#it was SUCH an injustice to the story and characters!!!!!!!!!

[inkolnito]

The Piastri Special- Prologue: The Swan and The Jackaroo

Pairing: Jack Doohan/Genevieve Ashworth (Original Female Character)

Summary:

Jack Doohan's rookie F1 season implodes when Alpine shockingly replaces him mid-year. At his lowest, Jack finds an unwavering ally in Genevieve Ashworth – his childhood friend, sponsor's daughter, and "The Silver Swan," a world champion figure skater whose own career was defined by public heartbreak.

As their lifelong bond deepens into love amidst the turmoil, they, with her influential father, launch "Exemplar Foedus"—a daring plan to secure Jack a new F1 seat.

Warnings:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships within this story are fictionalized.

The story explores harsh motorsport realities like sporting injustice, F1 politics, and challenging contract negotiations, significant angst from career setbacks, public scrutiny, and emotional distress (including self-doubt and fear of failure). Expect potential F1-typical strong language, subtle references to past disordered eating/body image issues

Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort (mutual trauma support), Mutual Pining, initial Slow Burn Romance.

Franco being the antagonist for obvious reason. i don't hate him, this is just for the plot

Author's Note: This story is born from pure cope, I apologize for nothing

The air in the arena crackled, thick with anticipation and the faint, metallic scent of shaved ice. Jack sat hunched forward, hands clasped so tightly between his knees they ached, a knot of anxiety more acute than any pre-race jitters twisting in his gut. This wasn't his world – the hushed reverence, the glittering costumes, the almost painful elegance unfolding below – but tonight, it felt more terrifying than any race start he’d ever faced. Tonight, Genevieve Ashworth, "The Silver Swan," was skating for World Championship gold.

He was nineteen then, caught in the relentless grind of Formula 3, stealing precious days between races to be here. The journey itself, a seamless transition from a dusty European track to the crisp air of this Scandinavian capital, had been orchestrated with the quiet convenience of an Ashworth Industries private jet. He wouldn’t have missed it. Genevieve, his childhood friend, the girl who understood the pressure cooker of his own life with unnerving, silent empathy, was attempting the impossible.

Again.

Her reputation preceded her: the quad queen, whose elegance was matched only by her audacious technicality. She pushed boundaries with fierce, defiant grace, landing multiple quad types, yet the World gold remained elusive, often snatched by skaters with lower technical content but higher, more subjectively awarded, component scores. It was a system that, to Jack’s admittedly untrained eye, seemed almost perversely designed to penalize her raw power and daring.

Tonight was the free skate.

Second after the short program, she needed near-perfection. As her name was announced, a wave of sound washed over the arena. She glided onto the ice, a vision in ice-blue and silver, the costume a masterpiece of understated artistry, its crystals catching the light like scattered diamonds on a frozen lake. Her usual pre-performance intensity was palpable, her blue eyes narrowed, radiating an almost intimidating concentration.

The music began, powerful and dramatic, and then she moved. It wasn’t just skating; it was controlled violence, explosive power wrapped in impossible, swan-like elegance.

Quad Lutz – landed. The crowd roared.

Quad Salchow – landed.

Quad toe loop – landed, a fractional check, but landed.

Triple Axel – effortless.

Her spins were dizzying blurs, her step sequences intricate and passionate. She attacked every element with breathtaking ferocity. Then came the final two quads, back-to-back, a gamble only she would dare.

Another quad toe loop – solid.

And finally, a second quad Lutz. She launched, an ice-blue and silver comet, rotated four times, and came down hard, a jarring impact, but held the edge with sheer willpower.

Landed. Five quads.

Unprecedented.

The final notes echoed as she struck her pose, chest heaving, sweat glistening, her expression a mixture of utter exhaustion and fierce, savage triumph. Flowers rained down.

It had to be enough.

She disappeared towards the "Kiss and Cry," where her stern-faced Russian coach, Dimitri, waited. Jack watched the monitors, palms sweating, as the camera zoomed in on her face – flushed cheeks, bright, hopeful eyes wide with nervous anticipation, a vulnerability that made Jack’s chest ache with a strange tenderness.

The technical score flashed: Huge. Monumental. A new world record. A radiant smile lit Genevieve’s face, and Jack felt a surge of elation. This was it.

Then, the component scores. Good, but not stratospheric. Lower than her rival’s. Jack’s stomach plummeted. He saw the calculation in Genevieve’s eyes, the dawning, sickening horror. The final score appeared. Second place.

Silver.

Again.

Silence in the Kiss and Cry. Genevieve stared, frozen in disbelief, the light in her eyes extinguished. Then, her face crumpled. The camera, unforgiving, zoomed closer.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, tears welling. “No. No.” Dimitri put an arm around her; she shrugged him off.

“I landed five quads!” Her voice, caught by the microphone, cracked with raw, incredulous emotion.

“Five! Five! What more could I possibly do?” Tears streamed, hot and angry.

“Everyone else gets gold! Everyone! Why not me? Why is it never me? I hate it! I hate this sport! I hate what it does to me!” Her voice broke on a sob.

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, the champion’s composure shattered, revealing the raw, wounded heart of a young woman who had poured her soul into her craft only to be told, yet again, it wasn’t enough.

That she wasn’t enough.

The world witnessed a champion's raw despair, a public crucible that would forge within her an indelible understanding of an athlete's ultimate sacrifice and the profound desolation of a dream unrewarded.

Jack watched, frozen, his heart aching with helpless empathy. He wanted to smash the cameras, shield her, tell her how incredible she was, how unfair it all felt. A surge of white-hot anger at the judges, at the subjective nature of the sport, coursed through him.

A fury that mirrored the frustration he would one day feel at the political machinations of Formula 1.

The medal ceremony was excruciating. Genevieve, pale and swollen-eyed, wore a mask of stoic politeness, her eyes hollow.

Jack slipped out, needing air. He waited outside, pacing in the cold. When she finally emerged, her father at her side, she looked small, fragile. Richard Ashworth, a man whose Savile Row suit and quiet, authoritative air spoke of generations of influence, gave Jack a weary nod. His expression was one of carefully controlled disappointment, the kind honed over years of navigating high-stakes environments where emotion was a liability.

