#which yeah. fair. on me for making wild characters

[whumpqin]

*intensely stares at my hands*

one day I will be artistically enlightened enough to actually draw my own damn characters

[mokeonn]

I'm playing bg3 again and trying out the honor mode (which as it turns out, might be a bad idea if you never beat the game in general, much less beat it in tactician mode) and I have been confronted with the fact that I absolutely have dnd race favoritism and it absolutely is contributing to my need for many many bg3 saves because I constantly think "hmmm I want to try playing as a deep gnome to see if I get special dialog with Barcus Wroot, the Iron hands, and the underdark" before picking Drow for the 4th time.

[physalian]

What No One Tells you about Writing #3

Opening this up to writing as a whole, because it turns out I have a lot more to say!

Part 1

Part 2

1. You don’t fall in love with your characters immediately

But when you do, it’s a hit of serotonin like no other. I’d been writing a tight cast of characters for my sci-fi series since 2016 and switched over in a bout of writer’s block this year to my new fantasy book. I made it about ⅓ through writing the book going through the motions, unable to visualize what these new characters look like, sound like, or would behave like without a ‘camera’ on them.

Then, all of a sudden, I opened my document to keep on chugging with the first draft, and it clicked. They were no longer faceless elements of my plot, they were my characters and I was excited to see what they could accomplish, rooting for them to succeed. Sometimes, it takes a while, but it does come.

2. Sometimes a smaller edit is better than a massive rewrite

Unless you’re changing the trajectory of your entire plot, or a character’s arc really is unrecoverable, sometimes even a single line of dialogue, a single paragraph of introspection, or a quick exchange between two characters can change everything. If something isn’t working, or your beta readers consistently aren’t jiving with a character you yourself love, try taking a step back, looking at who they are as a person, and boil down what your feedback is telling you and it might demand a simpler fix than you expect.

Tiny details inserted at the right moment can move mountains. Fan theories stand on the backs of these minutiae. One sentence can turn a platonic relationship romantic. One sentence can unravel a fair and just argument. One sentence can fill or open a massive plot hole.

3. Outline? What outline?

Not every book demands weeks upon weeks of prep and worldbuilding. I would argue that jumping right in with only a vague direction in mind gives you a massive advantage: You can’t infodump research you haven’t done. Exposition is forced to come as the plot demands it, because you haven’t designed it yet.

Not every story is simple and straightforward, but even penning the first draft with your vague plan, *then* going back and adding in deeper worldbuilding elements, more thematic details, richer character development, can get you over the writer’s block hurdle and make it far less intimidating to just shut up and write the book.

4. It’s okay to let your characters take the wheel

I’ve seen writing advice that chastises authors who let their characters run wild, off the plan the story has for them. Yeah, doing this can harm your pacing and muddy a strong and consistent arc, but refusing to leave the box of your outline greatly limits your creativity. I do this particularly when writing romantic relationships (and end up like Captain Crunch going Oops! All Gays!).

Did I plan for these two to get together? No, it just happened organically as I wrote them talking, getting closer, getting to know each other better in the circumstances they find themselves in. Was this character meant to be gay? Well, he wasn’t meant to be straight, but you know what, he’d work really well with this other boy over here. None of that would have happened if I was bound and determined to follow my original plan, because my original plan didn’t account for how the story that I want to tell evolves. You aren’t clairvoyant—it’s okay if it didn’t end up where you thought it would.

5. Fight. Scenes. Suck.

Which is crazy because I love fantasy and sci-fi, the actiony-est genres. Some authors love battle scenes and fistfights. It comes naturally to them and I will forever be jealous. I hate fight scenes. I hate blocking and choreographing them. I hate how it doesn’t read like I’m watching a movie. I hate how it could take me hours to write a scene I can read in 5 minutes. I hate that there’s no way around it except to just not write them, or put in the elbow grease and practice.

Whatever your writing kryptonite is, don’t be too hard on yourself. It won’t ever replicate the movie in your head, but our audience isn’t privy to that movie and will be none the wiser of how this didn’t fit your expectations, because it’s probably awesome on its own. It could be a fight scene, sex scene, epic battle, cavalry charge, courtroom argument, car chase—whatever. Be patient, and kind to yourself and it will all come together.

6. Write the scenes you want to write first

And then be prepared to never use them. It can be mighty difficult working backwards from a climax and figuring out how to write the story around it, but if you’re sitting at your laptop staring at your cursor and watching it blink, stuck on a tedious moment that’s necessary but frustrating, go write something exciting. Even if that amazing scene ends up no longer working in the book your story becomes, you still get practice by writing it. Particularly if you hate beginnings or the pressure of a perfect first page is too high, you’re allowed to write any other moment in the book first.

And with that, be prepared to kill your darlings. Not your characters, I mean that one badass line of dialogue living rent free in your head. That epic monologue. That whump scenario for your favorite character. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out anymore, but even if it ends up in the trash, you can always salvage something from it, even if that’s only the knowledge of what not to do in the future.

7. “This is clearly an author insert.” … Yes. It is. Point?

No one likes Mary Sues, because a character who doesn’t struggle or learn to get everything they want in life is uncompelling. The most flagrant author inserts I see aren’t Mary Sues, they’re nerdy, awkward, boring white guys whose world changes to fit their perspective, instead of the other way around—they don’t have anything to say. I’m not the intended audience to relate to these characters and I accept that, but I don’t empathize with the so-called “strong female character” who also doesn’t have flaws or an arc either.

A good author insert? When the author gives their characters pieces of themselves. When the “author insert” struggles and learns and grows and it’s a therapeutic experience just writing these characters thrown into such horrible situations. They feel human when they’re given pieces of a human’s soul. They have real human flaws and idiosyncrasies. I don’t care if the author wrote themselves as the protagonist. I care that this protagonist is entertaining. So if you want to make yourself the hero of your book, go for it! But make sure you look in the mirror and write in your flaws, as much as your strengths.

[seafarersdream]

Campaign Trail | Modern AU! (Gwayne Hightower x Y/N)

Strap in for the wild ride of Gwayne Hightower’s political rise, as seen through the eyes of his campaign manager, Y/N. From clueless debates to dodging scandalous tabloids and pretending he knows the price of a pint, Gwayne is your classic posh boy gone rogue running as a Lib Dem candidate. And it’s Y/N’s job to keep his ego in check, his speeches on point, and, occasionally, his pants on. Welcome to the Gwayne Hightower campaign. Expect chaos. Word count: 12k

TW // Strong language and profanities, characters frequently consume alcohol (including scenes of heavy drinking), boss/employee romantic trope, power dynamics, sexual and crass humor, depictions of extreme wealth and privilege (rich assholes basically).

“Bloody hell, Gwayne, are you even listening to me?” Y/N slammed her pen down on the table, the clatter echoing through the dimly lit campaign office. It was well past midnight, and the stale smell of cold pizza mixed with the faint scent of Gwayne’s overpriced cologne was starting to make her head spin.

Gwayne Hightower, the posh prat in question, barely looked up from his phone. He was lounging back in his chair, long legs stretched out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he probably did in some indirect, old-money, nepotistic kind of way. “I am listening,” he drawled, though his thumb kept scrolling. “Something about, uh, housing and healthcare. Right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she could’ve seen the back of her skull. “Yeah, mate, just the minor detail of your whole bloody platform,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, the stuff that actually makes people vote for you?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk, the kind that belonged more to a model, not on some would-be politician. “You mean the bit where I pretend to care?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, the pretending bit. But let’s make it convincing this time, yeah?”

The office was a mess of coffee cups, crumpled notes, and campaign leaflets. A lone desk lamp threw a harsh yellow light across the room, casting long shadows on the wall. Outside, the rain battered against the windows, the only sound in the quiet street below. The clock ticked loudly, reminding them of every minute they were wasting.

Y/N picked up a sheet of paper, waving it in his face. “Look, you need to hit them where it matters. People care about the NHS. They care about whether they can afford to put a roof over their heads. Not about… whatever posh nonsense you were going on about last week.”

Gwayne finally put down his phone, leaning forward with a feigned look of interest. “What was wrong with what I said?”

She snorted. “Mate, you can’t promise a home for every hardworking Brit when your idea of a starter home is a bloody Georgian townhouse in Chelsea.”

Gwayne chuckled, and for a second, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn’t being an absolute prat. “Fair point. Alright, Ms. Campaign Manager, what do we say?”

Y/N leaned in, their faces just inches apart, and she could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You say,” she whispered, “that you’re going to make housing affordable, that you’ll protect the NHS like it’s the crown jewels, and that you actually give a damn about people who don’t have trust funds or daddy’s money to fall back on.”

He stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not if you keep looking like you’re about to laugh every time you say it. You need to mean it, Gwayne. Or at least act like you do. Think of it like… theatre.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that surprised her. “Theatre, is it? So what, am I Olivier or just a bloke in a bad panto?”

Y/N grinned. “Depends. You reckon you can handle a bit of method acting? Maybe imagine you’re someone who doesn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter?”

Gwayne leaned back, still watching her, and she felt a strange tension crackle between them, something electric, something unspoken. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/N. That why I hired you?”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “Nah. You hired me because I’m the only one who’ll call you out on your bullshit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You like calling me out, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched for just a second, and she cursed herself for letting him get to her. “Someone has to,” she said, her voice steady. “And you clearly love it.”

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

She felt her face flush and decided to change the subject before she ended up doing something stupid. Like kissing that smug grin right off his face. “Right, back to work. We need a slogan that sticks. Something the punters will remember. Something that makes them think you’re the real deal.”

Gwayne leaned back, eyes still locked on hers, a challenge glinting in them. “You mean something like, Vote for me or I’ll bloody well buy your house myself?”

Y/N snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat in Hackney.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning closer again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Help me, then. What do I say?”

She felt that pull again, that magnetic draw that made her want to slap him and snog him in equal measure. She shook her head, trying to focus. “You say,” she murmured, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, “that you’re going to fight for them like you’d fight for your own bloody life. That every day you’re in office, you’re not just some posh tosser playing politics. You’re there because you bloody care.”

Gwayne’s breath brushed against her lips, and she swore she saw his eyes flicker to her mouth. “And you think they’ll believe me?”

She felt her heart race, her pulse quickening. “They’ll believe it,” she whispered, “if you say it like you bloody well mean it.”

For a second, everything hung in the air between them, the rain pounding against the window like a drumbeat, their breaths mingling in the space between. And then he moved back, breaking the spell, his grin back in place.

“Alright,” he said, voice light again. “Let’s do this, then. Make me sound like a bloody hero.”

Y/N smiled, picking up her pen. “Oh, I will. And you better not cock it up.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She will either kill this campaign, or it kills her first. Which she is not sure yet.

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“Remember, Gwayne,” Y/N muttered as she straightened his tie, fingers brushing against his collar for a moment too long, “Stick to the message. Focus on the solutions, not the problems. You’re not just some arse in a suit; you’re the bloke who’s going to fix this mess.”

Gwayne’s grin was too confident for her liking. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with that familiar arrogance. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Right, because you’ve handled so many housing crises in your plush penthouse.”

He chuckled. “Come on, love. Give me a bit of credit. I’ve been prepping for this all week.”

“Yeah, and it shows,” Y/N shot back, sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. “Now, get in there, charm their pants off, but for God’s sake, don’t let him corner you on the numbers.”

The studio lights were blinding, hot enough to feel like the sun itself had decided to join them inside. Across from Gwayne sat Martin Caldwell, a journalist infamous for his pitbull tactics and never letting a politician off the hook. Caldwell looked like a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes narrowed and mouth twitching as if he could already smell the blood.

Gwayne settled into his chair, flashing that perfect smile. “Thanks for having me, Martin,” he said smoothly.

Martin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Gwayne?” he said, leaning forward, voice like a scalpel. “Housing crisis. The capital’s got over 60,000 homeless households, more than 80,000 children living in temporary accommodation. And that number’s only climbing. Now, you’re here, all clean and polished, talking about affordable housing, but let’s be real — what’s your plan, really? Because people out there, they’re struggling. They’re angry.”

Gwayne didn’t flinch, kept his smile steady. “Look, Martin, the housing crisis is a massive issue, no question. It’s about more than just numbers; it’s about people, families—”

“But let’s talk about numbers, Gwayne,” Martin cut him off, eyes gleaming. “Since 2010, there’s been a 70% increase in households in temporary accommodation. 70%! That’s a bloody lot, isn’t it? How do you plan to fix that with just more of the same?”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart thudding against her ribs. This wasn’t going to be easy. She’d told him to stick to the message, keep it simple, but she could already see Caldwell trying to lure him into a trap. Gwayne’s jaw tightened — just a fraction, but she saw it. And so did Caldwell.

“Look, the current policies clearly haven’t worked,” Gwayne replied, leaning in, voice steady. “What we need is a radical overhaul. A commitment to building a new generation of affordable homes, partnerships between government and private sectors, and a serious plan to cut down the bureaucratic red tape that—”

Caldwell pounced. “Right, but where’s the money coming from, Gwayne? You’re talking about a ‘radical overhaul,’ but that means a radical budget. Are you going to raise taxes? Cut other services? Let’s hear it, Gwayne. What’s the actual plan?”

