment, tuck it away where nothing could ruin it.

But outside, the world was waiting. 

And Christmas morning at the Burrow wasn't going to wait for me.

I turned to him gently, brushing my nose against his cheek.

"Ced," I whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Ced."

He groaned, shifting beneath the covers. "Sweetheart, what—?"

"I have to head back before everyone wakes up. It's Christmas."

He grumbled sleepily. "Merry Christmas, gorgeous." His voice was scratchy and low as he nuzzled into my neck. I felt him inhale, long and slow.

"Are you... are you smelling my hair?"

"Mhm." His arms tightened around my waist like a sleepy bear refusing to let go.

I giggled, squirming out of his hold. "I have to go!"

"Tell them I kidnapped you," he mumbled into the pillow, voice muffled.

"I'm stealing your sweater," I said, already tugging it on— the same one I'd tossed to the floor the night before while undressing him. It smelled like him— warm skin, cedarwood, that boyish cologne I couldn't name but knew by heart.

I pulled open the curtains. Morning light spilled in, soft and silver, casting long shadows across the floor. The snow outside glittered like powdered diamonds.

Cedric groaned, burying his face in the pillow. "Too bright."

"I'll sneak out the window," I murmured, brushing hair from my face, ignoring his muffled protest. "Quieter that way."

But he shook his head, eyes still hazy with sleep as he pushed himself upright. "Come on. We'll go through the front. Everyone's still asleep."

We dressed quietly, pulling on scarves and mittens, boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. He wrapped his scarf around me, twice, like he was shielding me from the world. Then he tugged my hat too far down on my head, making me giggle and swat at him.

I wanted to kiss him again right there. Instead, I smiled like an idiot.

The village was quiet, blanketed in snow, the world still tucked into sleep. We walked hand-in-hand past hedgerows heavy with frost and windows glowing with warm light, our breath curling in the cold air between us.

His cheeks were pink from the cold, his fingers laced tightly with mine.

And still, I could feel him under my skin—buzzing, electric. Part of me wanted to drag him into the nearest snowbank and climb on top of him. 

But then, right before the Burrow came into view, he stopped walking. Turned to me. Wrapped his arms around me tight, burying his nose in my hair— holding me like he couldn't stand the idea of letting go.

"I don't want to leave you," he murmured.

"You'll see me tonight," I whispered back.

I kissed him. Just once, soft and sure, not dragging it out. We didn't need to.  We knew we'd do this all over again later— after dinner, after the house had gone quiet, after the lights dimmed and footsteps faded upstairs.

That was enough.

I gave his hand one last squeeze, then turned toward the path, boots crunching through fresh snow. The cold bit at my cheeks, but I barely felt it. The warmth of him still lingered in my fingertips.

And just like that, I was gone— moving through the still-sleeping village, the sky just beginning to lighten behind the trees. I snuck back into the Burrow just before the first creaks of footsteps sounded overhead. Upstairs, I changed swiftly into my pajamas and slipped under the covers, heart still racing with an hour to spare before the whole house erupted into Christmas.

Soon, the house began to wake. Groggy footsteps echoed in the hallway, doors creaked open, and muffled yawns filled the air. Everyone emerged with sleep-heavy eyes, most of them were still hungover from the night before— faces puffy, voices hoarse, movements a little too careful. But despite the dull throb behind their eyes, they were still eager, still smiling, already drifting toward the living room in search of warmth and presents.

No one suspected a thing.

We gathered in the living room, the scent of cinnamon and pine filling the air. The fire crackled warmly, casting a golden glow over the room as we settled in to exchange gifts.

Harry unwrapped a single unmatched sock from the Dursleys— creased, questionably clean, and still the reigning champion of worst holiday gift in recorded history. I handed him a book on British and Irish Quidditch teams, watching his face light up.

Ron unwrapped a bulging bag of Dungbombs from Hermione, which made him beam despite pretending he was too old for them. But it was the small leather-bound journal I gave him, with a golden Chudley Cannons crest embossed on the front and his initials etched in the corner, that he turned over in his hands like there wasn't a gift more perfect. 

Mrs. Weasley's jumpers were as dependable as ever. Mine was the softest shade of blue. Harry's was green with a dragon stitched across the front, no doubt Charlie's doing.

Fred and George, still high on the chaos of their latest success, gifted each of us our own individually wrapped Canary Creams— complete with a glittery tag that read "Eat Me (Coward)." 

I set mine aside carefully and made a private vow to never eat so much as a crisp from either of them again.