Genevieve’s gaze flickered towards Jack – a fleeting, haunted look of recognition, perhaps gratitude, a silent acknowledgment that tightened the knot in his chest.

.

Later, outside her hotel room, he hesitated.

The air in the corridor felt sterile, chilled, a stark contrast to the emotional inferno he’d just witnessed. What words could possibly touch a grief so monumental? His own throat felt tight, his palms slick with a nervous sweat.

But the image of her face crumpling in despair, the raw, desolate echo of her cry – “Why not me?” – was a current too strong to resist. It pulled him forward, and his knuckles, almost of their own accord, brushed against the polished wood of her door.

The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of the dimly lit room beyond. Genevieve stood there, still in her team jacket, the vibrant ice-blue and silver now seeming to mock her. Her face, scrubbed clean of makeup, was pale, almost translucent, her eyes puffy and shadowed, the luminous blue clouded with a pain that made his own chest constrict.

“Jack?” Her voice was a rough whisper, a fragile sound, like shattered glass.

The scent of stale arena air and something uniquely her – that subtle, expensive fragrance of citrus and white tea, now laced with the salt of tears – drifted out.

“Hey,” he said softly, his own voice sounding inadequate, lost in the cavern of her sorrow. “Can I… Can I come in for a minute?”

She nodded wordlessly, her movements slow, heavy, as if wading through deep water. The room was hushed, the only light a pale wash from the city outside the window. Her skates lay discarded by the bed like fallen soldiers, blades dulled by effort, their silver glinting accusingly. The medal itself lay on the nightstand, a cold, indifferent circle of metal.

She didn’t look at him, just walked to the window, her silhouette small and forlorn against the indifferent city lights. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, a desperate attempt to hold the splintering pieces of her world together. He could see the sharp angle of her shoulder blades beneath the thin fabric of her jacket, a stark reminder of the years she’d starved herself for this sport, for the lightness, the ethereal grace it demanded, for moments like tonight that had culminated in this crushing emptiness.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken emotion, with the suffocating weight of her disappointment. He wanted to find the right words, the magic phrase that would ease her pain, but he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that there weren’t any. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage, yearning to offer solace he didn't know how to give.

“Gen,” he began, his voice rougher than he intended, the sound raw in the quiet room. “You were… you were beyond incredible tonight. Absolutely, breathtakingly incredible. Those jumps… no one else on this planet can do that.”

She didn’t turn, but he saw her shoulders tense, her knuckles white where she gripped her arms, her body a taut wire of suppressed agony.

“Incredible wasn’t enough, was it?” she said, her voice flat, dead, devoid of all emotion, each word a tiny shard of ice.

“Again. It’s never enough.” The words, a chilling premonition of the battles for recognition and fairness that lay ahead, not just for her, but for him too.

“It should have been,” he said fiercely, taking a step closer, then another, drawn by an invisible current, an overwhelming urge to protect her from this crushing unfairness, to absorb some of the desolation that radiated from her like a physical force. “It was robbery. Pure and simple. Everyone saw it. What you did out there… it was legendary. They were blind.”

She finally turned, and her eyes, when they met his, were filled with a bleak, desolate emptiness that terrified him. It was like looking into a void, all the light, all the fire he associated with her, extinguished.

“What’s the point of legendary, Jack?” she whispered, her voice trembling, on the verge of shattering completely.

“What’s the point of landing five quads, of pushing myself until I break, of sacrificing everything – every meal, every normal teenage moment, every ounce of myself – if it’s never, ever good enough for them? If the gold always, always goes to someone who plays it safe, who doesn't dare? Am I just… a fool for trying?” The raw honesty of her pain, the years of disciplined denial laid bare in that question, lanced through him.

“It’s not fair,” he said, the words feeling like pebbles in his mouth, so small, so useless against the magnitude of her pain.

“No,” she agreed, a single tear tracing a slow, painful path down her cheek, leaving a glistening track on her pale skin.

“It’s not fair.” Her breath hitched. “And I… I just don’t know if I can do it anymore.”

A choked, ragged sob escaped her, then another, and suddenly she was collapsing, folding in on herself as if her bones had turned to water, the carefully constructed dam of her composure finally, catastrophically, bursting.

He reacted without thinking, instinct taking over, closing the distance between them in two strides, his arms reaching for her as her knees buckled. She fell into him, a dead weight of despair, clinging to him as if he were the last solid thing in a world that had just dissolved into chaos. Her face buried itself in his chest, her body shaking with the force of her sobs, deep, ragged gasps tearing from her throat, each one a fresh wave of anguish.

He held her tightly, his hand automatically going to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft, damp hair, murmuring meaningless words of comfort – "It's okay," "I'm here," "You were robbed, Gen, you were," "Let it out" – feeling utterly helpless yet fiercely, overwhelmingly protective.

He could feel the tremors running through her slim, deceptively strong frame, the dampness of her tears soaking through his shirt, the faint, clean scent of her hair mixed with the lingering aroma of ice and effort, a scent that was suddenly, achingly, the most intimate thing he’d ever known. In that moment, holding her fragile, trembling body, feeling the raw, unfiltered weight of her heartbreak against his own chest, something shifted irrevocably, seismically, within him.

This wasn’t just his friend Genevieve anymore, the girl he’d grown up with, shared secrets with. This was the brilliant, fierce, exquisitely vulnerable woman who pushed herself beyond limits he could barely comprehend, only to be met with what felt like calculated cruelty. This was the person whose strength amazed him, whose fragility now broke his heart into a thousand pieces.

Holding her like this, feeling her cling to him for support, her fingers digging into his back as if he were her only anchor in a raging sea, ignited a fierce, possessive tenderness within him, a desperate, aching longing to shield her, to be her refuge, to somehow make the world right for her, a world that seemed determined to misunderstand her brilliance.

The lines of friendship, once so clear and comfortable, blurred, dissolved, reformed into something deeper, more complex, more intensely personal, something that made his own heart ache with a strange, new sweetness. He breathed in the scent of her, a mixture of hairspray, ice, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Genevieve, and it felt like the most precious, painful thing in the world.

Gradually, the storm passed.

Her sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, her grip on his shirt loosened slightly, though she didn’t pull away, instead nestling closer, her head heavy against his shoulder, a profound, exhausted surrender. The tremors lessened, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that seemed to emanate from her very soul. Her breathing evened out, becoming slow and deep, and he realized, with a pang of tenderness so sharp it stole his breath, that she had cried herself to sleep, utterly spent, still cradled in his arms like a child.