Gwayne hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N felt her stomach drop. That was all Caldwell needed. The interviewer leaned in further, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Or is this just another politician’s promise? More hot air while kids sleep in shelters?”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the audience’s eyes on him, waiting for a stumble. “Look,” he started, but his voice wasn’t quite as strong now, “it’s a complex issue, and we’re working—”

Caldwell cut him off again, like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Working on what, Gwayne? A plan that doesn't exist?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears. Damn it, this was spiraling, and fast. She moved closer to the stage manager, whispering frantically. “I need to get on his earpiece. Now.”

Seconds later, Gwayne heard her voice, calm and clear through his earpiece. “Stop defending. Go on the attack. Talk about the real culprits — landlords, greedy developers, government failures. Take control, Gwayne, before he buries you.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to the camera, and his posture straightened. He smiled, but this time there was steel behind it. “Alright, Martin, let’s talk about the real issue here,” he said, his voice steadying. “The housing crisis didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen because of the people living in temporary accommodation. It happened because of decades of government inaction, because landlords were given free reign to hike rents, because developers were allowed to build luxury flats while people can’t afford a basic home.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the shift. “So, you’re blaming the private sector now?”

“I’m blaming a system that’s rigged, Martin,” Gwayne shot back, finding his stride. “A system where a handful of people get rich while everyone else suffers. And that’s what I’m here to change. To fight for a fair deal, not just for the few, but for everyone.”

Y/N could see Caldwell’s eyes narrow. He wasn’t expecting this. Good. Keep him off balance.

Caldwell pressed again, but now there was a hint of frustration. “But specifics, Gwayne. People want to know how—”

“I’ll give you specifics,” Gwayne cut in sharply, leaning forward. “First, we cap rents to stop people being priced out of their own communities. We fund social housing properly, no more of these half-hearted measures. We build homes people can actually afford, and we crack down on empty properties left to rot while families go homeless. And yeah, Martin, if that means stepping on a few toes in the private sector, so be it. Because this isn’t about comfort. It’s about doing what’s right.”

There was a pause. Caldwell seemed momentarily lost for words, and that was all Y/N needed. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Gwayne finished strong. “I’m not here to make friends with the developers or the landlords, Martin. I’m here to make sure that every child in this country has a safe place to call home.”

Caldwell recovered, trying to regain control. “Strong words, Gwayne. But can you deliver?”

Gwayne smiled, this time without hesitation. “Watch me.”

The interview wrapped up, and Y/N could feel the tension slowly ease out of her shoulders. As Gwayne walked off set, she met him in the wings, her expression a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration.

“Nice save,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gwayne grinned, a bit of the cockiness back. “Thanks to you. You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “You were one misstep away from a bloody train wreck, you know that?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. “Maybe I like a bit of danger. Keeps things interesting.”

She felt that familiar heat rise between them, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, next time, try not to give me a heart attack on live TV, yeah?”

Gwayne chuckled. “No promises. But… thanks, Y/N. Really.”

She gave him a nod. “Just doing my job. Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of damage control to do.”

He watched her walk away, a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought we just saved the day.”

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe. But the day’s not over yet, Hightower.”

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“This place is bloody ridiculous, Gwayne.” Y/N muttered as she wandered through the lavish rooms of his Belgravia townhouse, glass of absinthe in hand. The place screamed money — old money, the kind that people like her never saw outside of films or the pages of Tatler. She ran her fingers along the gilded edge of a massive mirror, its frame probably worth more than her yearly salary.

Gwayne, sprawled comfortably on a deep leather sofa, shot her a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig of her drink, the bitter taste burning down her throat. “I mean, look at this,” she said, gesturing around with her glass. “A townhouse in Belgravia? You’ve got Raphaels hanging on your walls, for fuck’s sake. You collect rare artwork like most people collect fridge magnets.”

He glanced at the painting she was pointing to — a delicate Madonna in blues and golds, her serene face glowing softly in the low light of the room. “Not just any Raphaels. The best ones. Acquired at private auctions, if you must know,” he replied with a lazy smirk. “It’s not a crime to have taste.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what everyone does with their disposable income. Attend auctions with the world’s elite and outbid some oligarch for a Bernini bust.”

He grinned wider. “It was a spirited bidding war, I’ll give you that. Oligarchs can be quite tenacious.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Hightower.”

The townhouse was ridiculously opulent. The kind of place that would feature in a glossy spread titled London’s Most Exclusive Homes. Velvet drapes framed enormous windows that looked out onto pristine, manicured gardens. The walls were adorned with priceless works of art, paintings that most people would only see behind thick glass in a museum. A faint scent of rich leather and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the sharper notes of absinthe.

Gwayne had insisted on pouring her a drink the moment they got in, promising her it would “take the edge off.” And she had to admit, it was doing the trick.

“Alright, you’ve buttered me up with the fancy booze,” Y/N said, plopping herself into a chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. “Now spill. Why the bloody hell are you running as a Liberal Democrat?”

Gwayne blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her question. Then he chuckled. “You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s been killing me,” she shot back, leaning forward. “I mean, look at you. Everything about you screams Tory. The suits, the townhouse, the art collection that could fund a small country. And yet here you are, waving the Lib Dem flag. It doesn’t add up.”

He took a slow sip of his own absinthe, letting her words hang in the air. “Maybe I like a challenge,” he finally said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She snorted again. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in this for a challenge. You’re in it for… hell, I don’t know, but it’s not because you’re a bleeding heart liberal. So why?”

Gwayne’s smile faded slightly, his blue eyes studying her carefully. “Maybe I actually believe in something, Y/N. Did you ever think of that?”

She held his gaze, not backing down. “Sure. I just thought that something would involve tax cuts for the rich and a couple of fox hunts on the weekends.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, not the polished, practiced chuckle he usually gave to the cameras. “Alright, fair play. I can see why you’d think that.”

“So…?” she pressed.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the emerald liquid in his glass. “Alright, you want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked,” she replied, her tone softer now.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again. “I was supposed to be Tory. God, was I ever. Family’s a line of them. Granddad, Dad, every bloody Hightower since time began, probably. I was raised for it, groomed for it. Eton, Oxford, the whole bloody conveyor belt to Westminster.”

She nodded. “I’m with you so far. Still not seeing where the Lib Dem part comes in.”

Gwayne leaned forward, his voice lower, more serious. “It was all set up. Tory membership card practically in my cradle. Then one day, I actually took a look at what was happening around me. Went to a few dinners, talked to the ‘right’ people. Listened to them… talk. And, Christ, Y/N, it made me sick.”

She blinked, surprised. “You? Sick? You love a posh dinner as much as the next trust fund baby.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the dinners, love. It was the people at them. The entitlement. The utter lack of care for anyone outside their bubble. I realized I didn’t want to be part of that. Not if it meant towing the line on policies that only protect the people who’ve already got everything. The way they talked about people… like they were numbers, not lives. I couldn’t do it.”

She leaned back, considering his words. “So, you’re telling me you had some grand epiphany?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I figured, if I was going to get into politics, I’d do it to actually make a difference. The Lib Dems… they’re not perfect, but they’re about giving a damn about everyone, not just the privileged few.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not one of the privileged few?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am. Born and bloody bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to play by their rules. Maybe I want to rewrite them.”

She stared at him, her heart unexpectedly softening. Maybe this privileged prat actually believed what he was saying. “So, what’s the endgame then? 10 Downing Street?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. But that’s for another day. Right now, I just want to make some noise and see if anyone’s listening.”

She took another sip of her absinthe, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “Well, you’ve got my attention, at least.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh, I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hightower. I’m still here to make sure you don’t bollocks this up.”

He grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Y/N.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you would.”

For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the space between them charged, and Y/N felt that familiar pull again — the magnetic tension that always seemed to hang in the air whenever they were close. She tore her gaze away, looking around at the paintings instead.

“This absinthe’s going straight to my head,” she muttered.

He chuckled, watching her closely. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Gwayne. I’m still your campaign manager. You need me sober enough to make sure you don’t say something stupid again.”

He leaned back, his smile still in place. “Fair enough. But maybe just for tonight, we can forget about campaigns and crises. Just… be two people having a drink.”

Y/N met his eyes, and for once, she couldn’t find a quick comeback. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe just for tonight.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The townhouse, with all its ridiculous wealth and art, seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, caught in the electric tension of what might be.

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The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets of Hackney into a grey, slick mess. Puddles formed in the cracks of the pavements, and the smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Y/N was soaked to the bone, her coat heavy with rain, but she didn’t care. She was too busy making sure Gwayne didn’t make an utter arse of himself.

They were in the heart of Hackney, one of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the housing crisis. Rundown council flats lined the streets, their brick facades crumbling, windows boarded up or patched with mismatched panes of glass. Gwayne’s designer shoes were caked in mud, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he tried to navigate the uneven pavement, clearly out of his comfort zone.

“Careful, mate,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Wouldn’t want to scuff those fancy loafers of yours.”

Gwayne shot her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll have you know these are perfectly sensible shoes.”

“Sensible?” she scoffed. “For what? A yacht party in Monaco?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Just focus on the job, yeah?”

The rain showed no sign of letting up, but the community center up ahead was buzzing with activity. Inside, a group of local residents, activists, and a few journalists had gathered. The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of damp coats and instant coffee. There was a mix of skepticism and curiosity on the faces of the people, and Y/N knew this was their chance to make an impression.

She turned to Gwayne, lowering her voice. “Alright, here’s the plan. Listen more than you speak. They don’t need another politician giving them empty promises. They need to feel like you’re actually listening to their problems.”

Gwayne nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Got it. No posh nonsense.”

She gave him a small, approving smile. “And for the love of God, don’t mention your townhouse.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The chatter quieted down, replaced by the soft hum of whispered conversations. Y/N could feel the tension in the air, the weight of expectation. Gwayne moved forward, shaking hands, offering polite nods and warm smiles, and to his credit, he seemed genuinely interested.

But she could sense the underlying wariness from the crowd. These were people who had been promised a lot by politicians, only to be disappointed time and again. They weren’t going to be won over by a posh accent and a well-tailored suit.

She nudged him toward a group of women huddled in the corner, each with tired eyes and worn faces. “Start here,” she murmured. “Single mothers. Most of them on the housing waiting list for years.”

Gwayne approached them with a disarming smile. “Hello ladies, I’m Gwayne Hightower,” he began, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m here to listen to your concerns and see how we can work together to make things better.”

One of the women, a middle-aged lady with a mane of curly hair and an accent as thick as the rain outside, crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “You a politician, then?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

Gwayne nodded. “Yes, I’m running for Parliament—”

She cut him off, snorting. “Figures. Another posh boy with promises, eh? What makes you different from the rest?”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. Make or break. She watched as Gwayne took a breath, steadying himself. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here because I want to change things. I know I come from a different background, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what’s happening here.”

The woman eyed him for a moment, then turned to Y/N. “And you? You believe him?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the woman pressed. “You look like you’ve got a brain in your head. Why you working for him?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Gwayne. For a second, she wasn’t sure how to answer. But then she decided to be honest. “Because I think he actually gives a damn. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

The woman’s eyes softened a fraction. “A posh boy who cares, eh? That’s a new one.”

Gwayne chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I promise you, I’m full of surprises.”

Before the woman could respond, a young man in his twenties stepped forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “What are you going to do about the housing crisis?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I’ve been stuck in a hostel for two years with my daughter. No council house, no help. You lot don’t care about us. You don’t have to live like we do.”

Gwayne met his gaze, a serious expression crossing his face. “You’re right. I don’t live like you do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight to change it.”

The man scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ll go back to your fancy house tonight, yeah? What do you know about struggling?”

Y/N felt a surge of defensiveness on Gwayne’s behalf, but before she could speak, Gwayne raised a hand, his voice calm. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But I’m here because I want to learn, and I want to do something about it. I want to make sure that people like you don’t have to go through this.”

The young man seemed taken aback by the directness of his answer. “Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”

Gwayne looked him straight in the eye. “By building more affordable homes, by fighting for rent controls, by holding landlords accountable, and by putting pressure on the government to prioritize housing over profits.”

Y/N watched the young man, his expression slowly shifting from anger to something closer to consideration. Maybe even hope. She felt a flicker of something in her chest — pride? Maybe.

But then, the conversation was interrupted by an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. “Talk is cheap, love,” she said quietly. “We’ve heard it all before.”

Gwayne nodded, not shying away from the hard truth. “You’re right. It is. But I’m here because I want to prove I’m different. And if I’m not, then hold me accountable. Make sure I deliver.”

The older woman studied him for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright, then. We’ll see.”

Y/N turned away from Gwayne for a moment and spotted an elderly man sitting in the corner, his hands trembling as he held onto a cane. She approached him, crouching down. “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Frank,” he replied, his voice raspy. “I’m here every week… watchin’… listening.”

Y/N smiled gently. “What do you think of all this, Frank?”

He chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “Think he’s different, your lad. Might even mean it. But they all mean it at first, don’t they?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled. “But he’s got fire. And fire’s what we need. Someone to burn the whole bloody system down and start fresh.”

Y/N glanced back at Gwayne, who was deep in conversation, genuinely listening, and she felt something stir inside her. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Gwayne wasn’t just a posh boy with a fancy townhouse and a taste for absinthe. Maybe he was something more.

She turned back to Frank and smiled. “Yeah, maybe he is.”

Frank nodded, then winked. “You make sure he don’t lose that fire, eh?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I will, Frank. I will.”