Ginny gifted me the lipstick I'd been eyeing for weeks in Hogsmeade— rose petal pink, moody, perfect. I gave her a cropped jumper she'd tried on once at Gladrags and hadn't stopped talking about since. We both squealed when we unwrapped each other's gifts.

Hermione handed me a neatly wrapped stack of notebooks, my name engraved in gold on the covers. "For your writing," she said, a little shyly. On the first page of one, in her tiny, perfect handwriting, she'd already jotted down the full ingredient list and method for the contraceptive potion she brewed me. "In case of an emergency," she mouthed across the room.

I was honestly just relieved my mom managed to send something on time. Her package was a full box— overflowing with wrapped CDs, a couple pieces of new clothes, a tiny jar of my favorite lip balm, and a letter that made my throat tighten as I read it. She told me she loved me. That she was proud of me. That she hoped I was smiling more than I was stressing.

And buried underneath all of it, tucked neatly in the corner like a final wink, was a year's worth of birth control.

God, I loved her.

After the gifts were opened and the room began to settle, I curled up cross-legged in front of the fire, cocoa warming my hands, snow still falling in soft sheets outside the window. The living room glowed— golden with firelight, buzzing with sleepy laughter and rustling wrapping paper.

Ginny twirled once in front of the window, running her hands over the crimson top I'd gotten her from Hogsmeade, grinning like she couldn't believe how good it looked.

George crouched by the fire, trying to sneak another Canary Cream into Harry's hands like it was a dare. Harry swatted him away with a muttered, "Absolutely not," eyes still glued to his new book, clearly not in the mood to cough up feathers again.

Hermione was already curled up in the armchair, half-wrapped in a throw blanket, fully engrossed in the book I'd given her for Christmas— 'Witches Who Changed the World', a rare out-of-print biography collection I found in an antique shop near Diagon Alley. She was already a few chapters in, lips pursed, brow furrowed in that way she got when she was absorbing every word.

And through it all, I felt him.

The weight of his touch still pressed into my skin. His scent clinging to the collar of the sweater I'd stolen without shame. His name echoing soft and steady in my head, like a quiet song I didn't want to stop humming.

I felt whole in a way I hadn't dared to hope for. 

"Merry Christmas, guys," I said softly, looking around at the chaos. At my people— my sharp, messy, brilliant little family.

"Merry Christmas," they murmured back through mouthfuls of cocoa and marshmallow, half-asleep, half-glowing.

We played cards. Unwrapped joke sweets. Someone spilled cocoa on the rug and no one cared. We laughed until our ribs ached, so loud and genuine it made the walls feel warm.  It was joy. Simple, messy, fleeting joy. The kind you didn't even know you were missing until you had it.

It had been the best Christmas I'd ever had.

And maybe that was the magic. Not spells. Not charms.

But being far from home and not feeling it.

Being with people who made you feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And hoping there'd be a hundred more days just like this one.

♱ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♱

thank you so much for signing up! if you’d like to be added or removed, feel free to shoot me a message or visit the taglist form 💌

@yuveyoo, @milkpeanuts476, @iwannabeapinkaesthetic, @eviaroy, @josephineable

[invertlyatomicscheme]

LOA IS REAL

🌼Girlfriend in a coma🌼

━━━━━━。゜🌊.🌺゜。━━━━━━

This is probably a dumb post, like duhh Jacie Los IS real, but I am going to be honest, I know most of us don't fully believe it. Humans (me) in general don't believe anything until they happen to experience the perspective of said situation/thing.

I suppose this could be called a success story. I am one of those humans who didn't believe in myself. Like what do you mean I can just "assume" something happens. What's the logic behind it? At first I was getting irritated with the shifting community "loa, loa, loa" like yes what else? That also is probably a lesson I should take into account. Don't knock it til you try it.

It all took place earlier when I was out with my family running errands, one of those is collecting stock for my mother's business. I decided I was going to give it a try. I started off slow, first doing things that are obvious. For ex; I would see a speed bump coming up and I would say, "I assume I will go over a speed bump" then I would obviously go over one and I would convince myself and essentially build trust in myself.

So, we arrived at the lady my mother collects stock from. The stock she gets is in small little bottles (no it's not drugs it's vitamins💔) I was like okay. I said to myself "I assume 5 bottles will be inside the bag and I remove all doubts" I do admit I got a bit worried for some reason that it wouldnt work and in general was thinking it wouldn't work but I persisted.

My mother finished and got back into the car and I immediately checked the bag... FIVE BOTTLES I KID YOU NOT. Then I was like no way this isn't real must be a coincidence. I was like okay I am going to try again (I ended up trying 2 more times) so we stop at a robot/traffic light.