He moved with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, careful not to wake her as he maneuvered her towards the bed. Though surprisingly light, she felt like the most precious, fragile burden he’d ever carried.

Gently, he laid her down. Her head lolled against the pillows, limbs pliant. Even in sleep, her face was tear-stained, etched with an exhaustion and lingering sadness that made his chest ache with an almost primal, protective urge. Her blonde hair, usually so perfectly styled, lay in a tangled, soft halo around her.

A moment of hesitation, then his fingers, trembling slightly, reached out. Tenderly, he brushed a stray strand from her forehead. His touch lingered on her cool skin, a feather-light contact, sending a jolt through him—a spark of awareness, both terrifying and exhilarating.

He pulled the duvet up, tucking it gently around her shoulders. The silver medal still lay on the nightstand, a cold, indifferent sentinel. Hepicked it up, its weight surprisingly substantial in his palm, its surface cold, almost accusatory. It felt like a betrayal, a symbol of everything she’d fought for, and everything that had been so cruelly denied her. With a surge of quiet anger, he placed it back down, further away from her, almost hidden behind a water glass, out of her immediate sight.

He stood there for a long time, just watching her sleep, a tumult of emotions churning within him. Anger at the injustice of it all. And a deep, burgeoning tenderness, a yearning so new, so powerful, it almost frightened him with its intensity.

He wanted to stay, to watch over her, to be there when she woke up, to see even a flicker of a smile return to her lips. But he knew he shouldn’t. This was a private grief, a sacred space, and he was, despite the profound intimacy of the last hour, still just a friend.

Or was he?

The lines felt so blurred now, so irrevocably, wonderfully, terrifyingly altered. He was about to quietly let himself out, his heart heavy with these new, confusing emotions, when a soft knock came at the door. His heart leaped into his throat. He glanced at Genevieve, still deeply asleep, then moved to the door, opening it a crack. Richard Ashworth stood in the hallway, his usually immaculate suit slightly rumpled, his expression etched with a father’s weary concern.

“Jack?” Mr. Ashworth’s voice was low, questioning, a hint of alarm in it. “Is Genevieve… is she alright?”

Jack stepped into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind him, shielding the sleeping Genevieve from view.

“She’s asleep, sir,” he said quietly. “She was… pretty upset. Understandably. Cried herself out, I think.”

Richard’s shoulders sagged with a mixture of relief and renewed worry. He ran a hand through his silvered hair, a gesture of fatigue and stress.

“I see. I came to check on her. Dimitri said she was… distraught. Utterly.” He looked at Jack, a new, sharper understanding dawning in his eyes. “You were with her?”

“Yeah,” Jack admitted, feeling a little awkward under the older man's scrutiny, yet also strangely unwilling to hide the depth of his concern. “I just… I wanted to make sure she was okay. She needed someone.”

Richard looked past Jack, towards the closed door, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, then back at him, his gaze searching, lingering.

“Thank you, Jack. For being there for her. She… she puts on such a brave face, but this one… this one cut deep. Deeper than the others, I think. She’s a fighter, my Genevieve, always has been. Pours every ounce of herself into everything she does. And when the world doesn’t play fair…” He trailed off, shaking his head, the frustration and helplessness of a father evident in his eyes.

“She was incredible tonight, sir,” Jack said, the words heartfelt, imbued with an admiration that was almost reverent. “What she did out there… it was beyond anything I’ve ever seen. It was magic.”

A flicker of pride, fierce and profoundly paternal, lit Richard’s tired eyes.

“She is, isn’t she? A true original. The Silver Swan who dares to fly higher than anyone else, then wonders why the judges don’t appreciate the pieces.” He sighed, a heavy sound.

“This sport… it can be a cruel mistress. Much like yours, I imagine, young man.”

They stood in silence for a moment, two men from different worlds, different generations, united by their deep concern and affection for the young woman sleeping just a few feet away.

Richard Ashworth looked at the young man before him.

Jack Doohan. Mick’s boy.

He’d known him since he was a scruffy, intense youngster, all elbows and knees, radiating an almost unnerving focus even then, a seriousness that belied his tender years.

He’d watched him mature, witnessed the burgeoning raw talent, the inherent grit, that quiet, steely determination that so uncannily mirrored his own daughter’s. He’d always held a fondness for Jack, approving of the easy, genuine friendship he shared with Genevieve. They possessed an understanding of each other, those two, a connection few others could fathom, as if they spoke a silent language forged in the shared crucible of elite sport.

Seeing him now, standing almost as a sentinel outside Genevieve’s room, his young face etched with a concern so profound it seemed to add years to his frame, Richard felt a complex tapestry of emotions unfurl within him. Immense gratitude, certainly. His daughter was hurting, shattered by a familiar injustice, and this boy, this young racer carrying his own considerable burdens, had been there for her, had offered a steadfast shoulder when even her own father hadn’t known how to breach the wall of her disappointment.

But there was something more, too, a flicker of… recognition? A dawning awareness. He observed the way Jack’s gaze kept darting towards Genevieve’s closed door, the subtle, protective, almost possessive set of his shoulders, the undeniable softness that lingered in his eyes when he spoke of her. He recalled Genevieve’s face earlier, that brief, almost imperceptible glance she’d cast Jack’s way as she’d been swept from the arena, a silent, desperate plea for understanding that Richard, in his own distress, had nearly missed.

He had always known their bond was strong, unusually so for childhood friends. But tonight, witnessing the sheer depth of Jack’s devotion, the raw empathy that radiated from him, Richard found himself wondering if it wasn’t something more profound. Or at least, something precariously, beautifully, on the cusp of becoming so.

The thought, surprisingly, wasn’t unwelcome. Jack was a good lad – grounded, fiercely loyal, possessing a core of integrity and a quiet strength. These were qualities Richard valued above all else, qualities he’d always hoped Genevieve would find in a partner. And God knows, his daughter deserved some uncomplicated happiness, some unwavering affection and steadfast support in her life, a refuge from the relentless pressure and the subjective, often cruel, judgments of her demanding sport.

The kind of steadfastness that money, even Ashworth money, couldn't always buy.