Y/N could feel the crowd’s eyes on her, a mix of doubt, curiosity, and frustration etched into their faces. This was her moment. If they were going to stand a chance of winning over Hackney, she had to make them believe. Not just in Gwayne, but in what they could actually do together.

She stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of openness. “Alright, listen up,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. “I know what you’re all thinking. Who’s this posh boy, swanning in here with his fancy shoes, telling us he’s going to solve our problems?”

A few people in the crowd nodded, some even chuckling in agreement. Gwayne shot her a wary look, but she ignored it, pressing on.

“You’re right,” she continued. “He’s got a swanky townhouse, he collects art worth more than most of us will see in our lifetimes, and he probably can’t tell a Greggs pasty from a bloody foie gras. But wouldn’t you rather have one of these posh boys on your side for once?”

The crowd was listening now, intrigued. She could see the skepticism starting to crack just a little.

“Think about it,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “He’s got money. He’s got connections. He knows the people who pull the strings, the ones who make decisions about your lives while sipping champagne in Mayfair. He’s got the kind of influence that actually moves things along. Don’t you want someone like that fighting in your corner instead of against you?”

A few heads nodded slowly. She caught the eye of the young man from earlier, still frowning but clearly considering her words.

“And before you write me off as just another one of his people,” she added, raising her chin, “I’m not like him. Not by a long shot. I’m from Manchester — Manny born and bred. My dad owns a power tool shop, and my mum’s been working as a caterer for as long as I can remember. I worked my arse off to get into university, full ride scholarship because that was the only way I was getting in.”

She saw a few faces in the crowd soften, nodding in recognition. They knew what it meant to work for everything you had.

“And now here I am,” she continued, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “standing next to this posh, pretty boy. Not because I believe in his money or his connections, but because I believe he actually wants to do some good. Because for once, we’ve got one of these guys willing to take a stand, to fight for something other than his own bloody bank account.”

There was a murmur of approval now, a few people nodding, even clapping. She saw Frank in the corner, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“So yeah,” Y/N said, letting her voice ring out strong, “I’m all in with him. And if you give him a chance, he’ll show you that he’s all in with you too. What have you got to lose? Another empty promise? Another politician who forgets about you the second they get to Westminster?”

Gwayne looked at her, a new appreciation in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to go all in like that, to put herself on the line for him in front of these people. She had just thrown her whole story out there, her whole self, and it was resonating.

Y/N turned back to the crowd. “We know how this works, don’t we? We know the system’s rigged, and we know it’s not built for people like us. But here’s the thing — we can’t fight it alone. We need someone who can get into the room, sit at the table, and make some noise. Someone who’s willing to push the boundaries and shake things up.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her veins. “I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m working with him, and I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t just talk a good game. And if he tries to slack off, I’ll be the first to give him a kick up the arse.”

The crowd chuckled, a few cheers going up, and Y/N felt a surge of relief. They were starting to come around.

“So what do you say?” she finished, raising her voice. “Give us a chance. Hold us accountable. Make us prove it to you. Because I promise you, he’s not perfect — far from it — but he’s got fire, and he’s got the guts to use it.”

A small cheer went up, and Y/N felt a smile break across her face. The woman from before nodded approvingly, the young man seemed to relax a little, and even Frank was clapping slowly, his grin widening.

Gwayne stepped forward, taking his cue from her. “I know I’ve got a lot to prove,” he said, voice steady. “But with Y/N by my side — and with your support — I’m going to fight like hell for this community. For every single one of you.”

A louder cheer erupted this time, and Y/N felt her chest swell with a mix of pride and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name. She caught Gwayne’s eye, and he mouthed a silent “thank you,” a look of awe on his face.

She nodded, just a small dip of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips. “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered as he turned back to the crowd, her voice low enough only for him to hear. “We’ve still got a long way to go, posh boy.”

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

And as they continued to work the room, shaking hands and listening to stories, Y/N felt something shift.

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“This place doesn’t even have a bloody sign,” Y/N muttered, peering up at the unmarked black door set into a pristine brick facade. She shot Gwayne a sidelong glance as they stood on the dimly lit Mayfair street. “Is this one of those places where they judge you if you ask for ketchup?”

Gwayne smirked, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “Only if you pronounce it wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her nerves were starting to kick in. “And you’re sure I’m dressed alright for this? I’m feeling a bit like Bridget Jones at a state dinner.”

Gwayne gave her a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look perfect,” he said, a bit softer than usual. “Better than perfect. Trust me, they’ll be too busy being themselves to notice.”

She snorted, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. “Well, that’s reassuring. So, remind me again why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s grin widened. “Because I want you to meet my father. And my sister. And because I’m tired of them assuming I’m completely useless.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m your human shield, then?”

“More like my secret weapon,” he replied, flashing that grin again, and she felt a flicker of warmth despite herself.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The restaurant was beyond posh. It was the sort of place you didn’t even know existed unless you were born into a world where five-course meals were standard Tuesday fare. Dim lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and tables spaced so far apart that you’d need a map and a compass to navigate. A sommelier in a suit that probably cost more than Y/N’s rent stood by the door, giving them a nod as they entered.

“Mr. Hightower,” he murmured with a deferential nod. “Your party is already seated.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gwayne replied, slipping the guy a tip that was probably equivalent to a week’s worth of groceries for her.

They were led to a private alcove, tucked away behind a velvet curtain. At the table sat Sir Otto Hightower, the very picture of an aristocratic patriarch, his white hair immaculately styled, a pin on his lapel glinting in the low light — the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Because, of course, he bloody was.

Next to him sat Alicent Hightower, Gwayne’s sister, her auburn hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a string of pearls draped around her neck. Alicent was the epitome of a British socialite — impeccably dressed, with that strange air of religious guilt that seemed to cling to her like perfume. Y/N knew the type: all sweetness and light on the surface, but beneath… God only knew.

“Father, Alicent,” Gwayne said, his tone a bit too cheerful. “This is Y/N, my campaign manager.”

Sir Otto’s eyes flicked to Y/N, appraising her with a cold, calculating stare. “Ah, the one steering my son’s misguided adventure,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but with a sharp edge.

Y/N offered her hand, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Otto. Though I prefer to think of it as a ‘guided’ adventure.”

Otto’s lips twitched slightly, a half-smile. “Quite. And what brings a… Manchester girl to this peculiar position?” He spoke ‘Manchester’ like it was a foreign concept.

Y/N bristled slightly but kept her composure. “Good old-fashioned hard work, Sir Otto. That, and a full scholarship to UCL.”

Alicent, who had been sipping her wine in silence, finally looked up. Her green eyes were bright, inquisitive. “UCL, how… admirable,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe in God?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Er, not the best topic for a first dinner, is it?” she replied with a grin. “But sure, I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

Alicent smiled, but there was something unsettling in it. “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed. “Spiritual… but not tethered to the truth of the Lord’s word.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Well, I suppose the Lord’s word didn’t help much with the housing crisis, did it?”

Gwayne’s eyes widened slightly, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Sir Otto, however, leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “I see you’ve brought a firecracker, Gwayne.”

Gwayne grinned.

Sir Otto’s expression shifted, serious now. “Gwayne, I’m concerned about this… campaign of yours. It’s one thing to indulge in some youthful rebellion, quite another to throw away your future in politics for a party that, frankly, doesn’t hold much weight.”

Y/N decided to jump in. “With all due respect, Sir Otto, that’s precisely why he’s running with the Lib Dems. Because they don’t have the same old baggage, because he wants to make a difference, not just go along with the same tired rhetoric.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and assessing. “And you believe he can do that, Miss…?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “L/N. Y/N L/N,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, James Bond style. Her tone was cool, collected, and a bit cheeky. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not tonight.

Sir Otto chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, as he scooped a bite of beluga caviar onto his spoon. “What’s in it for you, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity as he placed the expensive delicacy into his mouth.

Y/N smiled, her expression nonchalant, and met his gaze without flinching. “Well, money, sir,” she said bluntly. “Can’t say no to a decent paycheck, can I?”

Otto laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Ah, honesty. A rare trait in politics. Refreshing.”

Alicent, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” she said with a small, mischievous smile. “Tell me, Y/N, any boyfriend? Fiancé? Surely someone must have snatched you up by now.”

Y/N kept her smile, though she felt the sting of the question, the way Alicent’s words seemed to pry at her personal life like a needle. She decided to answer truthfully, but with a touch of humor. “Well,” she began with a dry smile, “the last one ended because he cheated on me with his co-worker.”

Alicent’s eyebrows shot up, and even Otto paused mid-sip of his wine, surprised. Gwayne’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass.

“Seriously?” Gwayne blurted out, before catching himself. “I mean… sorry, that’s… that’s bloody awful.”

Y/N shrugged, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote. “Yeah, well, it makes for a good story at dinner parties, doesn’t it?”

Otto chuckled, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a tough skin, Miss L/N. You might just be what my son needs after all.”

Y/N grinned, raising her glass slightly. “Cheers to that, Sir Otto. Here’s to tough skins and thicker wallets.”

Alicent smiled, though her eyes were still studying Y/N carefully. “You certainly are… interesting, Y/N. Different from the usual lot Gwayne brings around.”

Y/N met her gaze without flinching. “Good. Because I’m not here to impress anyone, just to get the job done.”

Gwayne couldn’t hide his grin. “And that’s why she’s the best, Father. She’s real. And she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Well, she’s got her work cut out for her then, doesn’t she?”

Alicent laughed softly. “Indeed. I rather like you, Y/N. And believe me, that’s not something I say often.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

As the dinner continued, the conversation flowed a bit more easily, a bit more openly. Y/N felt the tension easing just a little, but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. This was still the Hightowers, after all. They were never off-duty, never fully relaxed.

As they walked out of the restaurant into the crisp night air, Gwayne turned to her, an amused smile on his lips. “You were bloody brilliant back there. I think you might have actually impressed them.”

Y/N shrugged, her face breaking into a grin. “Well, it’s about time someone shook things up around here, don’t you think?”

He laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “God, I really do need you, Y/N.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting too soppy on me now, Hightower.”

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The campaign office was buzzing with a nervous, almost frantic energy. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and anticipation. Papers were scattered across desks, phones were ringing off the hook, and the TV in the corner was blaring the election coverage at full volume.

The room was packed with volunteers, team members, and every random person who had decided they wanted a front-row seat to Gwayne Hightower’s political gamble.

Y/N stood by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Hackney. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm that betrayed her nerves. She could feel the tension building in the room like a pressure cooker about to blow. This was it. Months of work, endless nights, arguments, laughter, and more cups of coffee than she could count — all leading up to this moment.

She glanced over at Gwayne, who was sitting in the center of the room, gripping a bright orange stress ball in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he looked genuinely worried.

“Jesus, Gwayne, if you squeeze that thing any harder, it’s going to explode,” Y/N teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the stress ball even more. “What, this?” he muttered. “This is keeping me from climbing out of the window and legging it down the street.”

She chuckled, walking over and plucking the glass of scotch out of his other hand. “And this?” she asked, taking a sip. “Liquid courage?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How’re we doing?”

Y/N glanced at the TV, where the talking heads were dissecting the election results, constituency by constituency. “Early counts look good,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt. “But it’s still too close to call.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen. “Bloody hell. I haven’t felt this nervous since that time I accidentally set fire to the old headmaster’s garden at Eton.”

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

“Long story,” he muttered, squeezing the stress ball again. “Involved fireworks and far too much brandy.”

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to leave you alone with flammable objects.”

Across the room, one of the volunteers called out, “Turn it up! They’re about to announce something!”

Everyone fell silent, their eyes glued to the screen as the anchor shuffled his papers, looking far too pleased with himself. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at Gwayne, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, knuckles white around the stress ball.

The anchor spoke, his voice calm and measured, “And now, the latest results coming in from Hackney South and Shoreditch…”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

Gwayne muttered something under his breath, his eyes wide, and she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

The anchor continued, “It appears we’re seeing a significant swing tonight. Early numbers suggest that the Liberal Democrat candidate, Gwayne Hightower, is making a strong showing in what was expected to be a closely contested race…”

A cheer went up from the room, and Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. But she knew better than to celebrate too early. “Still just early numbers,” she called out over the noise. “We’re not done yet!”

Gwayne turned to her, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. “We might actually pull this off,” he breathed.

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Might? Don’t you dare start doubting now. We’ve come too bloody far for that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and squeezed the stress ball once more. “Alright, alright. Deep breaths.”

Y/N chuckled. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Maybe lay off the scotch for a bit, yeah?”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Can’t promise that.”

Another volunteer rushed over, holding a phone up to Y/N. “Call for you,” they said breathlessly. “Someone from the party headquarters.”

Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear. “Yeah? What’s the news?”

She listened for a moment, her expression hard to read, and Gwayne felt his heart leap into his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, voice tinged with panic. “What is it?”

She hung up, turning back to him with a grin. “They’re saying it’s looking even better. We’ve got a real chance here, Gwayne.”

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “God, I hope so.”

Y/N nudged him gently. “You’ve done the work, Gwayne. You’ve talked to people, you’ve listened. Now it’s in their hands.”

He nodded, looking around the room at all the people who had put their faith in him, who had worked tirelessly by his side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They both turned back to the TV, watching as the coverage continued, the tension building with every passing second.