I say the magic words (LOL) "I assume as we arrive at the light we won't even have to stop and the light will turn green" you wouldnt ever guess what happened next.. It worked!! I was much deeper in belief now and believed I could do more on a higher spectrum.

So we make one final stop on the way home. (Buying sweets for the fam) I decided this was going to be my final try and if this works then it works yk. I said in my head "I assume the price of [insert sweet] will be 15-16 (in my currency this is cheap) and remove all doubt"

It was 15.99!! I probably sound so excited over small victories and this probably isn't huge for most shifters but this really helped with my belief factor. I feel more confident as this has proved and clicked something within me.

Had to share this small yet big detail. Lesson is BELIEVE IN YOURSELF!! Also if your like me and have bad doubts and lack of belief I recommend starting small. Since yes you knew it was going to happen (read that again) You can also prove things to yourself.

That's all I had to sayy, WE all shifting and using loa trust🙏

Ps: trying to figure out my layouts for posting still.

TINY UPDATE:

I assumed my skin would be must clearer in the morning since I broke out a bit because I am edging off my acne meds. (Ifykyk😔) Guess who woke up completely forgetting what she said having a shower only to see her skin has cleared up. This shows you are in control of what you want. I also found my mind was easier to focus and assume since I had been listening to my fame Dr playlist the whole day and my playlist just feels like summer. I was in a good mood! If me of all people is able to use loa trust me you will be able too.

[mousathe14]

Remember when I talked about how Cissie was still a main character even though she quit the superhero biz? And how she can’t escape the life despite her best efforts?

You know, she competes in the Olympics and there’s a nation of supervillains that entered?

Or how Red Tornado comes to her school and entrusts her to watch over his daughter, Traya?

Well you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Look at all the fan mail she got just from being an Olympic gold medalist in archery.

I think there are isekai anime that start like this.

Okay, the isekai normally just kill you. Nah, in this Cissie is embarking on a journey that is much much worse than any isekai.

That’s right, it’s Space Jam. Evil aliens are trying to conquer the planet YJ was just at and they play baseball in order to decide if they conquer/destroy you or not.

The reason why Cissie here is simultaneously sweet and stupid.

Man, she just can’t get out, can she?

But only because her friends miss her, bless their hearts.

They truly have been feeling her absence, I know that I miss her particular skills, background, and personality and what that perspective adds to this group of oddballs.

COME ON AND SLAM

IF YOU WANT TO JAM

Using the power of friendship and Impulse’s super fast fast ball, they are creaming these losers.

Damn, that commentator’s going through it. I’d say that’s a face only a mother could love but that would imply that he still had a face.

Impulse also showed this level of athletic aptitude in his own comic. It’s amazing what you can do when everything around you is going in slow motion.

Also, it’s cute that everyone gets a baseball version of their costume. I love that kind of thing. Something I should do more with my own heroes honestly.

This poor commentator. He’s just doing his job and getting hella blasted for it.

You know what’s funny? I interrupted reading Impulse to read Young Justice because I’ve been wanting to read YJ for a while and there was a spot in Impulse that said I should check YJ for context.

I don’t even remember that that context was, so now I don’t even know what’s going on in Impulse’s own comic.

Well, we know this team’s secret weapon isn’t Secret. Has she been zoning out this entire time?

I’m almost surprised Cissie can’t hit but she’s a marksman, batting probably involves a different type of aiming.

I get that she’s jealous but simultaneously I have difficulty comprehending it. I get it, there’s a new girl on the team so she feels like she’s being replaced.

Even though she, in her own, decided to leave the team without being forced out or anything. She likes her friends, but she chose to walk out of the superhero portion, but there still could’ve been the possibility for them to hang out outside of heroing.

Robin continues to demonstrate his excellent leadership skills.

And but Cissie still has to make this about her being insecure about a black queen. Even trying to project her mother issues on to Ms. Empress.

In fact I even mentioned previously that Empress was in the mall to bear witness to the day Cissie had and then rejected her Peter Parker Moment.

Empress is just here causing no problems and being the best and you’re here, questioning her place because you left.

Well well well, Kon, aren’t we a bit chivalrous today.

Been getting awfully protective of Wonder Girl, aren’t we?

Even though realistically she is probably as strong as you if not stronger since she’s powered by god magic.

I wonder if the story is trying to set up something.

The answer is “probably yes”. I’d say they’ve been setting up Kon (the real one, not Matchstick) having affection for Cassie basically during Sins of Youth if I were to pinpoint a specific spot though he was also mourning the loss of his girlfriend which happened basically right at the beginning of the event.