He made a mental note. A quiet word with Mick Doohan was in order. Not to meddle, of course not. Just… to compare notes. Father to father.

“Well,” Richard said, his voice regaining some of its usual briskness, though his eyes remained soft, thoughtful.

“I’ll let her sleep. No point waking her now. She needs it more than anything.” He looked at Jack again, a genuine warmth, almost an approval, in his expression. “Thank you again, son. For being a good friend to her. A true friend. It means a lot. To both of us.”

“Of course, sir,” Jack said, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him at Richard’s quiet, significant approval.

“Get some rest yourself,” Richard said, clapping him briefly, firmly on the shoulder.

"You young athletes, you burn the candle at both ends and then some.” He turned to leave, then paused, his hand on the corridor wall. “Jack?”

“Sir?”

“She’ll bounce back,” Richard said, his voice firm with a father’s unwavering, absolute conviction. “She always does. She’s an Ashworth, after all. And more importantly, she’s Genevieve. Made of something… stronger than steel.”

With a final, lingering nod, he was gone, leaving Jack alone in the quiet, sterile hallway. He stood there for another moment, looking at Genevieve’s door, Richard’s words echoing in his mind. She’ll bounce back.

She always does. He knew it was true. Genevieve was the strongest, most resilient person he knew. But tonight, he’d seen the cracks in the armour, the raw, vulnerable heart beneath the champion’s fierce exterior. And the fierce, protective tenderness that had bloomed so unexpectedly, so powerfully within him, the undeniable, almost painful yearning to be the one to help her gather the pieces, to shield her, to simply be there for her, was a revelation.

It was terrifying.

The next morning, Jack woke with a jolt, the image of Genevieve’s tear-streaked, sleeping face still vivid in his mind. The emotions from the previous night – her raw, unraveled grief, his own fierce, almost primal protectiveness, that strange, new, overwhelming tenderness – churned within him, a confusing, potent cocktail that left him feeling exposed, changed. Their friendship, always a comfortable, easy, foundational thing in his life, now felt charged, fragile, infinitely precious. He was acutely, thrillingly aware of a shift, a line crossed, even if only in the silent, tumultuous landscape of his own heart.

He showered and dressed, his mind racing, replaying every moment from the hotel room. He had to see her, make sure she was okay, but the thought of facing her after last night’s profound intimacy, her complete emotional surrender in his arms, made him inexplicably nervous, his palms damp.

What did you say to someone after that? How did you act when the very ground beneath your relationship had shifted?

He found her in the hotel’s breakfast room – a grand, sun-drenched space with soaring ceilings and the quiet clinking of silver on bone china – already a whirlwind of quiet efficiency despite the lingering shadows under her eyes, a testament to her resilience. She was on her phone, speaking in rapid, low, professional tones to someone – her agent, perhaps, or a team official – her expression composed, controlled.

The champion was back, or at least, the public facade of one, meticulously reconstructed.

But Jack saw the slight tremor in her hand as she held her coffee cup, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, a subtle hollowness there, when she looked up and saw him approaching.

“Morning,” he said, trying to sound casual, normal, as if last night hadn’t happened, as if his world hadn’t tilted on its axis and shown him a new horizon.

“Jack. Morning.” Her voice was a little hoarse, a faint echo of last night's tears. She ended her call quickly, with a crisp efficiency that felt like a shield. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, fine. You?” A blatant lie. He’d barely slept, his mind replaying the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair, the soft sound of her breathing as she finally slept.

“Like a log, eventually,” she said, though the faint puffiness around her eyes, the slight bruising of fatigue, told a different story. An awkward, charged silence descended. He wanted to ask her how she was really feeling, to tell her again how magnificent she’d been, how much he admired her, but the words felt clumsy, inadequate, potentially intrusive.

The hotel lobby, with its polished marble floors and discreetly placed arrangements of hothouse flowers, was already buzzing with activity. Athletes, coaches, officials, and a surprising, unwelcome number of media. As they walked towards the exit, a pack of journalists, like wolves sensing a wounded deer, alerted to Genevieve’s presence, descended. Microphones were thrust in her face, cameras flashed, their sudden glare harsh and invasive.

“Genevieve, your reaction to last night’s result?”

“Five quads, a new world record technical score, but still silver. How do you feel about the judging? Do you feel it was fair?”

“That emotional moment in the Kiss and Cry, can you tell us what was going through your mind? Some are calling it unsportsmanlike.”

Jack instinctively moved closer to her, a half-step in front, a subtle but definite protective shield. He saw her jaw tighten, her eyes flash with a familiar, dangerous fire before she smoothed her expression into one of polite, professional composure, a mask he now knew intimately.

“I skated my best,” she said, her voice clear, steady, though Jack, attuned to her every nuance now, could hear the underlying strain, the carefully suppressed tremor.

“I pushed the boundaries, I left everything on the ice. The judges make their decisions. Of course, I’m disappointed not to win gold, but I’m proud of my performance.”

She handled the questions with a practiced, almost chilling grace, deflecting the more pointed, baiting inquiries about the judging, refusing to be drawn into controversy. But Jack saw the effort it cost her, the way her fingers were clenched so tightly around the strap of her impeccably crafted, logo-free leather handbag that her knuckles were white.

He wanted to pull her away, to snarl at them to leave her alone, to physically stand between her and their relentless questioning. But this was her world, her battle, and he knew she had to fight it her own way. His role, he was beginning to understand, was to be her anchor, not her sword.

Later that day, before his own flight back to his F3 team base, he found her staring out the window of the exclusive airport lounge, a distant, preoccupied look on her face, the earlier composure fraying slightly at the edges. The initial media storm had subsided, but the articles were already online, headlines dissecting her performance, her emotional reaction, often with a cruel lack of understanding.

"ASHWORTH'S AGONY," one blared.

"QUAD QUEEN DENIED GOLD AGAIN: A MELTDOWN ON ICE?" screamed another.

Many included a still frame from the broadcast – her face contorted in that moment of raw grief in the Kiss and Cry. It made Jack’s blood boil with a cold fury.

He sat down beside her, their shoulders almost touching.

“Don’t read that rubbish,” he said quietly, his voice rough with an anger he didn’t try to suppress.