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

The words flashed across the screen, and for a heartbeat, the entire room fell silent. The anchor’s voice echoed in the stillness, confirming the impossible — Gwayne Hightower had won. He was going to Westminster.

And then, the room exploded. Cheers erupted, people jumped from their chairs, and the air filled with the sound of shouting, laughing, and the popping of champagne corks. Y/N felt a wave of exhilaration rush through her as she was engulfed by a sea of hugs and high-fives from the volunteers, their faces lit up with joy and disbelief.

“WE BLOODY DID IT!” someone shouted, and another cheer went up, even louder this time.

Y/N turned to Gwayne, who was standing in the middle of the chaos, his mouth hanging open in shock. He still had the stress ball in one hand, but his grip had slackened, and the glass of scotch dangled precariously in the other. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, growing wider and wider until it seemed to take over his whole expression.

“We won!” he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. “We actually fucking won!”

Before Y/N could react, Gwayne grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She laughed, breathless, feeling the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from him. “Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He finally set her down, his eyes bright, his face flushed with excitement. “We did it, Y/N! We actually did it!”

She grinned back at him, her heart pounding with pride. “You bloody well did, Hightower. I told you you could.”

He took a deep breath, looking around at the crowd of volunteers, staffers, and supporters, all of them hugging, toasting, and celebrating like there was no tomorrow. “Right,” he announced, raising his voice above the noise. “This calls for a proper celebration.”

He made his way to the corner of the room, where a large cabinet stood. Y/N watched as he pulled open the doors to reveal a stash of bottles that looked like they’d been imported from some long-forgotten royal cellar. “Alright, who wants a drink?” he called out, holding up a bottle of whisky so rare it probably had its own pedigree.

A cheer went up, and Y/N laughed as Gwayne began pouring glasses of the finest whisky she’d ever seen. “I thought you were saving that for… I don’t know, the King’s visit or something,” she teased, accepting a glass.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Forget the King. This is better.”

The glasses were passed around, and Gwayne raised his own high, a look of pure triumph on his face. “To everyone in this room,” he began, his voice strong, clear, “to every single person who believed in this campaign when no one else did, who knocked on doors, who made phone calls, who put up with my bollocks day in and day out… thank you. This isn’t my victory. It’s our victory. Ours. And I promise you, I’m going to make every single one of you proud.”

Another roar of approval filled the room, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in her throat. She watched Gwayne, standing there with his messy hair, his loosened tie, and that damned expensive whisky in his hand.

“To Gwayne!” she shouted, raising her glass high.

“To Gwayne!” the room echoed back, and they all drank, the whisky burning a warm path down her throat. She felt Gwayne’s arm slide around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, feeling a sense of relief and joy wash over her.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured in her ear, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the celebration. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding in her chest. “Oh, please,” she replied with a grin. “You did all the hard work. I just yelled at you a lot.”

He laughed, a deep, happy sound, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them, standing in the middle of that chaotic, jubilant room. “Well, keep yelling at me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Because I’ve got a feeling we’re just getting started.”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and clinked her glass against his. “To Westminster,” she said.

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

Gwayne looked down at his phone, the name “Otto Hightower” flashing on the screen like a warning sign. He shot a glance at Y/N, who was still grinning from ear to ear, surrounded by the celebrating team. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.

“Father,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of the room, “calling to congratulate me, are you?”

Otto’s voice crackled through the phone, formal and clipped. “Of course, son. It’s a remarkable achievement. The family is very… proud. Your mother insisted we call. We’d like you to drop by the estate at Kew so we can celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s face flickered with something Y/N couldn’t quite read. He glanced at her, then back at the phone. “Tonight?” he asked, a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Yes, tonight,” Otto replied. “Your sister is already on her way. It’s only right that we toast your success together, as a family. You’ve done well, Gwayne. It’s time to show the world that we stand united.”

Y/N caught his eye, sensing his indecision. She smiled, trying to keep it light. “Go on, Gwayne. They’re your family. Go celebrate with them.”

But Gwayne’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, but…” he started, then turned away slightly, lowering his voice. “Look, Father, I appreciate it, really. But I think I might stay here, with my team. With the people who made this happen.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then a slight huff of breath. “Gwayne,” Otto said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “these are the optics you have to consider now. Come to Kew. Show your face. You’ve won a political seat, but don’t forget your roots. You’re a Hightower. It’s time to act like one.”

Gwayne closed his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I know,” he muttered. “I just… I need to think about it, alright?”

Otto’s voice softened just a fraction. “Just think about what this means for all of us, Gwayne. We’re waiting.”

The call ended with a click, and Gwayne stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into his pocket. He turned to find Y/N watching him, an eyebrow raised.

“So?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. “You off to the family estate then? Sounds like a big deal.”

Gwayne frowned, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, they want me to, but…”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Go on, posh boy. It’s your moment. Go drink champagne in a fancy mansion, eat some ridiculous hors d’oeuvres, bask in the glory of finally being the golden child.”

But Gwayne shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “It’s just… that’s not where I want to be tonight.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re your family. This is huge for them too.”

He sighed, leaning against the table, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah, but they weren’t the ones who stood by me through this whole bloody mess. They weren’t the ones knocking on doors, calming me down when I thought I was going to blow it, or making sure I didn’t look like a total prat on TV.”

Her grin softened, a bit of warmth creeping into her voice. “Gwayne…”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping low, just for her. “You’re the one I want to celebrate with, Y/N. You’re the one who I owe all of this to.”

She felt her breath hitch, her heart racing in her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her voice came out a little too shaky. “You did this, Gwayne. You won.”

Gwayne shook his head, determination in his eyes. “No, we won. Together. And I don’t want to go to some stuffy dinner with my family when I could be here, celebrating with you. With the people who actually matter.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a grin, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. “Alright then, MP,” she replied, leaning back with her arms crossed. “But if we’re going to celebrate, we’re going to do this right.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what does right look like to you?”

“No posh nonsense,” she declared with a smirk. “I’m in the mood for a proper drink. None of this ‘hand-picked by the King’s personal sommelier’ rubbish. We’re going to my favorite pub in Camden.”

Gwayne chuckled, clearly amused. “Camden? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she shot back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m talking Guinness, maybe some Negronis if we’re feeling fancy. Real drinks, in real glasses, in a place where they don’t care what your last name is or whether you’ve got a seat in Parliament.”

He laughed, already feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “Alright, alright, Camden it is. I’m game.”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on, MP. Time to show you how the other half celebrates.”

Thirty minutes later, they walked into a well-worn pub in the heart of Camden, the sort of place where the tables were sticky, the music was too loud, and everyone shouted over it anyway. It was packed, warm, and smelled faintly of spilled beer and fried food. Perfect.

Y/N pushed through the crowd, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. “Oi, Derek!” she called to the barman, a burly man with a thick beard and a friendly grin. “Two pints of Guinness, and keep them coming!”

Derek gave her a knowing nod. “Y/N, love! Been a while. You brought a friend?”

Y/N grinned back. “Something like that. This is Gwayne. Gwayne, Derek. Derek, meet Gwayne, our newest MP.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “MP, eh? Well, blimey, look at that! In my pub? Must be a special occasion.” He winked at Y/N. “What’s he doing slumming it here with the likes of us?”

Gwayne laughed, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Trying to remember what real people are like,” he said, and Derek let out a hearty laugh, clapping him on the back.

“Good on you, mate. First round’s on me,” Derek declared, pouring their pints with a flourish.

Y/N grabbed the pints and handed one to Gwayne. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a long, satisfying sip. The Guinness was cold and smooth, and he let out a contented sigh. “God, that’s good. I see why you like this place.”

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Told you. No frills, just fun. And now, we celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Alright, then. Let’s have it. What’s next?”

She grinned. “Next, we toast. To winning. To not being a total prat. And to more nights like this.”

He laughed, raising his pint high. “To more nights like this,” he agreed, his voice filled with a happiness he hadn’t felt in ages.

They drank, they laughed, and they joked, and for once, Gwayne felt like he could actually breathe, like the weight of the election had finally lifted. He didn’t have to be the polished, perfect politician tonight. He could just be… himself.

Y/N leaned in, her voice low over the din of the pub. “See? Isn’t this better than some stuffy dinner with your dad?”

He smiled, his eyes locked on hers. “Much better,” he admitted, “though I think it has more to do with the company than the location.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere, MP.”

“Good,” he replied with a wink, “because I’m just getting started.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, sharing stories and toasting to every little victory. By the time they were onto their third round of Negronis — and perhaps more than a little tipsy — Gwayne realized he hadn’t felt this free in years.

As the night wore on, the pub became louder, rowdier, and Gwayne found himself leaning closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, her laughter in his ear. He looked at her, really looked at her, and wondered how he’d managed to get so lucky.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “if I’ve got any shot at making it in this crazy world of politics… it’s because of you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, her eyes bright. “I think you’re doing just fine, Gwayne. But I’m glad to have helped knock a bit of sense into you.”

He laughed, reaching out to clink his glass against hers again. “To knocking some sense into me,” he agreed, his voice soft.

She grinned, and as their glasses met with a gentle clink, he felt that same familiar spark — the one that had been simmering between them for weeks. And tonight, with the pub alive around them and her laughter in his ear, he felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

A few hours later.

Y/N stumbled out of the pub, her head spinning from the pints of Guinness and the Negronis they’d downed. Gwayne was beside her, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder, his laughter echoing in the cool Camden air.

“Alright, MP,” she slurred slightly, flagging down a cab that seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Time to get you back to Belgravia before you pass out on the pavement.”

Gwayne pouted, a tipsy grin spreading across his face. “But I’m not done celebrating,” he protested, swaying slightly.

She chuckled, tugging him towards the cab. “Mate, you’re done. Trust me. Come on, get in.”

She pushed him gently into the backseat and climbed in after him, giving the driver Gwayne’s address. The cabbie nodded, pulling away from the curb.

Gwayne leaned his head back, staring at her with a goofy smile. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?” he slurred, his eyes half-lidded.

“Someone’s got to keep your posh arse in line,” she shot back, smirking.

He laughed, the sound warm and careless, like he’d never had a worry in his life. “S’true,” he murmured, leaning his head against the window, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “You’re my rock, Y/N.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Alright, Shakespeare, save it for when you’re sober.”

The cab wound its way through the quiet London streets, the lights blurring past them. Y/N’s head buzzed pleasantly, and she kept sneaking glances at Gwayne, who was still grinning like a fool.

Finally, they pulled up outside his townhouse, and the cabbie turned to look back at them. “Here we are, mate,” he said. “You alright getting out?”

Gwayne blinked, looking around like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, yeah, this is me,” he mumbled, fumbling with the door handle. He managed to push it open, but instead of getting out, he reached for Y/N’s hand, pulling her along with him.

“Oi, what are you doing?” she laughed, stumbling out after him. “You’re home. Get inside and sleep it off.”

He turned to her, his eyes wide and a bit desperate. “Wait, wait,” he said, his words slurring together. “I need you to… to punch in the code for me.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’ve forgotten the bloody code to your own house?”

He nodded with all the seriousness of a drunk man trying to seem responsible. “I need your help,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. “Can’t… can’t do it without you.”

Y/N sighed, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Fine, fine. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He beamed, still holding onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Knew I could count on you,” he said, leading her up the steps to the front door.

She punched in the code he mumbled under his breath, shaking her head in amusement. “Honestly, Gwayne, you’re hopeless.”

The door clicked open, and she nudged him inside, making sure he didn’t trip over the threshold. “Alright, you’re in,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now go upstairs and sleep, before you do something stupid.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious, almost vulnerable. “Stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “Just… for a bit. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flip, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Gwayne, you’re pissed. You need to sleep it off.”

He shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening just a little. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Just… just for a minute. I don’t want this night to end.”

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

But his eyes were so earnest, so genuinely pleading, that she found herself nodding, unable to resist. “Alright,” she sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, that boyish grin that made her insides twist, and he led her inside, closing the door behind them. The grand entrance hall was dimly lit, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on the walls.

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. “Okay, you’re in,” she repeated, a bit breathless now. “Now what?”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her arm, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, suddenly feeling very sober. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “someone had to.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing against her arm. “I think… I think it had to be you.”

She met his gaze again, and for a second, she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay,” he repeated, his eyes dark, serious.

Y/N sighed then she left Gwayne sprawled out on the leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, his head leaning back with that drunken, lopsided grin still on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself, looking around his ridiculously posh townhouse. “Just for a bit, and somehow I’m now in charge of making sure you don’t choke on your own tongue tonight.”

She glanced at him one more time. “Stay put, alright? I’m getting you some water.”

Gwayne gave a lazy thumbs-up, eyes half-closed. “Water… perfect idea. You’re brilliant, Y/N. Absolutely… magnificent,” he mumbled, slurring his words, his grin widening as if he’d just had the most profound thought.

She shook her head, smirking. “You’ll thank me in the morning, trust me.”

Y/N made her way toward the kitchen, weaving slightly as the room swayed around her. She was definitely feeling the effects of those Negronis. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, “just need to get some water. How hard can it be?”

She turned the corner and entered what could only be described as a space-age kitchen — all sleek chrome and glossy surfaces, like it had been designed by some avant-garde architect who’d clearly never boiled an egg in his life. She blinked at the sight of a state-of-the-art water system built into the counter, with more buttons and screens than the bloody cockpit of a plane.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, frowning at the contraption. “It’s a water tap, not the bloody TARDIS.”

