#people having powers is nothing new to her

[sweetandsourspam]

held the broom, too prickly in my hand. old, old broom. had to buy a new one. maybe, maybe. if master gives me money, I will buy one tomorrow.

my three fingers tight around the pole. i had to clean, master says so. i have to clean because today is the day the hero dies. he told me nights ago of his plan, good plan, best plan. he is going to kill the hero, the man who walks like he is a god. master says, there are no gods. i do not know, I do not know. i live in the castle. i clean the castle. that is what I do.

I sweep, sweeps the floor, the stairs. i start up, go down. its better that way, master says, faster. i listen, I listens. i start up, where he has his device. the device that will kill the hero. he will be electrocuted, says master. electrocuted and dead, tonight. oh, tonight! how glorious. master has been waiting for a chance to kill him, and tonight is the night.

I sweeps the stairs. nasty, dusty stairs. too many. but I work. it is sundown, I must hurry. hurry because master is pacing upstairs, awaiting. the hero will come, he says, because he has taken something precious from him. i laugh when he laughs, but do not know what is funny. it is funny, master says, because he has a weakness. do not know why its funny, but it's funny. i sweep.

the night goes on. i hear rumbling, the sun hero is near. i seen him shoot light from his hands. mage, mage! master says no, he is not like him, he is different. bad and different. good, good person. he must die. he stands in the way of master's plan to take the crown. what crown, what crown! i know nothing, but I know master is smart and will do it.

oh, stain. on the stairs. not good. everything has to be perfect. master said nothing about mops, but I do. a stain will ruin everything. it will be quick, fast. i know how to do this, quick quicks. i set broom down, walk to my closets. filled with dusters, brooms, rakes, and mops. easy job, too easy. i grab a bucket, fill halfway with water and soap. easy, the stain will be gone soon.

i hear steps, but i have to clean. the hero knows me, knows I do the cleaning. he will not bother me, he never does. if the hero flew, he would have zipped past me, but he does not. he walks.

"wet, wet!"

"hello, odo," says the hero. he is dressed in tunic, hair golden even in the dark. i am mopping, I turn my back.

"wet!"

"there is a mob behind me."

i groans, loud and wailing. mob means people, and people means messes. the castle is already hard to clean, and I am one goblin. my legs hurt and there are too many stairs. too many stairs and too many people who will make a mess! stupid hero!

"It would be wise if the Dark Lord surrenders."

I cannot tell master what to do. i put my mop against the wall.

"Pass, wretched hero, pass!"

"Thank you, odo. I'm sorry, but I must put a stop to whatever devious plan he has constructed now."

"Pass, pass!"

i can hear the crowd climbing up the stairs, heavy steps. they are here to stop master, but I do not intervene. i never do. i clean, I cleans, and then I wait until they leave to begin again. the hero nods at me, one time. he thinks we are friends. we are not. i glower at him, at everyone coming up the stairs.

i was staring at the crowd coming up that I missed it, but everyone stopped in shock. the hero, he does not fly, he walks. he is a man, a real man, but he has powers. but he is a man. his tunic got caught in a splint of my broom. it goes up, up and crosses his ankle. he stumbles up the step, tries to pry the broom away from his feet, but it breaks. he is a strong man. it breaks, and he stumbles again, this time to the side. the crowd gasps. he holds himself up, but the mop, in a disarray, falls and pokes his back. he tried to straighten up, but perhaps the mop in his back scared him, and he went forward again. too forward.

the is no rails in the spiral staircase. i am three feet, small, small. it is hard to walk if you are taller, dizzying. master goes up easy, he's lived here too long. but the hero, he only comes in to stop master. he is not used to the stairs. he stumbles too forward, tries to grab something, and falls. the spiral staircase, filled with his mob, watch as the hero falls down the space, the void. everyone watches, jaws slacked, as he keeps going, going, going, until the thud resonates between the walls.

i grab my broken broom, shouting. he brokes it! he brokes it when I was not finished. the castle would not be clean in time for master's plan, his great plan. I pick up my mop, almost falling into the same void. I shout again.

"Rotten, stupid hero! Rotten, ugly hero! My brooms! My mops!"

"is he dead?" Someone asked.

Murmurs, murmurs. Then they panic, shouting. they are scrambling to leave.

"The Dark Lord!" someone shouts, and their screams are louder. I shout at them.

they are fast, but safe, they go down, downs. until their steps sound far away.

master is at the top of the stars, eyes hard. "Odo," he begins. "Where is he?"

"Bottom, bottoms!"

"Is he alive?"

I looks down. there are people around the hero, picking him up. there is a dark stain around him, too much blood. no broom, but I have mop.

"The hero is dead," someone shouts from below. why, why. i do not know. I scrub the stain on the stairs.

"Odo, you bumbling baffoon!" master shouts. he is rushing down the steps. he is used to them, knows which one is shorter than the others. he does not trip. "You killed him!"

"no, nos! no, master. he fell," I says. master is fast, upon me. his hand raised to hit, i drop my mop. "master, no! honest, honest. he tripped! stupid, stupid hero! he was not looking down! he trips and he fells. he did not look before he stepped! i swears!'

master lowers his hand. he is shaking with anger, eyes red. he wanted to be the one to kill the hero, I knows. i knows because it is all he says.

"Perhaps this is not the way the prophecy fortold," master says. "But, it will do. Odo, you degenerate, deformed. bastard. Come with me," he turned. "We must start the next phase of my plan."

I look at my mop, my broken broom. I need to clean, cleans the blood and the stain on the stairs. i have to cleans, but master yells at me to follow him.

I hobble up the stairs, legs hurting.

"yes, masters. yes. let's finish the plan," I says. it makes master laugh, and I do too, though I do not know why it is funny.

You are a lowly goblin with a mop that accidentally triggers a series of impossible rue goldberg interactions that ends with the demise of the fabled hero of light in the most anti-climatic way possible. Both the hero's party and the evil lord stand in shocked silence.

[prythianpages]

Come Back To Me | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Experiencing some pregnancy complications, Azriel is left with no choice but to seek out Eris for help.

a/n: This is pt 10 and a little under 4.5K words. It's nearly 1am where I live but I couldn't help myself & needed to finish this lol.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, mentions of high risk pregnancy, things get a little tense between Eris and Az

Shadows clouded around Eris, blurring his vision and muffling his hearing. Even his keen sense of smell was dulled as Azriel’s shadows coiled around him further. It infuriated him—the lengths the shadowsinger was going to protect your location from him. Your mate.

Azriel had made certain there would be no trail for Eris to follow after this. Not scent, not sound. Not even magic as Azriel had forced him into a bargain, the ink etched onto his arm fresh and burning. Azriel would bring him to you to aid in your situation, but only under strict conditions: Eris would remain only for as long as Azriel allowed and under no circumstance would he be permitted to take you back with him.

Two of the shadows bound themselves around his wrists like shackles, pulsing faintly. As if the bargain was not enough for Azriel. It didn’t matter. His shadows were not enough to suppress the power simmering just beneath his skin. Eris could have fought against the makeshift shackles, easily burning the dark tendrils away. He didn’t though. If the shadows hadn’t picked up on it, he knew it was smarter to let Azriel think they could actually suppress his power.

When the shadows blinding his sight finally lifted from his eyes, Eris found himself standing in a hallway. The first thing he saw was an older fae woman approaching. She wore plain robes, the symbol of a healer embroidered in silver thread on her sleeve. Her gaze landed on Azriel first, the two of them exchanging a look.

Eris’s patience frayed with each second of silence. Azriel had told him almost nothing—only that it urgently concerned you and the baby. And his mind had done the rest, conjuring horrors, each one worse than the last.

“Where is she?” 

The healer didn’t flinch. She must have heard that tone countless times in her line of work. Her eyes swept over him, calm and assessing. “You must be the father,” she replied simply.

The word hit him like a blow. Father. He was going to be a father. A title he didn’t think he would acquire so soon. Though, this wasn’t the reason why he hesitated to answer.

 It was what him claiming that title meant.

To say the words out loud was to admit a truth that carried weight and danger. It meant putting you and the baby in the crosshairs of enemies who would use them against him. He could only put his trust in Azriel to have picked a discreet and trustworthy healer, even though the paranoia in him was screaming not to trust anyone.

There were very few people Eris trusted and Azriel was not one of them. Not even close. But the way Azriel had held you before he took you away, the unquestionable look in his eyes when he showed up in Autumn to bear the bad news…had the Shadowsinger fallen for you?

Eris couldn’t blame him. You were a precious gem. One he failed to treasure and hold onto as he should’ve. Not because he stopped caring but because he found himself caring too damn much.

And now, he has lost you.

Or as he would rather say, he was losing you. He only had himself to blame, realizing the grave mistake he had made. He would never forgive himself for this, for the way he broke you. He’d give anything to go back, to have been brave enough to say those three words back.

The past was done, and now, he had to fight as he was not ready to admit defeat quite yet. Because even if he’d already shattered whatever future you might’ve had, he had to keep trying with all his might. You meant too much for him not to fight for you back. Especially when the one he was fighting against was Azriel—that Illyrian bastard. 

He could lose you and he would have to live with that, if it’s what you wanted. But Eris could not lose you to him.

“I am,” he finally said quietly. He felt as though his throat was closing. His tone was much less demanding when he spoke next. “Who are you?”

The older woman’s lips curved slightly in a polite greeting. “I’m the healer tending to y/n,” she confirmed. “You can call me Madja.”

His eyes flicked to Azriel, who he had no qualms on restraining his emotion on. So he directed all his anger and frustration to the shadowsinger instead. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

It was Madja who answered, her tone somewhat somber. “Come and see for yourself.”

She moved to the door, painfully slow, and Eris nearly shoved it open himself. His chest ached, heart thudding as he stepped into the room.

The sight stole the breath from his lungs.

The room was warm—too warm— and it seemed, all the heat was coming from you. You were submerged in a porcelain bath that stood out like a sore thumb in the room. Barely conscious, your head rested on a pillow cradled in the lap of a woman, who looked similar in appearance to Azriel.

“‘S’hot…” you murmured, moaning in discomfort.

Eris took a step forward instinctively. The shadows binding his wrists tightened. His stomach twisted as he looked you over.  Your skin was flushed and your breathing shallow. You didn’t look good, you looked….

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. 

The woman behind you lifted a bucket, pouring ice into the tub. He watched as your body slackened with relief and despite the warning of the shadows, he took another step toward you.

That’s when he saw it. 

It wasn't the clearest view, the rippling of water and ice blurring your body. But there was no denying the mottled, angry marks that were spread across your stomach. You were hurt…and the baby…?

“Your fire gremlin is burning her from the inside,” Azriel snarled, venom lacing each word.

“Azriel!” The woman at your side immediately reprimanded.

Eris’s vision tunneled and flames erupted at his fingertips. The shadows at his wrists let out a sharp hiss, immediately fluttering back to their master. So much for pretending. That bastard—that bastard—had the audacity to call his child a gremlin? 

Eris’s head turned, amber eyes blazing as they locked onto the shadowsinger.

But Azriel didn’t flinch as the shadows around his wrist had. If anything, he took a step closer toward Eris. There was a challenge in his stance, his wings flaring just enough.

Madja stepped between them, diffusing the spark before it could become a wildfire. “At first, I thought it was a fever. I tried everything I could think of. The ice baths help… but only temporarily,” her voice was tired, her gaze lowering to Eris’s burning hand. “It seems your child has inherited the fire in your blood. Y/N is being burned from within.”

Burned. By their child.

Eris’s eyes hadn’t moved at all from Azriel’s.  “How long?”

Azriel hesitated, and that hesitation said more than words ever could. His normally unreadable expression cracked, guilt seeping through the breaks. “Three days.”

Three days. Eris’s rage detonated. Three fucking days. Fire burst from his hands now, licking up his forearms in spiraling flares of molten gold and red.

“You waited that long to come for me?”

Azriel’s guilt twisted swiftly into fury. His eyes darkened as he took another step forward. The two males were no more than a foot apart. “Can you blame me?” he shot back, not wincing when he could feel the dangerous heat radiating off of Eris. “All you’ve ever done is hurt her. She’s like this because of you!”

Flames surged higher around Eris while Azriel’s shadows swarmed in a frenzied storm, like a furious hive on the brink of breaking loose. The room quaked beneath the weight of barely restrained power.

“Well, it doesn’t matter who did and didn’t do what,” Madja cut through, once again diffusing the tension. “The damage is being done as we speak. Y/n is in pain and though I’ve been giving her sedatives to ease it, I don’t know how much longer her body can endure this.”

Eris’s flames went out immediately. His heart squeezed so tightly it ached. That’s why he couldn’t feel you through the bond—why your side of it had gone so still. You’d learned how to shut him out but he felt you every now and then. When your emotions were too much to bear on your own, the bond would crack open just enough. You may or may not have known it but he felt those emotions with you.

“And the baby?” Eris asked, voice barely more than a rasp.

“Restless,” Madja said grimly. “But alive for now. If we can’t find a solution, I fear the child’s life will be in danger. Y/n’s body can no longer safely support the child’s growth.”

Eris swallowed. His gaze turned to you. His mate. The one he had pushed away, trying to protect you from the dangerous politics of his court. He had thought distancing himself would save you.

Instead, all it had done was hurt you. And now, it is killing you.

His thoughts raced back to his mother. To her pregnancies, the sleepless nights she had, the ice baths to keep her from overheating. But his mother had come from a family born of fire. Just like his father. Just like him. 

You were not.

This child growing inside you was made of the same flame and now threatening to consume you. 

His hand trembled at his side, helplessness threatening to take hold. A feeling he absolutely hated. Until a thought struck him. A memory. A possibility. Maybe, just maybe...

“I think I know how to help,” he breathed.

Eris crossed the last of the distance between you, dropping to his knees beside the tub. One hand clutched the porcelain edge with white-knuckled desperation, while the other reached for you. Your skin was searing to the touch. Too hot–far too hot.  And terrifyingly wrong, because your skin had always been much cooler beneath his touch. Always.