I have thoughts about this that I’ll probably say elsewhere.

Oi oi oi, treat Empress with some respect, S-curl.

Hell, having Lobo agree with you probably means you’re definitely the major league jerk here. Work on yourself, Kon El.

As for Empress, man, she cannot catch a break with any of these people despite her best efforts. She’s saved them, she’s joined them despite her old man often being in conflict with them, and she’s helping them out with this stupid baseball game, and what does she get for it?

Undeserved Flack!

She may not be able to aim with a bat but she’s still got the arm and back muscles of someone that’s been forced to learn archery basically as soon as they could stand.

Ha ha Simpsons reference technically?

Awwww, they’re so cute

Look at them bring precious little savers of the planet Myra.

Ain’t they stinkers?

So due to reasons that I will explain in a different post, Young Justice bounced. It was very chaotic, they didn’t intend on forgetting Cissie, but they basically forgot her by the next story.

But don’t worry, this is a western isekai. So she didn’t die when a mountain of fan mail landed on her, she was merely displaced. Which means she can be un-displaced.

Welcome back, Cissie!

Is there a logical explanation to all this? Certainly! Will it ever be stated? Absolutely not.

With all due respect Ms. King-Jones, and that’s very little, mother does not in fact know best and definitively not you. The narrative may want to try to redeem you but I won’t accept it yet.

But yeah, this was “Cissie is still here and also Space Jam happened.”

This will, in fact, not be the last time Cissie returns. There’s a whole date thing between Lobo and Empress that I keep foreshadowing and she’s in the story after that that I stopped in the middle of.

Bringing Arrowette into Young Justice means she is here forever whether she likes it or not, and that’s kind of neat.

[finleyforevermore]

fin. finster. tell me about the wes-coding of rose's turn... I would love to hear about it,,

YOU AND @touch-starved-lurker AND @plateapus AND @thevoidisscreamingbackatyou ARE MY HEROES /silly

Spoilers for Better Than the Movies by Lynn Painter below the cut :]

(Sort of meant to be written from his perspective, so some stuff may not be fully accurate to the book or objective)

Wes loves Liz to PIECES. He literally loves her SOOOO much. Like based on what I've read of some of the bonus content, he freaking ADORES her. As far as HE knows before the ending, she doesn't feel the same, or IF she does, it's no comparison to her love for Michael. He's gotta let go.

The whole plot of the book is Liz and Wes working together to get her childhood sweetheart Michael to fall in love with her in time for prom. Only thing: Wes loves Liz. He has since second grade. Granted, he doesn't tell her this til the end, and happily goes along with helping Liz out, but with his feelings in mind, it kinda adds this whole layer of tragedy to the story.

And even IF he's willing to help, there's NO way it doesn't hurt him a LITTLE to see Liz fawning over this guy, and AIDING her in getting the guy when HE loves her. Why did he do it when he loved her? What did it get him in the end? A broken heart.

And after she gets Michael, THEN what? Do they go back to fighting? After they KISSED, what happens then-?

"It wasn't for me" to "Then where would you be.." especially.

Wes didn't HAVE to say yes to Liz's idea. He could've said no, and told her to woo Michael herself. But he said yes. For her. With his help, and Wes' friendship with Michael being a massive advantage, he did a lot of heavy lifting for her, as far as he's concerned. He did it for her. And if not for HIM, and all HIS help, Liz wouldn't have gotten nearly as far.

So in a way, he's only got himself to blame for it all. If only he said no. Maybe he and Liz would've still gotten close. now she's at prom, dancing with a guy that SHOULD be him!

Wes, as far as he knows, has spent several weeks just shooting himself in the foot. Far as he knows, Liz doesn't love him back, and the higher her chances get with Michael, the lower HIS chances get with Liz. At LEAST once he's probably felt this way about Liz and the whole premise the book revolves around. (something something "gangway, world, get off of my libby")

Admittedly, less lyrical content to work with here, but imagine "Wes/Wesley" in place of "rose/roses." Or considering their significance to Liz, imagine "daises" in place of "roses"

Hurts, doesn't it? :,)

Anyway that's it :D

[mynametido]

Unpopular opinion:

Even though we get defensive whenever this term is used against us to somehow disprove shifting, every time you've dreamed, you literally have shifted. With the collective assumption that there are INFINITE realities, there are an INFINITE number of them where your fingers pass through your hand when you try to "reality check".