She poked at one of the buttons, and the display lit up with a series of choices: Still. Sparkling. Ice Cold. Room Temperature. Mineral Infused. pH Balanced. Alkaline. There was even an option for Artisanal Mountain Spring, which she was pretty sure was taking the piss.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Why does he need this much choice for a glass of water?”

She jabbed at the Still button, but nothing happened. She tried Room Temperature. Still nothing. The machine made a faint, mocking beeping sound that she swore was laughing at her. “Come on, you fancy piece of crap,” she growled, slapping the side of it. “Give me some bloody water!”

She pressed another button, and a small panel opened up, revealing even more buttons. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered, leaning closer, trying to make sense of the digital display that was now flashing at her like she’d accidentally triggered the launch codes for a nuclear missile.

“Alright, let’s try this…” she muttered, tapping another button labeled Dispense.

The machine hummed for a moment, then spat out a single drop of water. A single, mocking drop.

“You have got to be joking,” Y/N muttered, staring at the droplet like it had personally insulted her. “Come on, work, damn you!”

She tried again, this time holding the button down longer, and finally, a stream of water began to flow — freezing cold and spraying out far too fast, splashing over the side of the glass and onto her shirt.

“Bloody hell!” she yelped, jumping back and nearly slipping on the pristine marble floor. “Why is it so complicated to get a drink in this bloody house?”

Gwayne’s voice floated in from the living room, a lazy, amused drawl. “Y’alright in there, Y/N?”

She shot a glare in his direction, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, fine!” she called back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just wrestling with your bloody spaceship tap!”

She finally managed to fill the glass without any more incidents and turned off the tap, which thankfully didn’t require any further button-pressing. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the living room, where Gwayne was now lying sideways on the couch, humming some Beatles tune to himself.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink. You need water, or you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a truck hit you. And I’m not in the mood to deal with your whining.”

He blinked up at her, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks, Y/N,” he murmured, taking a sip. “You’re… amazing. Like, really. You know that?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah. Drink up.”

He chuckled softly, downing the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days. “Seriously, though,” he continued, setting the glass on the coffee table, “don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Probably end up dehydrated on your fancy couch, for starters.”

He grinned, his eyelids drooping as the alcohol started to catch up with him. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d just… still be lost.”

Y/N’s breath hitched for a second, but she brushed it off with a chuckle. “Alright, enough with the confessions. Time for you to sleep.”

He nodded, his head lolling to the side. “Yeah… sleep sounds good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Y/N watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually dozing off and not about to get up and start another drunken adventure. “Goodnight, Gwayne,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

He mumbled something in his sleep, a smile still on his lips, and Y/N turned to leave, shaking her head. She’d gotten him home, hydrated, and onto his couch. Mission accomplished for now.

[sm-baby]

Yk how some people make ocs related to canon characters well I had a dream that I was like,, idk the heir of Romeo and Jewel/Amara or some weird shit 😭 but like it wasn’t me im just in the occasional pov of her- and she was nothing at all like her parents in the slightest she was really goofy and kind and favored Meilyn greatly- following her and the servants around, even listening to their advice more so than her own parents- which to be fair, I could genuinely see considering I doubt they’d raise her happily or anything- poor kid has a horribly dysfunctional family- but also I could see because they’d likely made maids and babysitters raise her regardless since they have other duties. Anyway it was silly

GOD THATS SO GOOD... YEAH.. YEAH THEYRE SO SO SUCH NEGLECTFUL PARENTS, YOU GOTH THAT DOWN SAYTR...

Thats a BANGER dream by the way DAWGGG MY OCS MADE IT TO UR DREAMSS THATS SO WILD

[gffa]

see that’s the part I don’t like, it’s one thing to have Jedi be fallible people who don’t know everything and make mistakes. But then people start going “yeah see, the darksiders are right, the Jedi are all either terrible people or idiots”

Hi! That's the point I was making in the previous post--at a certain point, worrying about what other people are or aren't saying about any given piece of Star Wars media featuring the Jedi was killing my desire to be in Star Wars fandom at all. So I had to step away from what other people were saying because it wasn't fun for me and it made the entire experience of watching or reading Star Wars miserable to the point of genuinely I considered quietly just entirely leaving the fandom. I had to step back and say, you know what, I am okay with the Jedi being "flawed" in the same way other characters are allowed it and I'm going to talk about it in that vein and maybe I'll get some people to go, oh, hey, yeah, the Jedi can be flawed without being evil, they can still be heroic, good characters, which would be a win for me! But also I'll have spent time having fun in fandom and not worrying about what other people are saying. I get it, sometimes we have to address the frequently racist and imperialist influences a lot of people are refusing to acknowledge in their arguments about the Buddhist space psychics, or sometimes we have to vent about how frustrated we are in fandom, it's a balancing act. But for me the bigger trend has to be just not worrying about how others are going to interpret the Jedi in The Acolyte or Rise of the Red Blade or Tales of the Jedi or whatever because otherwise I might as well leave the fandom right now. Instead, I'm going to build a corner where my friends and I can see Jedi being "flawed" and react positively, because at the end of the day, that is the fandom space I want to come relax in. That corner isn't going to be for everyone, fair enough! Everyone's gotta build their own corner. But, for me, my advice is always to build up that space you want to see and set down boundaries about it--and I want to see a space where a Jedi can make a mistake and it's not the end of the world any more than it's the end of the world when Luke makes a mistake. That space may not exist in the wider wilds of fandom, but it's going to exist here and that's everything I really need. <3

[bu-blegh-ost]

The time has finally come, @girlsonlytreehouse !!!

Today I shall share with you the fruits of my work. But first, allow me to take you on a journey I myself have been through while counting all of this shit down.

First things first, I decided to count the rolls in the context of the characters rather than the people playing them, simply because the luck of the actual people could not be measured accurately if I only take Riptide into consideration (and also I thought it would be more fun). The guys have several different campaigns, some that I do not have access to, so I've decided to seperate all their Riptide rolls into characters they play instead, cause then we can clearly see which character is the luckiest. But ofc if you want this to be attributed differently, the data remains unchanged, so that way you all can interpret the results however you wanted and still have all the info you need on hand.

Another issue were the advantage/disadvantage rolls. When a character rolls at advantage, they roll twice and the only roll that counts is the one that was higher, while the other is discarded and the opposite goes for disadvantage. So for example if you roll at Disadvantage and you roll a nat 20 and a 2, that nat 20 technically doesn't matter. Despite that I decided to count each adv/disadv roll anyway, because despite the fact that it does not count, it was still physically ROLLED, which means it contributes to the character's overall pool of luck. I tried to separate them at first so you guys can make your own decision whether to add them or not, but in the end I decided against it cause it was insanely hard to keep up with. There were just too many and too often, which led me to believe that it was fair enough to count everything as long as they actually rolled a dice.

Which brings me to the last complication, which is of course Gillion's Prophetic Screwup. At the beginning of the campaign Gillion was able to exchange anything that he actually rolled into a nat 20, and in return the DM can change any roll he does afterwards into a nat 1. That way there was supposed to be an equal number of wild unrolled nat 20's and nat 1's to balance Gillion out back to 0, but it didn't turn out this way. In more cases than not, Grizzly would either forget or fail to find a good place to screw Gillion over, so the ability bacame much too unbalanced. So they changed it somwhere in the middle of Edison Kingdom Arc. From then on, if Gill rolled anything from 1-10 it would automatically become a nat 1, and if he rolled from 11-20, that'd be a nat 20 instead. Either way these rolls had nothing to do with luck, as he wasn't actually rolling anything, thus I decided not to count these 'artificial' nat 20's/1's. However I did keep track of them nonetheless and I'll still give you the number of those, just separately, and from then on you guys can make your own decision on whether or not you wish to count it.

OOOFFF ALRIGHT.

Without further ado, here are the nat 20's results (up to ep106):

Gillion: 52

Chip: 58

Jay: 55

Goobleck: 8

Surprised? Yeah I was as well. First things first I never expected this to be this close. And never in my right mind could I possibly predict that it would he CHIP of all people to have the highest score here. But I've seen it with my own eyes. And tell you what. Jay had this in the bag for most of the damn series. She would consistently roll good and always when you need a good roll the most. There were times when she would have such a massive lead it was unthinkable she could loose it. But then she would just kinda...stop rolling good for a bit and allow the other two to catch up. It just wasn't as visble if you don't pay much attention, but I thought it to be cute. It's as she was waiting for them <3 But she was still mostly leading. It was only the current arc that made Chip surpass her. After his terrible luck in Feywilde, he bounced back so strongly right after, that he managed to jump in front of the luck queen herself.

And now I bet you're curious about the other side of the coin. Give it up for natural 1's!:

Gillion: 55

Chip: 53

Jay: 52

Goobleck: 1

You see, I kind of expected it to be Gill, but I need you guys to know that this wasn't the case at all times. Jay? Yes. If there is one thing that's consistent is that she had the lowest amount of natural 1s at all times almost, but the person that was suffering from nat 1 curse for a long while was Chip. In the Feywilde Arc he would be so far ahead of everyone, that I was genuinely sure that there is no way anyone catches up to him. But then he popped off in the next arc with nat 20's and Gillion? Oh my gosh, Gillion didn't disappoint. I've never seen a man fail this much let me tell you XD He ended up with the least nat 20's as well, but I thought the difference would be much higher until he didn't roll 4 fucking nat 20s in ep 100 and then this double nat 20 attack roll in the Black Sea whduihdius AND HE CAUGHT UP AS WELL, more or less.

Idunno, maybe this is just how luck works, but it truly seems that the trio shares their successes and burdens almost equally. They support each other and in return fate has their backs as well. Honestly I couldn't have hoped for better results. Also can we give shout out to Goobleck, the true MVP? He's been on the show only for a while but look at this nat1 - nat20 ratio!!! Go goop man goo!!!

So now for the additional stuff that I also counted just for fun:

*Prophethic screwup nats:

Before the rules changed Gillion replaced 8 of his rolls into natural 20s, and in return Grizzly replaced 3 of his rolls into natural 1s.

After the rules changed he only got high enough number for 4 nat 20s, and a low enough number for 7 nat 1s.

So that together makes additional 12 nat 20s and 10 nat 1s from the prophetic screwup alone. I don't think they should be added, but the numbers are there so feel free to do whatever you want with them :)

Downs and death saves:

Throughout the campaign Gillion went down 14 times and rolled 8 death saves.

Chip went down 6 times and rolled 4 death saves.

Jay went down 4 times and rolled 3 death saves.

No shocker here, Gillion dies a lot XD

Knights:

In their journey Gillion knighted 4 people: Julien Booker, Clorton, Garrieth and Duke.

Corruption score:

Thus far each character has the following amount of corruption points (Black Sea):

Gillion: 0

Chip: 2

Jay: 3

Queen: 1

Gryffon: 2 (i think, unsure abt that one, may edit later XD)

Earl: 1

That is all I have for now. I may be clinically insane :)

Good day to everyone and I hope you found this data interesting. Take care <3

[dulcewrites]

Hmm well now that Disney went and showed their asses (again), I feel like I can say this without putting bad juju out/jinxing anything. I honestly think the writing was on the wall when amandla, who was arguably the most excited pre the show coming out, essentially went radio silent. Then my gut feeling was only compounded by them (Disney - Lucasfilms - whoever) clearly pushing Qimir/Manny as the lead… which is just not how the show works??

There are possible reasons for that. As for pushing Qimir, it’s clear he (and maybe Sol as well) ended up being breakout characters from the show. I can’t begrudge that - Qimir is interesting as hell. But we see him through the eyes of our leads - he wants an acolyte. There is no acolyte without Osha and Mae. Also why isn’t Manny being pushed in tandem with the actually lead of the show. As for Amandla not being invited to things like d23 or swcj (like Manny), I’ve seen people be like “well, they could just be taking a break considering all of the racist stuff that’s been hurled at them”. And like yeah maybe, but you’d think the people that employed them, would ya know say something about it. Especially considering that Amandla has been burdened with dealing with racist since like the age of 12.

But this is Disney and Star Wars and Lucasfilms where everyone outside of the main story gets treated like shit.

Now for the thing that I didn’t want to put out there before actual news of s2 - I’m sorry but I can’t help but feel like this is them pushing the black nonbinary lead out so they pluck parts of the acolyte for something else. Because while I don’t cruelty pass them (releasing this news on Manny’s birthday is vile), something about them dragging Manny out in particular to several events knowing they were canceling the show just doesn’t make sense? Nothing is set in stone obviously but now I’m seeing people talk about them highlighting Qimir and Darth Plagueis (literally who gives af about that hag) but gutting the story of anything else.

I hope no one takes this as me saying Manny hasn’t dealt with his fair share of shit. He’s been outspoken about how hard it is being a Filipino man in Hollywood. But at the end of the day, Qimir (and by extension Manny) being a mysterious double lightsaber wilding MALE sith gives him an element of protection Osha and Mae (and by virtue Amandla) don’t have as characters. Because notice how much of the ire with the shows casting is about the lead character(s) being black women.

Anyway this is just me rambling about something that’s been on my mind. Tbh I actually have hope that it won’t happen simply because I don’t see the creator/writers of the show being down with that. Also Manny has been vocal about supporting Amandla and not being able do this without them

[themthrfkinprincess]

Astro observation . . . TWO!!