You whimpered, wincing away from his touch.

Azriel stepped forward then, his shadows slithering like wild snakes across the floor. “What are you doing—”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp, near feral, spoken through clenched teeth. Eris’s eyes did not leave you. Fumes released from his body, providing a barrier between him and Azriel’s shadows. A warning.  

The woman beside you must’ve sensed something in Eris’s gaze. Perhaps, it was his desperation or his determination. She gave him a small nod, shifting her legs and adjusting your head carefully. “Tell me what to do.”

“Just hold her still.”

He tried again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. You winced—again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered with a small frown.

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for anymore. For letting you go? For not being here sooner? For giving you a child that was hurting you?

He drew a shaky breath, lifting his hand from your face. He conjured a flame onto his palm. It shimmered and twisted until it gathered into a single, pulsing orb of bright red magic. A kernel of his power. He stared at the orb for a second, sending a prayer to the Cauldron, to the Mother, to anyone or anything that would listen. That this time, he could do something right by you.

Then, he released it. The orb floated from his hand and moved toward you. It hovered above your chest and then, slowly sank into your skin.

There was a stillness. A moment when even Azriel’s shadows held their breath.

Then, you exhaled. A soft, low sigh. Your brows unfurrowed, expression smoothing out. The burn marks on your stomach dulled. The fevered flush began to fade from your cheeks. And finally, the ice in the bath stopped melting so quickly.

Eris felt the bond stir.

You were there on the other side again. 

He bowed his head, overcome with relief. A ragged breath left him, silently thanking all entities who heard his prayer. It worked. It had actually worked.

He hadn’t been sure it would. He’d only ever seen something similar like this once. Under the mountain, when his father had given a spark of life to Feyre after she had saved them all. Eris had only hoped that by sharing a kernel of his own power with you, it might do the same. Might change your body, mold it to help carry the fireborn child.

Eris had seen people burn from the inside out before. His own fire could be a gift or a curse depending on how it was wielded. He had never feared it, never hated it. Until now.

Guilt clawed further into his chest. It seemed never-ending at this point. All he seemed to do was bring you pain—trouble after trouble. It’s not like he planned for this. Becoming a father wasn’t something he expected at all. Not now, not yet. And certainly not like this.

None of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to hate him, to move on. He thought if he was cruel enough, you'd leave and eventually, you’d forget him. You’d go live the life you wanted. The one he couldn’t give you. You’d live free from the curse of loving a man like him.

Eris had never intended for you to carry this burden alone. He had intended to be the only one suffering. 

But this fire had already taken root, whether either of you were ready for it or not. 

Parenthood was no longer a distant concept. It was here, knocking at his door, demanding to be faced. With it, came fear. For you. How could something so small and unborn already wield such power?  How could he not have seen this coming?

He remembered his mother having similar troubles but it wasn’t until her last month of pregnancy that they arose. You couldn’t be that far along. He would’ve definitely noticed then as he could pick up on the shift in your scent now.

Had he known the risks you’d undergo, he would’ve done this for you the moment he found out you were pregnant. Without hesitation, without question. He would’ve handed over every last ember of his power, if it meant you wouldn’t suffer.

Madja was at your side, her hand moving across your fevered skin. First your forehead, then your chest, and finally, she dipped her hand beneath the water to feel your stomach. A look of relief crossed her face as she nodded her head.

“The fever is broken. She seems to be stabilizing now.”

“Thank the Mother,” the woman, still holding you, breathed.

Eris didn’t need Madja to know you were feeling better. He could feel it, the bond awake once more. Your breathing grew more steady. Exhaustion now took over your features, body slumping further against the woman.

“Let’s get her out and dressed,” Madja instructed the other woman.

Eris immediately stood on his feet, ready to help.

Madja stopped him. “We can take it from here.”

Eris told himself to not get upset. It’s clear she meant no harm from it. Though Eris has seen you countless of times, he realized that if you were fully conscious, you may not have wanted him to help you dress. So he took a step back and averted his gaze, letting them help you instead.

His eyes found the shadowsinger’s wings.  Azriel, wanting to also protect your decency, had turned his back, facing the wall. Eris’s ears were attentive to the movement behind him. He listened as the women behind him moved and dressed you, bringing you to bed. 

One of his fists clenched in unease when he finally heard you speak, your voice a faint murmur. 

“My baby…is…okay…?”

“Yes, your baby is okay,” he heard Madja comfort you.

“Good,” you breathed. “M’tired…so, so tired…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he heard the other woman, whose name he still hadn’t bothered to ask for. He should, considering how caring and attentive she’s been to you. “You can rest all you need to.”

A strangled noise came from you, a cry from exhaustion.

Eris hadn’t meant to look. His chest flared with protectiveness at the distressing sound you made, his body moving on instinct. His eyes flicked over his shoulder—just for a second—and they widened.

Your undergarments were in place, the women working together to slip a sleeping gown over your body. It wasn’t the sight of your skin that had his eyes widening. it was what had changed.

He knew your body like the back of his hand, had memorized every inch of it with his eyes and lips. He knew it well enough to immediately pick up on the changes. Your hips had widened and stomach rounded, all to accommodate the baby growing inside you. His baby.

The awe that pierced through him was drowned quickly by guilt as the women blocked his view, settling you further onto the bed. When they drew back from you, he was comforted by the peace slowly easing onto your face. The Illyrian woman smiled down at you as she brushed your hair back.

“I’m going to finish some tonics that she can use to build up her strength again.” Madja said before walking out of the room. 

“It’s time for you to go.” Azriel finally spoke, addressing Eris. “There’s no need for you to be here anymore.”

Eris’s body tensed, that anger from earlier flaring back up. He forced his gaze away from you, though it felt like tearing flesh from bone, and turned slowly to face the shadowsinger. “She needs me.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t want you.”

Eris winced, as if he had been struck. The blow landed deep. He didn’t know if it was true and that was the worst part. 

Though, it didn’t matter if you wanted him or not. What if another complication arose? The power he gave you was a sliver of his but one you never wielded before. He had centuries of mastery while you had none. If something happened, he could help you. Not Azriel. Him. 

And what of the baby? Who would be there to guide them once they were of age? Or if they started manifesting them much sooner as it already was proving to be?

“She’s carrying my child. They need me. She can’t go through this alone.”

“They’re not alone,” Azriel said sharply, stepping forward. His shadows were stirring behind him, emphasizing the bright pulsing of his blue siphons.  “They have me.”

Eris laughed bitterly. A sound with no humor—just disbelief and hidden pain. “You?” His lip curled. “You expect me to trust you? You knew what was happening and still—still—you waited three days to come find me.”

Azriel’s wings twitched, whether in irritation or restraint, Eris couldn’t tell. But the room suddenly felt smaller. Like it might close in under the pressure of their magic. The two males stood nearly toe-to-toe, just as they had before.

“Because you broke her trust,” Azriel shot back, his shadows coiling tighter, like leashed beasts waiting for the order to strike. “And I don’t trust you. Never did and never will. You always have a selfish motive for everything.”

Eris’s nostrils flared, pure jealousy flaring beneath his skin now. “And when exactly did you earn her trust, shadowsinger?” 

“Enough, the both of you!” the Illyrian woman snapped, stepping between them with a might of her own. She winced as the bed behind her rustled, you stirring in bed. “If you are going to fight, then do it outside."

Neither male moved at first.

They simply stared at one another. Hate and grief and guilt writ in every tense breath between them. Then, finally, Eris stepped back, muttering a curt “sorry” to the woman. The flames in his hands flickered out, though the heat in his eyes remained.

“Eris.”

It was you calling to him.

Azriel blinked, taken aback, and a small, unexpected victory pulsed through Eris’s veins. 

Azriel reluctantly stepped back, his shadows retreating with him. Still, they lingered close and Eris swore they had eyes of their own as he could feel them staring him down.

“She's been through enough," the woman said with a sigh, her gaze lingering on Eris, as if she were assessing him. She turned to Azriel. “She’ll probably wake up hungry, poor thing hasn’t eaten much either. Won’t you help me prepare something?”

Though it’s phrased as a question, there’s an underlying demand in her tone. One Eris can’t help but feel grateful for.

“Sure,” Azriel replied after a brief pause, his voice taut. He turned to follow, but not before glancing back. “Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder.

**

Eris’s eyes caught the clutter on your nightstand as he approached your bed. For a moment, he froze. The letters–his letters– were stacked unevenly, some edges bent from being reopened too many times. There were small things, too. The other gifts he had sent.

None of his letters have been returned and it appeared that the gifts he had sent were unused. 

But they were here. They’d at least been opened and kept. Not thrown away as he feared.

The smallest sliver of hope pushed into the cracks of his chest. Perhaps, there was still a chance. You hadn’t shut him out entirely. He exhaled slowly and then, finally, he turned back to you.

The bed dipped slightly as Eris sat on the edge, and for a moment, he just looked at you. The fever had dropped but it left behind a sickly sheen of exhaustion. Reaching out, his hand hovered over your face. There was a moment of hesitation before he gently lowered his hand to rest against your cheek. You were no longer searing to the touch, just slightly cooler in comparison to him now.

You didn’t flinch like before. Instead, you leaned into his touch and the movement stole the breath from his lungs. His lips parted, a tremor of a smile tugging at one corner. 

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the gown draped across your body. He could see the small curve of your stomach beneath it and it made his chest tighten.

There. Right there. Life–Life the two you had created.

His hand moved from your face to rest lightly on your bump. His touch was featherlight like he feared even pressure might hurt you further. The contact was both grounding and devastating. He really wished things didn’t have to be this way. 

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself whispering again. He was full of so much regret and so much yearning.

“Eris,” you rasped, your lashes fluttering faintly. “Is it really you?”

Eris knows it must be the exhaustion. He can see you fighting it, struggling with the weight it pressed upon your eyelids. The hand that had been resting over your stomach drifted lower to reach for your own hand. “Yes,” he replied. His hand tightened around yours, bringing it to rest over his heart. “I’m here.”

You hummed softly, your fingers twitching in his grasp. He watched you, observing every shift of your expression, every flutter of your lashes as if it were some fragile miracle. The tears he’d been holding back finally slipped free, tracking down his cheeks in silence.  

“When Azriel came for me, I thought the worst. I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away. I thought…” He trailed off, swallowing hard and struggling with his words.

He gave you space to respond, though he knew better than to expect it. He wondered if the exhaustion won, sleep finally taking over you. Good, he thought. You probably haven’t been able to properly rest these past couple of days.

Your breathing remained steady and no more words from you followed. Just the soft rhythm of your body. He could hear your heartbeat and he swore he could hear the baby’s too. It was quiet but quicker. A ticking sound, almost.

Before you, he hadn’t believed himself capable of feeling for someone this deeply. But you—you had carved out a place in his heart, built a home there, even when he tried to board it shut. And now, there was someone else nestled in that space too. Someone so small and unseen but already adored with an intensity that terrified him.

The bond between you stirred faintly, dulled by your fatigue. Maybe you wouldn’t remember this. Maybe it would all fade into your dreams. It didn’t matter. He had to say it anyway.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispered, pressing your hand to his lips. “I swear it. Even if you never forgive me... I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for and protecting you. The both of you.”

Eris closed his eyes, forehead resting briefly against your joined hands. And then, with a tremble in his chest, he said the three words that had haunted him since the day you spoke them first. The three words he had felt long before you ever gave them breath. The ones he had buried beneath fear and duty and pride.

“I love you.”

It left him in a broken whisper. A confession and a promise all in one. He only hoped he’d get the chance to say them to you when you were awake. He wanted to sit here with you, holding your hand as he waited for you to wake up. He didn’t want to leave. How could he, when everything that made his life worth anything was here in this room?

The tattoo on his arm from the bargain with Azriel flared, as if sensing where his thoughts had headed. It pulsed against his skin like a second heartbeat and it was followed by a knock at the door. Azriel must’ve felt it too.

Eris looked at you one last time, his gaze trailing over your face. Then down to the bump beneath the thin gown, where your hand now rested. You looked at ease now and it made it even harder for him to leave when all he wanted was to curl up beside you. His legs felt heavy, as though the weight of what he was walking away from had rooted him in place. 

He burned the image of you into his mind before he forced himself to stand. He didn’t know how, didn’t know when. He just knew he would find his way back to you. Even if he had to bleed for every step back to you.

And then, he walked away, closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t hear the faint words that left your lips moments later, voice cracked and barely there.

“Don’t go.”

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this part! <3 In my head, iI have a little HC that f Eris and reader had consummated the bond, this pregnancy wouldn't have turned high risk so early. I have 2-3 more parts planned but I'm going to take a small break from them so I could write little drabbles/scenes in between them. Basically, it would be scenes I couldn't figure out how to incorporate into the next parts but still wanted to write out.

Help me pick what to focus on here.

If there's anything you'd like to read, let me know! I'm open to suggestions and also love hearing your thoughts.

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

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@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamarancianne, @daemyratwst, @ratgirl2020 @balufy

[moon-fics]

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

A/n: I haven't done any creative writing in months. I'm finally doing it again so PLEASE! PLEASE don't be made if I fuck this up.

Request: reader comforting bob (any bob, could be Reynolds or Floyd) after a nightmare abt a mission gone wrong 🙏🙏 may it be filled with all the comfort our dear robert could ever ask for 😌😌😌

Warnings: Swears, mentions of violence

Your first warning was the lights flickering. It was sudden and lasted way longer than a faulty wire would. Your second warning was the vibrations coming from your mirror. The third warning won't be as kind if you ignore it.

You know these warning signs, and you often look out for them. So, you rush out of your room. The dark hallways of the tower are barely lit, but you know your way to his room. You've run to them so often it's almost ingrained in your mind.

You don't even knock before opening his door and closing it behind you. You're met with a familiar sight of Bob curled up on his bed, trembling and gasping. He isn't awake and won't wake up unless someone helps him.