Or your reflection looks weird. Or you don't need to breathe to stay alive. Or experiences in general feel fuzzy (notice how it's only in comparison to this reality when you come back). Or you're walking your dog, and suddenly you're flying with a sky whale on Jupiter. Or you know how to read English, but every time you try to read something, words like "cat" and "car" look like ancient hieroglyphics. Or a person you've seen before is supposed to represent someone in this life, but they don't look anything like them. Or everything is in 3rd person perspective like you're a ghost (ahm ahm we literally don't even need a body to exist). Or you can't feel certain senses (there are other animals on our planet right now that experience more senses than we do, does that make THIS a dream).

We are all babies born in a burning house. The rest of the world is not on fire, and we don't know what that looks like. I know we feel tempted to label dreams something different so that new shifters don't get confused with the concept. But I think mostly everyone has had at least 1 dream in their life, meaning that the new shifters, the experienced shifters, the expert shifters, everyone, has already shifted based off of that fact alone. Why exclude that information from someone just to preserve this "reality over dream" superiority complex? Whoever hates on us for saying reality shifting is dreams, experiences like this current one, everything in between and beyond, was going to hate on us regardless.

This reality is not the blueprint for INFINITY.

Go to sleep tonight, have a dream, and come back and tell us how your shift went. Please and thank you.

[pomrania]

Now, under the premise that "horror is comedy from a different perspective"... would what @squishyputty suggested still hold for that?

I need to make two VERY strong disclaimers here, to show how much of a position of ignorance I'm speaking from. First, I've never played anything with an exploding dice system; I've barely even READ stuff that includes it, I'm only 90% sure that I actually understand what it is. Second, I do not enjoy horror. It's an intensely unpleasant sensation for me, thus a) I do my best to avoid engaging with it when played straight, so I don't have much experience with it, and b) I have no first-hand knowledge of what makes "horror" enjoyable to the people who like it. There is thus a very strong chance that whatever I say here will not actually be applicable.

From what I've gathered, an important aspect of "horror" is the uncertainty. You don't know what's going on, or what to do about it, or if something will work. And that also needs to include "hope", because if you KNOW that there's no chance, then there's no point in trying, which gives a sort of peace of its own.

With that, I think that system would work here too. If you know there's ALWAYS a CHANCE, then your character is more likely to take risks; and the more risks you take, the greater the chance you doom yourself, or otherwise do something Very Unfortunate.

I think... aside from lore and tone expectations, the biggest change you'd have to make is recalibrating what "good" or "bad" outcomes look like. Where you can only get the heights of "this problem is solved" with the extremes of "we now have a worse problem". You might or might not want to shift all outcomes towards "bad for the character/s", but "miracle" results should either be minor, or create a real question of if it's a frying-pan/fire situation.

I think that for horror, it'd work better to have the focus on "skills" instead of "stats". Depending on how things are set up, that might result in characters whose skills aren't ideally suited to deal with the problem at hand; I consider that a benefit, as it's one way to make them feel "powerless" without making them ACTUALLY powerless, plus "when all you have is a hammer" tends to result in either Creativity or Causing Yourself Problems. However, this approach would definitely require something being explicitly stated about it, so the PLAYERS don't end up frustrated; and it might just plain be a bad idea overall, I'll defer to anyone with experience in the matter.

Full Nuance Saturday: Explain what system of checks (something like d20 roll over, Xd6 keep highest, d100 roll under) would fit best for a genre of your choice

Your answer should be 500-1000 words long

[not-poignant]

The latest UtR update on AO3 got me hooked and I could no longer constrain myself and had to read the other chapters on Patreon. Now I need to know: does Lucien have any redeeming character traits in the series or can I add him straight to the list of characters that deserve the worst? That attitude of his towards Faber made me so mad lmao

Hi anon!

This actually reminds me of the ask I got recently about how awful Augus is as a character and how it's impossible to consider him through a positive light after reading Falling Falling Stars. Because that's how he seems if you've never read him in anything else of mine!

My narrators are unreliable, anon. We only ever see Lucien very briefly through the jealous eyes of an insecure man.

(Spoilers for a future brief verbal encounter between Lucien and Faber in Underline the Red).

Lucien is an extremely vulnerable omega who is in an institution that has temporary custody of him. They control what he eats, what he does, whether he leaves or not (i.e. he's functionally imprisoned), who fucks him, if he gets to see anyone else, if he can talk to his partner and family back home and how often. He has significant psychiatric issues around his own insecurities re: jealously and his partner, and he clocks Faber as being in love with Caleb, and he's right.