Whenever I see someone has a prominent Scorpio or Capricorn placement I always notice and see how sweet and overlay considerate they are. These people I’ve noticed are very helpful and there for people, sometimes they don’t think about themselves that much and contain themselves too much. They also are like nonchalantly funny? It’s not hard for them to make me laugh I’ve noticed.

But yeah strong Capricorn and Scorpio placements remind me of the giving tree idkkk

Like also Capricorn’s and Cancers be goofy as shit im crine😭

WHEW. This is from my experience but when I have seen a fair amount of Virgo or Cancer influences in somebody chart THEY ALWAYS GET ON MY NERVES LIKE GIRL DON'T DO ME LEAVE ME ALONE😭 I swear I have always had little moments with them- they can be quite annoying but guess what. I often spend so much time with them and we are right back on track maybe two seconds later it’s so funny. We switch up so much it funny. And this is funny because well I am a cancer myself and well there are more than three cancers in my family who I adore. You guys are really aggravating though.

And like also Geminis freaky foreal like YALL LIKE BOOTY FOREAL😭

also its a double whammy if you have eros or venus in gemin lol. I have both 😈👅

so come here . . . .

GIVE ME THAT BOOTY😈

lol😭

AND YOOOO Like geminis and Leo’s can be so embarrassing at times? They’re very suspect to be very lollygagging individuals and I can say this because I have a Leo stellium. Sometimes I look back and be like girl no. It sad. ☹️ like girl you 36 how long you gon be doing this😕.

They remind me of this liam dancing gif. Its not that they are embarrassing over big things- its just small stuff they can do and say which makes you go wtf???😭 Sometimes i feel they try to impress you over small weird things that no one really gives a fuck about like okay right . . . right . . .

Leo, Cancer, Gemini, and Virgo can be really corny at times- it reminds of that gif of drake doing the dougie. They can be corny in a cute way though😭but leos can get genuinely embarrassing as a mentioned beforehand

Also Geminis talk too much 🦧.

They will run their mouth and run it- i have no problem with it though I like to talk a lot lol. They are ( of course!) good listeners too! I had a friend she was so chill- I could talk to her about anything’s like- if i wanted to speak gibberish she would speak gibberish back to me. She was so random too. They are kind of silly whimsical beings at times I will not lie. Like it would not be wild to catch them froliciing in the fields randomly- its kind of expected of them in my own opinion. In my eyes they really be in their own world at times. 💀

AYE.

And yo!? Tell me why Aries are so cute what the hell!?!?

LIKE THEY ARE SO CUTE!!

CYUTSIE PATOOTSIES!!!! I imagine them trying to rob me at a gas station I own or something. Like I don’t know imagine them pointing a gun at you and trying to rob you LMFAO. I WILL BURST OUT LAUGHING. They might shoot you tho idk😞 they really be standing on business and they intimidate me a lot once they start talking- and they could be totally be happy/polite while they are talking. It’s just their aura feels forceful? Lively? Out there? I don’t know how to explain it but yeah. Also they are so sweet too!!! These people are cheerleaders- people say that Leo’s are cheerleaders but the biggest cheerleaders I see are more often Aries. My cousin is one and she is very VERY sweet. She listens to you deeply and she really pushes you. Sometimes it’s annoying at times cause like GIRL LEAVE ME ALONE I DON'T FEEL LIKE IT 😭 I love aries though 💖😭 You guys are so cute. AND WHY THEY ALWAYS LOOK LIKE CARTOON CHARACTERS 😭

LIKE WHY HE LOOK LIKE RODDY😭

And of course we know Pedro looks like chicken little

Also Aries women are GORG!! No seriously! Look at Halle!!! Miss Mamas is GORG!! She is STUNNING! It’s like 💥WAPOW!!!💥 getting struck and hit by her beauty😍💖

Also David tennant so cute he's sort of like kind of my man😍😍 if you have a crush on him your so real I totally get it fren 😋💗🤭😁

Like dude come on he's so freaking cute. His eyes are so intense it makes him look like a crackhead sometimes but it doesn't even matter HE'S SO CUTE. And his Scottish accent is so 🫦🫦🫦 I don't know what he be saying sometimes though in his TV shows like huh🗿

Cancer Mars are literally the Scarlet Witch idk dude. . . . like people can go completely BONKERS. These hoes kind of crazy. If you been wronging one for quite a while you better sleep with one eye open when you sleeping👀

Like these people are kind of punks☹️. They retreat often when something is wrong- too much actually. They really do not want to fight or have any problems foreal. They can be very indirect at times when bothered it can get annoying. But when enough is enough its over💀 its like one fart and your dead💀

Like that Aries and Cancer energy is not mixing well and shit can get REAL unstable there like don't do them patna!!

Uhm i totally had a million more things to say and I really did not get to re-read this. So there may be many typos- and also im kind of lazy and wish i decorated this post better. But that's besides the point- I hope you liked this post or whatever!!! I was totally honestly rambing to myself, if you found these accurate to you then great!

Peace out!!!💖💗

[woodlaflababab]

Rewatched The Awakening and having some Thoughts™

First, Katara, my baby, not me literally crying during my break in the backroom at work bc she's just so strong and so hurt and so brave. Her conversation with her dad will never not break me. I hate that Katara has ever gotten heat for actually being open to discussing her pain. My girl is brave and strong and lovely and the boys aint got shit on her.

I love the realism of this conflict. I love the way she so clearly lays it out and understands herself but is so lost on how to go forward which like, FAIR. The contrast of how excited she was for any news on her father in the Bato episode, to this, is just heartbreaking. She deserves a good reunion and yet because of the war, her family has been ripped apart and even when it comes back together she still carries those scars.

Second, how anyone can reach season three and watch this episode and still think Aang is a one note character or still the same childish figure he was before. He also breaks my heart in this episode. The adultification is wild, it's hard to watch him here and remember, this is a kid, a 13 yr old. It's someone who's experienced death, who feels the weight of the literal world on his shoulders, who's failure means losing an entire war, and he's so broken over it and it's like, No, Aang, honey, please. Have some grace for yourself.

Him in the water just, accepting death for the second time is so morbid and so sad. He's just ready to give up. Truely his lowest point. And going from his hurt at the mere idea of having to cover his arrow, to him literally burning his glider, which can never be replaced, like, how much more can he lose. He really has sacrificed everything for this war and yes I will sit here and cry about it thank you very much.

Third: speaking of these two, I think my favorite scene in the whole episode is unironically the one where she snaps at her dad and Hakoda walks away and Aang's like, "Are you mad at your dad?" All concerned and she's just "No, why?" And Aang's face kills me it's hilarious. Like, good job Aang, that was the correct answer. Him being like, something is clearly wrong and she clearly is also not ready to face it so he just shrugs and is just like, sure, okay.

Honestly, the whole interaction makes me laugh. The way Aang looks up at Hakoda like, oh yeah, the father of the two most important people in my life, the one they almost left me for, and also a world leader and so someone important to the position of the avatar. Ah. And then Katara seems to be mad at him and Aang's just, he just woke up from a coma, ksnfmsnfnd, he is not equipped to deal with this rn but he does it anyway.

Just, ugh, that second he stares at Katara before shrugging cracks me up so much, you can so clearly read what's going through his mind.

Anyway, I think this is genuinely one of my favorite episodes, I will always be a Book 3 stan.

[sunnywalnut]

Finished watching Dead Boy Detectives. Here are my honest thoughts.

-If you're going into it expecting another Good Omens, stop. Our protagonists are all minors. Teenagers. They cuss, they have total dirty mouths and sexual humor, but they are not eternal beings pretending to be middle aged men. They're ghosts. Dead Boys, if you will. Also this might be a stretch, but I'm assuming from the slightly less good CGI that the budget for this series was a LOT less than what it was for GO

-Edwin is kind of a dick in the first episode. But it's okay. Because character growth is swag.

-REALISTIC CHARACTER GROWTH!!! I liked Edwin a LOT more during the second episode BECAUSE of the character growth. And honestly? It's completely natural that bro is more than a little prickly after only being able to trust one guy for an extremely long time. Fair enough my guy. Carry on.

- this show kinda has Nimona vibes. If that makes sense. Witty humor, somewhat sexual dialogue, funny moments during serious times, though geared towards a younger audience. If you like those kinds of things, you will like this, I'm sure of it.

- In the early episodes, the pacing/character relationships feel a little off??? I'm not sure if that was because I was expecting another Good Omens or what. But after 2-3 episodes, the dust quickly settled and we got into the actual storyline. Which was extremely appreciated✨

-these villains are FUCKED up. I'm telling you. They are HORRIFIC. Had me squirming and cringing through their intense scenes. And gosh. That was a TRIP.

-TY TENANT PLAYS THE MAIN GUY EDWIN!!!! And he plays him WELL. I did not realize this going in to the show and thought his face was VERY familiar. Only after I looked it up did I realize why. He's our sassy son of Job. (EDIT: turns out Ty plays the Doom Patrol version. Not the one on Netflix. My bad! They do look pretty similar though, so ykw. Great casting. Also my point still stands. This guy is a pretty fuckin awesome actor. 10/10)

-Cat King is such a wild card holy SHIT.

-Charles is cute as fuck. His backstory HURTS. But also. I love the way his ears look. Like in the pictures that I saw of him they were of when the Cat King impersonated him so I was like oh chill. So he's got pointed ears bc feline but NOPE. He's just like that!! And honestly? Slay. I fuckin love it.

-oh did I mention tragic backstories???? Yeah we got those :D for everyone :D

-Niko is the best and I love her. Also I love how the letters on her desk are written in Japanese. That is a VERY nice touch of character building.

-hot butcher lady with throat tattoo

All in all. A truly delightful series and I genuinely hope it gets another season because I NEED to know what happens next. My little sister LOVED it and the ending had us all staring open mouthed at the TV screen in shock.

This 15yo girl is literally ranting my ear off, having adventures with the Dead Boys in her dreams and chatting with me about it, searching up fanfics and drawing fanart, the whole shabang. And it is DIFFICULT for this girl to get into shows like this. So honestly? This is perfect. Thank you, Neil. For giving us a whole other banger.

That being said. If anybody else has some younger siblings that are around 15-17 and are looking for shows to binge watch together, this is the perfect one. I'm telling you, you will NOT regret it (except maybe emotionally)

Thoroughly recommend.

[neutron-stars-collision]

Genuinely one of my biggest pet peeves about Bridgerton is the sheer amount of double standards within the fandom.

For years now some elements of the Kathony fandom have come for Luke and Nicola over Simone and Jonathan's promo during season 2. Yes they had very limited promo together, and other cast members got photo shoots together, and they didn't. I can get the annoyance and perhaps there is more nuance than I can understand, but it was in the midst of the pandemic, and I believe Jonathan also took a theatre job to help it get back on track. But that does not mean it is Luke and Nicola's fault that they were able to shoot covers together and do a massive world tour. I wish Simone and Jonathan were able to, but sadly they weren't due to covid, and potentially other things, but that does not mean they deserve the abuse.

Which brings me to another - for some reason Colin/Luke are held to an impossibly high standard. Yes Colin has said some not nice things about Penelope throughout all the seasons. But equally so, Simon and Anthony have too; arguably worse. But Luke literally gets hate for what his character said - words he has no say over.

Admittedly, I was disappointed in a chunk of season 3, Nicola and Luke did the most with what they were given, Luke more so. I'll watch future seasons until the end, but I won't be as invested. I am literally here for the Polin crumbs from now on.

Apologies that this ended up so long.

As I've mentioned before, I've only really been here since April so much of that previous fandom nastiness passed me by, but I've seen my fair share of it already, and yeah, you have a point, Anon. Like the concept of such intense ship wars on a show like Bridgerton makes literally zero sense to me. All couples are canon, so there should be no drama. And yet.

I don't know what it is that makes others hate Nic and Luke with such ferocity, and I don't think I'll ever understand. Like surely these people know that neither Nic nor Luke had any say in the promo of their season?? They aren't a part of the marketing team. It might've been unfair what happened to Simone and Johnny, but that's not Polin's fault.

And don't get me started on the hate Colin receives. I've seen someone here say that Colin is held up to the same scrutiny as female leads usually get, and that's spot on. It's just wild bc for me, a show watcher only, Colin is the greenest of flags and the most decent of Bridgerton men. Sure he's made some mistakes, but then who hasn't? Characters are allowed to be flawed. The fact that Newts also gets hate for his character's actions is another level of fucked up. This fandom needs a whole deal of grass touching.

I know what you mean, I'm definitely only staying for Polin crumbs and I know that no one else will capture my heart like them. As you can see I also got impassioned in the response, so don't apologise <3

[starlightshadowsworld]

I love Percy and Annabeth but they should not have been in Heroes of Olympus.

Because they overshadow everyone else.

People even say they skipped other characters povs just to read there's.

I love them but I think they shouldn't have been as prominently apart of the story.

Because yeah I love them but I've had 5 books of these guys, I'd really like to know the rest of the seven.

Hell Jason's birthday is the day they fall into Tartarus soo...tell me they aren't overshadowed..

Jason's our main character and he constantly gets pushed aside and is not written well and constantly compared to as being Percy's lesser version.

Which isn't fair.

And he's not given a chance to change that.

He's not allowed to exist outside of Percy because of course he isn't.

Percy's right there.

Also give them a break.