You stumble over to his bed and nearly trip on a Rubik's cube. You grab his shoulders once you reach him, shaking him lightly. This is a strategic mission because Bob is not a gracious person when he wakes up. With his powers, it's a 50/50 chance you get thrown across the room. Thankfully, the only time he's attacked in his sleep, you were able to dodge. Can't say the same for Alexei.

"Bob, wake up," you say while still shaking him. His oversized sweater is covered in sweat that sticks to your hands. "Come on, Bob. Come back to me." You say softly. You've found that yelling has never had a good outcome. So, using a softer tone is the only solution.

After a few seconds, you can see him stirring. His eyes move behind his lids, and his lips press together. You've memorized most of his face and reactions at this point. You've spent so much time with him it was only natural.

With one last shake, he's startled awake. A yell escapes his throat before dying out quickly. He frantically looks around his room before his eyes find you. Oh, do they find you.

It's like a puppy finding its owner after thinking it was lost. His eyes soften, and his breathing becomes controlled. It's rapid, but he's trying to slow it down.

"Did I-?" He can barely ask before you nod. "Was it bad? Did someone get hurt?" His usual questions.

"No, no one was hurt. You didn't do anything bad," You assure him while climbing onto the edge of his bed. You don't give yourself the entitlement of holding him or getting under the covers without her permission. "Was it a bad nightmare?" You ask.

He swallows whatever saliva is in his mouth and nods. "Yeah, it wasn't the best," He chuckles weakly. He pats the space next to him, allowing you into his space. You gladly take it and scoot closer to him.

"I, uh, I couldn't save anyone," He clears his throat awkwardly. You've both gotten into a groove of skipping the 'wanna talk about it' and the 'no, I'm ok'. It always leads to him talking about it and her comforting him back to sleep. "We were on a mission, and you wouldn't leave my side. I don't know what happened, but you were all hanging off a building, and suddenly I wasn't strong enough," He continues.

Having nightmares about bad missions or impossible situations isn't new to anyone in the tower. However, it is to Bob. He wasn't trained as an assassin or for combat. He was just some guy who got dealt bad cards and one wild card.

"Yeah, well, if we go down, at least we do it together," You nudge him. It's clear that doesn't help as his frown grows. "Hey, nothing is going to happen. I'm right here, and Bucky is right across the hall snoring." You say.

You gently rest a hand on his and squeeze for proof. He isn't alone anymore. He has a whole team of people who care and want the best for him. You're both silent as time passes. He can feel your pulse in your hand and how warm you are. Definitely not dead.

"Can you stay tonight?" He asks softly. His softness used to break your heart at how sad he seemed. Now, it's comforting. He doesn't sound as sad but more meek-like.

"Only if you don't kick me in your sleep again," You agree. A half smile spreads on his lips as an answer. You know he's going to kick you, and it's going to be annoying. However, you at least get to have a pretty view the entire night.

He turns over on his side and shifts under the covers. You carefully get under them as well and adjust yourself. Your chest presses against his back, and you wrap an arm around him.

You find it comical that a man this muscular likes being the little spoon, but you have no complaints. If it gets him a good night's sleep, you'll hold him all night.

"I'm right here," You repeat while shutting your eyes.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

butterflygirl738 (6)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn’t that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"It was a nice day," S says as he checks the rear view mirror.

You twitch out of your trance. Your eyes are itchy, the way they get after a double shift. You suppress a yawn and nod.

"Very nice, thank you," you agree and twiddle your fingers in your palm.

"But you're anxious to get home..." he says.

"Well....my mom..." you begin. "I'm not trying to ditch you--"

"Ha, I know. I'm selfish. I've had you all day." He keeps his eyes on the road. "Should we stop and get her something?"

"Um, that's. Mm. I'd love to but..."

"Might be suspicious. Got it." He clucks. "Well, what about tomorrow? You got plans?"

"She has an appointment," you say. "Check-up."

"Ah, makes sense," he says. "When is it? Maybe after..."

"Yeah, er maybe. But... how long are you here? What about New York?" You wonder. The big city, his company, all that is still a mystery to you.

"It can wait. Besides, the hotel has wifi. I got all night to catch up emails."

"Oh, right." You stare at the street ahead.

"Tomorrow?" He prompts before the silence drags.

"Tomorrow. After noon? Should be done by then," you assure him, twisting your fist around your finger.

"Can I ask you a favour?" He slows as he gets to your street.

"A favour?"

"Yeah. Nothing big. Promise." He turns the corner and keeps a snail's pace.

"Alright," you utter.

"Will you bring a few bills tomorrow? We can go through them. Sort that out--"

"S. No. I can't--" 

"But that's the deal," he insists. "How can I help if I don't know the situation?"

"I... I don't know. It's a lot."

"A lot you shouldn't be worried about. You should be focused on your mom. Not money." He stops in front of your building. He angles in his seat and puts his hand on the back of yours. "This is what I'm here for. To take all that off your shoulders."

You exhale and swallow dryly. "It feels like too much."

"Not to me." His thumb rubs the seat, close to your shoulder. "Look, I'm just me. I got more than enough for that. I want to do this. I want someone to share this with. To spoil, if I can."

You look at him. He's too good to be true. After all the bad days, all the set backs, all the red numbers, you just can't believe it's what he says it it.

"I'll bring one," you offer.

"One?" He echoes.

"Mhmm," you nod.

"The highest one then," he says. His tone is even but demanding. 

"Okay."

"Okay," he repeats and clears his throat. "Look, sweetheart, let's not ruin the day. Go inside, spend some time with mom. I'll text you."

You chew your lip. You should tell him. It won't help if he thinks you're ignoring him.

"Maybe not." You fidget. "I'm... I'm almost out of... I uh, the internet is down and I pay per message."

"Hm, why didn't you mention it before?" He challenges.

You sink down, pushing your shoulders high. "It's embarrassing."

He sighs. 

"No problem. Tomorrow. After noon," he pats the seat and rescinds his hand. "Hope the appointment goes well."

"Me too," you murmur in dread.

You undo your seat belt and grab your purse. You sit up and glance at him. He watches you expectantly but you're not sure what he's waiting for.

"Good night," you say.

His jaw ticks, "good night, sweetheart."

You smile weakly and get out. You shut the door gently and turn to step over the curb. You march up to the front doors and peek back. You wave then go inside.

You feel bad now. Like you're abandoning him. After such a nice day, you're just strutting off without giving him anything...

Your chest knots up as you climb the stairs. It isn't just him, it's the lies. You're not sure you can keep this up but if you don't, what are you going to do? You can't pay him back and the missed hours at work won't do much to help that. And if you keep calling in, well, you might not have time to make up for what you missed.

You're confused. This was supposed to make it all easier but it all feels so much more complicated. Why can't life be as simple as the chrysalis in the hamper? 

🦋

"Will you come in with me?" Your mom asks as they call her name.

You nod and stand with her. It's not like the early days. When she went on her own. She didn't tell you the diagnoses right away. Not until the first treatment. That was a horrible day and there's been many of those since.

You follow the nurse to the sterile room. You sit in the chair in the corner and your mother sits in the chair by the small counter top. You're silent. Both anxious.

Dr. Vincent enters. You almost feel like you should stand. You cross your legs and return his greeting. It's not a very good morning but you won't say so.

"So, Noreen," he says to your mother. "I have some news."

Your mother looks at him from her chair. She looks small like a child. You've never seen her afraid but in that moment, you see her eyes gleam.

"You're a candidate for stem cell transplant." He says.

Your mom looks at you and back to him. You don't know what that means either. You remember they mentioned it early on but it never came back up.

"No more chemo. At least for now. We think this is the opportune time and it could help with recovery in the long run," he explains.

"Oh, right," she breathes. 

"We'll send you for a few scans to see how things are looking but your last images were positive."

"Uh huh, okay," she blinks. "Is it very expensive?"

He hums. "It can be. Depending on insurance. Of course, it would be my recommendation for you to go with it. Chemo is showing results but in my experience, this is the best course of action. If you wish to continue as you are, it's entirely within your discretion."

You're both quiet.

"I'll provide you some information on it before you go. How about that? Give you some time to think." He says.

"That's good," you say as your mom stays silent.

"Alright, then, we'll do the usual," Vincent diverts. "Let's get you on the bed."

You sit patiently as he checks your mother over. He's quick and efficient. He has a full waiting room, even this early in the morning. You thank him after your mother does and he leaves the room.

She steps onto the stool and down to the floor. As you approach her, she sighs. She doesn't say anything as she leads you out of the room.

As she stops at the admin desk to get the folder of pamphlets, she bids them a good day. As you come out into the gloomy of the rainy day, you take her hand. She stops and stands at the curb, looking out into the distance.

"I'm tired, pie."

"I know, mom," you say.

"What do you think?" She asks.

"I don't know. Maybe... we should read the stuff."

"It'll be expensive."

"It's all expensive," you mutter.

She drops her head. "My last days and I have to watch my daughter work herself half to death just to suffer more and more."

"Mom, please, he said things are looking good--"

"Maybe but I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

You swallow as your eyes burn. "It's... it's your choice. Always your choice." You look away, trying not to cry.

"Honey," she squeezes your hand. "I don't want to give up. I know you won't, either, but you're tired too. It hurts me to see you like this."

"Mom," is all you can eke out.

She lets go of you and looks at the folder. She exhales. "I'll read it over."

"We'll read it together," you offer. 

"When's work?" She wonders.

"Noon," you answer. Not work, per se. Just an obligation.

"Enough time for breakfast," she says. "My treat."

"Mom," you say.

"I know, I know. But I just want one last cinnamon bun before I go," she insists.

🦋

You're trembling. You haven't been able to stop since you left the apartment. You couldn't let your mom see the panic. She's already having a rough day.

You stand under the awning of the building, waiting. S drives up and you run out without pulling up your jacket hood. You feel in your pocket for the pamphlet.

You get in the car and flick the moisture from your cheeks. You gasp. "It's really coming down."

"You don't have an umbrella?" S says.

"Forgot," you shrug.

"Mm, well, looks like a day best spent inside. I was thinking, they got pretty good food at my hotel. We could have lunch."

You hesitate. The thought of his hotel room makes your stomach stir. You remember what he said. 'We'll see where it goes'. It's feeling more and more like there's only one way this goes.

"Sure, whatever you like." You sniff.

You buckle up and sit back. You tilt your head up.

"Long morning?" He asks as he pulls into the street.

"Yeah... a little."

"Bad news?" He asks cautiously.

"Mm, news... stuff to think about."

"Right," he steers on as the wipers swing back and forth. "Well, just relax. Once we get to the hotel, you can get dry and clear your head."

"Yeah. Thanks."

You close your eyes, content to let the rain and the motion soothe you. It's a moment to prepare yourself.. Maybe once you tell him, he'll change his mind.

When the car stops, you snap up as if you were sleeping. Your mind slows as the world does the same. S smiles at you and reaches behind your seat. He grabs an umbrella out of the back.

He gets out, shielding himself from the downpour, and comes around to open your door. He walks you up to the hotel doors and folds up the umbrella before he enters the lobby. He points you to the elevators.

"Got some work done this morning," he proclaims as you get on. "You were asking about my company."

"Oh, right. I was. Curious, I guess. I don't know anyone who owns one."

"You do now," he chuckles. "It's not as glamourous as it seems. This is as much time as I've had to myself in... a decade?"

"Really?"

"Not to complain. I mean, certain things I don't have to worry about. It's not a bad life. Solitary," he shrugs and the doors open.

He guides you along the hallway to his suite door. He lets you in ahead of him. He puts the umbrella in the tall vase by the door.

You unzip your jacket and hang it. You look down at your jeans. They're soaked. You rub the damp fabric.

"I got a spare robe in here, if you want to let those dry," he says.

"Sure, uh, probably," you agree.

He takes off his shoes and you step out of your boots. You linger by the door, shyly glancing into the suite. He stands up and combs his fingers through his hair.

"I'll get the room service menu," he grins and struts away. "Make yourself at home."

As he looks around, you reach into your jacket pocket. You hide the pamphlet behind your back, clasping your wrist tight, and tiptoe further inside. He waves the laminated menu at you.

"Right here," he puts it on the small round table between two chairs. "I'll get that robe."

"Sure."

You wait, reluctant at the edge of the sitting room. A couch and a clamshell chair in velvet. It's all so nice.

He comes back in.

"If you want to change before you make up your mind--"

"Uh huh, yeah."

You keep the pamphlet behind you and take the robe. He points you to the bathroom and you scurry into it. You lock yourself inside and strip off the wet jeans. The texture leaves your skin itchy. Ugh.

You hang them on the bar meant for towels and pull on the robe. It's soft and roomy. You tuck the pamphlet into the pocket and face the door.

You emerge as S sits at the table. You walk carefully, paranoid that the robe might fall open despite the tight knot around the middle. You sit down and lean over to read the menu. It's a good distraction.

"I recommend the mac and cheese, as simple as it sounds," he taps with his finger.

"Oh, I like mac and cheese," you say.

You continue your perusal. You'll probably just go with what he says. Your appetite is lost in the storm of your inside.

"So, uh, did you bring that bill?"

You sit up stiffly and blink at him. Your hand goes to the pocket of the robe. You gape at him. How do you do this?

"We can wait--"

"No, I can't. Not-- no. Because..." you stammer as your heart races. "Because it's... it's too much and... you can say no and... I'll be okay. My mom will be okay. I'll figure it out. I will."

"Woah, woah, sweetheart," he gets up and comes around the table. He gets down to his knees as he puts his hands on your arms, his thumbs caressing you. "It's alright. I asked you to--"

"No, no," you jitter as you reach in the pocket and slide out the pamphlet, slightly damp from the rain. "It's... it's more... it's..." you look down at the paper as you clutch it in your hands. "The doctor said it will be good but..."

He drags his hands down your arms to your hands. He eases the pamphlet free. He sits back on his heels and opens it. He reads it over as you cover your face.