She jumped slightly, startled from her reverie. “Oh. Hey.” She offered a weak, tired smile. “Hard to avoid it. It’s everywhere.”

“They don’t get it,” he said, his voice low and intense. “They don’t see what it takes, what you put into it, the sheer guts it requires. They just want the drama, the tears.”

Genevieve sighed, a long, weary exhalation, turning to look at him. There were new lines of strain around her eyes, a subtle hardening to her gaze.

“It’s part of the game, Jack. You know that. High stakes, high emotions… it sells.” There was a weariness in her voice that hadn’t been there before, a new layer of cynicism that pained him to hear.

“It’s still not right,” he insisted, stubbornly.

He wanted to make it right for her, to somehow erase the pain, the unfairness, the public dissection of her private anguish. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach for her hand, to intertwine his fingers with hers, to offer some tangible comfort, but he hesitated. The memory of holding her last night, the profound intimacy of it, was too vivid, too potent. The lines had blurred, and he didn't know how to navigate this new, uncharted terrain between them.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” he suggested abruptly, desperate to change the atmosphere, to see her smile again, a real smile, to chase away the shadows from her eyes.

“This airport lounge is depressing. We’ve got a couple of hours. We could… I don’t know… find the most ridiculous, overpriced tourist trap in this city and laugh at it until we forget all this crap?”

She looked at him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then a slow, tentative smile, the first genuine one he’d seen all day, began to spread across her face, chasing away some of the shadows, warming the blue of her eyes.

“The most ridiculous tourist trap?” she repeated, a hint of her old sparkle, her fighting spirit, returning. “You’re on, Doohan. But you’re buying the tacky, overpriced souvenirs. All of them.”

And for a few precious hours, they did just that.

They found a bizarre museum dedicated to something Jack couldn’t quite understand, bought ludicrously oversized novelty hats that made them look certifiable, and ate questionable street food from a vendor who winked conspiratorially, laughing until their sides ached and tears – this time, tears of mirth – streamed down their faces. He saw the tension slowly ease from her shoulders, the haunted look in her eyes recede, replaced by a familiar, mischievous glint.

He focused all his energy on making her laugh, on distracting her, on creating a small, silly, sacred bubble of normalcy in the midst of her very public heartbreak. He was intensely, constantly aware of her: of the way her hair caught the light when she threw her head back to laugh, of the brush of her arm against his as they navigated crowded streets, of the shared glances that lingered a fraction of a second too long, charged with unspoken words.

The yearning he felt was a constant, powerful thrum beneath the surface of their banter, a new, exhilarating, terrifying current in the deep river of their friendship.

He didn’t know what it meant, or where it was going, but as he watched Genevieve playfully try on a pair of enormous, glitter-encrusted sunglasses, her genuine, unrestrained laughter echoing in the crowded marketplace, a sound that felt like sunshine after a storm, he knew one thing with absolute, heart-stopping certainty: his world had changed. And Genevieve Ashworth, in all her fierce, fragile, brilliant complexity, was, more than ever, at the very vibrant, beating heart of it. Their laughter, a fragile melody against the city’s hum, felt like a promise, a defiant spark against the encroaching shadows of their respective worlds.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this day, born of her despair and their shared escape, was more than just a fleeting comfort; it was a quiet prelude, the first note in a far more complex, demanding symphony yet to be composed, a symphony that would require all their strength, all their trust, and every ounce of the unspoken thing that now bound them together.

The echoes of her pain, and his desperate need to soothe it, would resonate long after the city faded behind them, shaping battles neither could yet foresee.

Next chapter

[accio-victuuri]

The male protagonist Zang Hai plans revenge and announces the release date of the drama "It's hard to distinguish between friend and foe"

"The Legend of Zang Hai" mainly tells the story of Zhinu, the son of Kuai Duo, the director of the Imperial Observatory of the Yong Dynasty, who was murdered overnight. With a deep hatred, he returned to the capital ten years later under the pseudonym Zang Hai (played by Xiao Zhan); with his geomancy and strategic skills, he gained a firm foothold in the court, rose step by step, and finally got his injustice redressed. In the process of laying out a revenge plan, exploring the truth, and pursuing fairness and justice, he outsmarted the treacherous and the evil, but also experienced the torture and struggle of human nature; he kept stirring up the situation, but also realized that he was stepping into an unknown conspiracy crisis step by step.

The official trailer features a clear theme of revenge. with a rhythm full of tension. In order to realize his revenge plan, the male protagonist learns skills, breaks off his emotions, and seals his heart when he is in the rivers and lakes; when he is in the court, he carefully plans, rectifies the government, and saves the people. At the same time, although the official trailer is only a little over one minute long, it is enough to glimpse the careful conception and artistic presentation of the production level of the play in terms of art setting, costumes and props, photography techniques, lens language, light and shadow colors, action design, and music and sound effects. Just like the unique and delicate aesthetic background and the grand and restrained overall style of the whole play, it complements the ups and downs of the plot, creating a gripping suspense atmosphere that makes people immersed in it.

As a fictional original story, "Legend of Zang Hai" takes revenge as the main line in an imaginary historical background. It shows the growth and transformation process of Zang Hai step by step in an atmosphere full of suspense, portrays his contradictory and complex personality, and creates a character who seems to be cold and arrogant, relying on his talent, and deep-minded, but is actually kind , just, and sticks to his original intention, with a kind and sad background. In terms of character creation and plot setting, the whole play is no longer limited to traditional court disputes and family struggles, but expands the perspective to a deeper level of human nature exploration and the profound proposition of family, country and the world, hoping to give the audience more thinking and inspiration.

"Legend of Zang Hai" is also different from the popular style of dramas in the current market, but follows the traditional narrative style and shooting techniques of TV dramas. The advancement of the plot does not deliberately pursue the blind speeding up the rhythm to satisfy the emotional catharsis of some viewers, but always adheres to the creative concept of realism, using exquisite lens language, and showing the whole process of the male protagonist from encountering the extermination of the family, hiding his name, learning from a master, returning to the capital, planning revenge, to redressing his grievances and protecting his country, as well as the contradictions and entanglements of the male protagonist on the road of revenge, growth and transformation until he gets what he wants. The belief in revenge is just a shell that wraps him. The unchanging innocent heart and the firm belief in punishing evil and promoting good are the most valuable spiritual core of Zang Hai.