And that's incredibly unethical of Faber, honestly, to not have disclosed any of this to Dr Gary (like Dr Gary will be right to consider firing him over this in the future). It puts Lucien's mental health in direct and severe jeopardy, and is ironically likely what causes his relapse that causes Caleb to suggest domestic discipline in the first place (oh, Faber, the irony).

Because Lucien's there to learn that actually a lot of his jealousy and insecurity is unfounded. Instead, he learns the opposite, that no matter who he bonds with, someone else is there loving his potential partner while he perceives himself as having very little control (and in the case of Hillview - this is true, all he has are his words).

He's a chronically disabled omega who needs a disability aid (walking stick) to get around, he's a second class citizen, he's agreed with his partner to stay at Hillview because they both recognise how sick he's getting.

Faber is not a mental health patient/omega like Lucien is. He's a staff member who is nursing unrequited loved to an alpha companion, that he's refused to disclose, while still interacting with Caleb and his omegas. Imho, while Lucien is very good at lashing out, he's not wrong to, and that's why Faber fully acknowledges what Lucien is saying and listens to him, and basically never interacts with him again, and avoids Caleb where possible.

Lucien's mean about it, but Lucien is right re: Faber trying to hide his feelings because he knows what will happen if people find out, and that it's also wrong/unfair to put Lucien in that position.

And Faber knows that.

So yeah. The reader is meant to hate Lucien on a surface level, in the same way that Faber does.

But consider that Faber also sometimes seems to hate all omegas. He finds the smell of their heats disgusting. It's actually pretty normal for people to go through a phase of rejecting the thing that they are, if that's something hated in society. Faber's oscillating mixed feelings of bitterness, resentment and cutting attitude is actually mirrored in Lucien.

Faber has thought extremely savage, scathing and unforgiving things himself to the people around him (and himself). Lucien responds to Faber like Faber is an omega (something Faber doesn't recognise yet), because Faber...kind of acts like one in moments like that. (Efnisien also picks up on this, Faber is not great to him in the beginning of Underline the Black, in a very specific way designed for Efnisien to pick up on, and for Gary to miss. Faber behaves jealously, and constantly suggests to Gary that he should get rid of Efnisien, before he finally adjusts to the absence of Gary in his life. Faber is possessive and manipulative!)

Lucien ultimately doesn't need any redeeming characteristics because he's a victim who is at Hillview to heal and Faber is jeopardising that. We can hate him, but that's just the fact. He didn't try to kill Kadek when he arrived at Hillview, he hasn't tried to destroy memories of James, things Efnisien has done even though we love him all the same (ideally). Lucien felt understandably jealous/insecure (literally the thing he's at Hillview to be treated for, safe from people who will be in love with his lover until Faber) and he lashed out meanly.

If a staff member of Hillview can't handle some rude words, they shouldn't work there.

But yeah, I like the Lucien and Faber encounter because they are both extremely similar people in some ways. They are both bitter, jealous, resentful people capable of very scathing thoughts (and words). The only difference is that in that moment, Faber is the recipient and we feel bad for him. I mean, I do feel bad for him. Faber is in a bad place psychologically, it's a horrible thing for him to experience.

If we were getting Lucien's story from his perspective, and saw the panic attacks he had afterwards, and the regression he went through, etc. it might be different. But it doesn't have to be! Lucien in that moment functions as a reality check for Faber, and a very effective one at that. We're meant to hate him, but also meant to understand that Faber's love for Caleb is not as subtle as he thinks it is in the sense that - omegas can see it for what it is.

I personally like the one moment where we see that Lucien might have a heart when Faber admits his parents are dead, and we can see that he doesn't react with savage satisfaction, but like Faber broke the narrative he'd built for himself in his own insecure, jealous, scared mind.

[kaisollisto]

“Are you here?" Ava barely breathes it, there's a tension in the air that she can't recognize, an energy that squashes her. Her throat feels scratchy and she can feel the Halo slotted between her shoulders. Ava's flat on her back head turned to look over at Beatrice. She feels wimpy like a stomped flower, her left arm dangles dangerously close to Beatrice-territory. She wants to reach out, to touch Beatrice to confirm that she's here but something stops her. She feels so silly, she could easily shift over to touch Beatrice, shake her gently and - 

Beatrice slides over, a firm sleepy sister warrior knife wielding badass with frumpy hair poofing from what remains of her low bun. She moves towards Ava, inches away from her but moves to answer her. It’s rare for Ava to see her like this. Beatrice is clearly fighting sleep, rubbing her eyes and doing her best to move in hopes that it’ll shake the sleepy spell. 