"I think I should go--"

"I can do it," he says calmly. "One hundred? Easy."

"One hundred thousand!" You drop your hands. "S!"

"It's just money. This isn't about that. It's about your mom, isn't it?"

You stare at him. You don't understand how he can be so generous. It's just take, take, take, and you have nothing to give. And the more he gives, the more you depend on it. The hole only gets deeper and deeper.

[dammit-tazmuir]

A basic timeline if it helps:

(ALSO, if you haven't already, please also read the short stories The Mysterious Study of Doctor Sex and As Yet Unsent before Nona the Ninth!)

In the epilogue of GtN, Harrow wakes up in a hospital bed on the Erebos, the Emperor's flagship, and meets John. She begs him to undo her lyctorhood and "give me back the life of Gideon Nav" (she says the full name), but he says he can't. They talk and she agrees to follow him.

Three days later ("Epiparados" in HtN), Harrow instead has Ianthe help her lobotomize herself, sealing away all her memories of Gideon, so that her brain won't know what to keep absorbing and she won't eat any more of the soul than she already has. Several agreements are made about this between her and Ianthe, and we still aren't privy to all the details, but Harrow leaves her post-lobotomy self all those letters. This also results in her Lyctoral power, while still present, being greatly limited, and her not having a cavalier auto-pilot mode.

Because she can't simply erase memories of Gideon without knowing something's wrong, she instead replaces necessary memories with false ones. With her immense power and grief, she subconsciously pulls most of the ghosts of people who were involved at Canaan House (including Dulcie and Pro) into a river bubble, and they play out false memories like an improv stage play. Whenever Harrow is unconscious, the "play" resumes. This means all the false past stuff "didn't happen" physically in time, but was real within the River, involving real ghosts of real people.

Among the ghosts, both Babs and Colum are conspicuously absent, only implied to have something vaguely resembling them in their place at the beginning. Cytherea makes no kind of appearance. The characters who are still alive and also Palamedes (because his ghost is sheltered in his own bubble) also have basically constructs taking their place, and they die off first. Silas's real ghost seems to be there and to have figured out what's up, and he eventually "kills" the Corona construct and then exits the bubble by his own choosing into the River. Some of the other ghosts figure out what's going on faster than others, and when Abigail realizes she helps Jeannemary and Isaac move on to wait out in the River. The other ghosts stay til near the end.

-

It takes her many more weeks to recover after the lobotomy, but eventually she starts becoming coherent again. John visits her and shows her the not at all concerning reserves of resurrected humans he has, all of whom have been alive but in stasis for 10,000 years. For the first time, he's waking up a new wave of them to send to the Ninth House to help shore up their numbers and give them the ability to keep passing on their culture and such.

He also teaches her about Resurrection Beasts: the vengeful revenants of murdered planets. He says there were originally nine: they've killed five, and there are three more out there. Harrow notes the math doesn't check out but doesn't bother asking.

However, part of what Harrow did to herself was setting it up so that if anyone even tries to say Gideon's name to her, she will physically hear it as "Ortus." In the course of talking, John says "Ortus Nigenad will not have died for nothing", but what he actually says is "Gideon Nav"; Harrow just hears it wrong, and notices that his mouth doesn't move quite right when he "says" Ortus. She starts bleeding and eventually falls unconscious, establishing a trend of bleeding + maybe other complications any time things threaten to remind her of Gideon. Since she said Ortus in return, the last thing she hears is John wonderingly repeating it.

She also did not consider that there could be more than one person named Gideon, but that's the name of the Saint of Duty. In Chapter 1 of GtN, Gideon described how her mom's dead body floated down to the Ninth's surface in a parachute, dead on arrival, with a day old baby in a bio container. When the nuns finally wrangled her mom's ghost back by force, all they got out of her was screaming "Gideon! Gideon! Gideon!" three times before running. They assumed this was a mother desperate to protect her child, and that Gideon was the baby's name, so they called her Gideon.

In fact, her mom was Commander Wake, full name (yes really) Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity. She was a woman who roughly 25 years ago rose up as a demagogue among Blood of Eden— the rebel faction among non-House humans that actively tries fighting the Empire— and united and organized them more than they'd ever been before. And we'll come back to her but she was killed by the Saint of Duty, and was just screaming in anger at him.

-

Harrow and Ianthe are eventually taken through the River to the Mithraem, the space station that serves as an empire base of operation and the personal home of the First.

They meet Mercymorn the Saint of Joy, whose anatomical skills through sheer memorization are just batshit stupid (Augustine says the applications are too narrow, because one would only really need it to kill Lyctors); Augustine the Saint of Patience, who "was a spirit magician like the Mithraem was a box with some bones" (and who John says could submerge half a city into the River if he wanted); and "Ortus" the Saint of Duty, who fights more like a cavalier or an attack dog than a traditional necromancer but can rapidly drain thanergy from others' theorems.

Augustine and Mercy hate each other and at one point Harrow catches a confrontation in the hall where he warns her to "stop playing this dangerous game, the one you said you'd stop." This is later show to be in reference to her conspiring with Blood of Eden, something both of them did in the past, but Mercy was always the "face" while Augustine stayed more distant and eventually backed out. He's confronting her because he's afraid John will kill them both if they find out.

Duty tries to kill Harrow many times. (There's an interesting discrepancy that the first time he tried to do so was "10 months before the Emperor's murder", but it was a few days after arrival on the Mithraem, which itself was 9 months before. I personally have a theory time is physically a little broken but yeah. It is also, notably, not 100% clear who first tried to kill Harrow on the Erebos.) The attempts are later revealed to be kind of on John's orders, though the full order was to fix her OR kill her. Even to John, Lyctors are very difficult to read, so he could tell something was dangerously wrong but not what.

What exactly he was sensing is a little hard to say. Because Harrow is schizophrenic and has had hallucinations since she was pretty young, she straight up didn't notice she was also being haunted, likely by multiple sources. She is never sure if the visions she sees of The Body are at all real, though she wants to believe there's something to them. A common interpretation (though technically debatable) is that when Harrow entered the Tomb at age 10, a piece of Alecto's soul just kind of latched on and haunted her from there on. But also.

Harrow's sword, as in Gideon's two-hander, fucking hates her. As in it literally physically burns her to make direct contact, at least early on. This is later revealed to be because Commander Wake has been clinging to it as a revenant for nearly twenty fucking years. She was in the sword the whole time Gideon had it. What seems to have happened is she clung to something else(? her bones? Gideon herself?) first and then when Gideon was given a sword as a kid Wake latched onto that, but she's been there for so long. (This is also why Harrow even in GtN says she always hated Gideon's sword and felt like it was judging her.)

Then, in Chapter 11, which is only 7 sentences long in total, Harrow "sleepwalks" / is dragged to where Cytherea's body is laid out and wakes up having impaled the body with her sword. Wake's ghost is split, a part still haunting Harrow's mind in the River, a part having moved its physical anchor to Cytherea's body so she can puppet it. This is why the corpse starts moving.

Unbeknownst to possibly anyone alive (it's ambiguous if even G1deon ever found out), G1deon's cavalier (or so we're told but that's a whole extra theory) Pyrrha was never fully absorbed, compartmentalized like Harrow has done to Gideon, though theirs was by accident, "and he took more from me than got taken from you." Pyrrha fronts sometimes and G1deon just blacks out when she does. At one point, Harrow walks in on the Saint of Duty "kissing the corpse" but Duty doesn't turn around and orders in a voice very unlike himself for Harrow to leave and close the door. This is because it's actually Pyrrha visiting Wake; she doesn't turn around so Harrow can't see the eye change.

-

Harrow spends time bonding with John and being taught how to kill planets and also avoids many death attempts that make her a nervous wreck. Eventually she stays awake for six days to keep vigilance and hatches a plan to murder Duty with soup, but John won't let anyone kill each other in front of him, yikes. He forces Harrow to go get some rest and she starts sleeping in Ianthe's room for safety instead. Ianthe has been trying the whole time to play bad boy love interest but forgetting the part where the bad boy is actually nice to the girl, so she doesn't mind too much.

What she does mind is her stupid fucking replacement arm. It's not perfect so she can't bring herself to accept it no matter how much that's messing her up, and she's actively frustrated with herself. Harrow wakes up in a state of zen clarity after a very long rest to see Ianthe stabbing at her arm, because Augustine gave her a few days before he's giving up trying to teach her and she's having a breakdown. Harrow casually decides to remove the old arm and grow her a new one, which apparently counts as sex to Ianthe (I'm only like 10% joking), and Ianthe loves her new arm and is able to function as a full proper Lyctor. As thanks, Ianthe helps Harrow try to set up an opportunity to kill the Saint of Duty.

This involves going to Augustine, who sets up a fancy dinner party. He doesn't tell Mercy why they need to distract John, but promises to keep her BoE activity secret if she helps, and swears on his brother's sword, so she agrees. (Underappreciated bit: He also says he can make sure Duty leaves on cue, and "Trust me, when I want Ortus to go, he'll be giddy-gone." Narration follows "(This did not make sense to you, as a joke.)" But it's. "When I want Gideon to go, he'll be giddy-gone" lmao.) Augustine and Mercy get incredibly drunk and eventually start making out and then pull John into it: Dios Apate, Minor. As casual as everyone is later Harrow gets the sinking but distinct feeling this has happened before. (Because it has, at minimum in reference to Dios Apate, Major, and strongly implied they've just been a messy ass polycule for way longer.)

When Harrow goes looking for Duty during this distraction, though, she finds a trail of blood leading her to the incinerator, and Duty injured and trapped inside. She considers just leaving, even when Wake-possessing-Cytherea activates the incinerator, but "he" looks to her with (dark, but so is the room) helpless eyes and she's too much of a bleeding heart, so she pulls "him" out. It's actually Pyrrha at this point, and once she's out she keeps her eyes closed as she tells Harrow how to effectively ward herself; "You'll be safe from us." She then speaks out into the hall, to Wake, saying this is fine, Wake can kill her, but please just tell her, after all this time, back then, why did Wake bring the ba—

John and co arrive after hearing the incinerator alarms, cutting her off, but she was asking why Wake brought the baby, who Pyrrha firmly believed to be hers/G1deon's and has been mourning over for the past 20 years.

-

In the River bubble dreams, the plot has diverged significantly as "the Sleeper" haunts Canaan House, starts killing people, and the weather turns to shit and stays that way. The Sleeper (who Ortus grimly joked should really be called "the Waker") is in fact Commander Wake, wearing the orange hazmat suit she died in. Gideon's sword is seen in the coffin because it was her physical anchor for so long (or may still be one anchor).

-

Eventually Harrow kills another planet trying to prepare a perimeter to face the approaching RB, and runs into Camilla there, who is this far out looking for Harrow. Camilla examines her and says “Nice intercranial haemorrhage. Kills most of us non-Lyctors.” (In reference to the lobotomy.) Harrow doesn't remember her except as a faceless corpse, but Cam has Harrow examine a piece of Pal's skull to confirm that he's still a revenant, and she meets him in his River bubble, but accidentally brings Wake with her. After a short talk with Pal, who she also doesn't remember, Wake starts threatening to break his bubble and he makes her leave quickly, but asks which bone Camilla has so he knows where to focus his essence, and asks Harrow to remake it into something with mobility, so she turns it into a hand once she's out.

As Harrow leaves the bubble, though, feeling overwhelmed and mixed up, narration for the chapter ends: "But you were always too quick to mourn your own ignorance. You never could have guessed that he had seen me." For the first time, Gideon, who has been the first-person narrator the entire time, directly references herself. Prior to this, though, she did have a lot of parentheticals or other asides, and a running gag of harping on Harrow for not knowing what a pommel was. She's been able to hazily watch everything from Harrow's subconscious.

Outside, Harrow learns the Camilla is now traveling with Coronabeth and Judith, and that all of them are with BoE, though Judith (who is in bad shape) does not appear to be staying by choice and begs Harrow to warn the Emperor he has a traitor in his midst. Harrow does not end up warning anyone.

-

Everyone gets ready for the RB's arrival, and to fight the Heralds, which look like external creatures but are in fact extensions of the RB, like fingers on a hand.

At one point in this last stretch, Harrow sits and talks with John, and he makes the mistake of telling her she'd be a hell of a daughter and he sometimes indulges the wish that she'd been his. She breaks violently and throws herself down to confess that she opened the Tomb as a child, and asks if she killed two of her fathers that day. As far as John is aware, that shouldn't be possible, so he assumes there must have been other burial chambers added in all the outer parts of the Tomb and that one of those is what Harrow stumbled into. Harrow is on one hand betrayed and pissed that he doesn't believe her, and on the other now questioning if she hallucinated everything.

John tries to comfort and absolve her of further guilt, apologizing that she endured so much based on a misunderstanding. But as he tries to brush some hair out of her bleeding face, the act of touching her head makes him more able to see the immediate area and he gets much more serious as he suddenly asks, "Harrow, who the hell has been tampering with your temporal lobe?" and she panics and runs without fully understanding why. He calls after her but doesn't pursue and doesn't bring it up again later, but the last thing she hears is him cursing himself. "Dammit, John! Dammit!"

-

Eventually, the night comes, and where Chapter 39 has John telling everyone "ten minutes to breach", it chronologically goes into the Prologue. Ianthe comes in and begs Harrow to let her help undo what she's done, because she doesn't want Harrow to die here. "Just turn around" bc the Orpheus vibes weren't strong enough lol. But Harrow tells her to fuck off and Ianthe does.

"And you walked toward your death like a lover" (39) / "you went to make war on Hell." (Prologue) (With the noted time breaks here and the capitalization of Hell I have recently been alerted to a theory that Harrow was never trying to fight the RB, but straight up doing some offscreen shit in Hell, but we'll see in AtN I guess.)

Hell spat her back out because Mercymorn stabbed her and left her to get eaten, although she did disable her pain receptors and hadn't intended Harrow to wake up for it. Harrow was left too strong to die quickly and too weak to save herself.