[orphiclovers]

I wanna talk about rape/SA in Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint err so that's what this post is about!

cw: discussion of rape depiction in media ( it's exactly as graphic as orv makes it so if you read it and were fine this post is probably okay too) ; also various homophobic/transphobic/misogynistic tropes related to SA. let's fucking go

rape is referenced in orv shockingly often early on.

1. there is the jung heewon backstory - the most neutral and nonproblematic of the depictions of SA but its still pretty.... It's certainly a choice to make your female character's whole premise be "ordinary" gangrape victim (picked up and carried to safety by our Male Protagonist of course) growing into an empowered and strong and badass sword woman with a strong sense of injustice who uses her powers and experience to kill all evil abusers going forward. classic weak-to-strong storyline. "crouching figure" evolves into "judge of evil".

making your female character go through rape AS the start of her arc will always be a tough premise that could be easy to fuck up and make offensive, but it's not like you CAN'T write a story like that and have it still be good. aside from a couple of things, I feel like her character was handled respectfully overall in regards to the rape backstory, perhaps because it's non explicit and basically never brought up again later. mostly approved👍 7.5/10

2. then there's the human slave farms/forced gangrape and murder livestreaming operations, one of which Kim Dokja's old buddy from Minosoft ran (lol) and Han Sooyoung ends up in. her clothes are ripped to the point her underwear is exposed (which is Sexual Assault obviously) and the threat of imminent rape is explicit. once again kim dokja shows up and rescues her heroically, but this moment is subverted when we learn she was just pretending to be unconscious in preparation to strike and kill and everyone so didn't "need" rescuing at all. I guess there's technically nothing to criticize here, its just weirdly more explicit than jung heewon's assault and feels more unnecessary and random. 5/10

3. there is Nirvana who plays into the tired old tropes of Gender Ambiguous/crossdressing men are Crazy Sexual Predators AND Homosexuals are Preying On Straight Men. sigh. These are really bigoted and untrue homophobic ideas that have been used in media to spread bigotry for decades. including a caricature of a queer person like this so thoughtlessly and uncritically sucks and actively harms the queer community bc homophobes STILL use these same long disproven talking points to discriminate against transgender women and drag queens.

especially for a work that is so concerned with deconstructing tropes and storytelling and what it means to write fiction and how it affects reality, they should really know better. ESPECIALLY if the authors plan to gain most of their profit from their overwhelmingly young queer readers that they gained by doing agressive queerbaiting (dont argue you know its true), its just the bare minimum to think it through if youre not playing into really old homophobic shit. anyway.

this particular example is really annoying because I would LOVE nirvana's character otherwise, but this really ruins him and leaves the story A HUNDERED TIMES WORSE OFF wjy did tjey have to write him like this UGH -1000/10. explode

in summary its a really mixed bag of depictions, some worse and some better. there's actually way more examples I want to talk about but that's gonna go in part two of this post eventually

[nice-and-accurate-fictions]

My favourite human AUs

What it says on the tin. These are just the ones I loved the most.

Happiness, More Or Less by mllekurtz (TheKnittingJedi). Rated M, 21k. P. May 20.

If you read only one story out of this list, make it this one. This human AU moved me so very much I cried. Crowley moves into his new flat in Soho, only to discover the flat in haunted by the ghost of the owner of the bookshop downstairs. I won't tell anything else about the plot other than it does have a very sweet happy ending, and it gets there via a rollercoaster of emotions. This is really one of those fictions that leave me in awe of the fandom's talent and creativity. Read it, read it, read it!

Mutual Aid, by malicegeres. Rated T, 17k. P. Aug 19.

Oh, I can't even begin to tell you how much I loved this fiction. Brought me back home, to my chosen family, to when another world was possible (if only). Human AU. Crowley is a militant anarchist, Aziraphale is the owner of a radical bookshop. Tenderness, humour, learning to trust, fighting against injustice, this fiction has it all. I finished reading this fiction on the anniversary of a special day for my home country, a day the memory of which we are at high risk of losing, and I guess this also added to my love and gratefulness for it. We need more fics like this one.

The Anon Before Christmas, by foolishlovers. Rated E, 66k. P. Mar 24.

Ah. Where to begin. Every now and then, you read a fiction that just makes you feel at home. Makes you feel like you’re in safe hands. Like you’re in for a real treat. This absolute gem has very quickly become my favourite human AU. For several reasons.  The characterisation of the two main characters is absolutely spot on. I could hear Crowley talking in DT’s Crowley voice and see him moving in DT’s Crowley way, and I could hear Aziraphale talking in MS’s Aziraphale voice and see him moving in MS’s Aziraphale way. The pace of the development of their relationship from enemies to lovers is just perfect. It’s told from Crowley’s POV and you can see how his perspective changes as the story progresses, but the writer is so good that Aziraphale’s change of perspective shows perfectly through Crowley’s POV too. The array of side characters is so good that it actually pains me to call them side characters. I wrote in one of my comments to the fiction that I will forever adore this story’s Bee, and I meant it, but Newt and Ana are equally fantastic (and I loved the other cameos too!). Also, and this is especially important to me, this story is as much a love story between Crowley and Aziraphale as it is a story of true friendship among all the characters. They look after each other, they have each other’s back, they support each other. I am so lucky and privileged to be able to see myself represented in that aspect of the story. Last but not least, this fiction doesn't overstay its welcome one bit. You are happy about how everyone ended up, but still could read more. It’s like you are part of the gang and want to know what your friends are up to. Everything in this story was perfect. I realise I haven’t mentioned what the plot is about, but hopefully by now you might want to find out for yourself!

Keep Digging, by Appleseeds. Rated T, 7k. P. Jan 24.

Human AU. Crowley and Aziraphale work in the same office and Crowley is trying to gather the courage to ask Aziraphale out, only to get cold feet at the last moment. In order to try and save his face, he needs to do what the title says. I howled with laughter. Just put down whatever you’re doing and go read this right now. It’s unbelievably hilarious.

Or Be Nice, by charlottemadison. Rated E, 151 k. P. Jun 22.

I think this enemies to lovers, neighbours AU needs no introduction. If it does, drop everything you are doing and go and read it. 