They just fought a war.

Personally would love if the lost hero started with a snap shot of the battle of Manhatten and zoomed out to the Roman part of the fight.

Jason leading the charge and just "Yeah.. That's me, your probably wondering how I got here."

And takes us all the way back to a mysterious woman giving Jason up and the wolves coming for him.

With us learning from kid Thalia demanding to know where Jason is that this Jason is her Jason.

Jason Grace.

We see the wolf house we watch Jason try to survive and absolutely break our hearts hearing someone so young think he's so alone and no one loves him.

Lupa becoming more motherly to him but that fear Jason has always remains that she will turn on him one day.

Jason wandering the streets to Camp Jupiter.

Jason's situation bring the reverse of Percy's.

Being out casted immediately and than put on a pedestal once he's claimed.

Jason immediately hating it.

Jason being pushed into this good soilder narrative but he doesn't fit it at all.

His upbringing has left him wild, less bothered with proper fighting techniques and more on survival.

He fights to kill.

He fights to live.

And no one else gets that.

Except one camper, Octavian, who's older than Jason abd the Augur.

Everyone after reading the Pjo series seeing Octavian...I got my eye on you Mr.

Who insults the elders and is the first to get Jason to laugh.

And encourages Jason to stand up for what he believes in.

Giving Jason the courage to deny his place in the 1st cohort and join the 5th.

This

Pisses everyone off.

Mostly the 1st.

Who are downright offended because you don't turn down the first cohort.

And Jason's like, but I just did.

The 5th have no idea what to make of Jason but in time they become friendly.

Dakota becoming a friend to him.

Jason knows this because he shares his kool aid with him sometimes.

He does get in trouble for squaring off with and scaring off some bullies of the upper cohorts.

Because Jason hates bullies and he recognises the kid, Frank being picked on.

Apparently they stole his stick and while Jason has no idea it's importance, it made Frank sad soo he goes after them.

Ends up on probatio and friends with Frank.

Who admires Jason's bravery and wishes he could be too.

So the rest of the leigion kinda miffed some 5th upstart is embarrassing them.

And so when the next quest is given its to him.

Quests are different here to Camp Half-blood.

Since they don't have a true oracle, specifics are never mentioned.

Leaving the leigion to give the prophecy to whoever they want.

And they want to knock Jason down a few pegs and so they send him.

Jason picking Frank and Dakota.

Neither of the two are hopeful because the day a 5th is sent on a quest is the day their funeral is held.

Not the case though and they do in fact succeed and do it well.

Frank even opening up about his stick and showing that he is as brave and courageous as he wants to be.

It's through that act of bravery Frank is claimed as a son of Mars.

And though he's not exactly sure he should be one, Jason and Dakota both tell him it suites him well.

They both even do the "all hail Frank Zhang, Son of Mars" speech.

Which makes him smile.

On the way back though they do find Reyna.

Jason gets the short straw and has to do the oh the Roman God's are real but she knows and that she's a daughter of Bellona.

And they all head back to camp together.

And while Reyna has her guard up she does genuinely seem to enjoy her company with the others.

She's also the only other person to truly understand how Jason fights and his instinct to survive.

Though she doesn't share why.

Octavian greets them, proud and Reyna is on probatio until they can see what cohort she fits into.

Though she remarks after seeing the egos of the 1st that the 5th might be better afterall.

Celebrations are held and Jason wonders if the quest is really over.

Also all or us wondering if Octavian was genuine about what he said to Jason to follow his dreams.

Or if he did it to take Jason's place in the 1st.

Can't tell me after Luke anyone of you guys wouldn't be mad suss of an older blonde boy befriending Jason.

Fool me once.

Shame on you.

Fool me twice...

Damn...

Also reading the series prior and than this means everyone agrees with Jason.

Like we saw Percy fight for his life over and over and are just like... Oh you bitches gonna have a rude awakening when you face real monsters 💅🏽.

I have no idea what the quest would be but I'd want them to all line up to the next big prophecy.

Instead of it coming out of nowhere.

Hazel does come around but later on because of the doors and with her so does Nico.

[king--atlas]

Okay, what if ahit but its a DnD type fantasy adventure? It starts with just hat kid and bow kid on a mission to defeat the evil overlord (Vanessa), but they end up forming a silly ragtag adventuring party with people they meet on the way. (Please click for better quality)

Character details I've come up with so far under cut, and also me sounding like a little nerd with dnd classes and stuff.

I haven't decided on any location or character names yet so :P

Hat Kid- She's a wannabe elf warlock and Bow Kid's best friend (they'll probably get names, probably). She doesn't have an arcane focus in the beginning, but she ends up finding and using an umbrella later on. She's very energetic and determined (a little too much at times) and actually manages to become Snatcher's best friend. Bow Kid- She's a human beast master ranger with either a cat or a crow as a companion (idk which one yet). She's a lot calmer than Hat Kid but still gets really excited when she sees a cute creature (even if it is literally trying to kill her.) Cooking Cat- She's a silly kitty cleric (either light or peace domain) from Mafia Town. She's a ray of sunshine and definitely the mom of the group. Snatcher- He's a circle of wildfire druid (bc silly) who, until the kids came and found him, hadn't left his forest in over a century. He was stuck there in wild shape (silly ghost form. Don't ask what creature it is or why he chose to be able to wild shape into it bc i have no clue) because of Vanessa. She tried to turn him into a tiefling like her but it did not go as planned. Clearly. He's still that dark kind of goofy he is in game but just a little bit nicer. Not by much, though. Vanessa- She's a tiefling shadow magic sorcerer who has control over the entire continent. While her outburst (I'll think about more details of it later) effected Subcon the most, it had minor effects all over. She presents herself in her more humanoid form with an overly sweet personality, but the second she's ticked off ditches the facade and becomes her horrid, more demon-like self. She's less of a direct threat until they reach her domain. Empress and the receptionist are also going to join the gang, but I didn't know what classes to make them or what to do with their designs soooooo..... yeah. (To be fair, the other's designs will also probably change bc I made them in like five minutes).

If you have any ideas (especially for Empress and Receptionist) or questions, tell me!

[gunsli-01]

For those still not willing to think about Mikoto being the perpetrator instead of John. Keep this in mind. This is Milgram. So, it wouldn't be out of the norm for it to frame it as though Mikoto was wrongfully accused from the beginning and that the issue was the other alter just to trick the audience into framing a completely innocent person. Just to show how easy it is for prison institutions and institutions of any kind to put certain people into boxes othering them based on preconceived notions on topics.

Such as, if one has dissociative identity disorder, of course one of the alters is going to be evil and the other good. Reducing aspects of someone (which in this context are completely different people with lives and experiences of their own) to just an easily digestible framework of right and wrong, good and evil.

I feel like narratively that would be a good way for Milgram to use Mikoto's character to force the audience into becoming the thing they actively sought to avoid becoming. I think it's the sort of characterization and media led discussion people should be having about DID. Regardless of how Milgram plays out.

That's one of the reasons I enjoy considering Mikoto as the perpetrator.

It would be wild if in the pursuit of having Mikoto not be vilified and reduced, the audience ended up doing exactly that to someone else who has the same exact disorder. Does John's dignity, does his right to a fair trial and benefit of the doubt matter less than Mikoto's because we saw him second? Does he have less of a right to being treated like a person because the audience has labeled Mikoto, the real Mikoto even stripping him of his given name to give him a new one for the convenience of no one but ourselves?

It's that aspect that really makes it so intriguing. How would you feel if one day you were in prison, put in chains, and given a new English name in replacement of your previous one?

Yeah, I bet not many people thought of those implications huh. That name isn't for him, it's for us to differentiate him from the person he once was and reduce his existence to the problem and Double really highlights that.

"Made me out to be a scoundrel, why?"

[daughterofthemuse]

Thoughts on 'Wrath of the Triple Goddess'

General Thoughts

This book was a lot of fun.

Nope was the cutest ever

Hecate's house is WILD. The knockers? The aesthetic choices? The BATHROOMS? She 1000% committed to the bit

Some ppl have said that the recent Riordanverse books have had themes. (Roughly speaking,) 'The Sun and the Star' was about accepting yourself and moving through trauma, and 'Chalice of the Gods' was about growing up, aging and embracing the changes that come with it (kinda ironic for focusing on a character who is known for turning 17 every year). I thought 'Wrath of the Triple Goddess' could have been about grief and family, but it's actually abt choices and regrets. Bc ofc the book abt Ἑκάτη (Hecate), the goddess of crossroads, would be abt choices.

Fanart I want to see

The Halloween costumes Percy, Grove & Annabeth wore

Human!Grover, Owl-a-beth & Octo-Percy

The Campers' Halloween costumes

Page-by-page notes that I took (with quotes)

I'm always careful not to look at my mom's screen while she's writing, because a) I know it makes her nervous, b) the floating words make me queasy, and c) I can't help wondering if she's writing a character based on me. Maybe that sounds self-centered, but the idea of anybody writing a book about me makes me super paranoid. (pg 16)

Bud, I'm sorry, but it's a decade and a half too late for that

She knew exactly what I was saying, even if Dave and Hana didn't. "She can't do all your homework for you, dude," Hana said. "Yeah, she has to do our homework," Dave said. "Ugh, you two," Annabeth said, but she gave them a smile. "Okay, Jackson, I can spare you a few minutes, Come on." She hauled me up and led me out of the library, Paul and Hana whispering behind our backs, (pg 24)

Oh look, surprise name change! (/j)

Then his eyes drifted up to the gargoyles on the roof. "Oh, wow." "I know, spooky," Annabeth agreed. Grover scratched his goatee. "I was going to say the one on the left looks like my Aunt Helena. But guess that's the same thing." (pg 32)

Grover's Aunt Helena is probably a harpy / nasty wind Spirit

I'd barely been able to master numbers and colors in Spanish, even with my friend Leo Valdez as a tutor. (pg 35)

Rick is making himself plotholes. Percy is being tutored in Spanish by the missing Leo. It's only Chapter 4!

We had some trouble on Third Avenue when Hecuba decided attack a Lil Zeus Greek food cart, but I managed to pull her off before she killed the cook or devoured his meat supply. Dude wasn't too happy. He yelled something in Greek at me--maybe Please control your rhinoceros--but I couldn't be too mad at Hecuba. For one thing, the food smelled good. For another, anything labeled Zeus sent me into attack mode, too. (pg 64)

Lil Zeus Greek food cart? a) Percy should have understood more of the Greek dude's language, unless he did actually think the hellhound was a rhino and b) fair on attacking it

I took out Riptide. With the tip of the blade, I etched a message on the sidewalk: Went to Gramercy. That was another trick I'd only learned in the last month. One day when I was bored, sitting on a sidewalk while my mom shopped for clothes for her first author signing, I discovered that Riptide could sketch glowing lines on asphalt that no regular mortals could see. The markings lasted about three hours before fading away--less if it rained. It made me wonder why I'd never seen Celestial bronze graffiti around from other demigods. (pg 68)

Riptide can write on the pavement?

He couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. "You want another treat?" I asked him. "Nope!" he barked, which apparently meant Yes, please, I'll take the whole bag. I couldn't help but smile. "Is that your name? Nope?" He tilted his head, maybe thinking about it. "Nope!" "Okay, then that's what I'll call you." He crawled right into my lap. He was heavy--like fifty pounds--and floppy, with ridiculously oversize paws that told me he was going to be a rhino-size hellhound someday. I scratched behind his ears and kept feeding him treats, letting him get used to the sound of my voice. (pg 87)

Percy’s getting a Hellhound puppy that can say nope????

The man who was eating a late breakfast at Dr. Sharma's desk was definitely not Dr. Sharma. His dark hair and beard were flecked with gray. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket, tie, and dress shirt, with a flannel blanket over his lap. His old-fashioned wheel-chair had hand-pushed steel wheels and well-worn black leather armrests. He held a half-eaten bagel in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in other. I registered all these details with perfect clarity, but somehow, I still did not recognize him. (pg 99)

WHAT IS CHIRON DOING AT PERCY’S SCHOOL?

"The Adventures of Mom, Chew Toy, and Alley Boy," Annabeth mused. (pg 115)

pffft! And look, an Oxford comma!

My friend Nico di Angelo, son of Hades, also had the ability. He'd used it once to take me Christmas shopping in Florence. (Long story.) (pg 133)

Nico took Percy Christmas shopping in Florence? I need this story.

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe pack isn’t the right word. I don’t know why Hecate turned you into a hellhound. Gods are weird. I have a friend whose dad once turned her into a tree. Maybe Hecate saved you the only way she knew how. It’s not perfect, but it’s still love.” Hecuba gazed at the ocean—a view she’d probably seen thousands of times when she was a mortal. She’d watched the Greek ships anchor off that coast, ready for war. She’d watched her children die in battle on that rocky beach before the walls of her doomed city. (pg 137)

Is this book abt grief & family?

I frowned. "I didn't figure you for a nightclub guy." "Are you kidding? I can hoof-boogie with the best of them! I've still got that wedding-dress outfit from the Sea of Monsters, too." He sighed. "Maybe someday." (pg 142)

Grover still has his wedding dress?

Pracktical forcery and Potionf for Beginnyng Uferf (pg 144)

Oh look, it's that old-timey font where 'S' is really tall and skinny and kinda looks like an 'f'!