As she blacked out, she started rapidly reinventing the scenarios of her false memories, and we got three chapters of AUs. First is Harrow Nova, where she was born a failed experiment without necromancy and instead became cavalier to an adopted necromantic heir (Gideon). Second is a royal ball where many Houses are sending heirs to try to court and win the favor of Her Divine Highness (Gideon, which is a wild thing for Harrow to subconsciously clock). And then the beloved Coffee Shop AU, where the BARI Star is of course Gideon. Each time, Abigail tells her again, "this isn't how it happens", and the last time "Absolutely not", because that time was threatening to pull the Fourths' ghosts back into things.

When Harrow "wakes up" in the normal River bubble, Abigail helps explain what's been going on, and Harrow remembers and cries for Gideon.

-

Outside, with Harrow's consciousness awol and the dam holding back her essence broken, Gideon wakes up fully in Harrow's body and takes over. She starts fighting Heralds and it's specified that she dies several times while doing so, she just keeps getting better. One Herald also bites off her thumb and she instantly regrows a new one, which is not normal for Lyctors; they'd normally heal whole sections lost as stumps, like Ianthe's arm.

Eventually she runs into Mercy, who sees her eyes and pieces shit together, but Wake shows up and shoots Mercy with a bullet made from Herald carcass and leaves. Gideon has weird feelings and then runs off to find Ianthe. Augustine finds them, sees Gideon's eyes, and runs off. Ianthe gives Gideon Harrow's letter for her, including her sunglasses.

Eventually, Gideon and Ianthe go to John's room, but find him interrogating Wake, so they hide in a coatrack/closet area near the door. The Augustine and Mercy show up to confront John. Then Duty shows up, and stops by the coat rack first, and looks dead at the baby Lyctors, and takes Gideon's sunglasses off her face to wear before ignoring them and moving on, because it's Pyrrha and she needed to hide her eyes from the others. Wake is immensely relieved to see Pyrrha, who immediately shoots her (freeing her ghost).

The worst episode of Maury ever plays out, and at first it seems like Gideon might have been Wake and G1deon's kid, but instead, it's that Augustine and Mercymorn twenty years ago seduced John to acquire a genetic sample. He very specifically tried to avoid any risk of that but Mercymorn's anatomy skills are stupid and Augustine providing extra distraction probably helped. Mercy initially set up several "dummies"/"dolls" using her own eggs, and Wake was intended to use vat womb technology to grow at least one of those into a baby to sacrifice, but "THE EGGS YOU GAVE ME ALL DIED AND YOU LIED TO ME, SO I DID THE IMPLANTATION MYSELF." (This means Gideon is a sort of immaculate conception in that her parents never even directly met in life, but it also involves no less than six different people having sex lmao.)

Their intention was to use blood of a close enough genetic match to John's to break his blood ward on the Locked Tomb to wake Alecto and try to kill him and end the empire. The original plan was to evacuate the citizens of the Houses, too. This is also how Harrow finally got into the Tomb as a kid; "my face was under your fucking fingernails." (This fight and detail was also mentioned in GtN.) This comic by Naomistares beautifully illustrates the explanation.

John appears to have not quite pieced together everything and be pretty shocked. He knew there was something up and playing dumb, but when the seduction part comes into play he gets more thrown off, and then accuses "Did you two just pretend to hate each other?" (Extrapolation: The implications of Dios Apate Minor and Major both— and the fact that Major took them 500 years to successfully plan and pull off, and Minor was the first time they've been with him since— seem to be that neither of them alone could have pulled it off, because the only thing John wanted badly enough to let his guard down was both of them. This is supported by the first time Mercy mentions Augustine near the beginning, he immediately drops his argument and his face lights like a sunrise at the idea they're talking again, to her immense frustration. So when he learns about the conspiracy he is fully willing to believe they just put on an elaborate act all this time to make him more desperate, smh.)

Gideon of course is also very overwhelmed by this revelation, and comes out of hiding to announce, "I'm— I'm not fucking dead!" And of course John looks her over and replies as his first words to her, "Hi, not fucking dead. I'm dad."

This whole confrontation was because when Mercymorn and Augustine each saw Gideon's eyes, they recognized them as Alecto's eyes, Alecto being The Body, A.L., Annabel Lee, the woman buried in the Tomb. But there was no way a random child of the Ninth would have Alecto's DNA, and there was absolutely a way John's DNA would end up on the Ninth, because they worked very hard to put it there. They come to the conclusion that Alecto wasn't just John's bodyguard, as he'd always told them, but his cavalier, and their eyes swapped because he'd done Lyctorhood a better way than everyone else did, letting Alecto survive. (This leaves a lot of unanswered questions, not least of which being why the fuck would Alecto's eyes look like John's now do, and there's reason to suspect that the Lyctor's may have ultimately used the wrong formula but still got the right answer re: Gideon being John's kid, but that's a topic for after NtN.)

They had already been plotting to kill him, but this revelation makes them think that he just casually let them kill and eat their cavaliers with full knowledge there was another way, and that's their tipping point to go from secret plotting to openly "fuck you." (The "we might all die tonight anyway from this RB" might also be a factor.)

-

Back in the River bubble, everyone confronts Wake as the Sleeper, and Abigail and Ortus are able to summon the ghost of Ortus's historical blorbo Matthias Nonius to fight Wake using Ortus's sheer passion as a revenant link. (Ortus brought fanfiction to a magic undead gun fight and won, and we love him for it.) When Harrow sees Wake's face up close, she knows she's never seen her before, but something really bothers her, especially in the jaw (basically identical to Gideon, and they look very alike in general) and the eyes and brows (the most different from Gideon; this isn't said until NtN but it's very offhand, those features she got from John). This very subtly implies that the Divine Highness AU had been inspired by Harrow subsconsciously clocking the slight resemblance between Gideon and John.

Once Wake is gone, the bubble starts collapsing. Ortus, Matthias, and the other soldiers head off to help against the RB. Magnus and Abigail urge Harrow to return to her body, and believe she's just clinging to Gideon's memory and needs to let her go. Harrow begrudingly agrees, but Abigail and Magnus head out into the River (to look for Jeannemary and Isaac and maybe others, and then try to cross it, which Abigail theorizes can be done but people simply don't anymore because they've been taught to wait for a Second Resurrection and most have waited so long they've gone mad). The real Dulcie stays, though, and tells Harrow she has something to tell her.

-

With the confrontation, Mercymorn eventually tells John she'll forgive him if he can look her in the eye and swear to her he loved Cristabel and never wanted harm to come to her. Instead, as she walks into his arms, she slides her hands inside his body and turns him into mist. This does kill him, and there's a solar flare as the sun starts to destabilize, but he Gets Better and kills her instead. He gives everyone an ultimatum to join him or die. Not Gideon though, they just met, yikes, besides that's Harrow's body and he'd rather not punish Harrow too, Gideon can just be rebellious in the John corner it's fine. But finally Augustine asks if he gets a choice, and John says yes and begs him to come back, and Augustine tells him no and then submerges the entire Mithraem to the bottom of the River, near one of the stoma openings. Augustine basically asked if he got a choice just to set up to tell him to go to hell and then physically drag him directly there.

(On the note of literally yes dying but then getting better, this is how Gideon died several times earlier fighting Heralds, and also why she "survived" the nerve gas as a baby. And after the Avulsion Trial in GtN: "'Ha-ha,' said Gideon, 'first time you didn't call me Griddle,' and died. / *** / Well, passed out, but it felt a hell of a lot like dying. Waking up had an air of resurrection"... 😌)

John and Augustine end up wrestling over the stoma, with Ianthe above them. Pyrrha introduces herself properly to Gideon and informs her G1deon just died fighting the RB tonight, so she's alone in the body now. They debate what to do but ultimately end up out in the River too. Gideon thinks to herself that Ianthe could probably help make sure John is swallowed by the stoma but Augustine survives, but instead Ianthe does the opposite. (And. You know. Based on everything Ianthe knows, John dying has a high chance of meaning Corona dying too, along with the rest of the House citizens including the rest of her family, so there's that.)

Gideon finds herself passing out in the water, and then the last thing she sees is Harrow's bullshit dead girlfriend coming to claim her, as Alecto(?) says "in the wrong voice twice removed" something about chest compressions and not losing her. Gideon dies. (Again. But will it stick this time...?)

-

We cut back to Harrow in the River as Dulcie tells her she's certain she can sense someone intentionally moving Harrow's body, meaning there's a high chance Gideon is alive and in control. Dulcie appears to be crushed by falling debris afterward, but had been fully accepting of that risk in interest of the truth here.

Harrow chooses to pull herself out of the River not to her body, but into the Tomb. Nothing about the scene makes sense and it's not supposed to. She crawls into the empty(??) coffin and curls up with her sword and Frontline Titties of the Fifth, then she falls asleep, or dies, or both.

-

Six months later, we follow a girl about her daily life in a city that looks much closer to a modern day settlement than anything we'd seen thus far, albeit a dangerous and wartorn one. She lives with the person who goes to work for her, the person who teaches her, and the person who cares for her. She heals unnaturally quickly and for some reason when other people start to notice that they avoid those people after that. At the end she asks the person who cares for her if she's figured out who she is yet, and Camilla answers, "Not yet."

=============================================

BUT YEAH. I'm happy to answer specific questions if you have them as well. It's my favorite book and VERY worth a reread, but this should be enough to understand what's going on enough to be more confident moving into Nona. (Unsure if you actually meant to reread or were being hyperbolic, but clearing up confusion can't hurt either way!) And then once you finish all three books and all three short stories, you can read ALL of them again together and unlock all the layers of bonus content. >:3

(That is, I encourage reading NtN before rereading HtN unless you wanna reread HtN multiple times, because the added context from NtN and even from a later reread of GtN will enrich the HtN reread all the more.)

Good luck!

I finished Harrow the Ninth so now I need to reread Harrow the Ninth so maybe I will know what happened in Harrow the Ninth

[intermundia]

the ends the villains got in this season were so poetic and eminently justified to me. dedra, partagaz, they got what they deserved for their arrogance and ambition, their cruelty and selfishness, and all their contributions to the oppression of an authentically evil empire. syril died unrecognized and unremarkable, a traitor to the rebels who were foolish enough to trust him, and a patsy for an empire and a lover who didn't. dedra was jailed like a common laborer, everything she hoped to avoid, unwittingly helping the enemy create the chaos she despised through her own arrogance. partagaz fell on his sword for his failed leadership, the words of nemick some of the last things he ever heard. the writing of the show didn't excuse any of them, or allow time for their redemption. the audience could feel sympathy at their own discretion, but it was not particularly encouraged. they did terrible things, and were punished in the narrative.

the ends of the heroes were equally rich and earned. luthen died the way he always expected and maybe intended, by his own choice, finally caught, though it took some help in the end. i think the person most openly rewarded ultimately was bix, who held hope in her arms in an idyllic setting, standing amidst a crop ready for harvest. i think some of her trauma will linger on, but she was able to make things right, and punish her torturer, prevent others from suffering as she did. we saw that she went through an ugly period of healing, and it took many years, but in the end she survived, and found a peaceful life. vel lost her great love, the struggle cut cinta's life tragically short, but i think the narrative left her future with kleya open, maybe they could have a new story of their own together. they're both profoundly damaged people, but so capable and with such good intentions.

and of course cassian's story began with the end already told, it was already over, and nothing could be done to change it. the story could only ever manifest it. all his love and loss, it was all setting him up to pass a vital torch, and be a messenger of hope when the galaxy needed him most. i always knew such a rich prequel series would make the tragedy of rogue one hit harder, and as i watch it now, it does. there's so much weight to his presence, all his history and complexity. it was a tremendous loss on scarif, such a powerful sacrifice of such a good person, who did hard things others wouldn't or couldn't. he tried, in the service of the cause of freedom for the galaxy. so many things had to happen in order to make it possible to destroy the death star and ultimately destroy the empire, and the remarkable, precious thing is that they did. it happened because of so many small acts of service and dedication, so much loss. i think the series was profoundly successful in telling that story.

[missredherring]

Set Up

Javi Gutiérrez x Harry Castillo

Rating: M

Word Count: 1.1k

Contents: kissing, frottage.

Summary: Matchmaker AU. What are the odds a matchmaker sets you up with a former hook up? Asking for a friend.

A/N: I loved the parallels in the gifs and this idea quickly followed. Thanks to @perotovar for their encouragement.

Not beta read.

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Javi takes a deep pull of wine and barely tastes it before he swallows. It's not how he was taught one should enjoy wine, but enjoying isn't his goal right now. Maybe he should've gotten something stronger if he really wanted to dull some of the nerves twisting in his stomach.

He's dressed nicely in a fancy restaurant whose waiting list goes out years rather than weeks or months. That he made this reservation a couple of days ago is a testament to the power of an old family name like his, but it makes him feel like even more of a failure.

It'd been a secret wish to find a partner organically. A chance encounter set up by fate where interest sparked with a moment of eye contact, a brush of the hand, an exchange of shy smiles. He knows real life is nothing like the idyllic movies he adores, but the small hope clings to his heartstrings and pulls at the worst times. Besides, when was the last time he's spent enough time in a coffee shop to have a proper meet-cute?

He'd thought Gabriela was the one for a few sweet months of heated kisses and whispered daydreams of a better future out from the thumb of his family. In the end he couldn't bare to trap her in his golden cage just because he was lonely and desperate for companionship. She understood better than he did that his family would never approve of them together.

The pressure to marry and marry well only increased after Lucas' failed coup d'état. The family needed to repair its reputation and present a stable, powerful image to the rest of the world. What better way to do that than with a wedding?

Javi's orders were clear: marry soon or they'd marry him off themselves by the end of the year and he would have no say in the union.