[hightowerz]

having one faction being written as only heroic and awesome and the other being written as only villainous and awful negates the original message of grrm’s original work, btw. it’s kind of interesting to see how these characters are written (the greens being a dysfunctional family who don’t seem to like each other vs the blacks being given positive traits that belong to the greens in the books, or simply not writing things if the source material that could make the blacks seem not heroic) and how fans take this very seriously. it’s partly a result of the marketing strategy for season two, the whole “everyone much choose a side thing” because that’s… not the point of this war, at all. but it’s also the writing and it’s very deliberately very obviously pro targaryen, especially with the whole “aegon conquered westeros for the good of the world” thing they have going on. which is an incredibly strange take. i think it’s really telling when you compare how the tragedies are written. rhaenyra’s loss of her children is obviously and rightfully tragic. her journey in episode one of season two was so tragic and so beautiful because you don’t hear her speak until the end of the episode, when she finally realizes her son is gone. but you also have her riding a dragon immediately after giving birth to her stillborn daughter, who is never mentioned again, if i recall correctly, and that doesn’t seem… possible. but with the greens, you have a very horrific and traumatic event via the brutal murder of jaehaerys being reduced to two silly men committing a crime, when that crime was the beheading of, like, a five year old. you then have his grandmother having sex while this is happening, in an attempt to blame her for it, which is genuinely so infuriating. idk why i made this post, i saw that season two wasn’t even nominated for best television drama and i was just like. yeah i know that’s right. you cannot expect an show adaptation of a very well-known series from a very well-known author to do well when you completely ignore the original source material and then claim your interpretation is better or the truth. it’s simply insisting on itself and it’s simply pissing on the tragedy of the dance of the dragons and it’s simply exhausting.

[sga-owns-my-soul]

IT SO IS!!!!!!!!

the last scene of sga on the balcony is bullshit

i said it

[spacecasehobbit]

Fighting oppression isn't the same thing as being the oppresser = why Gi-hun is even more of a hero in S2 of Squid Game than he was in S1. Why the Front Man's attempt at the end of S2 to paint the deaths of those in Gi-hun's failed rebellion as Gi-hun's fault in any meaningful way is exactly the kind of manipulative propaganda used to keep people "in their place," aka ensure than those in power stay in power while regular people who just want to survive wind up drowning instead in hopelessness, despair, and misdirected guilt.

In S1, Gi-hun is one of those many regular, desperate people just trying to survive. He fights his way to the top of a bunch of other scared and desperate people also just trying to survive, while the rich and powerful people who set up the games in the first place watch on and laugh at the suffering they've caused.

In S2, Gi-hun knows who the real villains are: those rich and powerful people sitting at the top, orchestrating everything while maintaining their wealth and power on the backs of the scared, desperate poor people they grind down and exploit. Gi-hun gives people a real choice on whether or not to fight with him against the true evil. He outlines his plan, he gives his allies the facts that he knows, and he asks people to fight with him without demanding that they do. He also stops people on his side from killing even the worst of their fellow players, because the all the players are scared, desperate people drowning in debt; many of the people in that room have at some point made awful choices in a desperate bid to survive insurmountable odds. Even for the really shit people in that room, however, the players are not the ones with real power to maintain the system that brought most of them to the point where they'd even enter these games in the first place.

Meanwhile, the games pretend to give players a "choice," yet they actively recruit from the very people their own system has ground down to their lowest points, have the players sign forms in which the first two clauses are that everyone there has no choice but to play the games and will be killed if they refuse, and then claim there is anything fair or any further meaningful individual choice in allowing a majority vote to keep everyone trapped in a system where most of them will be explicitly murdered for a single survivor's profit.

Gi-hun's rebellion failed, but responsibility for the deaths that resulted is still squarely on the same shoulders as the rest of the deaths in those games: the VIPs, the Front Man, and all the pink suited workers and soldiers who chose to work with the system that was actively designed to kill off every player but one singular 'winner' the entire time, anyway.

[nah-my-mom-said-no]

Manglobe will not be forgotten. That studio cooked WAYY TOOO hard

[tarraxahum]

This was gonna be a reply to a reply but I thought maybe I should just make my own post. Yes this is about Vi again.

It's no secret that "Vi should've fought for Zaun" and the expectation of her being Vander's prodigy and feeling like the plot dropped the ball on her in that regard and the betrayal at the fact that she's living comfortably in Piltover now are. Frequent sentiments in the fandom. Which I get, but also I feel that this line of expectations is. Diverging from who Vi actually is by the end and what she was realistically capable of.

Vi in season 2 is basically running on fumes and because she has no other options. It is a well known thing in irl activist spaces that to participate in any kind of fight for justice you need to take care of yourself, otherwise you won't have the energy to be any kind of useful to your community. Ekko also says this - "It's not enough to give people what they need to survive, you have to give them what they need to live". Vi has been surviving and not living in any shape or form for years, she's exhausted and broken in places. That's no mental state to fight for Zaun or make any kinda change. I think it's extremely realistic and human and hardly a flaw of writing or the character if by the end the only thing she was able to do was collapse into the safety and peace she was offered for the first time in forever (aka Caitlyn). It's clear that in her last scene she's still recovering mentally - Cait seems to be excited to have any sign of life (singing) from her at all, and the "Are you still in this fight?" question is very loaded. (But it's indicated that Vi is very much still in the fight, so? It's really anyone's guess what she'll do once she's healed and remembers how to live. And don't bring up LoL's Vi brutality thing, it's clear they're different characters).

I think in wanting to see Vi stand up for Zaun or be Vander's prodigy we often deny her the flaw of being a breakable human and forget just how much she's held together by duct tape. Just because she was full of this 'fuck Piltover' fire as a kid doesn't mean she is still capable of matching that energy. Sometimes after lots of trauma humans grow up into tired adults who just want to sit down and feel safe regardless of where it happens and how questionable it might look (re: living in Piltover). Not to mention, that even as a child Vi's main reason for fuming at the Topside was wanting safety for her family and herself. Well, now she's all out of family, she's estranged from the community of Zaun thanks to being in prison for 7 years and Silco changing the place so much, and the only person who's offering her safety and not more fighting (which she's exhausted and thoroughly burnt out from!) is Caitlyn, so. How is where she ended up any kind of surprising or a failure of her writing/character?