She’s dressed in one of Ava’s ugly loose white shirts, a huge bass clashing with faded big blocky lettering that just reads “FISH”. Beatrice had looked at her weirdly when Ava had dug it out of the bins at a thrift store disheveled and ecstatic. 

Ava had spent hours coaxing her into it doing her damn best to hide Beatrice’s laundry when she wasn’t looking. It fills a warm feeling in her chest and Ava wants to burrow further into it. It was a fool proof plan. 

Ava found her shortness made it exhausting to reach up towards the Beatrice-level-cabinets. The halo pulls at her pinching and knotting up the muscles in her back after a long day of training. She feels it alive within her, an uncomfortable reminder sealed inside her back. 

At the end of the day Ava settled on hinging at the waist. She had slowly started integrating Beatrice’s sleep shirts in cabinets that Beatrice had to bend down to reach. Ava always tried to situate herself at the scene of the crime doing her best to seem inconspicuous while she leaned over hungry for Beatrice’s reaction. Ava thumbed her findings down in the recess of her mind, her finger tracing over it in a hurried desperation. The time would pass and she did not want to forget. 

(It helped, the imagery of Bea’s furrow when she would find her sleepwear underneath the sink when Ava would have to tuck her spine into the halo as she placed the shirt somewhere clean.) 

Thanks to her genius planning Beatrice had finally caved and worn Ava’s huge “FISH” t-shirt after weeks of her persistence. She looked adorable, she was drowning in it and constantly tugging at it. She had found Beatrice loved to tuck it into the band of her sleep shorts creating puffy funny creases distorting the text even further to say “FSH”. It looked so ugly and old and endearing. 

She looked out of her depth and it made Ava’s heart thump funny. Beatrice with her weird posh mannerisms combined with the peaceful unguarded look when she slumbered made her feel hot all over. 

It was the prospect of the future, a glimpse into her life with Beatrice, of when they would grow old together. It shakes her, the idea that Beatrice will get wrinkles with her. She takes it seriously, a study that she isn’t well versed in but preparing for. It is a long hard internal debate flipping between what wrinkles will show first. Ava selfishly hopes it’s smile lines, that Beatrice will smile at her as much as she does in secret. She’s happy to be wrong, Beatrice’s forehead crinkles have always been cute. She hopes that Beatrice never stops looking at her, thinking of her. She wants to spend a long time being the source of her wrinkles. And just for right now she can handle the role of being just her friend. 

Beatrice blinks one eye open, the other pressed against the pillow as she stifles a yawn. Her hand blocks her mouth in a delicate way and Ava can see her nails are short and uneven in places. Ava wishes she could touch them, study them in a way no one has done before. She wants to press against Beatrice hard enough to watch her skin fold around hers. Some sort of truth that she was here, that she is here. 

Beatrice scoots over slowly, her elbow tucked under the pillow. She stops inches away from Ava, a frown set in her jaw. Ava mirrors her position albeit more awkwardly and more wiggling than Beatrice’s but she finds a place where the Halo won’t bite her back. 

“I’m here,” Beatrice murmurs it, a quiet thing between them. 

Ava closes her eyes hoping Beatrice won’t notice her shakiness. She blinks a few times before she presses closer, the arm she’s laying on moving to support her head underneath the pillow. 

There’s so much to tell her, anything and nothing at all and Ava doesn’t know where to start. It constricts her throat, the constant stream of consciousness from inside of her heart. It’s horrible and she can’t stop it as the feeling balloons inside of her lungs. Ava wants help, she so desperately wants to feel okay again, to feel anything other than the stupid fucking halo. It grates on her nerves and muscles, a burning hot metal ring poking and prodding at the entirety of her upper torso. It leaves her reeling, a sort of anger that beckons for her to hurt (hurt something, hurt someone, hurt), disregarding the aftermath of tears and shame. 

Ava is sure she’s shaking, a layer of sweat gathers between the space of her shoulder blades as the Halo lights up with her inner turmoil. It’s a faint pitiful thing that Ava would be ashamed of if not for the bone aching tiredness. 

She wants to say she’s sorry the words clawing their way up her throat and it feels wrong to feel anything but that. There’s a sort of unspoken shame that haunts her with the Halo. It’s a thing she’s known long before any of this. 

Beatrice drags her out of her turmoil with her hand hovering near Ava’s pinky. She has a gracefulness to it, like she has practiced it a hundred times over. It’s weird, to be in a bed, a soft and lumpy bed looking at Beatrice. Beatrice with such plain features and subtle cheekbones that Ava can’t stop looking. It pays off, watching Beatrice, Ava knows it when Bea smiles a grin too wide for polite acknowledgement and Ava can see her dimples pronounced. 