He understands. It's the least he can do to repay the wealth and power that's let him live such a carefree and privileged life, but that hope swings like a pendulum in his chest and he wants one last chance to find love for himself. That's happened before, right? There are a fair few movies that have the protagonists finding true love with the threat of an arranged marriage hanging overhead. Of course they also portray those marriages as a soul-crushing union that's a fate worse than death. He doesn't want to crush anyone or be crushed himself.

Hope swings away and he had to admit that maybe his family isn't wrong about the arrangement idea. So he negotiated one last chance to find a partner for himself and reached out to Nic for advice. His friend (his friend Nic Cage) had offered up the name of a New York-based matchmaker who he swore was one of the best. Some of the successful Hollywood couples? Her doing.

It was a strange experience to trust a total stranger to match him up with another stranger based on a form he filled out, but Javi is the kind of person who wants to trust other people, no matter how many times life delighted in proving him wrong.

Harry C.

He hadn't wanted to see pictures, charmed by the idea of a true blind date, but maybe that had been a mistake. The matchmaker had assured him they matched on the important things and now it was up to them to see if there was any potential in person. He hoped this whole thing wouldn't turn into a disappointment his family would see as another failure.

Javi reaches for his glass again but redirects to the water instead.

His phone vibrates from where he'd placed it next to the table setting. The phone going off during the date would be rude, wouldn't it? He turns the sound off before checking the message. It was from the matchmaker:

"I hope you have a wonderful time with Harry. Of course, if you're not feeling it let me know and I'll get you out of there!"

The emojis depicting a person running away makes him smile. He replies with a thank you and the fingers crossed emoji.

He starts to put the phone back on the table, but should he put it in a pocket instead? Would the phone on the table signal that he wasn't wiling to give his date his full attention? Should he have left his phone at home? No, meeting a stranger in a city he was only passingly familiar with was too naive even for him.

"Javier?" a voice asks as shined leather shoes come into his line of sight just beyond the table.

Javi finishes the movement of slipping his phone into his pocket and stands to greet his date.

"Please, call me 'Javi.'"

"Javi," Harry confirms and doesn't hesitate when Javi takes his outstretched hand and uses it to pull him in for a quick embrace. He lets Javi guide his face to the left and right for two presses of smooth skin against his cheeks. It's over in seconds, leaving Harry with a lingering sense of warmth and a pleasant, familiar cologne.

"Ah, please, have a seat," Javi says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite of him before sitting back down at the table.

It's a nice restaurant with packed tables spaced far enough apart for privacy in low lighting. It would be easy to forget about the city outside when all you can hear is the quiet hum of conversations and the occasional clink of silverware.

With his prize in his sights, Harry's patience feels boundless as he watches Javi finally settle in his seat and look him in the eyes for the first time that night.

Belt buckles rattle and the hiss of zippers are echoed in exhalations as ruddy cocks are freed from pants.

The recognition is slow but steady as Javi studies his face, his eyes darting from feature to feature before landing on his lips when Harry can't hold back his smile.

Harry could spit, but the other man takes his hand and licks along his palm and fingers instead, grunting when Harry uses it to press and hold their dicks together while he kisses him again and again, dizzy with the taste of alcohol and wedding cake.

"I finally get to know your name and of all people a matchmaker is the one to give it to me. What do you think the odds of that are, Javi?"

Seeing Javi's face among the candidates had been a shock. Harry had never expected to see the man he'd hooked up with at his brother's wedding again, but there he was, smiling at the camera wide enough to bring out the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, just as he had when they'd locked eyes across the room at the reception.

"Small," Javi croaks, taking what can only be described as a 'swig' from his wine glass. "but apparently not impossible."

[jukeboxsweethearttt]

Introducing Coconut!Reader

You can call it sleeping around. I call it strategic networking.

Paired with Rafe and Ward Cameron

content warning: Cheating? if you consider that but mostly just father and son sharing the same woman

Requests for this au OPEN/closed

Divider by THE QUEEN @starfxkrinc

Coconut is all bounce and gloss silk robes, ballet pink nails, designer heels with bows, rollers in her hair, and gloss on her pout.

Think “Barbie meets bombshell” all soft curves, plush lips, and giggles. People see her and assume she’s just another pretty face who majored in “how to smile pretty.”

But the bitch has a 4.0 GPA, graduated top of her class in pre-law as summa cum laude. and she’s currently securing her degree in urban development with a business minor. Brains so sharp they could cut glass.

Former Miss North Carolina Teen and a Miss USA Top 5 finalist. Her pageant walk is so precise it could hypnotize a room, and she’s got a terrifyingly sweet voice she uses like a weapon.

She knows how to network, flirt, disarm, and charm thank you, pageant training. That’s how she landed her internship at Cameron Development.

She flutters her lashes in interviews but hits harder than any other candidate in data analytics. Ward said, “You’re too pretty to know what zoning codes are.” She replied with the entire state regulation index from memory.

Ward is intrigued first by her body, then by her mind, then back to her body. When he offers her a “bonus” for working late, she acts shy, but takes it.

She starts sleeping with Ward because he throws money at her like she’s a damn trust fund. Cashmere sets, vintage pearls, a new Cartier bracelet “for being such a good little intern.”

She lets him call her “doll,” but only if she gets the black Amex when she wants it. She’s not ashamed he’s the one panting at her feet.

Rafe catches her sneaking out of his dad’s office in smeared lipstick and thigh highs. She tries to lie. He laughs.

“You’re not even subtle,” he growls, cornering her in the elevator. “You’re gonna fuck him and not me?”

She’s cocky about it until he makes her beg on her knees right in Ward’s office chair. After that, Rafe makes Ward share.

Now she’s their perfect little secret silk and lace between two generations of Cameron power.

Her biggest kink? Making men underestimate her and then owning their entire business plan in one sentence.

She wears pastels and keeps her voice sweet, but she’s vicious behind a keyboard.

Ward lets her sit in on meetings just for the view, but she ends up correcting his executives mid presentation.

Rafe starts letting her take calls for him because she negotiates harder than he does.

Ward calls her “Sugar,” “Princess,” and “Sweet girl.” He likes her docile, on his lap, brushing her curls while he sips bourbon.

Rafe calls her “My little intern,” “Pretty bitch,” and “Cameron Property.” He likes to wreck her lipstick before board meetings.

She lets them think they own her when really, she owns them both.

She’s a pillow princess with Ward, soft moans and legs open while he worships her like a dirty church prayer.

With Rafe? It’s rougher. Meaner. Messier. He likes to see the lipgloss smeared, the pageant girl ruined.

They both think she belongs to them but she’s got their names memorized in her planner like appointments:

9am: Blow Ward before morning meeting.

1pm: Let Rafe bend you over the desk.

6pm: Pretend like nothing happened and look pretty at the fundraiser.

Ward buys her a house. Rafe buys her a car.

Ward wants to take her to Europe for “company expansion.” Rafe threatens to move her to his penthouse just to keep her close.

She smiles through it all, files her nails, and books both flights. Who said you couldn’t have sugar from two sides of the spoon?

She’s using all of this for her thesis: “Gender, Power, and Capitalism: Sleeping With The American Elite.”

And yes she plans to publish it anonymously, after graduation, once she’s long gone… with the Camerons’ secrets and their money.

ALTERNATE ENDING I couldn’t decide which one so requests are open for Both!

Eventually, Ward proposes. Of course he does. She’s the perfect southern wife on paper, smart, stunning, obedient in public.

The engagement is a society spectacle thousand dollar cake tastings, Vogue coverage, diamonds bigger than her ego. She says yes with teary eyes and crossed legs. It’s what she was raised for to secure a name, a legacy, a life of luxury.

The ring never stops her. On the night of her engagement party, Rafe sneaks into the bathroom and takes her from behind while she moans into the marble.

The pearl necklace she wore to the dinner is still around her throat when he finishes. Ward knows. He always knows. He just doesn’t care not as long as she comes home to his bed at the end of the night, looking like money and ruin.

She’s a wife, a whore, a scholar, and a mastermind. She knows Ward will die loving her and Rafe will die chasing her. She keeps both. Rafe calls her a slut when he’s buried inside her. Ward calls her Mrs. Cameron. She lets both speak. She never loses.

In the end?

She doesn’t just have the crown.

She is the empire.

[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

[violetasteracademic]

Summary:

I was not always this way. I have memories of a time before this darkness was pooled into me. When I spilled the language of creation, not in the service of good or evil, but simply because a world needs nothing but to be made. Flowers need nothing but to bloom. People need nothing but to breathe. Water needs nothing but to flow. Those memories are hazy now. For so many years, I have been fighting the inky black corruption poured into my being. I have since been broken, divided, silenced and reborn. But once I touched her, I felt it. A vision of who I once was, and I knew that she was to be my salvation. Slayer of kings. Protector of thieves. Bringer of life. My Elain.

In other words: The corrupted Cauldron loses it's battle for control when it spies the lovely fawn being touched by the shadowsinger.

Warnings: Dark fic, dark elriel, toxic cauldron, mind control, noncon/dubcon, psychological abuse, torture, kidnapping, explicit sexual content

Thank you to @yourstarsmyscars for looking this over and everyone who supported this idea (some of you may remember it as my Elriel x Cauldron swimfan fic idea from well over a year ago!) and everyone who thinks AI should burn in hell.

Read the fic here.

Preview below the cut:

I was only a tool. A Cauldron forged at the hands of the Mother herself, and from me flowed new worlds. 

But in my corruption and distress, the Mother abandoned me. She left me in this broken world, and moved on, trusting the threads of her fate would hold strong despite all that had been done to me. 

She could have come back for me. She could have fixed me. But she didn’t. She left me to fend for myself, to push and push against the madness, to hold onto myself as my magic was twisted by false gods.

Anger.

I was so angry. 

I would not be abandoned again.

Elain Archeron would be mine.

I pool the leaking oil back inside me, and with my considerable power, I create something new. 

A spell. One I know well, as I wrote it from the language that spills from my body. I had watched a dragon, the right hand of a god, contain herself into the body of a High Fae.

There would be sacrifice. Forcing the vast endlessness of myself would limit some of my power. But it would be worth it. For Elain, it would be worth it.

Bones build within me, locking into place, and around it stretches muscle and skin.

I don’t want to look exactly like Azriel, but if that is what she desires, I should like to give her just enough to be pleased when she beholds me.

Hazel eyes. A tall, broad, and muscular build. A sharp, strong jaw and lips that curve in a way I pray to whatever gods are greater than me that she will find it tempting. I can only hope that she will find shorter, perfectly coiffed silvery blonde hair to be pleasing. I believe it will compliment the golden brown of hers well.

I bind the spell onto my skin in an undetectable display of tattoos, much like the runes and markings the Illiryan males carve into their skin. A pleasant shiver passes through me at the thought of her running her fingers over them.

Love. This is what motivates me.

There are other emotions that live within me now, of a darker nature. Possession. Fury.

Violence. 

But perhaps love is its own form of violence.

Bringing some unhinged vibes to @elriel-month because why not? We're all mad here.

[andy-15-07]

The One That Got Away

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x reader

Word Count:1082| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

The Last Of Us Masterlist

Pre-Outbreak – Austin, Texas

"You’re really gonna leave the house lookin’ that good and not expect me to say anything?"

You smirk, leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand. "You’re really gonna be late for work again if you don’t stop flirting with me every morning."

Tommy wraps his arms around your waist from behind, lips brushing your ear. "Ain’t flirtin’ if it’s true."

"Still makes you late," you tease.

"And worth every second." He spins you around, kissing you like the world isn’t on fire, like nothing could go wrong.

Post-Outbreak – Jackson, Wyoming (Years Later)

"Tommy!" Maria's voice cuts through the biting winter air as she hurries toward him. "We’ve got a new group coming in. Patrol found them southeast , couple of 'em are hurt."

He sighs, tossing his gloves into the bin outside the stables. "Another one? That's the third group this month."

"I know. But there’s someone you’re gonna want to see." She hesitates. “I didn’t believe it at first.”

"What do you mean?"

Maria tilts her head. "Just… come with me."

He walks through the clinic doors, the cold following him in. Jackson’s med bay is warm but tense. People shift around, helping a few newcomers settle in. And then,

He sees her.

You.

You're sitting on a cot, bundled in a jacket too big for you, bandage on your arm. Your hair’s shorter, skin a little rougher, but your eyes , those damn eyes.

He freezes.

You look up.

And your whole body stills.

"...Tommy?" your voice comes out cracked, disbelieving.

His feet move before his brain catches up. “No way. No. No, you," he stumbles, chest rising fast. "You died. I saw the house. I saw the flames,”

“I got out,” you whisper, tears immediately spilling over. “I ran. I,Tommy, I looked for you for years.”

Tommy’s hands are on your face before either of you can say anything else. "Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You’re real. You’re,"

“I’m real,” you nod, laughing through the tears. “You’re real, too.”

Later That Night – Jackson Lodge

You're sitting by the fire, wrapped in a blanket Maria brought, sipping hot tea. Tommy hasn’t left your side.

"You really thought I was dead?" you ask softly.

"I didn't just think it," Tommy says, voice tight. "I knew it. There was no way someone could’ve made it outta that mess. We lost power, the whole block was burning, your street was overrun. I... I lost it."

You stare at the fire. “I remember the screaming. The smoke. I grabbed a bag and bolted through the back window when I heard the infected. I thought I’d find you on the road.”

"I went back for you. I swear. Joel tried to stop me, but I went back. Place was gone."

“I kept hoping maybe you’d made it out. That maybe I’d see you again.” You glance at him, smiling sadly. “Guess we’re both stubborn like that.”

He chuckles dryly. “You have no idea.”

A Walk Through Jackson – The Next Day

"So… married, huh?" you ask, nodding at his wedding band.

Tommy hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Maria. She’s good people. Smart. Brave. Keeps me grounded.”

"I figured you’d find someone," you say, forcing a smile.

He studies you. “That a problem?”

You shake your head. “No. Just… weird. We used to talk about getting a dog, a porch swing, a bunch of loud kids running around.”

Tommy sighs, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Yeah. We did. Life just had other plans.”