Yes, a lot of people wanted a revolutionary, no, Vi isn't one. Dare I say, never really was one. At her lowest, when she's got no one left to protect, she's not trying to fill in that void by taking on protecting Zaun and becoming a vigilante or something, no, she spirals. That is not something on her radar, that's not something she's visibly cut out to do, she cares so so much but on a smaller scale. Even the whole shimmer factory debacle was less about Zaun and more about her desire to hurt Silco personally for what he'd done to her family. If Jinx agreed to run away with her back at the tea party Vi would ditch the entirety of Zaun (potentially leaving it to Silco forever since he's still alive at that point) in a heartbeat to keep her sister and save Cait in one move. She puts on an enforcer uniform BECAUSE she cares for Jinx (through convincing herself that at the very least she should take her out of her misery herself rather than leaving it to people who don't care, yes) and Cait both.

Perhaps a hot take, but not becoming a leader despite being good at taking hits to the head and caring about people in general and being a daughter of one does not make Vi a badly written character or a bad person. It just makes her a person. And a character whose arc culminated in choosing herself. And choosing yourself sometimes means leaving the fight to others (perhaps temporarily, considering the final dialogue). And that's okay.

Arcane is tragedy about flawed people, not a feel-good story about a successful revolution and rich people paying for their crap, and it was never going to be. Ergo one of our main character isn't an upcoming hero in shining armor who was allegedly robbed of her potential. She's just a broken young woman who barely knows how to keep her own little life together and her biggest victory by the end is allowing herself to take a breath and live for once. Yes, while her home down there is still in shambles. Yes, that sounds selfish. For some people a bit of selfishness is the greatest thing they can ever learn for themselves.

[epickiya722]

"Only Yuji influenced Sukuna's decision to choose a different path!"

"Only Uraume influenced Sukuna!"

Maybe a hot take! Maybe an unpopular opinion, I don't know but...

As someone whose favorite character is Yuji and also likes Uraume, like that's my ice icon right there, I think it's absurd to think that only one of them played a part in Sukuna's decision in the afterlife to choose a different path, let alone argue over it.

I say that they both had influence over Sukuna's decision for a different path.

[lonestardust]

carlos' eyes in the meeting room........ carlos' eyes at the hospital..... at the IC room..... his guts are boiling with hot rage!!! this very stubborn hope. it's in the clench of his jaw since the funeral. the lump in his throat that he swallows back every time because that's how the gut-wrenching vestige of murder that hasn't received its justice yet feels like."i see it now. the eyes.." because that's the glimpse of the resolute unswerving gabriel in him that echos 'if there are tears to weep we do it when the time comes, not before'. you grief but you don't get defeated when there is still work to do in order to rest in that grief. and GODDD carlos is so righteously resolved about getting there. i want him so so bad to solve the case. finally bring that retribution and avenge his family and himself. he's been in the waxing and waning throes for too long he only deserves the purgation and finality of it more than anything!!!!!

because no way all of this relentless endeavour and sharp stubborn wit would culminate to anything but cracking it. even storytelling wise that would be disheartening not to bring it to its desired ends. because imagine. all this time carlos was so right about the rangers from the start. then he looped in. was kept so close under their wing. and then he now realises that he wasn't really truly '''stuck''' but he was trapped and misled instead and it's all tumbling down now over their heads and he's seeing through the cracks. finally the darkness makes sense and he can move in action through the pinnacle and into the resolution!!!

[sameteeth]

in s3ep2, eleanor tells mrs. hudson she doesnt come from privilege, which mrs. hudson immediately denies. but i think its SOOO telling of eleanor's character! she sees herself as a woman in a world full of men, which she is, but she completely ignores the class and racial divides she obviously benefits from. she claims she has no privilege to mrs. hudson, who comes from no money and works as a chambermaid to woodes rodgers, leaving behind her beloved children to make sure eleanor has clean clothes and to empty her chamberpot. eleanor had power on nassau, power she wielded for her own benefit and to the severe detriment of others. obviously she experienced misogyny, but she was never forced into poverty, never forced into sex work, never forced into service of any kind, because her father was wealthy and she was born into a higher class. her experiences of misogyny and oppression are vastly different than mrs. hudson's. but for her to tell a chambermaid she experienced no privilege? it's laughably untrue. eleanor oversaw and directly profitted from the trade of hundreds if not thousands of slaves on nassau, was raised by "chattel property of the guthrie estate" mr. scott, who is never even given a name in his own tongue (on screen, at least), never showed kindness to anyone but those who put money in her pocket because she was born with that money and that trade empire already in the guthrie name. she had to fight to get it, and fight she did, but the fact that those things were so close to her reach just by virtue of the circumstances of her birth? that's privilege, whether or not she sees it that way

[blimbo-buddy]

Using what’s considered Bad/Mediocre and Amazing artwork/stories very loosely here since it’ll really just depend from person to person

[escxelle]

i saw an article the other day that had the headline along the lines of 'baldur's gate 3 fans are sad to hear that you there is no lord gortash romance plot' and i'm usually a very open-minded person but... maybe i will second guess the bg3 fans in question...

i was geniunely scared of him when i first had a conversation with him in act 3... he's a creepy, slimey, horrible, disgusting man and yes i know he's fictional but his whole presence just made me nervous, sick even. i can't see why anyone would like him let alone want to romance him...

he's a fantastic villain yes. his actor (idk who he is sorry - please tell me!!) did a wonderful performance, the way that he's written and the story-telling is insanely good but it's because of that excellent performance from the devs, the actor and writers that it just feels too real...

of course, if you're doing an evil playthrough then it makes sense to be nice to him and whatnot but do you really have to romance him too? :/ there was a reason why the game didn't come out with a gortash romance and there's a reason why the devs still aren't putting one in, maybe think about the reasons behind that other than "but he's hot" or something??

[jewishcissiekj]

when i think about Lilandra this one tweet is at the forefront of my mind. at the end of the day girl is an imperialist

[transrevolutions]

as much as I can appreciate the interpretation of enjolras as being a naturally kinda quiet and calm guy, I tend to prefer the idea that he had to teach himself to be charming. he isn't necessarily cruel by nature, but he's intense. the force of his passion can scare even his closest allies as well as his enemies so he learns to file the edge of his knife sharper and smaller and sharper and smaller until he can hide it in a bouquet of flowers.