“Can I?” Beatrice’s finger lingers near her hand, a hovering itch that Ava needs scratched. It’s so wholeheartedly Beatrice that Ava can do nothing but nod. Something inside of Ava aches harder than the rest of the organs inside of her. It’s the unwavering crushing thumping feeling that squeezes around her heart. The sincerity of Beatrice. 

She places her hand over Ava’s and squeezes her gently. Beatrice’s hands are firm and soft. She can feel the callouses on her palms prodding at the back of her hand and wonders if Beatrice has ever had them fade away. If she’s had the pleasure of unscathed palms. Her hands are warm but not sweaty, not like Ava’s.

Ava can’t feel Beatrice’s pulse but she tries her best to match it. She imagines it would be a slow melody playing a duet with a classical track. Some sort of tune that spurs comfort or a feeling of nostalgia. She briefly wonders if Beatrice listens to music, if she seeks out music that has spoken to her. If there was a song that shook her to her core so deeply she had to sit down and digest it. There’s so much she still needs to know and so little time. 

“I admit I’m not sure what you need from me.” Beatrice whispers it quietly, she’s hunched awkwardly, hovering close in Ava’s space but too far away for her own comfort. 

Ava clamps her mouth shut, sure that “come closer” will betray her. That she will reach too far into Beatrice and take far too much. 

Beatrice pays no mind to Ava’s silence and slowly caresses her hand, it’s a small little gesture that seems to have no set course. Ava briefly wonders if it’s the start of a massage or if Beatrice is looking for her joints underneath her skin and touching her tendons in apology. 

It should be awkward, Beatrice and Ava orbiting each other in a lopsided manner. A rotational tilt that is unfamiliar to both of them and yet feels intimate. An unknown dance with their eyes closed and their breaths mingling. (It’s easy to follow Beatrice’s lead, Ava knows love.) 

There’s nothing Ava can say to her, she chokes up at the prospect and they both blink at each other. She’s not sure what she needs, only that it’s nice having someone here. 

Beatrice drowsily blinks rapidly and slowly at the same time as Ava watches swallowing the bits of her smile. Her hand has slowed its pathing, opting to curl on the inside of Ava’s fingers. It’s endearing watching one of her favorite bad ass sister warriors lose against sleep. It softens the edges of Beatrice who is always carrying some unseen obligation. (Here it is only the two of them free of their past and future burdens, just two girls sprawled thinly on hopes and dreams). 

She can feel Beatrice’s grip loosen, she’s going to fall back asleep any minute now but Ava doesn’t have the heart to keep her up. Beatrice is no doubt tired, powered by her own sleeping and eating habits unlike Ava who has the artifact to juice her up. 

She isn’t quite unwound but she feels manageable now. It’s weird to be within reach of Beatrice, someone who cares about her. To be in proximity of someone who will look for her, be in step with her, maybe it’s duty but Ava holds it close to her heart regardless. (It’s all the same to her, devotion, loyalty, love). 

She clings to Beatrice afraid to let the moment go, she had called and someone had answered, Bea had answered. Ava can feel her eyes watering, it almost feels like a distant dream. She tucks her chin closer to chest and thinks, how awful to be loved. 

She can feel her throat closing up and she squeezes Bea’s hand just a tiny bit harder. (She answers in the twitch of her hand, clearly on the cusp of sleep). The Halo still thunders in her back throbbing some fatal fate but here in the hush of night grounded by the touch of Beatrice she has some reprieve.  (Part 1)

[honeygrahambitch]

Came across a poll regarding who the best therapist in Hannibal nbc is and I just want to ask if the people who voted for Alana Bloom are talking about the Alana Bloom in the series

[elftwink]

have to work on a project today and an unrelated thing happened that just made me so so so so so mad (just some irl personal stuff), which normally derails my entire day because i find it so hard to come out of the angry/upset state and tend to just circle back and obsess over whatever triggered it but! today after 20 minutes of that i had a council meeting about it (<- what i call my decision making process) the outcome of which was putting it aside (!!!) for later when i could actually talk about it and resolve it (!!!) & in the meantime we could just do other stuff.

local man exuberant and jubilated to achieve feats of basic emotional self-regulation and was seen excitedly telling reporters he "never thought this day would come" and began giving a thank you speech to nobody in particular. more on this story as it develops

[cursedthing]

.havign lots of thoughts about how npcs are portrayed learning about the nature of their universe in works