Under this collection was a brass plaque engraved with WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN. I lifted the top of the display case. I picked up a pair of blue-framed glasses that were snapped in half at the bridge. They were the same ones I'd seen in my vision of the child pedaling away from the manse in terror. On the right stem, the initials SEJ were monogrammed in gold. I felt like I had shadow-traveled into a block of ice. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. SEJ. I knew those initials. (pg 145)

SEJ, Sally's initials?

I didn't realize that when he'd said ground himself, he'd meant literally cover himself with the ground. He sat down in a flower bed and started to heap leaves and dirt over his legs. (pg 147) ... Two more tunneled through the leaves and skittered up Grover's legs. Within a minute, there were dozens, maybe hundreds. Honestly, I had no idea. I never had to count squirrels in numbers that high before Grover's torso disappeared under a tidal wave of chittering fur and twitching bushy tails. Somewhere in the mix of brown and gray, I spotted one very large black rat, who quickly disappeared in the sea of its squirrely comrades. (pg 148)

This grounding thing is weird... Could it be a Pan thing?

As he nibbled his cake, I said, "Okay. Tell me." He shrugged listlessly. "It's just... grounding myself like that? It's pretty powerful magic. I can only do it because I'm a Cloven Elder." Grover was too modest. He rarely talked about it, but after the Battle of Manhattan, he'd been promoted to the council of the three most important satyrs in the world, which in my mind made him an elite boss. "It's dangerous?" I guessed. "Oh... nothing I'd worry about," he said. "Not a big deal. It's just when I do that, when I connect with nature on that level, there's always a small chance..." "Yes?" He nibbled more cake. "That I might dissolve into nothing." (pg 151)

Yep, it's a Pan thing. And oh, the grounding thing is like Nico at the end of BoO... okay. This is great /s

And Grover seemed to enjoy being called Cloven Elder. My thoughts started rambling, as they do. I wondered if I should call him CE for short. Did that mean before he became a Cloven Elder he was Grover BCE? This is how my mind works. Welcome to the chaos. (pg 156)

Grover BCE, YES!

The name of the place glittered in pearly white over the door: AEAEA. I guess they'd spent all their money on the storefront decorations and hadn't been able to afford any consonants for their sign. "What is it?" Grover asked. "Not sure," I said. "The name of that place mean anything to you?" Grover tried to pronounce it. "It looks like something Hephaestus might scream when he drops a hammer on his foot." (pg 158)

Αἰαία (Aeaea)? Κίρκη (Circe)????

"My name is Filomena," she said, her jaw clenched. "Aeaea was my home island. But you don't even remember, do you?" (pg 161)

Dude doesn't remember the last time someone recognized him and accused him of destroying their home, does he?

A noxious purple fog started to rise around us. I recovered my senses, yelled, "Aeaea!" (because it was on my mind) and blasted the potion fog right back at Filomena. "Ack!" she complained, now speckled head to toe in magical whatever-it-was. "How dare you!" (pg 162)

Poison manipulation again????

"I take it you didn’t recognize the naiads?" "From where?" Grover asked. "You weren't with us," Annabeth told him. "You were stuck in a Cyclops's cave at the time." Grover shivered. "The Sea of Monsters." "Yep. The naiads are from the island of Aeaea." I rubbed my sore neck. "I think I would've remembered a name like Aeaea." Annabeth considered that. "Actually, you're right. I don't thínk anyone called it that when we were there. It's another name for Circe's Island." (pg 184) ... "Circe had four main handmaidens," Annabeth said. "The Aeaean nymphs. They were responsible for preparing her potions. I guess when the pirates burned down C.C.'s Spa--" "The naiads came to Manhattan," Grover finished. "And set up competing perfume shops. As one does." (pg 185)

I knew they were from Αἰαία! And Lore drop!

Whenever Annabeth joined the chat, the odds of us doing something idiotic went way down. The odds were never zero, mind you, because I was still in the mix. (pg 186)

"Annabeth joined the chat..." Bro, why. Why did you use that piece of slang?

With the help of one of the costume people, Annabeth had done her hair and makeup like it had been on Circe's Island. She looked incredible, but you don't have to take my word for it. The costume person's exact reaction was "You look incredible." Then she turned to Grover and me and said "Now, these two are are a challenge." We were dressed as Annabeth's servants/bodyguards/loyal gladiators? I'm not even sure, but we weren't rocking the look very well. Grover wore a gladiator's breastplate and a leather kilt sort of of thing, with a big plastic sword at his side. I got dressed like a retiarius--one of those Colosseum fighters with the weighted nets and the tridents. The trident seemed a little on the nose for me, but it wasn't my biggest complaint. My "armor" was basically an oversize loincloth with a thick leather belt, sandals, and a weird shield-sleeve thing on my left arm that reminded me of a pizza pan. This meant I would basically be walking around Manhattan in late October in my underwear. Annabeth added a big helmet with a faceplate so nobody would recognize me unless they literally got up in my grill. (pg 187)

I need art of these costumes

23. We Find the Lair of Evil Perfume

Annabeth is doing a ton of amazing work this chapter!

Annabeth responded, "WHOOOO!" (pg 206)

Annabeth, daughter of the Owl Goddess, hooted. It only took her 24 books and 5 years

I raised my hands--except I didn't have hands anymore. Where my arms used to be were eight thick purple tentacles lined with pink suction cups. One tentacle was curled around Riptide. I was so shocked I loosened my hold, letting the blade drop. "Oh.." I wanted to throw up. No offense to octopuses. I've had some great conversations with octopuses. But I didn't want to have their tentacles. My new appendages felt wet and slimy. Powerful muscles rippled under the skin. The suckers clasped and unclasped, smelling the air, searching for something to grip. "This is bad." (pg 207)

Well octo-Percy is... interesting

He was staring down at his legs and weeping. Where his furry goat hindquarters had been, there was bare skin, forward-articulating knees, and instead of hooves... feet. Five-toed feet not too different from mine. "Human," he sniffled. "That's the worst kind of beast!" (pg 207 & 208)

Oh, poor Grover. Also... very interesting "humans are the worst kind of beast"

Annabeth turned her head 180 degrees and shrieked at the nymph. "AWK!" (pg 208)

180-degree head turn from Annabeth!

Grover shuffed awkwardly toward Daedra. "How do you walk on these? They're so tender! Ouch. Ouch. Ouch." (pg 209)

We don't normally walk barefoot. And I want art of human!Grover

I saw a young woman in tattered brown robes. She carried a leather pack over one shoulder, loaded with medicinal plants, vials, salves, and scrolls. It was her life's work--all she could salvage when the Colossians chased her out of their city. She struggled up a steep mountain path, occasionally stopping to grip her stomach, crying out in pain. Tears streaked her face, smearing the kohl around her eyes so she appeared to have a black mask. (pg 215)

Gale Lore drop? Poor Gale!

I'd been wrong about Hecate. She hadn't turned Gale into a polecat out of jealousy. The reason was worse. She'd empathized. She'd lacked faith that Gale could survive on her magical talents alone. Hecate of all people knew how the world saw witches. She'd pitied Gale, admired her, and yes, maybe even feared her a little, but she could not imagine a mere human succeeding when she, a goddess, had failed. So Gale had to cease being human. (pg 218)

Poor Hecate too. Dam patriarchy & fear of the unknown

And no way did I want to be around when orange goo started dripping through Hades's palace ceiling. I'd met his plumbers. They tended to solve all his problems with fery whips. (pg 219)

The Kindly Ones aren't plumbers, Percy

I'll say it again: thank the gods for Halloween. I doubt any amount of Mist could have hidden Owl-a-beth and Octo-Percy from the curious eyes of mortals as we fled, especially since my tentacles kept slapping passers by for no particular reason. Because it was Halloween, though, most people would think, Wow, those costumes are incredible, and that third guy is fully human! Amazing! (pg 222)

Yeah, Halloween does a lot for hiding mythical stuff. Cuts both ways tho

Annabeth gagged. Her beak opened wide. Her owl eyes got even larger. Her crown feathers stood on end like blades. She brought her hands to her throat—the universal sign for choking. I panicked. Would the Heimlich maneuver work on a half human, half raptor? I only had octopus tentacles, but I hustled behind her and did my best to find her sternum the way my fourth-grade health teacher had taught us. I thrust upward into her diaphragm. COUGH! An owl pellet the size of a melon shot from her throat and bounced off the opposite wall. She doubled over, breathing heavily. When she straightened again, she was normal Annabeth—human face, human hair with the scent of her usual apple shampoo. (pg 225)

Coughing that up must've been painful. And I'm pretty sure the Heimlich maneuver isn't recommended anymore

Grover seemed to follow my thoughts. “Tomorrow is Halloween. There’s no way three people can fix this mansion before Hecate gets back. (pg 230)

Just ask your friends to help! They're coming for the party, just ask them to arrive early too

I nodded. “I don’t know what happened exactly, but if we’re going to try rebuilding this place with the help of ghosts, then we need to figure it out. Which means I need to talk to SEJ. Sally Estelle Jackson.” (pg 238)

His mum? Or an ancestor? I'm thinking his mum, but the timing makes me think maybe an ancestor

She smiled wistfully, the way she does when she looks at old photographs. “I haven’t since that day. My family made me wear them because I was seeing things…differently.” “Through the Mist.” She’d always been able to do that. Some rare mortals could, but I’d never considered how hard that would’ve been for her as a kid. “They were just trying to help,” she said. “They were worried. When other kids saw a mounted police officer riding down the street, I saw a pegasus. That kind of thing. We used to live near Gramercy Park West. One day, when I was riding my bike down the street, I saw that mansion, shifting and blending into the buildings around it. Those tombstone walls.” (pg 244)

Interesting... what ppl think of clear-sighted ppl

She swallowed. “Hecate ambushed me! She showed up on Olympus and…well, she asked me what I thought of you. I was shocked! She hadn’t spoken to me since 1914! I—I was desperate to impress her. And foolishly… I said you were quite competent.” “Thanks?” “I panicked! And now, if you fail, that means I failed. Oh, she won’t forgive me a second time.” “I still don’t—Wait.” I’m a little slow on the uptake. But when a puzzle finally starts coming together, I can usually finish it without having to bash too many of the pieces into place. “A second time,” I said. “Nineteen fourteen. That’s the last year Hecate ran her magic school. You were part of that?” (pg 247) She shrugged listlessly. “War. It’s always a war. Our students started taking sides, arguing with one another. It escalated from name-calling to violence to potion-flinging.” “Potion-flinging is bad.” (pg 248)

Ofc WW1 made the school close, and poor Εὐδώρη (Eudora)

I took one more look around the shattered great room. I felt like I was forgetting something important. (pg 258)

Locking the door, I'm pretty sure

Grover and I exchanged a panicked look. If Annabeth was admitting she’d made a mistake, we were in serious trouble. All heroes had fatal flaws. Annabeth’s was pride. She always aimed as high as possible, confident she could go even higher. Most of the time, she was right. But calling for help after one block? The situation had to be desperate for her to swallow her pride like that. Then I remembered why fatal flaws were called fatal. We couldn’t let her get worn-out so soon. She was the only one who could direct the ghosts to rebuild the house properly. “Let me take the torches,” I said. (pg 267)

Annabeth’s fatal flaw is pride, yours is loyalty, Percy. You taking them could go just as badly, with you not passing them to anyone else

My last shot was a miss. Black spots danced in my eyes. I crumpled to my knees, and the torch fell out of my hand. (pg 276)

Oh schist

I knew I’d forgotten something important—again. We’d invited our friends to a Halloween party tonight and never canceled it. You see, kids? Absentmindedness can save your life. The side panel door rolled open and costumed demigods poured out. Connor Stoll led the way, wearing a prisoner’s orange jumpsuit with fake manacles on his ankles and wrists. “Dude, your yard decorations are fire!” “They’re real!” I yelled. “Real ghosts!” More demigods emerged from the van—Clovis from the Morpheus cabin, wearing a nightgown, nightcap, and slippers, which was not very different from how he usually lounged at camp; Harley from Hephaestus, the youngest of our campers, encased in a Celestial bronze Iron Man suit he’d probably made himself; Valentina Diaz from Aphrodite, dressed in a black 1940s evening gown with white gloves, a broad-brimmed hat, and twenty different strings of pearls around her neck. Valentina scanned the ghostly horde. “Gross. Can we fight them?” “Yes, please!” Annabeth yelled from the porch. Our friends charged into battle. (pg 292)

I said his friends could help. Except they're helping with ghosts ig

And Rick, Clovis is a son of Ὕπνος (Hypnos), we don't have a Μορφεύς (Morpheus) Cabin

The horse freaked out and whinnied, Why am I flying? (pg 297)

Poor police horse

There should be a rule that goddesses can never come home before 8:00 a.m. Hecate blazed into the mansion at exactly 5:32. (pg 304)

Eugh, what a wake-up time

Sometimes folks at camp asked if I avoided eating seafood because I was the son of Poseidon and could talk to fish or whatever. I always answered that no, I ate fish. Have you ever talked to one? They don’t have a lot to say. Mostly it boils down to Are you food? Am I food? Eating them is the only way to answer the question. (pg 319)

We have an answer to the Percy-seafood question. Tho he'll probably be off calamari for a while

Obviously, I don’t consume the smart species like octopuses, dolphins, sharks, and manta rays. (pg 319)

Oh, so no calamari at all. Good to know