“Clearly.”

You stop walking.

“Tommy… do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if none of this happened?”

He nods. “Every damn day.”

Flashback – A Week Before the Outbreak

"You gonna marry me someday?" you ask, half-joking as the two of you lie in bed, limbs tangled.

Tommy looks down at you. "You kiddin’? I’d marry you tomorrow if I could afford a ring."

"You don’t need a ring."

"Well, I want one. You deserve more than some last-minute courthouse vows and a beer after."

You grin. "What if I like beer?"

He laughs. “Then I’ll buy you the fanciest beer in the state and make sure you’ve got that porch swing, too.”

Back in Jackson – Present Day

"Things have been… hard," Tommy says later that evening, walking you back to the guest house. “Even in this place. Even with good people. You keep surviving, but it doesn’t mean it stops hurting.”

You nod, voice quiet. “You were the only thing that kept me going some days.”

He looks at you, raw emotion swimming in his eyes. “I never stopped loving you.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Because you’ve got a life now. A wife. A town. And I’m just… a ghost.”

He grabs your arm gently. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk like you don’t matter.”

“But I don’t belong here.”

“You belong wherever you want to be.”

Silence stretches between you. Snow begins to fall.

“Can I stay?” you ask.

His voice breaks. “Please.”

A Few Weeks Later

Life in Jackson is calm. Quiet. You help in the greenhouse. Get to know people. Share meals in the dining hall. Sometimes Maria watches you and Tommy with a distant expression, unreadable.

One evening, as you and Tommy walk past the stables, you break the silence.

“Does she know?”

Tommy nods. “She knew the second I saw you. I told her everything that night.”

“What did she say?”

He hesitates. “She said love before the world ended still matters. She said she wouldn’t stand in the way of what we were… whatever this is.”

You stop. “And what is this, Tommy?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I know I don’t want to lose you again.”

You step closer, snow crunching beneath your boots.

“Then don’t.”

That Night – Tommy’s Porch

He brings out two mugs of hot cider, handing you one before sitting beside you.

"Think we ever get to be happy again?" you ask.

"I don’t know if it’ll look the same as before. But I think we can make somethin' new."

You glance at him, warmth flickering in your chest. “Even without the dog and porch swing?”

He smiles. “Well, we’ve got the porch. And I’m sure someone’s got a mutt around here.”

You both laugh.

Then you lean your head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like the end of the world.

It feels like a beginning.

[dw-flagler]

Case 70 Dallon Sisters

This is a really fun one!

Let's assume that Case 70s are way more common, because canonically only twins can be case 70s and only in really specific circumstances, and the dallon sisters aren't blood-related at all, let alone twins. In fact, amy not looking like the rest of the family is a fairly major detail. So let's assume you only need the "they both trigger at the same time while touching eachother" part, not the "and also they're twin siblings" part.

A lot of this depends on when they trigger. The longer we go without them triggering, the weirder and harder this gets.

I think the best option we have here is that Victoria doesn't trigger at the basketball game, she actually triggers during amy's trigger event. Basically simultaneous, like the capricorn twins. That's how they trigger while touching each-other.

Their dynamic would be kind of weird. The capricorn brothers are supposed to hate eachother and their status as case 70s is supposed to WILDLY exacerbate that, but (at least at this point) the dallon sisters just get along. Obviously, not as well as they got on in canon (minus the wretching), they'd fight each-other way more than they did canonically (pre-wretching), but I can't see either of the sisters actually going super far like the capricorn brothers did.

Honestly, as far as I'm seeing, it's actually almost kind of a net positive for amy's mental health as opposed to canon. She wouldn't have the same kind of pressure placed on her as she does in canon, both because I don't think she'd be a healer (and thus would not be suffering from healing burnout) and wouldn't really have a similar pressure from her insane capacity for harm. This version of amy wouldn't feel like she was constantly holding herself back from killing hundreds of people, since she has a different power.

Also it would be harder for her to specifically develop romantic feelings towards victoria? I mean, they would never fight as badly as the capricorn brothers, but being a case 70 means by necessity they'd be stepping on each-others' toes and fighting eachother more often, creating a lot more resentment than the canon dallon sisters. I mean, think about it. You can get along with somebody really well until you're stuck with them. And in this scenario amy and victoria are very literally stuck with each other.

That being said if amy did develop romantic feelings towards victoria it would be way more creepy and awkward. Though it's pretty awkward no matter what.

It would absolutely fuck over new wave though. Like the vast majority of case 70s we see in canon hide the fact that they're case 70s, at least to the general public (cause there's basically no way to spin it)--Capricorn (the only canon case 70 we really see anything about) wasn't hiding it, but they weren't telling anybody outright either. But. New Wave doesn't--can't, even--have secret identities, so there's no way to feasibly hide this.

I imagine--okay, you know the worm fanfic swallowtail? So in Swallowtail New Wave is a pretty big deal in brockton. So they have their own webpage, with these very sanitized character profiles for all the members. I'm imagining something like carol writing the new wave web page and having to find some way to spin "two of my daughters are trapped together for eternity" into a harmless family friendly thing. You can't! you can't do that! It just doesn't work.

But what would actually be their powers? Now that's hard. Usually, when I do these, something will, you know, like, pop out as a cool thing. But there's really nothing that springs to mind for this! So let's do this step by step and hopefully something will grab me.

So, first, Amy. Amy's trigger event here would be basically completely identical to the one in canon. Amy sees her sister bleeding out and triggers from not wanting her sister to die (and leave amy alone). more or less i'm not an amy expert.

Second, Victoria. She's got a different trigger from canon. So, in this AU i'm coming up with, victoria doesn't trigger at the basketball game, but the basketball game still happens. And it affects her as a person. so the idea, I guess, is that victoria's trigger here is more like a drawn out version of her trigger event at the basketball game. Same trauma, but instead of her being like "i've never achieved anything" it's her being like "i'm going to die without achieving anything" so it's the same trigger but slightly different.

Okay, so, basically, my idea is that the Dallon Sisters share a body between each other, which they can swap between in a manner similar to the capricorn brothers. However, unlike the capricorn brothers (where the brothers swap places by having the brother who's fronting will himself to swap places), the dallon sisters would swap by the sister who's not fronting willing herself to swap places. I like the idea because it would be just as awkward but in a different way.

I'm not sure if the dallon sisters should be able to communicate without swapping out, so like victoria's fronting but she can hear amy. I suppose I'm open to either option, or maybe some third thing. Get in the comments!

But anyway, each dallon sister, when fronting, has a different changer ability. My second* idea is that the dallon sisters look like angels. But different kinds of angels. BIG DISCLAIMER: I have never read the bible in my life so I only know this from google. It's likely not totally accurate!

I'm thinking that Victoria's changer form takes cues from the idea of a Powers angel. According to this wiki I read, they're the most fight-y type. Here's a picture of one:

Now, perhaps interestingly, I actually don't think victoria would look much like this. I think it's kind of boring actually. There's one that's more accurate to what I think she'd look like, which is this:

but this is actually a Virtues angel, so a completely different type. I just like the less greek/roman-inspired armor and the big wings.

My idea for victoria's changer form would be human-esque, but not quite so much Just A Normal Guy With Wings like the pictures. My idea is that she'd more be stained glass taking the appearance of an angel. Still able to speak and move normally, and it would be very finely detailed stained glass, but very distinctly she's not made out of meat.

So basically, visually, my idea is a mix of these two images. The form and ridiculously large wings of the second, but a kim kitsuragi Big Circle Behind Head style halo and big red shield of the first. No sword.

I like the idea of her shield working almost identically to her canon forcefield, but directed. So, it basically stops any attack but immediately pops out of existence afterward. She also has a second forcefield which is completely invisible and about an inch above her skin that acts like a video game energy shield. It has, say, 100 hit points, and it can take 99 damage and recharge to 100 hit points in like 10 seconds, but if it takes 100 damage it completely shatters and regrows which takes way longer, like, 30 seconds or something. The forcefield is completely invisible but her halo is a visual indicator of how well it's working. If her halo has a bunch of cracks, her at like 10%, and if her halo shatters like glass, the forcefield is also broken. Oh and also the shield disappears. So like she can never have the shield if the halo isn't there.

One thing I really like is the idea that her entire angel form looks kind of immaterial, but her shield and halo are extra immaterial. If we take the stained glass idea, then the shield and halo are still-see-through tinted glass.

I also like the idea of her being able to fly but it very clearly not being because she has wings. Like, she just kind of floats. And she can't fly if the halo shatters. Basically, like all her abilities depend on the halo being there.

Meanwhile, Amy is a Thrones angel. Those are the Biblically Accurate Angels that everybody goes hog wild for. Here's a picture of one:

So these are both angels, but a thrones angel is the creepy one that looks monstrous and the potestates one looks like A Guy With Wings. Now, most depictions of thrones angels have the wheel thingies absolutely covered in eyes, but this one doesn't.

I like the idea of amy's form being similar to this, but way more stuff going on. Way more wings, which seem to sprout nonsensically from every gap in the wheel thingies, and hands, arms, and tendrils which also appear nonsensically, either from gaps in the wheel thingies or off the wings They also just sort of float near her person, seeming like they sprouted from something. The halos are actual physical objects, being, like, wrapped around the wings and arms.

Basically, the second you see amy's changer form (and you're not like "what the fuck is this") you immediately wonder how everything doesn't get horribly tangled.

For her abilities in this form, amy of course has a very passive ability that she just sort of. has dozens of arms and tendrils and stuff which are very long and sprout from anything, even appearing from nowhere and just kind of floating around. She can spawn or delete them at will, but there's a minimum amount of, like, 14 or something. Otherwise, she's got an extremely similar forcefield to canon victoria, but it takes more to pop and regenerates quicker. Each spawned arm is either part of the one forcefield, or has its own individual forcefield, if it's free floating. They still have to be in a pretty short radius though

the idea is that victoria is really strong against one target but weak against groups, but amy is strong against groups but weak against one target.

One idea i thought was kind of neat is that the longer victoria stays in her changer form, the more arms and wings she seems to grow, meaning that she has to either revert to human or swap to amy to stop it. Sort of a gradual change.

Oh, and each sister has a different thinker ability when they're not in control. So, like, when victoria's fronting, amy can see 360 around her and when amy's fronting victoria has a combat thinker power of some kind. I dunno i'd have to workshop it.

Whereas the vera brothers' powers incentivize swapping out often and quickly, but swapping out being hard, the dallon sisters' powers are the opposite, incentivizing staying as one sister but swapping out being really easy.

I don't really know why angel popped out at me, the dallons are only catholic coded. Angel themed capes is also a really tough market since, you know. The Simurgh.

As a composite cape, I do like the idea of them being named something like Seraph to lean into it. Which you'll note neither of them are based on an Seraph at all and it doesn't actually make sense. But branding calls.

[cuboftea]

Uuuuugh love this so much.

I really wanna write a dynamic or see it explored how they end up feeling about each other. Most of the time i see Bow being written as jealous or indifferent, but what if after hearing about Bot, Bow has no qualms about their existence. Even though she knows why Bot was created, its hard to look at them and visualize them as a clone of herself.

However, once Bow starts watching Season 3 out of curiosity, a new thought sits in her mind, one she never thought would be an issue cuz of how she loves her girls at the mansion.

No one really liked her until after she died. When she can’t visit or be about of her own choice, and when she used her ghost powers to help. If Marsh hadnt felt guilty, no one would have ever seen her, or cared. They felt guilty enough to build a robot, but didnt even believe to see the real thing when they first went to the mansion.

Bot was still tolerated more by everyone when they were acting like her, and especially more so when they became them. Was Bow really that much of a bother? That they’d prefer anyone else, even if they felt bad?

And with Bow not really being in tune with complex emotions, she hates this feeling. It starts to be in the back of her mind and spoils her precious time with anyone at the mansion. She starts to doubt if Marsh cares about her or feels guilty and obligated to be there. She knows Knife and Dough have no choice.

If you pair that with the robo suit fix, Bow would probably feel even worse. That she has to be the one mimicking Bot, that it would remind every one of the two. And even if she could go out whenever she wanted, would people start to go back to hating her?

Unfortunately, them avoiding each other makes their paranoia worse. Bot thinks Bow hates them, and struggles with feeling like a failed version of Bow. While Bow thinks that Bot avoiding her is due to feeling above her. While everyone is somewhat right about Bow being upset, the reason she is has nothing to do with Bot themself, but how everyone reacted to it. Reacted to her. In her mind Bot has no reason to feel like the other bow when theyre even more cherished when they broke away.

At this point she feels like the other, annoying version of Bot. That she was better off being in the back of everyones minds, never in the spotlight.

Idk, i feel like it would be interesting if the conflicting feelings were a two way street that both have to cross. That Bow can realize that Bot doesn’t think of themself as superior, and for Bot that Bow never hated them at all, and thinks their new style is super cute. That if anyone wants to fix these messy feelings its ultimately up to only those two on how they wanna redefine it. And they find when they shut out their worries about everyone else, its not actually that hard to like each other. Bot is incredibly sweet and fun, and Bow can be really funny and enjoys being a part of someone’s antics.

:o

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Another early 18th century literary fairy tale from the mysterious Comtesse D.L., this time one that begs for a sapphic reading:

The Princess Patientine in the Forest of Erimente

(La Princesse Patientine dans la Forest d’Erimente, published in: Les Chevaliers Errans et le Génie familier par Madame la Comtesse D***, 1709; translated by B. Stableford in: The Tyranny of the Fays Abolished, 2018, Black Coat Press.)

A cruel, greedy ogre named Insacio learns from the goddess Avarice that if he could get the princess Patientine in his power, he would become the richest of all ogres. To this end he disguises himself as a handsome prince and goes to court her. The princess and her mother the queen are charmed by him, but:

Patientine had a very strong amity for a young woman of her court named Espritée. She held the first place in her heart as she held it by her rank with regard to the queen, and she did not hide anything from her. She confided to her the nascent tenderness she had for Insacio.

Espritée fears her beloved princess’s unhappiness and tries to convince her not to accept the false prince’s proposals. But because the queen and princess Patientine both wish for the marriage, she drops her opposition and instead insists on accompanying the princess to her marital home. That home turns out to be the ogre’s horrible lair, teaching the princess how cruelly she was deceived by her new husband. She is put to work gathering herbs, brewing potions, spinning and overseeing the people he forces to dig for treasure. All the ogre cares about is her bringing him riches, not allowing her a moment’s rest:

He found her lying at the foot of a tree conversing with her dear Espritée. The furious ogre vomited all the most horrible insults at the unfortunate princess and swore to take away the only consolation she had by sending Espritée away. He would have done so right away had it not been for the fear that the young woman might tell the queen about her daughter’s woes.

Espritée stays however, until princess Patientine is discovered by Prince Courageous, who had met her at her mother’s court and had always had a preference for her. He professes his love for her, but Patientine responds with nothing but “discretion” (because she is married). However, finding her maltreated and exploited by such a cruel monster of a husband the prince wants to rescue her and asks Espritée how it might be done. Espritée tells him they ought not just to alert the queen, but also the powerful fay Clementine, who is a relative of Patientine’s. So they set off together.

The princess did not learn about her friend’s departure without chagrin, and could not understand what had obliged her to leave her, knowing the tender amity that she had for her.

The ogre’s cruelty to Patientine increases, but meanwhile Prince Courageous and Espritée arrive at the palace of the fay Clementine, who tells them she needs time to prepare the rescue of the princess. (Courageous and Espritée spend most of their time talking about Patientine, despite being offered magical entertainment.) Finally the fay declares:

“Espritée,” she said, “my charms are ready; it requires no less power than mine to extract Patientine from Insacio’s irons. He has employed all the art of Hell to form an enchantment that renders her invisible to our eyes; Avarice has given him advice, but I shall render his power useless and render the princess to you. Let us depart right away, in order to arrive at his tenebrous abode at sunrise. And you, Prince Courageous, forget your valor, and without using your arms to vanquish the monsters—they would be impotent against them—leave me the care of breaking Patientine’s chains.”

Espritée is impatient to see the princess again and when they arrive at the ogre’s lair the fay’s dazzling splendour makes Patientine drop the heavy cauldron she is holding. The fay turns the water into an endless stream, that turns to gold on the ground of the cave, making the troll wild with greed when he rushes towards the commotion. He picks up the gold “without perceiving the Fay, the prince or Espritée, who was holding the princess in her arms”. As soon as he touches the gold it turns back into water, running through his fingers.

The fay curses him to stay there forever, trying to gather gold he cannot touch, takes all his deadly power from him, and proclaims that he will lose the princess because his cruelty towards her has made him unworthy of possessing her. (That he married her under false pretences is not mentioned, nor that he is an ogre while she is human.)

The fay takes Patientine, Espritée and Courageous back to the court of Patientine’s mother the queen, who is overjoyed to see her beloved daughter again and has nothing but gratitude for Clementine, caresses for Espritée and esteem for Courageous. The tale then ends:

After having heaped the charming Patientine with benefits, the fay returned to her palace. Courageous remained at the court of the Queen of Lydia, and, adapting his passion to the virtue of the princess, adored her in secret. Espritée shared the fay’s gifts with Patientine, and, charmed to have her with her, knew no greater happiness than being loved by Clementine and her dear princess.

Interestingly this story is part of a framing narrative (The Familiar Spirit) in which a Persian woman is imprisoned by a jealous husband and wishes she had a sylph for a lover (much like the beginning of Marie de France’s Yonec). The tale of Princess Patientine, who is also mistreated by her husband, is a manuscript left by the sylph to amuse her in his absence.

The translator, Brian Stableford remarks that while the plot of an innocent young woman being married to a monster is "par for the course" for this style of 18th century conte de fée, the treatment of Prince Courageous and the ending with the focus on Patientine and Espritée certainly is not:

Tales produced at Louis XIV’s court, whether in writing or in action, were not usually allowed to end like that because it was not an ending to which royal and customary privilege was usually granted, but that one sneaked in in disguise.

I did notice that in the Comtesse D.L.'s other stories most of the female protagonists, whether they are married or single, have a female companion they love dearly, who is their only consolation during their inevitable plot-relevant suffering. But none of the companions seem as proactive as Espritée and only Patientine ends up free to reject both her evil and her worthy suitors in favour of staying with their dearest companion. The Familiar Spirit seems unfinished, but the story of Patientine is complete and thereby forms the end of the collection. So perhaps the Comtesse was simply working her way up to this particular kind of happy ending <3

[iriascend]

Meet Pelleas Venali Thelen, a disenfranchised Berduskan noble with a talent for both the blade and the arcane, who's as socially awkward as he's eager to please.

(art commissioned from the lovely @justvea18 )

Character backstory under the cut :D

The noble house of Thelen doesn’t consider itself Elturgardian. Despite their holdings certainly belonging to the kingdom these days, as all lands under Berduskan rule do after the city’s recent annexation, Thelens instead pledge fealty directly to the city of Berdusk. 

It is not a surprise to anyone who knows the history of this region. Thelens have, if you believe their founding myth, been here even before Berdusk was a village, let alone a city-state. Less than a decade of new allegiance is not enough to change elven loyalties. As people who had lived in the Sunset Vale for hundreds of years, Thelens considered themselves as part of Berduskan nobility, the First Folk, even if they mostly spent their time outside the city, in Fort Stagwatch. 

The fort stands two days north-east of the city, along an old Uldoon Trail section that connects Berdusk and Asbravn, surrounded by a small village often referred to by the same name. It’s been built there to provide safety and a resting spot for merchants travelling between the two cities, given the hobgoblin and gnoll populations in the Reaching Woods just north. The family’s presence on the Berduskan political stage has been marginal so far, especially since they are not very wealthy in comparison to other nobles, mostly earning their coin from road tolls and taxes off their land, and never being particularly interested in reinvesting it. Their position in the city is extremely stable, though. It is thanks to the long-lasting loyalty of the small elven population of Berdusk (grateful for them producing and importing elven delicacies, like berry wine, that would otherwise not be available in the region), and the well-earned support of citizens of their lands, who had always been treated justly and warmly by their Lord. 

This prosperity came to a sudden end around 1400 DR, not long after the birth of a new generation. Leaving his young son, Lue, and his wife, Lady Ciliren, Lord Zelos Thelen left Stagwatch along with a squad of trusted guards. Their mission was to deal with the beasts of Reaching Woods that have been coming closer and closer to civilization, as he would often do; sometimes it was routine patrol, sometimes reminding the inhabitants of the forest where they’re not wanted. He expected nothing more than a pack of gnolls or some bandits, so he left without worry, promising to return in time for his son’s upcoming tenth birthday. He never did, and no trace of him or his soldiers was found despite the best efforts of the rest of his garrison. 

Many believe that he has been assassinated by rival nobles, or by the Red Wizards of Amn or the Zhentarim themselves. For years by then, the two opposing factions tried to gain a foothold in Berdusk. Around that time, the Red Wizards successfully covertly sponsored a small, less powerful First Folk family of Alverkin. Alverkins used this backing to stage bandit attacks on the lands overseen by Fort Stagwatch after Lord Thelen’s disappearance (or maybe even before), then start rumours that Thelens are no longer capable of making sure that the road to Asbravn remains secure. They managed to convince several other small First Folk families to back them in this claim, an achievement made all the easier with how little involvement and experience the Thelens had in the predominantly-human politics. Despite the wisdom of the ruling High Lady of Berdusk and her secret Harper advisors, this plot couldn’t be prevented from coming to fruition. Alverkins took over the Fort in 1403 DR, claiming that it needs a new lord if the crucial food trade with Asbravn is to remain unimpeded. 

While the Thelens were not outright thrown out of their ancestral home, it was clear that they are not welcome there anymore. For a few months, Lady Ciliren and her son were mistreated by the Alverkins who had moved in, growing more and more worried about their situation due to a couple of accidents happening to their most loyal servants. After one of such incidents, one of their cousins living in the city (who was probably also a Harper agent - or at least has been tipped off by Harpers — acting either on his own accord or trying to do something for the Thelens when the faction couldn’t help them before) warned them that Alverkins are actively planning to kill Lady Thelen and her young son. To prevent this, they escaped the Fort during the following night. Knowing they would still be in danger if they stayed in Berdusk proper — young master Thelen having the right to demand the Fort to be handed back to them once he grows up and proves capable — Lady Thelen decided to fully disappear from the view of nobles. 

She chose to escape to the House of Acumen, a nearby monastery located east of the river Chionthar, on the central plains of Elturgard, one of the oldest religious organizations in the Western Hearthlands, operating since the time of Askavar (an elven settlement within the nearby Woods of Sharp Teeth, abandoned in the 5th century). Thelens had been sponsoring and visiting the place frequently, as it was the family’s patron deity, Labelas Enoreth, so she hoped they would at least let her son stay there. The journey to reach it was troublesome, especially for a lone mother with a 10-year-old elf toddler in tow. It took most of the wealth they managed to take from their home to fund this trek. The monks welcomed them warmly and allowed them both to stay, but warned Lady Ciliren that they cannot provide the splendor she may be used to as a noble lady, and that she would have to earn her keep like any other resident. Since she only cared for her son’s survival, she accepted these terms without question.

Since then, Lue Thelen had been growing up as a temple child, among clergy, pilgrims and associated laymen. Even if with time Lue gained the courage to occasionally venture to Berdusk — doing supply runs like other members of the monastery, or venturing out on a solo adventure to see the city, both against his mother’s wishes — he still remained mostly a cloistered child. While it saved him from becoming arrogant and taught the value of hard work, it also meant he hadn’t had the chance to develop the noble cunning or charm he would’ve if he was rubbing elbows in Berdusk. Lady Ciliren had a harder time adapting; in an extremely short time she lost her husband and everything she knew thus far, and then had to work for her livelihood for the first time in her life. Because of this, the mother and son drifted apart despite their love, both having problems dealing with grief and often secretly blaming it on each other. 

Over the years, as he slowly realised why his life looks like it does and what happened to their previous home that he barely remembered, Lue’s heart filled with anger at the injustice of their predicament. He began to cultivate a grudge against Alverkins. He knew better than to dive into politics on his own, though. He became convinced that his father could easily return their House to its former grace and honor thanks to the respect of the people that he enjoyed, and started believing that Lord Zelos is not dead, but simply missing. After all, nobody ever found a body or even blood, and a great fighter like him would NOT go out without a fight. Eventually, Lue swore to find his father and bring him back, so that they can retake their home together. When one of the pilgrims to the monastery shared rumors of an elf with the Thelen crest and the Thelen birth-mark having been seen in Candlekeep in the last decade, Lue became all but obsessed.

As soon as his coming-of-age Naming Ceremony had been completed, marking him officially an adult, he took up his father’s old spear, picked out a new name — Pelleas, after a tale of a wanderer forever looking for his comrades-in-arms — and set out for Candlekeep.

[dammit-tazmuir]

No. What makes me sad is when other people see Paul as something primarily sad.

What makes me sad is that when I got my own QPP to listen to NtN with me and we got to Paul's birth, they were sad, and got upset when I quoted "to love someone is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be, and a thousand births of the people they become." Because there was a time when we wanted to be Garnet, and I thought they'd love Paul too. In that way, I understand that they too are not who they used to be, but that in and of itself is fine, and I still love them. Because Paul is an unusual spin and a speedrun, but people not being who you used to know is just a real immutable part of life. It's scary to think they could become someone you don't like, but you don't stop loving them just because change happened.

What makes me sad is that no one else seems to look at Paul and see something beautiful, something amazing, something Palamedes and Camilla desperately wanted, something that made Camilla cry with relief and brought them both overwhelming peace. Paul is not Palamedes, and Paul is not Camilla, but Paul IS Palamedes-and-Camilla, and remembers being Palamedes, and remembers being Camilla. Theirs was ego death, but not death in all ways, and for the part that was once Palamedes it was Resurrection in the purest way it has ever been done. Or rather, to use Tamsyn's distinguishment, it was Rebirth. They are more alive than ever, and they are happy.

There IS beauty and freedom in never being complete, and there is different beauty and freedom IN seeing something to completion. Neither is better or worse, they just suit different people. Some people choose Resurrection, trying to bring back and preserve what used to be. Some choose Rebirth, coming back as something new. Nona certainly preferred Rebirth to her Resurrection, but now Alecto has an opportunity to choose who she wants to be this time, too, to reject her Resurrection in favor of another Rebirth.

They are also a rejection of the entire system that led them here. They were born into an empire that ran on the sacrifice of others and on conquest and oppression, an empire that discouraged personal bonds and asked for unquestioning devotion to the state and to God, and they were raised as heirs to perpetuate that cycle. Camilla was raised to die for Palamedes and would have in a heartbeat, and he was raised to let her, but Pal said No, so she had to live for him and for both of them instead. ("All any of you ever knew how to do was die for her. You could have lived for her, but you didn't know how.")

That doesn't change the objective truth that they live in a world where real magical power is derived from death and from fucking around with souls. So they found a way to do it on their own terms, without physically or spiritually harming anybody else, a way that took nothing and gave everything, and now they intend to use it to protect and help others in a way they never could have before. And they'll never have to worry about losing sight of each other again. They'll never be separated again. They'll experience the rest of their now-nigh-immortal life as one chaotic yet composed and endlessly curious demigod.

Palamedes and Camilla were never free, and Paul will not be entirely either, because there are still many people they love, and they wouldn't have it any other way. But on some level Paul also might be the greatest combination of free and happy that any person has ever been, and I envy them. I'm happy for them. They are comforting and indulgent to me. And I wish more people could see them the way I do.

I love Paul.

Hello fellow locked tomb fans, do you ever think about these three lines in juxtaposition and about Paul in general and get really really sad?